Sympathy for the Donald

No, I have none. Do you?

So the other day, I watched the four segments of the CNN documentary 1968. If you have not done so, I recommend it. I graduated from high school in June of 1968 . . . fifty years ago next month. (To my knowledge, there is no reunion. Or maybe I wasn't invited. Oh, well.) Aside from my graduation, there was a lot that happened in 1968, some good, but most of it bad. The assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy alone would make it a very bad year, but then there was also the Vietnam Conflict and all that was connected to that. And of course, there was Nixon.

In one of the segments, footage of Mick Jagger singing "Sympathy for the Devil" was juxtaposed with films of all the bad shit that was happening. Fifty years later, I was stunned once again by the appropriateness of those lyrics to the events of the day as well as days past. The song was released in 1968 on Beggars Banquet and deals with, among other things, the Russian Revolution, the crucifixion of Christ, the Kennedy assassinations, and the Holocaust. I started thinking about what lyrics Jagger and Richards might have written if the song was created today.

And then, while driving through South of the Border today (Pedro says hi), my Sirius radio station played "Sympathy for the Devil." When the Muse throws something in your lap, you pay attention.

For the rest of my drive, I rewrote the lyrics. With all apologies to Jagger and Richards, here is my updated version of their classic song. C'mon, you know the tune. Sing along!

Sympathy for the Donald

Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and lies
I've been around for a long long year
My success is no surprise

And I was 'round when Hillary
Had her moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Comey
Washed his hands and sealed her fate
(And then I fired him)

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

I stuck around Charlottesville
When I saw it was a time for a change
Praised the Klan for their swastikas
Heather Heyer screamed in vain

I built a wall
Had no compassion at all
And while the shootings raged
Watched the bodies fall

I watched with joy
While my Russian boy
Bought me four more years
All despite your fears

I shouted out
"Who killed the Kennedys?"
When after all
It was Ted Cruz's dad and me

Let me please introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and hate
And I lay traps for refugees
Who get killed before they reach the USA

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name . . .

Just as every black is a criminal
And all the Muslims are bad
As heads is tails
Just call me Dennison
'Cause I'm such a clever cad

So if you meet me
Have some loyalty
Have some bigotry and some hate
Use all your well-learned complicity
Or I'll lay your country to waste

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name . . .

Tell me, baby, what's my name?
Tell me, honey, can you guess my name?
Tell me, baby, what's my name?
I tell you one time, you're to blame

What's my name?

(You know the answer.)

Alberto, Alberto

The Memorial Day weekend is pretty much a washout here in south Florida. Well, I had no picnic plans, so I won't pretend to be too bummed out about it. But I do have plans to drive back to the Northeast on Tuesday, and I am hoping that Alberto doesn't follow me. So please don't tell him that I'll be stopping in Charleston and Chapel Hill on the way.

I saw a list of all the hurricane names for the next couple of years, and of course, I looked for my name. Not there. I tried to find out if there'd ever been a Hurricane Therese, but apparently not. However, there was a Hurricane Terry (my "nickname") back in 1985. I do not remember this, perhaps because it was in the Eastern Pacific, but more likely, because it occurred ten days after I gave birth to my daughter. I guess I had other things on my mind. But in a strange twist of fate, I named that firstborn daughter Katrina. And I think you know what happened twenty years later. In fact, Katrina was one of those storms that was so bad, the name has been permanently retired.

So who gets to pick out the names for these storms? The World Meteorological Organization, that's who. But hurricanes are not given names. Tropical storms are given names, and if they become hurricanes, they retain that name. And how does a tropical storm become a hurricane? It becomes one when it reaches a sustained wind speed of 74 miles per hour. So if your name is on a tropical storm that doesn't become a hurricane, do you get another shot at fame? Yes, names can be repeated after an interval of six years, unless, you know, Katrina . . .

Fair warning: if your name is Chris or Debby or Michael or Patty or Sara or Tony or William, you could become famous this year.

Meanwhile, I am hoping that Alberto's fame is limited. Right now, it's still a subtropical storm, but is expected to turn fully tropical by tomorrow. Alberto's chances of reaching hurricane strength are low, and it is expected to become a mere tropical depression by Monday night or Tuesday, just in time for me to head north. Umbrella, rain jacket, flood pants all packed and ready. Wish me luck.

Alberto, Alberto, where you been so long?

Um, waiting for this snowbird to head back home, I guess.

Scared Shitless

Be afraid. Be very afraid. I am so weary of this culture of fear in which we are living. And yet, I, too, will confess to being unnerved by the frightening possibilities that exist in our future. The difference is that I believe my fears are real, while the fears that we are being fed on a daily basis are not.

"Look how things have turned around on The Criminal Deep State . . . " posted our grammatically challenged Tweeter-in-Chief today. He is referring to the FBI investigation of his campaign for foreign interference, what he calls "Spygate." It was, of course, the FBI doing its job. But consider his language. "Deep state" is one of those scare word phrases that certain politicians like to use. It refers to a body of people, typically influential members of government agencies, believed to be involved in the secret manipulation or control of government policy. In our little tyrant's mind, these people are the Democrats. But anyone who's paying any attention at all would know that the "criminal deep state" is made up of the current administration's cabinet and staff. Projection is definitely one of tRump's skills.

"Bad hombres." "Pizzagate." "Muslim ban." The Liar has stated that violent crime is at an all-time high, even when the truth says that violent crime is near a 20-year low. Fear-mongering is not new to politics. In fact, it works. Imagine a politician who coddles us with rainbows and unicorns and everything is beautiful promises? That politician will lose the election.

As a child of the Fifties, I grew up on "duck and cover" and fallout shelters. I remember feeling more excitement than fear when we huddled under the yellow oilskin Safety Patrol raincoats hanging in the stairwell. And our makeshift basement fallout shelter at home seemed more like an adventure than a safe space. Lots of canned fruit and board games there just waiting for us to camp out by candlelight. In contrast, I cannot even imagine the fear experienced by today's children who live in a country where school shootings occur regularly.

There's fear in entertainment. (Zombie Apocalypse?) There's fear in advertising. ("Hurry! Protect yourself from the Dark Web with our software!") There's fear in weather. (Hurricanes, tsunamis, tornados, floods, earthquakes . . . ) There's fear in everyday living. ("Don't eat romaine lettuce! Get your flu shot! Watch out for ticks! Wash your hands - preferably with antibacterial soap! Women should only have one glass of wine a day!)

Oh, that last one hurt.

Yes, there's a lot to be afraid of. And we cannot forget FDR's famous line, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." And he was kind of right on that one. There have been reports of large groups of people becoming ill based on something they feared that wasn't even there, like a gas leak or an ebola outbreak. It's referred to as "mass psychogenic illness," a condition in which the fear of infection spreads just as virulently as the disease itself. Certainly the nation's fear of terrorists and rapists from other countries is far greater than the actual number of terrorists and rapists who have perpetrated crimes in this country.

But fear of those tiny orange fingers on the big red nuclear button? Call me Scared Shitless.

Yanny

That rock you're living under? I know it feels safe, but you need to come out, okay? There are very important sides to choose. But don't worry . . . they're not political.

Of course, I am referring to the latest distraction to capture our fickle attention. Yanny or Laurel, "an optical illusion for your ears."

It was just one week ago yesterday that Katie Hetzel, a high school freshman in Georgia, was studying for her world literature exam. "Laurel" was one of her vocabulary words, so she looked it up on vocabulary.com and played the audio to hear the word. She didn't hear "laurel." She heard "yanny." And the controversy exploded from there. The vocabulary.com recording was actually made by an opera singer, one of the original cast members of the Broadway musical Cats, back in 2007. At this point, it is not a spoiler alert to say that if you hear "laurel," you are correct. And if that makes you feel smug, you might also want to know that the fact that you hear "laurel" might suggest that you've experienced some hearing loss, as your ears are not processing the higher frequency range of sound, something that happens as we age. While 47% of people hear "yanny," and 53% hear "laurel," Team Yanny is made up of mostly younger people.

I feel quite youthful in announcing that I am on Team Yanny. It's nice to know that my ears are young while the rest of my body is aging faster than the latest fad.

You can google the phenomenon to find several scientific explanations for the controversy. Apparently, the acoustic patterns for the utterance are midway between those for the two words. And what you hear depends on what frequency of the signal you attend to. Or maybe the quality of your speakers or the kind of device on which you are listening. I can't wait to find out what I hear when I listen on my transistor radio or my boombox or my hi-fi stereo!

These "this or that" issues are not new to our culture. Sometimes they're just a way to state your beliefs ("redneck or hippie") or your tastes ("Big Mac or Whopper") or your choice of underwear ("briefs or boxers"). When I was in college in Pennsylvania, the question was, "Soda or pop?" If your answer was "pop," you were definitely from the Pittsburgh area.

Many articles that attend to this controversy make reference to 2015's "What color is the dress?" issue. I really don't remember this. While my hearing appears to be good, my memory still sucks. And maybe that's just the beginning of my cognitive decline. You see, there's a new audio out which asks if you hear "brainstorm" or "green needle." (When you "drop a yanny," you are starting a contentious debate on some type of public forum. This is only the beginning.)

I hear "brain needle." I am either losing it completely, or I am the ultimate compromiser.

On Tyranny

It's a little bit more than 4" x 6" in size and 1/2" thick. It's 126 pages long. Its subtitle is Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century. Timothy Snyder's little book, On Tyranny, will scare the bejesus out of you. I'm still recovering, and yet ready to read it again so that it sinks in.

On Tyranny was published in February 2017, just one month into the current administration. Reading it over a year later only confirms the warnings Snyder puts out there. A professor of history at Yale, Snyder specializes in the history of Central and Eastern Europe as well as the Holocaust. In other words, he knows his material. Using the historical realities of Nazi Germany, Soviet Communism, and Russian oligarchy, Snyder provides a concise history lesson as to the methods used by those in power to subdue and control the general population. And it is not difficult to see variations of these same methods being used in this country today. This reality is bone-chilling.

In the time it would take me to write about each of the twenty lessons put forth in the book, you could read it yourself. (And you should.) Instead, let me briefly react to a few of them.

#2: Defend institutions. You know what's happening. Scott Pruitt's EPA is rolling back environmental regulations and putting forth policies in denial of climate change. Ben Carson's HUD wants to raise rent for low-income Americans receiving federal housing subsidies. And Betsy DeVos sees education reform as a way to "advance God's Kingdom." It would appear that the current President purposely selected Cabinet appointees that would undermine everything those institutions are in place to uphold.

#3: Beware the one-party state. Look at any map designating the current blue and red states and you will see the imbalance. While Pew Research concludes that 48% of registered voters lean Democratic compared to 44% of voters who lean Republican, the map is overwhelmingly red. Gerrymandering has been going on for many years, leading us to this crazy imbalance. The Republican members of the House and Senate who remain silent in the face of this dangerous administration are complicit for one reason only: to maintain the majority and control all three branches of government.

#6: Be wary of paramilitaries. The NRA lobby. Armed white supremacists marching in Virginia. Mobs at political rallies removing protesters. Law enforcement using violence on those guilty of breathing while being black. Arming school teachers. Aggressive tactics by ICE. You get the picture.

#9: Be kind to our language. George Orwell warned us long ago. Aside from the name-calling by the Bully-in-Chief, other manipulative words and phrases are creeping into our lexicon. On a political level, we hear more and more about "the deep state" and "alternative facts." But even advertising has taken on the language of fear. Beware of "the dark web" and the trolls and bots. Even a phrase as innocuous as "the American people" is divisive. Whenever Mitch McConnell refers to "the American people," I know that he is not including me. Fake news!

#10: Believe in truth. As of two weeks ago, the Liar-in-Chief has told a whopping 3,001 lies during his time in office! And his pathological lying has become the new normal. We barely bat an eye at his latest fabrications. "Post-truth is pre-fascism," Snyder warns us.

#11: Investigate. Accordingly, the President mentions "that Rusher thing" at least twenty times a day. Robert Mueller is indeed getting under his skin. No matter how many times the man who is the focus of that investigation utters, "No collusion," the work goes on, despite rumors of his intention to fire Mueller. "The leader who dislikes the investigators is a potential tyrant," says Snyder. Indeed.

#16: Learn from peers in other countries. Xenophobia is nothing new. But those who proudly state that they see no reason to travel outside of this country have dug their heels in. "America first!" they cry. I suspect it is nationalism, not patriotism, that informs them. Or just plain fear of the other. But the truth is that citizens of other countries have much they can teach us. At the very least, they can provide us with perspective. The irony of Americans getting drunk on tequila to celebrate Cinco de Mayo while chanting, "Build the wall!" is breathtaking.

"We are no wiser than the Europeans who saw democracy yield to fascism, Nazism, or communism in the last century. Our one advantage is that we might learn from their experience . . . " Snyder warns us that history is what can save us. "History gives us the company of those who have done and suffered more than we have."

Listen up.

The Woman in the Box

My mother died eight years ago at age 89. I'm recycling a post I wrote about her then in honor of Mother's Day. It's somewhat of a buzzkill, but full of love. And I'm fond of the discovery at the end.

There are many ways to die, most of them not pretty to watch. I watched my husband die of cancer, as did my kids, and none of us will ever forget what that experience gave and took away from us. Over the last several years, I have observed my mother's slow death from Alzheimers disease. I have been known to say, on more than one occasion, "What cancer does to the body, Alzheimers does to the mind." What I didn't know when I was saying that is that Alzheimers does things to the body, too. In my mother's case, her brain stopped telling her how to swallow. She would hold food in her mouth instead of swallowing it. By the time she died, she was a bag of bones.

But my intention here is not to rail against the ravages of Alzheimers. My intention is to talk about love.

My mother's decline was gradual at first. When she first entered the Alzheimers floor at The New Jersey Memorial Veterans Home at Menlo Park, she had lots of energy, cared about the clothes she wore, got her hair done in the salon (a luxury she never allowed herself before). She even attracted a boyfriend who became her roommate for awhile, a first for the home! (She said she didn't want to get married, though, because she didn't want to cook!) My sister and I made the long trip to visit Mom every other week. She knew who we were, she knew our kids when they came to visit, too, and we could talk about many things that she remembered and understood.

When decline is gradual, you aren't even fully aware of it. Somewhere over time, Mom's appearance became sloppier, her conversation limited, her recognition of her daughters hit-or-miss. Then there were the "skin tears," the falls, the stitches, and finally, the wheelchair. No more trips to the hair salon, and her hair was probably longer than it had ever been in her life. My sister and I upped our visits to every week-and-a-half. We sang songs with her. Memory clings to music longer than it does other things. Last Christmas, I urged Mom to sing an old favorite, "O Come, All Ye Faithful," with me. She remembered it, singing out, "O come, all ye baseball . . . " I will never sing that song any other way!

By the time my sister and I were visiting Mom every week, we were never sure what we would find. There were visits where she slept the entire time, our efforts at song and stories unable to rouse her. But other times, her face would light up in recognition at our approach, and our visit would be full of half-crazy conversation and lots of laughter. Mom would start a sentence, forget where she was going with it, and end it with a melody. She would hug us goodbye, tell us she loved us, and blow kisses as we walked away. We would always remark that if that happened to be our last visit, we would remember it as a good one.

At the point where Mom couldn't remember how to swallow, her doctor prepared us for the eventuality of her death. It was early November, and we wondered if she would make it to her birthday on the tenth, when she would turn 89. We now made the drive twice a week. On her birthday, she was still out in the common room in her wheelchair, still trying to eat, mostly ice cream. She told us, in her garbled speech, that she loved us when we left. Then came the Saturday night phone call when we were told she would not last the night. She lasted the night . . . and six more days. My sister and I were there every day.

Bones. Bones covered in onion-skin. Her dentures had been removed for some time now, making her mouth appear as a deep dark hole in the middle of her face. Had her nose always been crooked like that? Or had her face gotten so drawn, we were now just noticing it? Her eyes, when open, were watery, rimmed in red. Her long, thin hair was tied back, her tiny face dry and papery to the touch. My sister bought pretty nightgowns for the hospice nurse to change her into. Our daily visits to her bedside allowed us to pet her, talk of our love for her, tell her she could let go. She continued her labored breathing while I questioned a god that could cause her to suffer like that.

My mother died at 10:00 a.m. on Friday, November 19, 2010. I was by her side. I took a last look at that ravaged body, that hollow face, and walked away.

Despite Mom's physical decline, my sister held to her desire to have an open casket. I doubt that I will ever understand why, but I did not feel strongly enough about not wanting one to argue it with her. I provided the funeral home with pictures of Mom from a few years ago so that they could get it right. The mint-green dress, the pearls, the rosary beads were all handed over. I was assured that if we did not like how they made her up, we could ask that the casket be closed.

Arriving at the funeral home early for the viewing, we were ushered into the room with the casket. Mom's hair was nicely coifed, much like the style she'd always worn. Her face was filled out some, her eyes closed peacefully. But the woman in the box had someone else's mouth. Stretched wide, it turned her into someone else. My brother-in-law, trying to reassure me, said that if you look at the top of her face, it looked like her. It became apparent to me that no one was going to suggest closing the casket.

So I spent that evening and the next morning in a room with the woman in the box who was not my mother. I didn't break down in tears when I looked at her because I didn't know who she was. I said goodbye to the stranger, wished her well, and went home to think about my mother and where she might be.

It came to me a couple of days later. The face I loved was thin and hollow, the watery eyes rimmed in red, the nose crooked, the hair thin and wispy, the skin papery, the mouth a frightening black maw. The face I loved bore no resemblance to the woman in the box. How else can I say it? Love had taken me to a place where beauty is distorted. Love had taken me where that which is horrifying becomes beautiful. Love had taken me back to my first love: the face of my mother which was not a physical face at all, but rather, a face which transcended the physical. 

I know which face I will think about when I think of my mother. And it is beautiful.

Oleaginous

Despite his vast vocabulary and his love of baseball, I don't usually agree with conservative political commentator George Will. But when he referred to Mike Pence as "oleaginous," he got my attention. For one thing, I love "SAT words," as Will calls them, and for another thing, Mike Pence definitely makes me squirm. Defined as "oily" or "greasy," "oleaginous," according to Will, means "too smooth for comfort." If you've ever listened to Pence groveling at the feet of his boss, you'll agree with those definitions. Or how about this one: "exaggeratedly and distastefully complimentary; obsequious." Do you remember that Cabinet meeting in which each member had a chance to praise the new President? The cameras circled the room to record one fawning tribute after another, a pathetic display of obeisance designed only to boost the ego of the maniac in charge.

George Will has now named Pence "America's Most Repulsive Public Figure," an honor previously bestowed upon Pence's boss.

If there ever was a wolf in sheep's clothing, Pence is it. Shrouded in his extreme fundamentalist views (like not being in the company of a woman unless his wife is present), Pence's measured delivery sounds more like a sermon than political positing. And so he fools a lot of people. In a staged display of his holier-than-thou sense of right and wrong, Pence walked out of an Indiana Colts football game last fall because players kneeled during the national anthem. If you think that was a patriotic gesture on his part, that's your choice.

But consider this: last week in Phoenix, Pence lavished praise on Sheriff Joe Arpaio, calling him "a tireless champion of  . . . the rule of law" and declaring that he was honored by his presence. In case you have been living under a rock (or avoiding politics altogether because you can't stand it), Arpaio was convicted of contempt of court in July 2017 for refusing to stop his practice of racial profiling. Arpaio is most famously known for his creation of "Tent City," a seven-acre outdoor jail in the desert, where temperatures can reach 115 - 120 degrees. Arpaio himself referred to the prison as a "concentration camp." Additionally, his office ignored more than 400 sex-crime cases, many of them involving children. This is a man who champions the rule of law? This is a man deserving of your praise? Needless to say, the man pretending to be our President pardoned Arpaio.

So why did Pence honor Arpaio? To ingratiate himself with his audience, the ones who begin each rally with "Lock her up!"  As George Will points out, our politics have become purely tribal. Arpaio is on the same side as Pence, so he is worthy of praise; it's that simple.

"Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True. And the Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona. Not all holes, or games, are created equal."  ~ George Will

And according to Pence and Arpaio and their leader, neither are all Americans.

Drunk History

The Comedy Central hit, Drunk History, premiered nearly five years ago, but I just discovered it last year. Aside from being an MSNBC junkie, I do not watch much TV. But my best friend does, albeit very discriminately. While I forgive him for his attention to Trailer Park Boys, I appreciate that he DVRs episodes of Drunk History. When I visit him every other weekend, there's a festival of episodes to binge-watch on a Saturday night. And yes, there is alcohol involved.

Drunk History has just been renewed for its 6th season, which begins on June 19. It runs on Tuesday nights, but you can find back episodes on youtube or other venues if you are new to the series. And that's the cool thing . . . unlike most binge-watch-worthy shows, you can view episodes of Drunk History completely out of order. Each one is a snapshot of history and does not require chronological viewing. So you can watch Nellie Bly one night and Neil Armstrong the next and Wyatt Earp the next and on and on and on and on. Like history, but not chronological.

So here's what happens: Derek Waters, co-creator with Jeremy Konner, gets drunk with a comedian, who then tells a story of a character or event in history. Interspersed with the monologue are accompanying scenes acted out by professionals. Perhaps one of the most hysterical components of the schtick is that the actors lip-sync the words of the drunk comedian, which sometimes include burps and hiccups and all sorts of profanities. (It's adult comedy, duh.)

While filming is done in one day, the directors and editors have a lot of work to do. For every one minute of footage aired, two hours of footage was shot. There is always the danger of the comedian getting too drunk, which can sometimes lead to extra laughs, but can also sabotage the entire production. Waters insists on imbibing with his guests as a way to make them feel that they are in it together.

While I am way past having to cram for a U.S. History exam, I have learned a thing or two from watching Drunk History. Many times, an episode makes me want to research the historical event to learn more. Who would have ever thought that alcohol and education could be a match? (Derek Waters, that's who!)

I cannot help but think about the future Drunk History episodes, say, ten or twenty years down the road. You know, when historical events include The Wall, Stormy Daniels, That Rusher Thing, The Incarceration of Donald Trump, etc. I would like to imagine the obvious comedians lending their talents: Seth Meyers, Steven Colbert, Samantha Bee, John Oliver, Bill Maher, and the current SNL cast (especially Kate McKinnon). But I also like to imagine a drunken Sean Spicer, Omarosa, and Anthony Scaramucci telling a tale. Hey, even Sarah Huckabee Sanders! (Does she even have a sense of humor?) I have to admit, I am nostalgic for the talents of Carol Burnett and Tim Conway and Harvey Korman . . . they were drunk-ass funny without being drunk! Imagine what they could do with the current political climate!

If nothing else, the aforementioned current political climate has encouraged many of us to imbibe beyond our norm. Might as well try to learn something while we're at it. S'right?

Chapel of Love

It was the summer of 1992, and my almost-seven-year-old daughter, Katrina, entered her painting in the art show at the county fair. A romantic since the day she was born, she painted a happy couple on their wedding day. Notice the detail on the bride's dress: red ribbons and lots of lace, a sheer veil covering her face. Looks like a crown on her head . . . is she a royal bride? She looks serene, unlike the groom, who is seriously grinning in his black suit and tophat! They share the bouquet of flowers, which is a nice touch. I'm not sure who that red-robed person is standing next to the chapel, but I assume it is the officiant. It's a beautiful day with a couple of cumulous clouds, green grass, and a very long path to (or from) the chapel.

Katrina's painting won a blue ribbon for the best painting in her age group. A picture of her and her painting were in the local paper. You can tell by her big smile that she was quite happy about it all.

Jump ahead 26 years, and Katrina is about to become a bride. I don't think there will be a crown on her head, red ribbons, or that much lace, but I'm pretty sure her future husband will be grinning as big as the groom in the picture. My little girl's dream is coming true.

Katrina is my first-born. I was late in starting a family, so I will be a slightly aged mother-of-the-bride, which doesn't bother me at all. Katrina's dad died 15 years ago; her brother will walk her down the aisle. Her sister will stand up for her. To suggest that I might cry a lot at this happy occasion would be an understatement. I assure you, those tears will be bittersweet. Sad that her father will not be sharing this event with us, but happy for my daughter and her guy. Katrina has asked me to make a toast, after a mother-daughter dance. I know that many of my readers have already experienced this . . . if you have any advice on how I can be able to see my way to the podium while my eyes are full of tears, I will appreciate your suggestions!

It is strange to look at this picture of my little girl and wonder how it can be that she is about to enter into married life. When I had children, I thought that they would remain little forever. Don't we all think that? The years go by, faster as we age, and we find ourselves reeling from the speed of mortality. I am trying hard to live in the moment and to appreciate that I am still here to enjoy this ceremonial event without going to the "what if?" place. I know that once the ceremony, the toasts, the speeches, the dances, the customs are all done, there will be celebration and joy.

And a bride and groom sharing the bouquet of marriage, walking into a life together.

I love you, Katrina and Derrek!