tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132798202024-03-16T11:17:19.140-07:00Melinda Pillsbury-FosterMelinda's viewpoints and opinions and insights<p>
into life, the universe and everything.</p>Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-12004568041899246152024-03-16T11:16:00.000-07:002024-03-16T11:16:25.296-07:00A Happy Mother's Day Greeting from Social Services <p class="Standard"></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Preface - This is an old story, which took place around 2010. At the time, I was simply hurt and outraged. I had at that time been my son's sole caretaker since his motorcycle accident on September 27, 1997. Arthur had suffered a severe brain injury and was not expected to live. Every moment possible I spent at Cottage Hospital helping to care for him. You can learn more about what I was then going through at <a href="https://howtheneoconsstolefreedom.com/throw-momma">HowTheNeoConsStoleFreedom.com, link leads</a> Throw Mama from the Train. Since the determination of my soon estranged husband, Craig Franklin, and Dan O'Dowd, to steal the company, <a href="http://ghs.com" target="_blank">Green Hills Software, Inc</a>. from Dan's partner and the man who entirely funded it in 1982, Glenn Hightower, had made it convenient to get rid of me, Craig and Dan had cut a deal, which, I am not kidding, they called the Throw Momma From the Train Strategy. </span></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I was one of the two problems who needed to be gotten rid of. I was stunned when Craig filed for divorce in January of 1998. I had just saved him from the IRS. </span></p><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background-color: white; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;"><a href="https://melindapillsbury-foster.blogspot.com/2008/05/your-not-paranoid-irs-is-out-to-get-you.html" target="_blank">You're Not Paranoid – The IRS is out to get you.</a></h3><div><br /></div><div>I was very inconvenient and did not shut up, especially since they were attempting to steal everything I was due from my more than ten years of marriage with Craig. So, they hired people to defame me, threaten me, and make it impossible for me to earn a living, which was harder than at all normal because I was taking care of Arthur 24/7/365. When you love people, you do that. The story below is just one of the many, but it disappeared from the Internet, so I'm republishing it. </div><p></p><p class="Standard"><b><span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtbhHo1Jk4suAfy6g5qnVnLWc9uYEHmUPJwPq4w2yfNlwW62-qOlf8rLLESLaePpZ5rGurRPbPidfhhzNpLEJ5rgFvcb90_Uk_MUOi9tWk5FGZ4qbdWT0yHsnPCu2P5f9m0S5QX_oVZaOujQ2TTjVuUcWIEdpKnPU1NVbjYsFB44uyQ8-fWTrzQ/s2979/Arthur%20at%20cabin%20eyes%20open%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2979" data-original-width="2669" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtbhHo1Jk4suAfy6g5qnVnLWc9uYEHmUPJwPq4w2yfNlwW62-qOlf8rLLESLaePpZ5rGurRPbPidfhhzNpLEJ5rgFvcb90_Uk_MUOi9tWk5FGZ4qbdWT0yHsnPCu2P5f9m0S5QX_oVZaOujQ2TTjVuUcWIEdpKnPU1NVbjYsFB44uyQ8-fWTrzQ/s320/Arthur%20at%20cabin%20eyes%20open%20(2).JPG" width="287" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br />A
Happy Mother's Day Greeting from Social Services </span></b><a href="http://robtshepherd.tripod.com/lawsuits.html"><span color="windowtext" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><br />
</span></a>Two women, Michelle Hammond, and Lynn Sears, accompanied by a
sheriff, Deputy Kemmerling, drove up to the house in two white cars, one a
patrol car and the other a government vehicle. They asked to see Arthur, my
son. Arthur is 30, but disabled. Arthur had left to take a short constitutional
after having lunch, he had then been gone for about 15 minutes. I told them he
would be back shortly and went inside, leaving them to wait on the driveway.<p></p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The house is a cabin located in a
small subdivision. Most of the cabins are occupied only on weekends as most
owners only vacation here. We live here full time to save money and since
Arthur needs full time care this is the only way I can provide that care and
survive, and that just barely. I work from home doing free lance writing and an
online radio show. The downturn in the economy has hit all of us.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I was informed that there had been
an anonymous complaint regarding the care of my son. When I let them talk to
Arthur out of my hearing I later learned from him that he was asked if I abused
him. He was asked a series of questions that each served to demean me, prying
into our personal lives in ways that clearly violate our rights. My son was
asked if he used illegal drugs, among other evidently routine questions. It was
manipulative, ignoring my son's Constitutional rights. This would have been
true even if he was not severely disabled.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We are obviously being targeted. My
son represents potential income to the system. Income that amounts to more than
$400,000.00.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There was a time when being poor
did not make you fair game to predators like the people from Social Services.
That time is past. Having ascertained that Arthur is not abused; he was
astonished at the suggestion, any legitimate inquiry should have ended. Instead
they used intimidation as an opening wedge in an attempt to influence my son.
Having listened to their blandishments Arthur told them that although he was
sometimes lonely he preferred to stay with me. Arthur helps when and where he
can; he knows families pull together. At
that point they transferred their attention to me. Arthur had unwittingly
thwarted their agenda.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There was a time when we all knew
that the family was the center for our lives. Families stayed together, in good
times and bad. Families were and are the kind of insurance that both protects
and makes our lives whole. We are who we are because of our family; being a
good mother, father, sister, brother, son, daughter carried us along with our
faith in God through things that otherwise would destroy us.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Refusing to tell either of us who
might have filed such a charge they demanded answers to questions that no part
of government has a right to know under the Constitution. Arthur and I have a
happy and amicable relationship having passed through much pain and adjustment;
he receives all the care I can afford and participates in every event and
activity possible. Hearing his voice makes the hardships of the last ten years
unimportant. He has his own computer and spends time on line. He attends church
and goes to Bible Study once a week. I drive him to events when possible but
attend few myself since it is costly and interferes with my work. At our small
church I usually read the weekly lesson.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The obvious thrust of the procedure
the women followed was an attempt to get control of Arthur if money could be
generated for their department. The presence of a deputy sheriff, although he
said later he was only there to show them where I lived, was intimidating and
embarrassing. I am nearly 60 and have suffered two heart attacks, I am no
threat to anyone. Although the deputy then said he was only there to show them
where I lived, the place is not served by the Post Office, he stayed, listening
to what transpired making his explanation problematical.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Over and over Hammond implied that
I was 'keeping Arthur away from his friends,' that he was not happy. They
asserted that Arthur had a 'right' to make his own decisions regarding where he
lives. If such a 'right' exists, and it is not included in the Bill of Rights,
then most of us would choose to live in Beverly Hills. Arthur well knows that
we live at the cabin because I do not have funds to live elsewhere. </p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">These well paid government
'workers' assumed as a matter of course that Arthur should be receiving welfare
or disability; he is not and never has. The distress on their faces was
obvious. Immediately they wanted to know if I would apply. </p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There was a time when Americans
stood tall, accepting help from friends and family in need. Government was not
part of the equation. That was a better time for all of us. Why do those who
make their living supposedly, making us safer, bring a message of fear? Why
have so many families, already struggling, been forced over the edge from just
this kind of predation from the agencies funded through our taxes? Why can they
afford nice homes, goodies, and pensions when so many of us are struggling to
stay off the street?</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The answer is obvious.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Evidently during their time alone
with Arthur they worked to persuade Arthur that he would be happier living
elsewhere. It is hard to imagine that they could believe that a man who has had
two major brain injuries is capable of deciding for himself that he is capable
of making life-impacting decisions, or that they, having known him for around
30 minutes, were better qualified than myself to do so but this was, indeed,
their attitude. It is amazing that they could, with straight faces and such
fervor, maintain that it is appropriate to interfere with the most intimate
choices a family makes. They showed no concern over the stability of any
situation they might offer, simply rejecting the obvious fact that the economic
meltdown every other part of America is feeling in the most visceral way could
impact their small, ugly shake down. </p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">With bright, glassy smiles, they
asserted Arthur's right to be happy over any other consideration. But his
wellbeing and happiness were not on their agenda.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">They promised Arthur that he could
go back to Santa Barbara, something I considered to be doubtful. They ignored
his need for further therapy. There are many new approaches now coming into
availability for the victims of brain injuries. They demonstrated complete
ignorance and indifference about the facts regarding brain injuries. They told
me I would let him go if I cared about him. They were insulting, demeaning, and
verbally abusive to both me and to my son. That was the underscoring and the
message received by me and by countless others who find such 'workers' on their
door steps.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">One wonders what any of the three
would do if someone trying to make their quota in human flesh arrived at their
door with the power of a holstered gun and tried to intimidate them into
handing over their child. What do you say about the moral fiber of people who
profit from such a system? Nothing is ugly enough.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Americans need to demand answers.
Among others we need to know what bounty is being put on each child or disabled
adult sucked into the system. We need to know what such 'workers' are paid. We
need to know the specifics about their benefits. We need to know how many
disabled adults die after being sucked into their system, how many children end
up sold into sex rings or used for pornographic films. In case you were unaware
that is all too often their fate. Children present many possibilities to the
greedy.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Hitler also instituted 'homes.'
Those received there were put to death under the same benevolent rhetoric I
heard yesterday. The long dead Germans were also told they would be happier and
better cared for.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There are questions that need
answers and now is the time to demand them. The disabled adults and children,
now far more vulnerable because of the incessant need to pump more funds into a
system intended solely to profit those in power, needs to be stopped.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Government has drawn a bead on all
families, yours included. Listen for the knock on the door.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Those in power need to be charged
and sued for the damage they have done to lives barely started and at risk. As
Americans we have a right to justice and the time for that is now.</p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Protect Yourself from the CPS. Use
Copper Cards and the Constitution. Our Founders intended us to be free, not the
property of government. Have no doubts, these people are making war on
us. It is time to begin the LoveLution, restore the Constitutions, our
freedoms, and the vision of America through non-violent action, starting
exactly where you are.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="color: #cc6633;"> </span></p><p class="Textbody"><b>Just a few links:
Their greed knows no boundaries.<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2006/12/03/EDGRMLJJ091.DTL"><span color="windowtext" style="text-decoration-line: none;">California
refuses to reveal the number of children who die in foster care. </span></a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="http://robtshepherd.tripod.com/lawsuits.html"><span color="windowtext" style="text-decoration-line: none;">California – Foster Care Abuse costs
3.5 million in 3 months </span></a><o:p></o:p></p><h1><a href="http://robtshepherd.tripod.com/lawsuits.html"><span color="windowtext" style="font-size: 12pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Neglect Found in Residences for Disabled</span></a> </h1><p>
</p><p class="Standard">Have no doubt, Social Services has been effectively
privatized, that means corporatized. The
government that runs it is a corporation that views children and disabled
adults, and all of us, as unrealized profits.
Their scam is ugly and it is time it was stopped.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="result__columns" data-v-35c3f43c=""><div class="result__columns-start" data-v-35c3f43c=""> </div></div>Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-65675239222554533492024-03-03T08:13:00.000-08:002024-03-03T08:13:41.665-08:00The Day I Broke My Arms<p> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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mso-para-margin-left:0in;
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</p><p class="MsoNormal">I actually started this group Facebook to refresh and extend the
happy, funny, delightful, surprising, and other memories we share from our years
of growing up on Colby Avenue and the surrounding locations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For instance, who could forget 31 Flavors at
Colonial Corners? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Things change in our lives, our families and over time, but
looking back can be sweet and enriching. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, I am going to start by sharing the story of when I broke
both my arms, compound fractures, from falling off the swing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>set in our back yard.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Events were set in motion because of a cautionary
conversation Dad felt obligated to have with me about my habit of climbing the
house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I clearly remember looking up and
wondering if it was possible to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the time I was about 18 months to 2 years of age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mom, I mention her real name, Mary Alice Reasoner, her
mother’s maiden name McReynolds, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as she
did not generally use it, I learned later in life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you heard her called by a first name that
was probably Pam, which is a nickname for Pamela.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Dad began calling her PAM, MAP after they
were married because she hated her first name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mother was in the house when the question of climbing the side
of the house occurred to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roses had
been growing on a lattice Dad had installed and I realized this was a possible
avenue to my goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sometime later, this could have been several weeks, I began
exploring this route and discovered it worked well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom did not catch me for some time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when she did, she was very upset, and I
refused to come down knowing she would then persuade Dad to eliminate this
access.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, Dad was called to come home from the University to fetch
me down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cooperated fully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad knew I was likely to do it again, but the
thick layer of roses persuaded him that could not be the way up, so instead
tried to impress on me how dangerous this kind of adventure was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My response was, “Really, Daddy?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thereafter, I was more cautious about
climbing and no misadventure ever took place regarding House Climbing. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, on one of our journeys to Sears (Dad made a practice of
taking each of us out alone so he could share interesting stories and time with
us away from home. This also included going on trips with him to interesting
locations around the state as he was consulting with various people on issues
related to his work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He must have realized I was either still climbing the house
when I was about 4 or other ways to get up higher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, one occasion, the one when we went to get
paint for the house again. (Mom was always looking for ‘the right shade’ of
green (Celedon), which had previously evaded Dad.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dad told me a story about his own terrible fear of heights,
which came over him in the wake of his parents Dr. Ernest Sargent Pillsbury and
Sylvia Florance Ball Pillsbury, dying in an auto crash on September 3, 1911. The
road had washed out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad, then 5, and
his siblings Grace and Ernest Jr. were in the open back seat of their Auburn
Six when they came around a curve going over the pass through the mountains to
Santa Barbara, Casitas Pass Road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
lived in Hollywood before there was a film industry, though Frank Baum’s home,
Ozcot was across their back fence. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dad and his siblings, after a real kerfuffle, were adopted
six weeks later by Arthur Clarence Pillsbury, Dr. Ernest’s younger brother and
relocated to Oakland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dad’s new father was an inventor and very adventurous, but
that is another story.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, Dad told me heights could be very dangerous and again
cautioned me about climbing the house. Therefore, it is ironic that I broke my
arms climbing down from the swings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
I did was walk across the top of them, not as far off the ground as the roof at
all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, I landed on my arms and felt them crack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one was in the back yard, so I carefully
and slowly got up and walked to the backdoor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t know if your backdoor into the kitchen was glass, but ours
was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there was a doorbell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing Mom giving Stevie, recently home from
the hospital, where he was born, I rang the doorbell with my nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mom glanced at me over her shoulder and told me to open the
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I responded with, “Can’t Mommy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked at Stevie and turned toward me,
taking one or two steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she could
see my arms, which were bleeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held
them up for this purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mommy fainted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
looked at Stevie sinking into the sink and suds. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then, at exactly the right moment, my older sister, Anne, walked
in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anne was then a student at UCLA majoring
in Math (Computer Science), and grabbed Stevie, wrapped him in the towel on the
counter, and stepped neatly over Mommy and opened the door for me, shepherding
me to the couch where I was instructed to hold my arms up while she got
supplies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were a couple of pillows
and more towels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dad was called and came home to take me to the doctor, who
set my arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I did not cry, he
bought me two double comics on the way home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, this is my first story, which I will link from my blog,
Melinda Pillsbury-Foster<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-76030277232552765922022-08-09T06:52:00.002-07:002022-08-09T06:52:49.636-07:00Given to the Brain Association of America, appears on their website<div><a href="https://www.biausa.org/brain-injury/community/personal-stories/mark-palmer-realistic-hope">Link to original article</a></div><div><br /></div>Mark Palmer: Realistic Hope
FEBRUARY 23, 2012 <div><br /></div><div>In July 2009, I celebrated my 60th birthday surrounded by our adult sons and their wives and playing on the floor with my four wonderful grandchildren. My wife and I will celebrate our 40th anniversary this year.
I say that to assure you that, despite TBI, my life has been very fulfilling. By sharing my story I hope to give others the confidence and inspiration to build their lives based on whatever realities they may face. <div><br /></div><div> My story began on a rainy day in 1964 when the car I was riding in was broadsided by a bus in downtown Detroit. My head was caved in; my eyeglasses forced into my eyes. Rushed to a busy hospital, emergency surgery saved my life, but I lay in a coma for 17 days. I regained consciousness without the slightest recollection of what had happened to me. As soon as I could eat, void, and walk, I was discharged from the hospital and sent home. </div><div><br /></div><div>My family and I believed we had been granted a miracle. The ordeal was over. I was fine. Although I couldn’t do everything I could do before the accident, we were sure that was temporary.
After several months of additional recovery at home, I returned to school. (See? Nothing but progress!) </div><div><br /></div><div>Then one night I woke up on the floor with a dislocated shoulder. How had that happened? When it happened a second time we began to figure out that I was having seizures. Strange as it sounds to me now, we did nothing about them. They just became a fact of my life: I had seizures.
Five years later, I married a wonderful lady who had no inkling of the journey we would travel together. </div><div><br /></div><div>Over the next 40 years she would learn to deal with nocturnal grand mal seizures, hundreds of shoulder dislocations (“I don’t care if you don’t want to pull on it, just pull!”), urinary tract scarring caused by an improperly sized catheter; what to do when I awoke from a seizure with a ruptured lumbar disc; how to understand slurred speech, and how to be supportive through innumerable vision problems, as well as chronic sinus issues. </div><div><br /></div><div> Although pain was a constant feature of our lives, I had learned to live with it. I went to sleep on ice. When the ice melted, I would awaken and start the next day. My wife not only had to endure my struggles, she had to put up with my obnoxious optimism. After all, I had been given a second chance at life. Whatever inconveniences I had to accommodate, they were a small price to pay for having cheated death. I was convinced I was living life at its fullest. </div><div><br /></div><div> It was many years before three experiences finally changed my perspective:
Getting into a cab in Tokyo, I rested my arm along the top of the seat back and my right shoulder dislocated. I jumped and dislocated my left shoulder. Screaming in pain, I yelled to the cabby to stop, got out of the car and draped myself over the hood to allow one, then the other, shoulder to slip back into place. Because I’d already had two shoulder surgeries—only to seize and pull them out of place again—I’d decided “to hell with it!” I’d live with shoulder dislocations. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Tokyo cab ride changed my mind. Arriving back in the U.S., I proclaimed my wife to be correct and asked her to make an appointment with a shoulder doctor.
Getting my shoulders fixed did not alleviate the pain in them, however. In fact, I was in constant pain in my shoulders, hips, back—just about everywhere. But again, my attitude was, I’d been given a second chance at life; what was a little pain? Increasing my pain medication was not an acceptable option. </div><div><br /></div><div>After all, it was my pain and my choice; I was the one who had to deal with it. Then I came home from work one day to be informed that my wife had hired a gardener. She could no longer stand to watch me mow the yard in pain. I’d had no idea that it bothered her! She than asked one of the best questions of her life: “Mark, if you are this hampered by pain at 45, what will your life be like at 55? I want to be able to enjoy life with you. Would you please take responsibility to help yourself?” </div><div><br /></div><div> It was pretty hard to argue with a wife who had been through 13 surgeries with me, pulled my shoulders back into place hundreds of times, and kept the household running during each of my recoveries. So, reluctantly I asked the family doctor to refer me a specialist who would look at my pain from a broader perspective. This doctor reviewed my history of pain, surgeries, massage, and physical therapy, and said that I did not have a shoulder problem; my shoulders hurt as a result of their attempts to compensate for pain. He then looked me in the eye to tell me that I “could probably compensate for most of my brain damage with the right level of commitment to improving myself.” </div><div><br /></div><div> Here I was, 34 years after the accident, hearing for the first time that I had brain damage, that it was affecting the loved ones around me, and that it was my responsibility to deal with it.
But I thought I had been dealing with it!
Maybe I had been dealing with denying it.
Wow.
I started on the doctor’s plan, which included hooking me up to a Tens unit to confuse pain signals to the brain; physical therapy three days a week, which involved relearning how to use my muscles starting by crawling; massage therapy once a week; Rolfing once a week; and a visit to the doctor every two weeks to review my progress. </div><div><br /></div><div> The second year we dropped the massage therapy and add five days a week of personal training. By the third year the tens unit was for occasional use only. Although I will spare more details here, let me say that these few years were life- changing for me. I began to get my body back.
Five years into the plan, I decided that learning to swim would be a challenging but realistic goal. Today I can jump into the pool and swim a mile. That was so satisfying, I decided to go for inline skating. Yes, I can now roller blade. </div><div><br /></div><div> Over the next 10 years I added the disciplines of EMDR, acupuncture, Pilates, and somatic experiencing. Ten years ago, my therapists told me I was still holding my head to brace for the bus impact. Today that is no longer true. Some of these disciplines have become so essential to me that I have made a personal life-long commitment to maintaining them—because when I stop, pain levels return, their impact on other family members increases, and after all, I really want to be able to continue playing on the floor with my soon-to-be-five grandchildren. </div><div><br /></div><div> Taking the responsibility to be the best that I can be was the best decision I ever made. It completely changed my life—and the lives of my loved ones.
As I share my story, I hear comments like:
I never knew!
What do you mean you slur your words?
I was not a very good friend for not helping!
You should have told me!
You much not have been hurt as badly as I was. (Unfortunately, I know of no answer for that kind of comment) </div><div><br /></div><div> What I have learned from the process is that denial, or failing to accept and take responsibility for the reality of my injuries and limitations, prolonged the suffering for myself and for those around me. The more I tried to ignore the pain and muscle my way past the disability, the more twisted and wracked with pain my body became.
Ironically, the day I surrendered and finally accepted responsibility for my actual physical condition NOW, which is to say the day I finally accepted my “new normal,” is the day I began to work my way to freedom. That freedom has not been just for me, but for my loved ones, as well. Today we are enjoying a lifestyle far richer and more satisfying than the one we lived 15 years ago. That is a realistic hope I hold out for everyone.
I have shared my story in a book Realistic Hope: Aspirations for Survivors of Traumatic Brain Injury. I have built a website for others to share their story. </div></div>Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-38003141403500437242017-09-08T11:45:00.006-07:002021-08-31T00:07:32.481-07:00The Fascinating, and Horrifying story of the Craig Franklin Institute Care<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We
all thought Craig was joking. We were
sitting around the table after enjoying a meal when Craig launched into one of
his non-computer based dreams, CFI Care.
This was to be a non-profit organization, a small one which Craig
was confident would grow through word of mouth advertising. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The
Care provided was to be sex counselling carried out by Craig, who would watch
couples have sex and provide suggestions as the couple made love. We all burst into laughter. Craig looked chagrined. You see, he was serious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Note
that Craig has no qualifications for providing such counseling, either those
issued by institutions which train or with any body of knowledge except reading
porn magazines and watching porm movies.
In this second category his personal preference is for Incest,
Kiddy-Porn, an element of information which would not be available to me for
many years, in fact, this did not happen until 2003. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In 2003, several years after we were divorced, my attorney told me I needed Craig's residence address for services of papers. I hired a private detective to obtain the information by following him home from work. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The detective entered the lobby of the Condo building in Santa Barbara and paused, briefly wondering which way Craig had gone. Then, Craig entered the lobby carrying a small gift bag and proceeded to deposit it on the top of a pile of trash extruding from the receptacle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">' </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Noting the number of the condo unit without being observed, the detective then snatched up the gift bag and headed for my home. I was very surprised when, with the detective still there, we viewed the contents. But many things were explained. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Can government immunize a person, such as Craig, from fraud in marriage? It was clear, given the evidence available after the fact, he married me to get access to my three lovely daughters, all of whom appeared to be the goal of his sexual targets, all of whom he adopted to ensure he was their 'Daddy.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A test case for fraud is in order, don't you think? And a conspiracy to help him evade charges on sexual crimes by the company, for which he was Senior Vice President makes the company also a party to the crime. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">What do you think the jury will say? How would you like to vote on this jury? Let us know, visit the <a href="http://www.emailmeform.com/builder/form/ae9xuPd430fBqCF0J6cVp7">LINK</a> to express your opinion and sign up to receive updates</span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"> as the Saga of Craig Franklin, Dan O'Dowd, John Fund and Saddam Hussein continues. </span></div>
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Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-19863562542819790662017-07-27T20:06:00.002-07:002017-07-27T20:06:55.651-07:00The Lesson of the Duct Tape - Get Freedom; Get Local<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Originally published at the LoneStar Iconoclast November 19, 2008</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> When my
son, Justin, was around 12 he saw a movie about Houdini. Fired with a sense of emulation he told his
sisters, then in their late teens, that he could do anything Houdini could do. Determined to prove this he followed them
around demanding they duct tape him to a chair.
They declined, for all the reasons you can imagine. But Justin persisted. Eventually, they complied.
Justin then told them not to release him no matter what because they would be
interfering with his demonstration. He
told them if they released him he would nag them forever. They believed him, having been his sisters
all of his life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> For forty
five minutes Justin tried to escape the
sticky bonds of the very thorough job his sisters had done. Exhausted, he asked them to cut the
tape. They looked at each other and
declined. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> And that is
where I found him when I came home from the PTA meeting though by then he had a
sock in his mouth held in place by another piece of duct tape. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Raising
children was an education in many ways.
Justin had not been thinking strategically. He had not tested each component of his plan
for whether or not it would work. He
knew nagging worked. He could imagine
the awe of his sisters when they saw him standing there, unfettered by duct
tape, and he could imagine his feeling of accomplishment. But the escaping part was entirely
untested. He could get himself into the
process but not reach the goal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> You need to
think strategically first. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> In the <a href="http://www.carlisle.army.mil/">US Army War College</a> they understand the need to cover all those
bases. Understanding the potentials for
any situation dictates that you take into account the present technology and
practices and keep an eye on potentials that are yet to be applied. Ask the builders of the Maginot Line, if your
doubt that the rules can change rapidly. The rules are about to change relating
to the FED, remember that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> In software development the need to 'beta
test' is understood as the time when the glitches are worked out. Justin's Glitch: Ignoring the need to develop the skills of Houdini, honed by that artist
over a lifetime. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> None of the
activities above relate to politics as such.
But the same is true for all forms of human activity from building a
composter to a monetary system. Know how
it works. Have a strategic plan with
interim goals for achieving your final goal. Thorough study helps you evade
what can be devastating and unanticipated outcomes, like spending an hour with
a sock duct taped to your mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Raising
children was, as I indicated, instructive.
I already knew that politics had the equivalent of 12 year olds who put
plans into motion without any thought of connecting the stated goal to a strategic
plan for achieving that goal. All too
often the actual goal was to raise money for the organizers and nothing
more. “It educated the public,” “next time we will break through,” were
common mantras heard in the aftermath of confusion, disappointment, and the sad
cheers from people what wanted to believe rather than confront the truth. Their efforts had not achieved even interim
goals; there had been no goal but a vague patina of rhetoric but they masked the
pain with illusion. “Freedom for the individual,” “private
ownership,” “return to the Constitution,” sounds wonderful. But the words will not take you there without
substantial planning and focused, effective, action. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> In each
instance those involved believed that their activism and money was being
invested in a way that was growing freedom.
They were clearly mistaken since none of those many and varied plans
actually moved us any further in that direction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Today, more
than ever in our history, perhaps, we need to view our time and money as an
investment and treat those investments with discernment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> For
instance, today we are confronting the break down of the Federal Reserve
Bank. It is likely that the government
could end up owning our mortgages, which would put us a long way towards a
nationalism more like the USSR and Nazi Germany than like anything we, as
Americans, can imagine. Such popular and
well paid gurus as Larry Edelson opine
on the frightening possibilities, such as this article appearing today, <a href="http://www.moneyandmarkets.com/the-g-20s-secret-debt-solution-27996">“The
G-20’s Secret Debt Solution”,</a> in Money and Markets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> It is not
good. And waiting around until 'they'
decide what to do sharply limits our available options. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> At the end
of the coming weekend we may or may not know what the intentions are for the
global interests meeting in Washington D. C., on <a href="http://www.g20.utoronto.ca/g20plans/index.html">November 14-15</a>. This meeting is for, “the G20 special
leaders.” Whatever happens will be more
like deciding how to serve us up as yet another entre than about how to save
the economy. At this point that is
impossible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> So while
the focus of most of the world will be on what those 'special leaders' do our focus
should be on building an alternative for ourselves that allows us to
evade their all too clear intentions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Which
brings us to the issue again of strategic, planning, and how we spend our time
from now on. Go home to your community
and get active. Community relief programs
are over worked and struggling; people have never been more inclined to
listen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> As you make
your plans consider these guidelines. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> First,
decide what outcome you want to enact.
Those long dead revolutionaries who prosecuted the only real war for independence
starting in 1775 knew what they wanted.
The outcome was not everything they wanted but it took them in the right
direction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> What we
want is to take us the rest of the way.
What we want is government by the people where the autonomy of the
individual is recognized as an absolute
that precedes any government and is not alterable by government. Here is an example of what I mean. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> An exchange
system is essential to how we live today.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The Fed is
a system that has been designed to steal our substance and control us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Therefore
we need a different system, not no system, but one that serves our needs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “End the
Fed” makes a nice meme but without a means of exchange we cannot function. Petitioning Congress has proven to be a waste
of breath. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The goal
must be to rapidly displace the Fed with an exchange system that puts control
in the hands of the individuals who are doing the exchanging. That means ordinary people at the most local
level. That way as the Fed disappears we
can survive, growing out that system. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Now, there
are two points we need to consider. Why
we spend so much time and money on such 'projects' as <a href="http://www.endthefed.us/action.php">End The Fed</a> and Break the
Bailout, both of which fail to do anything to produce the needed alternative.
Second, and most important, what we do to produce such a system. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> End the Fed
has a list of 'proposed ideas for action numbering 11 possibilities. It closes with the note that there are more
ideas. Only Nos. 7 and 8, just ideas
mind you, have anything to do with developing an alternative when the need is
obvious and immediate. This is like
telling the soldiers at Concord that ammunition would be a good idea and they
should develop some. The time to start local alternatives is several years ago.
And if that was not bad enough the next step into the quick sand of ineffective
action is <a href="http://www.breakthebailout.com/node/3">Break the Bailout</a>. There, you can find the 'plan,' which is what
they will do besides issue tee-shirts and accept donations and 'educate' the
public. Here is their idea. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h4 style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://www.breakthebailout.com/node/3">“What Are We Planning To
Do With the Funds We Raise? </a></span></h4>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>In shorthand terms, the funds will be used to build a
transpartisan community of Bailout Breakers; to spread our message about ending
the bailouts and taking back control of our money; and to create the tools that
are going to be needed for standing up to the banksters and their purchased
politicians. For a more detailed explanation of what we intend to do with the
donated funds, </i><a href="http://www.breakthebailout.com/node/6">click here</a><i>.
“<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The
'click here' takes you to exhortations to 'get active.' That is not a plan; it is a fund-raising
drive with no specifics whatsoever.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">
What it does accomplish is to keep activists involved in busy work,
distracting them from what must be done.
The future would be grim if we were dependent on this level of strategy
and thinking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Remember
the words of Albert Einstein: “Insanity:
doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> It is time
to dump the summer camp approach to activism; buying tee-shirts and paying
$35.00 to “be a part of history,” so that you can get together with like-minded
people accomplishes nothing. Go home to your community and become involved, not
in politics but in your own community. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Start a
local barter – exchange system. Start a
coop that uses local food and gleening.
Get to know the people who run the community relief programs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Fortunately,
many people have been working busily on these and other actual, working
alternatives. Finding answers is easy.
Many of these are now in operation and are providing communities with those
working alternatives now in place. One
of these related to a barter – trade system is <a href="http://fourthcornerexchange.com/">Fourth Corner Exchange</a>. But there are many others. Each should be considered a beta test site,
to be scaled up and grown, testing its viability as the community in which it
is being tried applies the principle of localizing commerce. Here, there are also challenges. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Localizing
means more than talking and it applies not to one part of our lives but to all
parts. It means providing jobs, not
talking about theories but in manufacturing and installing energy
alternatives. How about an electric car
with a home based system that also powers your house? We could have one on the market in 90 days.
The basic unit, car and home generation, will sell for $20,000. If you are interested, get in touch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> We do not
have to originate the answers; they are out there. What must be done is effective networking and
sharing that information, not for profit but because that sharing is, itself,
one of the things that builds community, taking us all to the individual
autonomy that is the foundation of freedom. Seeing it happen makes believers of
the most skeptical. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Talking
to each other is fun; summer camp was exciting when we were kids. But it is time to grow up and get serious
about freedom if you want to know what it feels like before you die. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-6013030916500575072017-03-25T11:18:00.004-07:002019-01-10T11:55:02.763-08:00In 1959 Dad took me to hear something he thought was important.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<em><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He was right. Dr. Arthur F. Pillsbury, my father, was a life-long Conservative who understood the problems we still face today with pollution, water, air and land. Dad was named to the first EPA in 1969.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://www.jfklibrary.org/Research/Research-Aids/JFK-Speeches/University-of-California-Los-Angeles_19591102.aspx" style="color: #1b7d38; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">JFK Research Library</a></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This is a transcription of this speech made for the convenience of readers and researchers. A copy of the text of this speech exists in the Senate Speech file of the John F. Kennedy Pre-Presidential Papers here at the John F. Kennedy Library.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">No change in a fast-changing world presents a greater challenge 2– no problem in a world full of problems calls for greater leadership and vision – than the control of nuclear weapons, the utter destruction which would result from their use in war, and the radioactive pollution of our atmosphere by their continued testing in peace-time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It is not a simple problem with simple answers. The experts disagree – the evidence is in conflict – the obstacles to an international solution are large and many. But the issue of nuclear tests and their effects is one which should be discussed in the coming months – not as a purely partisan matter, but as one of the great issues on the American scene.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was well, therefore, that this issue was raised last Sunday in a constructive way by the Governor of New York. His statement contributed to the dialogue on this basic issue – it represented the position of a leading figure in the Republican Party – and he did not attempt to evade the question. So I commend Governor Rockefeller for stating his views, and I hope they will be considered and debated by interested citizens everywhere.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But I must also express my own emphatic disagreement with his statement, which called for this country to resume nuclear test explosions. Such a proposal, it seems to me, is unwise when it is suggested just prior to the reopening of negotiations with the British and Russians at Geneva on this very question. It is damaging to the American image abroad at a time when the Russians have unilaterally suspended their testing and the peoples of the world are fearful of continued fall-out. And, while Mr. Rockefeller did suggest that the testing take place underground to prevent fall-out, he also – according to press reports – “discounted” the harmful effects of fall-out – which I am unwilling to do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">While many competent scientists agree that there has been no great harm done to mankind as a whole from the amount of radiation created by bomb tests so far, it is also true that there is no amount of radiation so small that it has no ill effects at all on anybody. There is actually no such thing as a minimum permissible dose. Perhaps we are talking about only a very small number of individual tragedies – the number of atomic age children with cancer, the new victims of leukemia, the damage to skin tissues here and reproductive systems there – perhaps these are too small to measure with statistics. But they nevertheless loom very large indeed in human and moral terms. Moreover, there is still much that we do not know – and too often in the past we have minimized these perils and shrugged aside these dangers, only to find that our estimates were faulty and the real dangers were worse than we knew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Let us remember also that our resumption of tests would bring Russian resumption of tests – it would make negotiations even more strained – it would spur other nations seeking entry into the “atomic club”, with their own tests polluting the atmosphere – and, in short, it could precede the kind of long, feverish testing period which all scientists agree would threaten the very existence of man himself. And, perhaps even more importantly the ability of other nations to test, develop and stockpile atomic weapons will alter drastically the whole balance of power, and put us all at the mercy of inadvertent, irresponsible or deliberate atomic attacks from many corners of the globe. This problem – called the nth country problem, because we do not know how many nations may soon possess these weapons – is at the real heart of the Geneva negotiations. For once China, or France, or Sweden, or half a dozen other nations successfully test an atomic bomb, then the security of both Russians and Americans is dangerously weakened.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The arguments advanced in favor of a test resumption are not unreasonable. The emphasis is on weapons development – the necessity to move ahead “in the advanced techniques of the use of nuclear material.” This reason is not to be dismissed lightly. Our basic posture in world affairs relies on technical military superiority. We need to develop small tactical nuclear weapons and so-called “clean” nuclear weapons, in order to deter their use or other forms of limited aggression by the enemy, and in order to facilitate a decision to respond in good conscience with atomic weapons when necessary. We need to increase the flexibility and range of weapons in our arsenal in order to increase the flexibility and range of diplomatic possibilities. This is not, I might add, justification for cutting back our ground forces and our ability to wage conventional warfare – but it is nevertheless important. Certainly the destruction rained upon us all by a small nuclear battle – and this our weapons development program is intended to deter – would be many times the damage caused by all the test fall-out in the future. But such a weapons development program cannot be suspended indefinitely in a free country without our scientists and technicians scattering to other positions in other laboratories. In addition, France and other nations on the verge of becoming nuclear powers will resent a ban – and their goodwill is also important.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But it is even more important that we find a way out the present menacing military situation. And let us remember that our present test suspension is implicitly conditional on a continued Russian test suspension. If we are not developing new weapons in the absence of tests, so, in all probability, will they. And the facts of the matter are that, generally speaking, we are ahead of the Russians in the development of atomic warheads of all sizes but behind in the development of delivery systems. Until this lag can be overcome, there is a lesser value for us in testing and developing further “techniques in the use of nuclear material.” In short, for both sides to resume atomic tests today might well turn out to be more of a disadvantage to the West militarily than a help. The Soviet Union – which apparently made great progress in it 1958 tests – is quite as likely as we in any new tests to score a break-through with some new means of destruction which will make all the more delicate the present balance of terror.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I would suggest, therefore, the following alternative position:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">1. First, that the United State announce that it will continue its unilateral suspension of all nuclear tests as long as serious negotiations for a permanent ban with enforceable inspections are proceeding with tangibly demonstrated good faith, provided that the Russians do not meanwhile resume their own tests. The latest extension of our test suspension announcement expires on December 31 – and we cannot take the chance of continuing it indefinitely without an inspection system – or afford the cost of extending a temporary suspension so long that our scientists disperse and our laboratories break down. But neither can we afford to undercut negotiations close to success – to resume polluting the atmosphere while the Russians pose as moral leaders. As long as serious, good faith negotiations continue into the early month of 1960 – and are not prolonged indefinitely beyond that – we must continue our suspension beyond December 31.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">2. Secondly, the United States must redouble its efforts to achieve a comprehensive and effective agreement to ban all nuclear tests under international control and inspection – and this means developing a single, clear-cut, well 2– defined, realistic inspection proposal of our own. We do not have this today. We have not made as concentrated and effort on techniques for preserving mankind as we have on techniques of destruction. Nor do we have a clear, concrete policy for the general arms control of disarmament program which must necessarily follow an agreement on testing if it is to be meaningful. But the whole international climate could benefit from this demonstration that East and West can reach significant, enforceable agreements. At least a part of the burdensome arms race would come to a halt. The danger of new nuclear powers emerging would be lessened. For the first time the Russians would have accepted effective international controls operating within their own territory. The hazards of health would be over. Such an agreement, in short even if not perfect – even, for example, if it looks to further modification regarding inspection systems for underground or outer-space tests – would nevertheless be worth far more effort than we are presently exerting. And it would be far more valuable than the military benefits to be gained from test resumption.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">3. Third – if our best efforts do not succeed, the negotiations collapse, the Russians resume testing and it becomes necessary for our test to resume, even then they should be confined to underground and outer-space explosions, and to the testing of only certain small weapons in the upper atmosphere, in order to prevent a further increase in the fall-out menace – and in hope, moreover, that the Russians and others will be forced by world opinion to follow our example.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">4. Fourth and finally, we must step up our studies of the impact of radioactive fall-out and how to control it, through the Public Health Service here at home and a special United Nations monitoring commission abroad. Let us not discover the precise point of danger after we have passed it. Let us not again reject these warnings peril as “catastrophic nonsense” (to quote Mr. Nixon), as they were rejected in 1956 when put forward by a great Democratic standard-bearer, Adlai E. Stevenson. There is every indication that had a test ban been accomplished then, it would have been far more useful, far more easily accomplished and far more beneficial to our national security than it would today, now that the missile gap had widened so far.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">These four policy positions that I have stated are no magic solution – nor can they be achieved overnight without effort. The course which I am suggesting is full or risks. It will require more effort, more leadership, more moral courage than merely “running scared.” But the new and terrible dangers which man has created can only be controlled by man. And if we can master this danger and meet this challenge, we will have earned the deep and lasting gratitude, not only of all men, but of all yet to be born – even to the farthest generation.</span></div>
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Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-9876350675483919322016-05-15T08:14:00.000-07:002024-01-09T19:38:53.966-08:00The Honor of Allan (the Craig) Franklin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> When my mother lay dying she asked me
to find her history for her. My father's was well known but she had
always hungered to know her ancestors. I made promise to do this,
even though we both knew it would not be before she died. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> When we
buried her I renewed my promise. Each time I went to stand by her stone I spoke to her of what had been done. This searching began in 1987. Mother had died on September 15th.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> It was a struggle.
Then, slowly, slowly, a drop at a time, a name, a line, a place, and
then a gush of findings and names came out of the past into my hands
through the work of cousins living and dead. I was grateful for
their help. My promise was redeemed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Then, a book arrived, "<i><a href="https://books.google.com/books/about/McReynolds_a_noble_clan.html?id=yu81AAAAMAAJ">McReynolds - A Noble Clan</a>,</i>" purchased in the hope it would uncover the past and fulfill my pledge. Turning the pages, slow and careful, I found myself in a different world. The generations were many. Mother
counted her descent from Robert the Bruce, through women and men,
brave and good, hardened and determined. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Reading their stories through the long stretch the time which divided us I learned of their struggles. Their lives were harsh, demanding. Of need, they bred their sons to be warriors of supreme skill and determination. Forced from their homeland to America they brought rememberings with them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I
discovered this in bare time to take the knowledge into the theater
with me and see Braveheart. Robert the Bruce was just a name when
the lights went dim. Into that theater came my husband, a
Craig, who had boasted of his Highland blood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> When we left the dim light and the stilled screen we were
both silent. He never again spoke of his roots. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The Bruce redeemed himself; the
Craig did not. Wallace was dead, deceived and betrayed by the Craig. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I would discover that Craigs
breed true to their falsity, at least on the line of Craig Franklin. Some stories are too true to recount
whole in one speaking. This is one such story.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Melinda Pillsbury-Foster</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A number of people, not many, but a few, have read this and questioned my reasons for feeling deeply angered by Craig. I understand that most of these imagine circumstances for the divorce that fall in with their own experiences. When I tried to explain what had gone on they were incredulous. Surely, they would mutter, you are exaggerating. Generally this happened only a short way into the explanation. So, instead of again writing or talking I'm going to send you to this <a href="https://howtheneoconsstolefreedom.com/craig-franklin">website</a> It takes you first to my learning about Craig's real sexual fantasies, which he wanted to live out by raping my little girls and the lengths he and his boss were willing to go to to kill me to avoid being exposed. <br /></span></div>
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Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-78198954386163394482014-10-21T07:25:00.002-07:002021-08-31T00:12:31.220-07:00I Remember - Abigail, still in my heart and thoughts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I was dutifully cleaning up files on my computer when I opened, "Document3," an unnamed file in Amaranth, an organization which had meant a lot to me when I was active. It was a letter of condolence to a friend who had lost her son. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Memories came flooding back. The letter is dated November 11, 1997. At that point in time I was spending most of my time with my son, Edi, who went back to using Arthur some time later. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Shelley was having a bad time. I knew it. All of her friends understood. The pain of others hits us, renewing our own times of grief. I hand-wrote the letter, mailed it, and it stayed, untouched on my computer, transferring with other files through a varied succession of machines. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Today I am so glad I opened Document3. Instead of Delete, I put it in a special file, one dedicated to the little girl I lost in 1989. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In December of 1989 I went for what I believed would be one of the last visits to my obstetrician, Mr. Solomon, before giving birth to the baby I had already named Abigail. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Her layette was ready, along with her crib and a collection of old and new toys to keep her occupied and happy. Each of my children had a layette I made for them myself, along with gifts from friends and purchased items. Abigail's baby book was already being used to chronicle my trips to the doctor and my thoughts about this baby, kicking and wiggling inside me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">All of my children were breast-fed. Abigail would be, too. I was looking forward to this wonderful phase of mothering. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Then my world fell apart. Dr. Solomon put on the ultra-sound for a look at Abigail and she was not moving. He asked when I had last felt her. With a deep sense of panic I said I could not remember. Tests followed, each one killing another bit of hope. No heart beat, no anything. Abigail had died. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The next day I went to the hospital. Yet another nightmare followed. I wanted to have her buried but forgot to mention this with the rush to get me into surgery. Later, I learned I was having problems which made this essential. And after surgery Dr. Solomon told me he had had a hard time stopping the bleeding. I would have to stay over night in ICU and suggested I take something to make sure I slept. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I felt a rush of fear. I knew if I went to sleep I would die, leaving my other children. Undefined ugliness seemed to press in on me. I felt a stab of fear for them. I refused to take anything. Dr. Solomon, never dramatic, did not press it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Around 2am I felt myself lifting out of my body and had to focus on keeping myself connected. I struggled to get the button to call the nurse and pressed it over and over again. She came in, asking if I wanted the sleeping pill. I told her to check my blood pressure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It was so low they called Code Blued me, calling in Emergency. I was lying in a puddle of blood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Dr. Solomon later told me it was a very close thing. In the upheaval I was told it was not possible to have Abigail's body to bury. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I shudder with the horror of what my life would be like if Abigail had been born and raised by <a href="http://craigfranklin.blogspot.com/">Craig</a>, my then husband, who I now know wants nothing more than to have a baby girl he can raise and then rape and destroy. I did not know what evil was until I accepted it can come hiding behind faces we believe in and trust.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I love you, Abigail. I understand, now and forever. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Letter to Shelley (Last name withheld) </span></div>
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November 11, 1997</div>
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Dear Shelley,
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Forgive me for not hand-writing this
note. I was so sorry to hear about your son’s death and have
wanted to get in touch every day - but honestly I did not feel equal
to talking to anyone - taking your advice and making life as simple
as possible, perhaps. </div>
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I know what you are going through -
not only did I come close to losing Ed, but I lost a child at birth
and it took me a long, long time to recover from that. It was as if
I kept looking around for some part of myself that was misplaced only
to remember that I could never have it back again. I did not go
through her clothes for a full two years and when I did, it was a
renewal of the pain. The pain passed, not with time but with
acceptance and gratitude for the short time I had her. I taught
myself to remember the times I had sat, entranced at her movements
within me, the joy I had experienced in making her clothes and her
little bed. </div>
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Eventually I arranged a memorial service for her. I lit
a candle to her memory and thanked God for the time we shared. It
did help. Then I started to see her in others and that helped most
of all. </div>
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Our children are not supposed to
predecease us. It is unnatural, wrong, and unbearable. Every night,
now that Edi is home, I slip into his room to look at him sleeping. I
listen to him breathe. </div>
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I don’t know what I can say to
lighten your burden. He lived the life he wanted? Scant comfort.
But some part of Abigail is still with me and I know that some part
of your son will always be with you. Love is the most enduring thing
that we, as humans create. It is really the root of everything and
takes us back to our home, no matter how far we may stray. </div>
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God bless. My thoughts are with you. </div>
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<i>Melinda </i></div>
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Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-44271635662583964832014-10-01T20:45:00.000-07:002016-05-14T08:04:15.629-07:00The Incident of the Gas Cap – Craig Franklin, Remembered<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"> A snippet
from the book, Psychopaths – A Guide to Survival by Melinda
Pillsbury-Foster</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Eight Psychopaths, Ten Chapters </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">NOTE: Of course, Craig gets one whole chapter for himself but the other seven certainly know who they are. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"> </span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Let me say
right now Craig Franklin, my former husband, was not stupid, not in
the least. He continuously informed me and anyone else who he had
known for as long as 90 seconds that his IQ was 180. Therefore,
those looking for a reason the following incident took place must
look for some other explanation. I have a few ideas myself, rest
assured. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">The
Incident took place on a Friday evening after I had picked Craig up
from work. He would have liked to drive himself but since he had,
again, had his driver's license suspended for good and sufficient
reasons, this was not possible. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Endangering the lives of other people is not a victimless crime, take note. Issues of increased liabilities if
he was caught were foremost in my mind. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Despite my
pointing these ominous possibilities to him, and the impact on our
already creaky finances, Craig did not see the need for a license to
drive. It might seem to this was stuffy of me, but I understood, all
too well, the problems encountered by individuals who decided to
dispense with these small pieces of plastic. So, although I do not think licensing of the right to drive is appropriate and affirm it is a v have one myself<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"> <span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">because the failure to do so is too high a cost <span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">in<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"> money and aggravation to contemplate. </span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Craig and I
had met at a Libertarian Convention in 1977. Most Libertarians
disagree with the rules, grudgingly perhaps, but because it is easier
to follow those which you cannot safely evade than paying the costs of ignoring them. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Craig was
different. If I had known just how different my life would have been
far more serene and less chaotic. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Craig also
thought it should be unnecessary to file a tax return, evidently not
minding a bit this ensured he would never receive an intact paycheck
from his employer, Green Hills Software, Inc. Such is life. If you
are interested in THAT story just rea<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">d</span> the <a href="http://melindapillsbury-foster.blogspot.com/2008/05/your-not-paranoid-irs-is-out-to-get-you.html">link</a>.
It happened. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">On this
particular evening my former husband, Ron Foster, whose maiden name
was Kellett, had been allowed to come to the house to play Dungeons
and Dragons with the children he had allowed Craig to adopt so he would not have to pay child s<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">upport</span>. They were huddled around the dining
room table peering at small pieces of cardboard when I drove in with
Craig in the passenger seat. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">The
disagreement had started in the car just after I picked him up from
his work at Green Hills Software, Inc., then located in Glendale,
California. It had been a long journey home in rush hour traffic to
North Hills. I was tired and still needed to go to the grocery store
and shop so I could make dinner. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">But first,
the house needed some picking up. As I walked through the place,
reassembling order from chaos, Craig accompanied me so he could
continue to argue while he gulped down a snack. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjspMOWG54yqL66-s7FHnWdf2u2yQZAnISFiYYu1H7Wo892D87AYQJARQMNwy02tt3OZhQZJFs9VtnUmp8j7DLewaJYv8CpPG1g7MagRPVyOXH8o25vd3ud_XzvV58k8y_b1Rt6fw/s1600/Craig+with+his+beloved+Cheex-Whiz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjspMOWG54yqL66-s7FHnWdf2u2yQZAnISFiYYu1H7Wo892D87AYQJARQMNwy02tt3OZhQZJFs9VtnUmp8j7DLewaJYv8CpPG1g7MagRPVyOXH8o25vd3ud_XzvV58k8y_b1Rt6fw/s1600/Craig+with+his+beloved+Cheex-Whiz.jpg" width="306" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">As usual,
he had made a bee-line for the refrigerator for some yummy concoction
which would sustain him until dinner was ready. The epicurean
delights he assembled included Cheez-Whiz, purchased just for him
since no one else would eat it. This was slathered, or by preference
extruded, on any kind of cracker or not too squishy thing which
presented itself. Sometimes it joined globs of Ketchup on a thick
slice of meat loaf. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">But he
really preferred very large portions so we never knew what would
emerge as his most recent treat. Cheeze-Wiz was a frequent condiment
on all of these constructions. He said it helped hold them together
while he consumed them. This is probably true. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">I wish I
could remember what had started Craig off. Despite his claims of
being the most ardent of Objectivists, and being the only living man
to have stalked Ayn Rand, sitting for days in the lobby of her
apartment in New York with orchids at the ready and a math treatise
in his hands, Craig's arguments were never rational. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">I kept
picking up and straightening. Craig kept talking in louder and
louder tones. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">It suddenly
occurred to me this would be an excellent time to go to the grocery
store. Interrupting the flow of verbiage I told him I was leaving
and went to get my purse. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">When I
re-emerged into the dining room a few minutes later the Dungeons and
Dragons Saga had paused. All eyes were staring out the window.
There, next to the back of the car stood Craig clutching something in
his hand. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Ron
laconically informed me,<i> “He took off the gas cap.”</i> Odd, I
thought, dismissing this latest evidence of Craig's erratic behavior
as I walked out, climbed in the station wagon and swung out of the
drive way. In the rear view mirror I could still see him standing
there, gas cap raised inquiringly. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">When I
returned about 45 minutes later the D & D had resumed and Craig
was firmly locked in the bedroom. He refused to emerge for dinner,
which I left in front of the door for him. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">It seems
after I left Craig had walked back in the house looking perplexed.
He then asked Ron, <i>“How could she drive off when I have the gas
cap?”</i> </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">The
question had been answered by the six year old in the room. </span>
</div>
</div>
Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-91886190084942600182014-09-10T03:37:00.004-07:002014-09-10T03:37:39.791-07:00 If it is Justice You Seek - A Vision of the End Times <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">From
a Waking Dream</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Early Tuesday Morning, September 8, 2014</span></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqXmnVv2cf0_Y4bhWpZn3VD4qEmkNL7QDjBNkqI-2Ld7pHed96m4xw4POrxclgJxhCMDG8Noz_BqOeXhMV7lMSJgHL3eGkIfJ6Y_xRz2UCKUWx0Luif7jaF1XooEUwU050DIlOA/s1600/Robert+The+Bruce+Statue+Stirling+Castle+Scotland+03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqXmnVv2cf0_Y4bhWpZn3VD4qEmkNL7QDjBNkqI-2Ld7pHed96m4xw4POrxclgJxhCMDG8Noz_BqOeXhMV7lMSJgHL3eGkIfJ6Y_xRz2UCKUWx0Luif7jaF1XooEUwU050DIlOA/s1600/Robert+The+Bruce+Statue+Stirling+Castle+Scotland+03.jpg" height="320" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue of The Bruce, at Stirling Castle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span> </span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Girdled in the plaid of the Bruce they
laid their swords before Christ. Kneeling, their faces still glazed
in the blue of battle, they pledged fealty to Him as they promised
their souls to war upon the demons which oppressed His people.
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Knowing from ages past this was appointed
Christ accepted their duty and oath, blessing them and their battle
for souls otherwise lost to God, His Father. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The Fall of Lucifer and his demons to
Earth had penetrated the substance of God's people and this taint
would be removed and His people purified. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">These kilted men had been tempered by
battle, marked with scars and the wounds which do not show on the
skin. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I watched them from a distance through
time, knowing them for kin. Heart to heart. Mind to mind and soul
close to Him who died for all of us, yet in this shining moment stood
before us, hands raised in blessing of their battles yet to come. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And I could feel the winds of Scotland
cleansing me of care, leaving only the certainty those fallen with
Lucifer, the demons who have afflicted us since the Fall, would be
brought to choose. They would either turn to Christ, the Spirit and
God, or be ripped from Earth, returned to their Master in Hell. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">These, my kinsmen, knew I was among
them, though divided by the roil of generations and centuries. In
this moment we had made the same pledge. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Then, the Bruce, who they had followed to
this place of peace and sanctuary, which also drew me, turned and
spoke. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“<i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Daughter,”
</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
he spoke it soft and gentle but with the knowing which penetrates
past bone to soul, </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You
have come to point us to them. This is your battle, not one of
revenge but to carry to them the choice between salvation and the
gnashing of teeth and flames of Hell. “ </span></i></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Nodding, I bowed my head, wondering, but
accepting. Heads still bowed, I felt the Bruce, newly sanctified by
Christ, touch my forehead with his hands, the same I had seen placed
between the Hands which bore the wounds of the Cross. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Those who had followed the Bruce to this
place of consecration rose, turning to me. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I found that my mind, which had been
trapped in anguish and pain, was eased as I listened to the words
they spoke. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I sensed, knew, and rejoiced. There
would be justice even it if lay beyond the limits of their lives and
mine. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“<i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
Time is Come.” </span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
I heard the echo of Christ and saw its strength and truth on the
faces of these kinsmen who stood with me. </span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">“As
they choose, so shall their fates be decided.” </span></i></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">And
the Bruce smiled. </span></span></span><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Your
weapon is the truth. Use it.” </span></span></i></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And as the glaze of morning light
enveloped us I rose, consecrated to battle for the souls of Man,
stolen by evil for this age. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My eyes opened and I found myself laying
on my bed. The air around me seemed charged and different. Touching
my forehead my finger found a something unexpected. Then, my eyes
wondered at the tiny residue of blue. </span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-73377156284628105742012-06-07T12:27:00.011-07:002022-08-09T06:55:30.507-07:00Integrity - The Life and Values of Mark Palmer<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Yv4bsc3106VRcAVztjcrhngPQ3dJYdYG4igxXkpj-ak_2vvvv5kGOQMasZzLVOcdt8CK1svxwX6oNmtcpGRmMtLLIyvoGDglXFgFJUUpaJTcC6tFHpkkxLarf3ZPA8meYnM1-g/s1600/Marl+Palmer.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Yv4bsc3106VRcAVztjcrhngPQ3dJYdYG4igxXkpj-ak_2vvvv5kGOQMasZzLVOcdt8CK1svxwX6oNmtcpGRmMtLLIyvoGDglXFgFJUUpaJTcC6tFHpkkxLarf3ZPA8meYnM1-g/s200/Marl+Palmer.jpeg" width="142" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en"><b>Integrity
– </b></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
Tool which enables success and prosperity. </span></i></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.17in; margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> moral
soundness</b></span></span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">;
"he expects to find in us the common honesty and integrity of
men of business"; "they admired his scrupulous professional
integrity"</span></span></span></span><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://www.google.com/url?ei=mgx8TbzLOZT2tgP0m43ACA&sig2=DGMeqnpmGZvzNSWKmMX-Aw&q=http://wordnetweb.princeton.edu/perl/webwn%3Fs%3Dintegrity&sa=X&ved=0CBcQpAMoAA&usg=AFQjCNG6FVpsw3ZzGVmOCEagoLUevTXj5g"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">wordnetweb.princeton.edu/perl/webwn</span></span></span></a></u></span></span></div>
<ol style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0.17in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Integrity
as a concept has to do with perceived </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>consistency
of actions, values, methods, measures, principles, expectations and
outcome</b></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
People use integrity as a holistic concept, judging the integrity of
systems in terms of those systems' ability to achieve their own
goals (if any). </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Integrity">Wiki</a></u></span></span></div>
</li>
</ol>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Through
our choices we touch the world around us, changing the world through
example and through the power of choices lived consistently. This is
integrity, a measure of soul, spirit and mind.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Integrity
in our choices, living transparently and accountably, allows those
around us to know we can be trusted. When we choose to live in this
manner we are free to experience ourselves without fear, we see the
world differently.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">This
is the story of Mark Palmer, and how living with integrity allowed
him to survive and prosper. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
Palmer suffered a brain injury at age15. In late1964 he was nearly
killed in a collision with a bus, suffering a nearly fatal brain
injury. He and his friends should not have been there, sixty miles
from home. Telling their parents they were snow skiing they instead
took a trip to downtown Detroit during rush hour. The driverhad been
licensed to drive for only three days. They were enjoying a novel
sense of freedom from parental oversight. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
was an ordinary young man who, in the aftermath of the accident,
faced an extraordinary challenge.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Most
people with TBI accomplish very little. Facing often-overwhelming
problems, little is expected. Many commit suicide or care so little
about the life remaining to them they recklessly throw it away,
blaming others for their bad luck. Mark chose another way. Taking
responsibility for the problems he faced while still in the hospital
he began to take control of his own choices. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Even
today little is known about traumatic brain injury, the challenges
are too diverse and complex for anyone to predict with reliability
what the TBI survivor will face.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">During
the first late night surgery the doctors opted to remove the
splinters from Mark's brain, saying he had a 300 to 1 chance of
living. Mark was in a deep coma for weeks afterward. He would
remember nearly nothing of what had transpired during those weeks and
nothing of the accident.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">As
Mark regained consciousness he became aware his parents wanted him
home. Normally happy people, they were clearly distressed. Mark
remembers wanting more than anything to see them smile. He was filled
with the wish to make up for being someplace he was not supposed to
be. He vowed to make up for his lack of responsibility. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
decided he would do whatever necessary so they could take him home.
To be discharged, Mark had to feed himself, walk, and urinate. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
managed to walk by hanging on to his IV holder, pushing it along like
a walker, each step a painful struggle. Urinating was the next item
on the agenda. Mark discovered he no longer knew how to urinate.
Refusing a catheter, he taught himself to go. It was excruciating,
the first pain he remembered from the accident, and he had been in a
coma for so long. The memory of the pain would remain with Mark for
thirty years.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Taking
a bite of food on his own also proved to be a challenge. The hospital
required Mark manage at least one bite of food for himself. It took
many tries for Mark to hit his chin with a spoon still full of
oatmeal. His right hand was in a cast, but the left was paralyzed so
his right hand did the work. Mark hit his shoulder, then his chest.
After many attempts he got the side of his mouth. No oatmeal made it
in, but it was enough. Seven people were standing there watching. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">When
he was carried in to his home the hole in his skull was still covered
only by newly healed skin. His parents had shuffled bedrooms so he
would not have to climb the stairs. Mark does not remember who fed
him at home, but he knows it was not him. Over the next months he
slowly taught himself to walk, very badly. Mark overcompensated in
every way. Receiving no rehbilitation, he laid down a pattern for
misusing his body which would result in years of excruciating pain.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">His
body had lost the fluid ease of youth and he leaned to one side, as
if still expecting the impact of the bus.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
then experienced his second crisis. Everyone told Mark he would now
live a, normal’ life, he was nearly recovered and had only to
return to his old self. But there was no normal, old self in Mark.
Instead, Mark now experienced the world through lenses which had
changed forever. The hole in his head was healing and the hair on his
scalp was beginning to grow again. Inside his mind, he was a
different person. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"> </span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Friends
veered off and the new Mark found himself often alone.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">During
his weeks in the hospital he had received hundreds of cards from the
people to whom he delivered the morning paper. Nurses read these to
him, beginning before he was conscious. From a great distance he had
heard the words. He knew he had been valued for doing a good job, for
being reliable and contientious.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
was the kind of paperboy who makes sure your paper is close at hand
and in good condition when you go out to pick it up. It was his job
and he diligently tried to do this job well. Knowing this sustained
him, becoming a measure he was to use over and over again.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
learned while still in high school it could be worst.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">While
sitting in his doctor's office, waiting to be seen, another patient,
near Mark's age, also a victim of TBI, noticing his Algebra book told
him sadly he could no longer do Algebra. Mark had his ability with
math, even if his other classes had become much harder. Hearing this,
Mark felt a surge of happiness at finding something intact. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark's
problems were different. It took a long time to relearn the use of
his muscles. His failures forced him to identify and work with each
small muscle, individually, bringing it under his control. In this
way he learned something very valuable. To accomplish the task at
hand he had worked tirelessly. First, with help, Mark broke down each
task by identifying smaller and smaller groups of the muscles and
then learning all over again to control each one and then all of them
together.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">His
body was one set of tasks. His mind was another, even more complex.
At first he tried to believe when he was told he was now 'normal,'
that his mind was working as it had before the accident.Then he
accepted that the people he loved most were lying to him. .</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">When
he returned to school he could see he was not keeping up with his
class. What had been easy was now a struggle – but his teachers
passed him anyway. He would have liked to believe all would be well
but when he started college he knew parents, friends and teachers had
lied to him for the kindest reasons. But these were still lies.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">When
Mark was 17 he began looking for a part-time job. He sought a job
processing 100 lb sacks of newspapers but found the supervisor
doubted he could do the work.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">The
papers, produced by the Catholic Weekly, were addressed to all
subscribers, according to zip code and delivered to post office. The
job was transferring the sacks to the delivery truck, which would
then take the papers to the post office. To prove he could do the job
Mark offered to work for free for a week. Half way through the day
the circulation manager,Doug, said, "Mark, you can expect a
check." </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">The
muscle issues were solved first. The full impact of tthe damage hit
Mark when he began college. He flunked out. Mark made a pact with
himself. He could not discuss this with anyone because the people he
loved, and who loved him, would have been shocked and hurt. But he
would accept no lies, no matter how kind or hopeful. He would break
all learning into smaller and smaller parts until he could
understand, learn, and master the task at hand as he had done with
his body.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
broke every task into smaller and smaller parts until he could
understand and master each tiny, incremental bit. Each part would be
completely understood, transparent. He would be responsible for
making each part work.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">The
challenges continued to appear. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Grand
Mal Seizues started a few months after Mark had returned home. While
still in high school and college Mark suffered through seizures so
violent every incident brought with it a new injury. Over the next
years his seizures caused hundreds of dislocations of his arms, and
other injuries almost without number. Working by himself, as usual,
he learned to use pressure and gravity to pop the arms back into
place.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">The
pain of urination continued. Mark learned the location of every rest
room in any city he visited.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark's
contined back problems and a ruptured disk, complicated by his
seizures, resulted in back surgery. The levels of pain were immense,
constantly with him. Despite the unremitting pain, for two years Mark
refused mediation for pain. Blood levels for the medication for his
seizures were never checked Only years later discovering that his
body burned the medication at a rate that rendered it useless.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">When
Mark began work he automatially applied the same principles which had
helped him survive. He ascertained the facts, did not evade the
conclusions, and accepted it was up to him to find a way to make
things work.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
married in 1969 and began to build a professional life for himself
and his family. The couple had two sons and the same principles were
applied to being a father.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
became an ever more observant student of the world around him and of
people. Understanding others, what stopped them from successfully,
carrying out their jobs, achieving their goals, the strategies they
had adopted , received his dispassionate and intense attention.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
began categorizing these and determining how he, first as computer
operator, a small company executive, to salesman, mnager and
executive then consultant, could help them change their personal
stragegies to successfully meet their goals.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">In
1992 Mark was in Tokyo when both his shoulders went out at the same
time. He remembers the taxi driver, who Mark told to pull over. The
driver's shock as he watched Mark was palpable.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
got out of the taxi, braced himself on the hood of the car, and using
gravity, popped both shoulders back in place, one at a time.
Returning home, he decided it was time to have them fixed surgically.
Before finding a physician Mark became an expert in the tecniques
which would be used during his surgery.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Surgery
was followed by another year of therapy. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Then
Mark discovered how his pain impacted those he loved most. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark's
wife came home one day and told him she had hired a landscaper. The
next week she sold the lawnmower. She could no longer stand watching
his struggle to cut the lawn, sleeping on ice, to alleviate the pain.
Mark realized, for the first time, he was causing his wife pain.This
was unacceptable to Mark.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">The
search for another physician, untried therapies and techniques, began
anew.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">The
new physician laid out a regimen. X-raying Mark's shoulders the
doctor prescribed massage therapy and recommended Mark begin a
regimen of Rolfing. Rolfing, a technique to break up the adhesions
between muscles and organs caused by trauma, continued weekly for 15
years.“You don't have a shoulder problem,” the doctor said, “you
have a compensation problem.”</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
physician was the first person who referred to Mark's condition using
the words, 'brain injury.' His parents had never told him. Asked
about this, Mark's father said harshly, “</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">You
didn't deserve it” </span></span></i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">His
parents had concealed the truth out of a wish to protect their son,
finally explaining to Mark why they had told him he was 'normal.' </span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
immediately went on line and began reading about brain injury.
Again,he became an expert.</span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">In
1996, now 47 years of age, Mark began rehabilitation for the first
time. He relearned crawling and walking. His doctor suggested use of
more diverse protocols. A </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b>Transcutaneous
electrical nerve stimulation</b></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
( TENS)Unit became Mark's means to distract him from the pain brought
on by the new regimen. Mark wore a TENS unit continuously for three
years as his rehabilitation continued.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.18in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />To
force Mark to stand upright his Rolfer would stand on the table and
pull his hair, excising old trauma from his body.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Understanding
he could change himself gave Mark a wonderful sense of freedom, pride
and accomplishment Ever since the accident Mark had stood and sat
with a lean to one side. During the rehabilitation process he
realized this originated from his attempt to brace for the impact
with the bus. His body had remembered the moments he could never
recall. Now, the lean was gone. His kids noticed he was standing
straighter. Mark did not quit. He could see that, no matter how
painful, the new techniques were working.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.18in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.18in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Pain
is no longer a constant distraction in Mark's daily life now. But he
has to work hard to keep it that way.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark
still approaches life in this way today. Using the same techniqueS he
had originated for his recovery had brought him far in business. In
business, Mark used transparency and accountability, developing
protocols to show others how to analyse their plans and practices
with uncompromising honesty and transparency. They must, he told
them, be accountable.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">As
a business consultant Mark teaches businesses how to become more
profitable. He puts them through a process similar to the one he used
on himself. Some find the process exausting. Others, frightening. But
the process produces highly positive results. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">While
waiting for a plane Mark met a young woman when she spilled her
coffee on his. She was, she explained, nervous, trying to rehearse
her responses for a job she desperately needed. As they talked, Mark
explained his approach. She thanked him. Some time later he
received this note from her. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="color: black;">“</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Dear
Mark, </span></span></span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">I wanted to thank you for all your
support, after a lengthy and complicated job hunt there were plenty
of people suggesting tactics which would not have been me or would
have appeared fake. You encouraged to play to my strengths by
simply being me with some thought applied and it has certainly paid
off.”</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Working
with sales staff, management, and company officers, the process
forces them to identify the facts which kept them from succeeding.
Using carefully designed protocols they hone in on the issues which
have prevented or limited their success.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark's
least successful sales management position left his client's company
with 90% revenue growth. His most successful experience was a 400%
ncrease in revenue growth. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Today,
Mark is a highly successful consultant. He is also pain free for the
first time in 50 years and he understands himself and those around
him, their motives, their evasions, and their fears.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Each
day his own regimen continues. Many normal body functions remain a
struggle. If Mark becomes over tired his speech slurs. Over the years
he has continued to lose his hearing. Each problem is approached with
the same unrelenting tools. Mark still allows himself no excuse. He
keeps researching developments in rehabilitation and on TBI, both for
himself and for others.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark's
sons grew up prizing their own self-sufficiency. Five grandchildren
brighten Mark's life.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Mark's
approach to his brain injury became his career and also a spiritual
discipline. Using the same standards in all parts of his life Mark
has lived a life founded on integrity, spelled out in action. By so
doing Mark has demonstrated to thousands of people the power of these
values to our lives.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Robert
Frost's, “Two Roads Diverge in a Yellow Wood,” is Mark's favorite
poem. Instead of taking the first road, Mark says he took the second.
Assuming nothing, Mark has accepted only the facts since the moment
he realized transparency was his only path to a life not limited by
his injuries. Mark accepted no limitations, instead embracing his own
power, something sensed the moment you meet him.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">Far
too often we ignore the power of the values and ideas we choose to
shape both our lives and the future all of us will share. One choice,
one value at a time, we are building the future today.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://www.mark-palmer.com/"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Mark
Palmer</span></span></span></span></a></u></span></span><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">'s
consulting site is mark-palmer.com.</span></span></span></span></u></span></span>
Mark<span lang="en"> </span><span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">has
also written a book for the victims of traumatic brain injury and
their and families titled, “</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://www.realistichope.com/"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Realistic
Hope</span></span></span></span></a></u></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.”
Mark discovered early that all parts of our lives need integrity.
Mark serves on the board for </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://www.mark-palmer.com/"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Jodi
House</span></span></span></span></a></u></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
a not for profit in Santa Barbara serving the TBI community there.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.18in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif"><span style="font-size: small;">This
series takes real stories and people, using them to illustrate the
principles of Integrity.</span></span></span></div><div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.18in; text-decoration: none;">Also read Mark's <a href="https://melindapillsbury-foster.blogspot.com/2022/08/given-to-brain-association-of-america.html" target="_blank">Statement </a>to the Brain Injury Association of America</div>
<div lang="en" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.18in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
<br /></div>Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-13593814681308994492008-05-11T09:13:00.002-07:002021-08-31T00:21:30.252-07:00You're Not Paranoid – The IRS is out to get you.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP2l00E6kYKoJq3L8qb-S1j70nAwovDWXIze05VLYCfEF1zn7JCGYnFoDMIyPD7FS-yXDzKIx4DGj7Qf3aqnQWhsGF_H_HtvCjSDIDjnga-YAU5hc8aaggoSUO0vEhO3MdoySSXQ/s1600-h/craig+and+rose.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396247086751689426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP2l00E6kYKoJq3L8qb-S1j70nAwovDWXIze05VLYCfEF1zn7JCGYnFoDMIyPD7FS-yXDzKIx4DGj7Qf3aqnQWhsGF_H_HtvCjSDIDjnga-YAU5hc8aaggoSUO0vEhO3MdoySSXQ/s320/craig+and+rose.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 230px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 259px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 180%;"><b><br /></b></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><i>This April 15<sup>th</sup> Remember the Sad Saga of Craig Franklin</i></span></div>
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The IRS lurks out there for all of us. Like a vampire of legend it hovers, rapacious teeth gleaming, waiting to pounce, sucking the life's blood from our veins. Most people experience a shiver of fear when a letter from the IRS arrives. Given the propensities of that institution, passed into law though never actually ratified in 1913, the fear is understandable. </div>
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But some people are more frightened than others. </div>
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One such individual was my former husband, Craig Franklin. Craig not only feared the IRS as other people do he was phobic on the subject. That phobia took a form that made it impossible for him to file his yearly return. This is not to say someone else then had to do it for him. He made sure it was not done no matter what. </div>
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I found out about this state of affairs very early in 1997 while going through the 29 boxes sequestered in his office at work. I had found out there was a problem with the IRS and State Franchise Tax Board when Craig came home and announced that he had paid thousands of dollars to a legal firm, Brown & Associates, to save him. Craig collapsed onto the bed. It creaked. </div>
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That explained a lot. For instance the irregularity of his paychecks. I realized he, we, were being garnisheed. We were approaching foreclosure, bankruptcy, and emotional melt down. Craig had paid the folks at Brown & Associates and then refused to give them information so they could do their job, saving him from his own non-filing. </div>
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When a husband is sobbing, whimpering and fouling the coverlet no decent wife does anything but figure out how to fix the problem. I did that. Eventually, the IRS would refund the nearly $200,000 they had grabbed over the years, making up returns when no money had ever been owed, even by their standards. But when Craig was laying there burying his leaking face in the pillow I did not yet know why the problem existed. I thought we had filed. Craig had made sure that all correspondence went to his work; he had kept every piece of mail from both the IRS, the State Franchise Tax Board, and various other institutions in the previously mentioned boxes along with dirty underwear, personal correspondence, old food, and a truly astonishing selection of other items. </div>
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Do we ever really know anyone? </div>
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But still, he was my husband and, as the mother of five, I did not intend to let any bully on the face of the Earth reduce him into a cowering and quivering bowl of jelly. In box No. 9 I found the unfiled tax returns I had insisted be filled back in 1987 when he and I were first married. We were a merged family and, both Libertarians, were well aware of the threat represented by the IRS. </div>
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All rational people are afraid of the IRS. I was entirely rational on the subject. Craig was not.</div>
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Over the next three months I had many conversations with IRS agents. Slowly, a pattern emerged. I discovered from that series of cheerful thugs that people, like Craig, who cannot file the return are not at all rare. </div>
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Finally, having listened to another story of a suicide and the dissolution of another life I asked, <i>“So, you are saying this is like a...the person has an emotional disability?”</i> “Exactly!” Said the agent, cheerfully as we went on to other subjects, for instance why we were now being dunned for more money we did not owe. </div>
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As soon as I had compiled the information in those 29 boxes and managed to get the material to my tax accountant the completed returns began to be filed. I continued to beg for time. I interject that the IRS is not a fount of compassion. I began also to reflect on Craig's life before we married. The tax non-filing was of long duration. He had never filed previously, not once since graduating from Stanford with a shiny new degree in Mathematics. </div>
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He had not filed while at NASA, Data General, SAS Institute or any of the other impressive places that employed him. But he had gotten stock options, options he had never stayed long enough to exercise. Pause to consider how much money he left behind when he moved on after just two years or so after receiving major chunks of options. Huge. That explained many things, for instance his inability to produce the tax loss documents for Liberty Services, the 'company' founded to fail but provide computer services for the Libertarian Party in 1979 or so. Ten years later, when I was on the National Committee, angry investors/donors were still putting the subject on the agenda. Craig had no answer, he just refused to discuss the subject. </div>
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Finally I realized that Craig had a disability. He was emotionally incapable of filing. By ignoring this disability the IRS was oppressing him, forcing him to do something of which he was provably incapable. Just like insisting a paraplegic run the Triathlon.</div>
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I made an appointment for Craig with a well-reputed therapist. The letter below was the result. </div>
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“ <span lang="en-US"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: "courier" , "courier new";"><span color="rgb(0 , 0 , 0)">4/26/97</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span color="rgb(0 , 0 , 0)"><span style="font-family: "courier" , "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Re: Craig Franklin</span></span></span></div>
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<span color="rgb(0 , 0 , 0)"><span style="font-family: "courier" , "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 100%;">To Whom it May Concern</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "courier" , "courier new";">I have been asked to write a letter to explain the behavior of Craig Franklin regarding his failure to file tax returns. I have seen Mr. Franklin several times and believe I have a thorough understanding of why he is not filing even though it is costing him money not to do so. </span> </div>
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<span color="rgb(0 , 0 , 0)"><span style="font-family: "courier" , "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 100%;"> Mr. Franklin is extremely intelligent. But he cannot deal with authority figures. He uses several rationalizations to justify this behavior including an arrogant assertion that, “he should not be bothered with every day tasks.” But the source of these attitudes is imbedded in his early childhood. He cannot deal with authority. Anything is preferable. The more authority and pressure he feels the more he is compelled to respond with inaction. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span color="rgb(0 , 0 , 0)"><span style="font-family: "courier" , "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 100%;"> He is extremely angry, and expresses that rage through his refusal to bend to others wished, rules or demands. The IRS and Franchise Tax Boards being just two more authority figures he is compelled to resist. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span color="rgb(0 , 0 , 0)"><span style="font-family: "courier" , "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 100%;"> What is most remarkable about Craig’s behavior is the compelling nature of his resistance. He is literally incapable of paying his taxes. He realizes that he has paid far more money to the government than he would have is he had filed. However, he is still adamant over his refusal to deal with the reality of taxes (and other compelling realities as well). </span></span></span> </div>
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<span color="rgb(0 , 0 , 0)"><span style="font-family: "courier" , "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 100%;"> He has now turned over the responsibility for the taxes to his wife, and arrangements have been made for her to receive and handle ALL correspondence.</span></span></span></div>
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<span color="rgb(0 , 0 , 0)"><span style="font-family: "courier" , "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 100%;"> If I may be of further assistance in understanding Mr. Franklin, please contact me.” Dr. Marquart</span></span></span></div>
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<span color="rgb(0 , 0 , 0)"><span style="font-family: "courier" , "courier new";"><span style="font-size: 100%;"> <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Then I wrote to the Collections Agent. Here is the letter.</span></span></span></span></div>
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I was directed to contact you regarding my husband, Craig Franklin, and his non-filing. Craig has never filed a tax return. He is unable to do so even though, with levies and penalties, he pays much more than he owes, because of an emotional disability. I enclose a copy of a letter I wrote a few weeks ago that gives a run-down of the situation as I understood it then. </div>
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Since that time I have learned that the phobia is actually specific to authority figures. Craig cannot deal with authority figures. Finding this out explained much of his employment history. He left company after company because of conflicts with his employers. This has also cost him because he was never able to cash out when the company went public - and yet was so valuable an employee that he often received large shares of stock options. Craig has made many people wealthy. </div>
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I enclose a letter from Craig’s therapist. Craig will never be able to file taxes or do many other things that are normal and expected. But because of his enormous intelligence he has been able to conceal his problem. </div>
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I have worried from time to time that he was an alcoholic or on drugs - but I had never heard of anything like this and neither had his therapist. We are considering a conservatorship for him. But I now handle all matters relating to his taxes. It is the only way we can function. </div>
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You might well ask why I didn’t notice what was happening to our finances. Craig has proven to be a skilled liar and manipulator willing to do and say anything to conceal his problem. Also, we together have six children and I have always had my hands full with the them and with a series of disasters. These included the death of my mother to cancer in 1987, my own near death in 1989 and the death of our last child., Abigail. In 1992 my father died, in 1993 Craig’s mother died, in 1994 we suffered severe losses on our home in North Hills. The estimate for repairs was $250,000. It took two years to have it repaired during which time we were paying the costs of both houses. Then just months after the earthquake my older sister had a heart-attack in Japan. I flew over to find that she was brain dead. And that was only the beginning of that story. </div>
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I tell you this not to elicit sympathy but to explain how I could have overlooked what was going on. </div>
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We have four children in college and another in junior high school. We are still supporting our oldest daughter, Morgan, who has never entirely recovered from an automobile accident in 1991 and who was unable to work at all for four years. She was rear-ended by a school bus at a school crossing. Craig’s brother handled her claim and consequently she received nothing. (He filed too late.) She is now somewhat better and trying to find employment. My middle son also had a drug problem in 1993 - that took an enormous amount of my time for I don’t know how long. </div>
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So, this is what was happening while Craig’s weight swelled and his health plummeted. Since he couldn’t deal with the problems his disability raised he escaped into work and eating. When he was diagnosed he looked terrible. We re really fortunate that he did not die of the stress. </div>
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Since I have taken over he had improved enormously. But this has not been good for me. Both of my sisters died of heart attacks, Anne, as I mentioned in 1994 and Carol in 1974. Their ages were 59 and 36. Two years ago my younger brother had open heart surgery. I am now under a doctor’s care for my heart. </div>
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What I want is to resolve this so that we can have a normal life, or as normal as possible given Craig’s condition I really wish that the IRS or the Franchise had charged Craig with non-filing. I thought that was what happened eventually. If the IRS had charged him he would have received the care he needed years ago - and spared all of us incredible suffering. </div>
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Craig’s non-filing arose not from any unwillingness to file but from an inability to file. If you read Dr. XXXXXXX’s letter this is clear. Since that is the case we should not have to pay any penalties - or interest.. Most especially since we never owed anything.</div>
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This is what I want. I want out from under the mountain of debts that Craig’s condition has caused. A refund of the excess payments would help. </div>
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People like Craig who are disabled from childhood are unable to do certain things. Some people have no legs and therefore cannot dance. Craig cannot deal with authority in any form and so cannot file his taxes. </div>
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This had been a very difficult letter to write. Thank you for your prompt attention in this matter.”</div>
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We had been told by various professionals that we would be paying additional penalties for years, the time ranged from three to five. No one, especially Craig, could believe it when the checks, one for each year, began appear in the mail box. Craig had said to me, “If you can make that work then you should get the money for yourself.” But to our son he said, “Your mother is nuts!!!! No one can beat the IRS.” </div>
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But I was pretty darn sure that this was a case the IRS would want buried, and I was right. But what I did not realize that in the convoluted mind of Craig Franklin, I, having beaten the IRS had shamed him and would now play a very unwilling part in the next portion of the disaster movie that is his life.</div>
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We call that segment, Divorce, Misho Style for reasons that will become obvious. The Sad Saga of Craig continues to clarify with astonishing insights into the condition of psychopathy and corporate greed. You can read about Green Hills Software, and their president, Dan O'Dowd, Craig's co-conspirator along with others, in these articles. </div>
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<a href="https://www.freedomsphoenix.com/Article/091040-2011-06-06-when-psychopaths-cooperate.htm">When Psychopaths Cooperate </a></div>
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<a href="http://freedomoutpost.com/2013/05/the-ethics-of-drone-contractors/"><span class="breadcrumb_last">The Ethics Of Drone Contractors</span></a></div>
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The IRS is scary but not nearly as much so as some people I know.<br />
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NOTE UPDATE January 10, 2019 - I learned only by observing Craig's behavior he uses the IRS as part of his scheme to destroy women who trust him when they are told the money they are receiving is a 'gift' for which they owe no taxes. He enjoys using this technique to destroy them. So, accept the money and pay the tax covertly to the IRS or other governmental theft agencies. You will be glad you did. </div>
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Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-57123905924129388272007-12-22T17:45:00.000-08:002007-12-22T18:41:06.935-08:00The Glories of Christmas, gifts past and yet to be.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitywpsoxT7hVZNHhyxLtEIXdaRySHM7EwSD1D-5WJK8pijJtIU4rBwpBB9braPMd-4PQM_xDZfTEsTpI1vvoAfeVxhWWIzGx_wSBYEx0kOhgzvsgy8hbp8O9JX7ICVdWgY_49IVQ/s1600-h/santa+color+toys.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitywpsoxT7hVZNHhyxLtEIXdaRySHM7EwSD1D-5WJK8pijJtIU4rBwpBB9braPMd-4PQM_xDZfTEsTpI1vvoAfeVxhWWIzGx_wSBYEx0kOhgzvsgy8hbp8O9JX7ICVdWgY_49IVQ/s320/santa+color+toys.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146979350081707682" border="0" /></a><br /><p><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p face="georgia" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">We all go through some hard times. Perhaps not like we are about to experience, but hard. Hard times teach us things that otherwise we would not probably learn. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">This Christmas many people are buying less. Many families are buying just one gift for each child instead of filling up the places under the Christmas tree. All of us will learn unexpected lessons in the months and years to come as our nation is humbled. If you had not guessed, that is going to happen.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">I suspect that those lessons learned will eventually be viewed not as deprivation but as experiences that refocused us, enriching our lives in ways we did not imagine possible. Hardships bring their own kinds of gifts. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Many children are now learning what it means to have a job far earlier than they imagined it would be necessary. And yet the most significant correlation between future success and experience is how early you held a job and carried it out successfully. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Working is no hardship. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">You could say that my first job was ironing handkerchiefs and shirts for my sister. I received $.01 per kerchief, $.15 per dress shirt. At first it took a long time for each kerchief and shirt. I got better and faster. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">This was before anything was permanently pressed. I was around seven years old then and my mother used to move the ironing board down as low as possible to accommodate me. I piled the kerchiefs up carefully and buttoned up the shirts so they would not wrinkle.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">My next job was selling lemonade and candy bars. The lemons were free. I walked to Savon to buy the candy bars; three for a dime, selling them for a nickel each. We had a lemon tree in the back yard at that point in time. The lemon tree figured in a special part of my life when I was young. Not only did I climb the tree and pick lemons to make that lemonade, I learned important things there.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Along with working I learned the most important lessons life held for me from things I saw, experienced, and learned from people around me. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" lang="en-US"><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">There were lots of reasons to climb the lemon tree. I climbed that tree for the smell and for the hidey place that Mother had not figured out yet. In a large family alone time is hard to come by.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">The tree did not fork for about four feet so at that point in my life getting up to a branch was a little tricky. This involved either a running start or jumping. After getting a firm grip on the lower branch I would haul myself up and into the cocoon of leaves that made a small cave. I had discovered that I could not be seen when I was there if I was quiet and remained still. I had pointed out this advantage to my friend, Jimmy. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Jimmy is James Dean. To the world at large he is an actor but he was my best friend when I was little. Sometimes, though not nearly often enough, Jimmy came over for lunch and to talk to my mother and to me. A visit usually meant a walk in the back yard to view the roses; Mom was always fighting mighty battles with the aphids there and Jimmy was one of the few people who was interested in those battles. I had told him about the hidey place in the lemon tree. He had nodded. Hiding places were things he had enjoyed, too. But living on a farm he had many more than were available to me in a house in the suburbs. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">After I was in the little cocoon I would curl my feet into the crook between the branches and put my face against the bark. That was where the smell was strongest, but I knew that when I climbed down I would carry the smell around with me for the rest of the day, taking it to bed with me. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">I think of this as the afternoon of the Lemon Tree. I climbed the lemon tree while Jimmy was finishing up drying dishes with Mom in the house. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" lang="en-US"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">I could see out when the wind moved the leaves. While I was lying there soaking up the scent of lemon Jimmy came out and looked around. I did not move. Then he laid down on the grass just where the Avocado Tree cast its shade onto the lawn. It was very green then and the longest it was allowed to get because the next day Father would cut it. The dandelions had been busy and several golden little crowns of flower were nodding right there in the grass. Jimmy put his arms behind his head and sighed a big sigh. His eyes closed. I kept watching him, not speaking. He made snoring sounds but I knew he was not really asleep. He liked to pretend. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" lang="en-US"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Then he sat up. He looked right at me in the lemon tree though I was sure he couldn't really see me. Then he said, “Trees breathe.” He said it long, dragging out the sounds of the words and making them kind of scary. I looked around me. The tree had not changed. I could not hear anything that sounded like breathing. He said it again. “Trees breathe.” This time he made little gasping and choking noises like he was dying and collapsed down onto his back. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" lang="en-US"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p face="georgia" style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">That was too much. I jumped down and walked over to him. He sat up as soon as I dropped out of the tree. I put my fists on my hips and said, “Trees do not breathe. I have never heard any tree breathe.” I was annoyed. Jimmy was saying things that were not true, I thought. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p face="georgia" style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p face="georgia" style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Jimmy said for the third time but this time he said it differently, smoothly with no scary in it at all. “Trees breathe; they breath in light,” he glanced up, not looking at me but past me to the sky and the sun, “and breathe out life.” With that he looked back at me and gently blew right into my face. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p face="georgia" style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">I sat down on the grass, still looked at him, waiting for him to say more. I knew he would. Jimmy did not just say something and expect me to accept it without explanation. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p face="georgia" style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Jimmy went on to explain to me that trees use the energy of the sun to make oxygen, which we breathe in to our lungs to keep us alive. Oxygen, he said, is like the sun flowing through us and since it comes from trees and other green, growing things, it unites us with the lovely green world of grass and trees and all of the growing things on Earth. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">“That includes dandelions,” he said. He plucked one right then and handed it to me. I looked at it. It had so many slender little petals reaching out from the middle like tiny arms. I touched the center with my finger and then with my nose. The center was soft like a piece of velvet I kept in the bottom of a little box in my bedroom for storing precious things. </span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dandelions are nearly the same color as lemons, I thought. I smelled it. It did not smell like lemon but I liked it. I sniffed again, smelling for the life it had breathed in along with the sunlight. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Gifts can come in boxes under the Christmas Tree but they come in other ways, too. The Story of the Lemon Tree was a gift from Jimmy. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Jimmy stopped coming over to the house in 1955 due to unavoidable circumstances. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;" lang="en-US"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;">Making gifts out of not much was something Jimmy taught me. I had the dandelion for many years, until it fell into a pile of dust. </span></span> </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">When I was still in college and the economy was grinding to a stop in 1970 I faced one Christmas with just $5.47 for buying presents for family and friends.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">At that point in my life, as you can see, I counted every penny. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">I loved giving presents and spent a lot of time thinking about what would please the person to be gifted. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Fortunately, I was handy with a needle, although I did not have access to a sewing machine. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Since I had so little money I innovated, making little rosettes filled with highly aromatic, rose scented powder out of scraps left from other projects. I stuffed then with cotton left over from bottles of pills I had thriftily saved. These would have served, just as they were to lavishly scent drawers filled with delicate hosiery and such but I looked at what I had available and bought for the three ladies on my list, my mother and two sisters, clear glass containers into which I poured bath salts I had bought in bulk for $.59. The three glass containers I got on sale for $.39 each. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">I tied the cachets on the tops. They looked very nice and delighted their recipients. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">I don't remember what I made for my brothers, but it cost less than $.56 each. For my father I bought a plastic butter dish, filling it with scrolls of jobs I would do for him, when he needed them. One was sweeping out the garage, I remember. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">Dad had once told me he wanted a butter dish like this for the cabin. He understood, though no one else did. They all scratched their heads. He smiled. Dad always understood. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia; text-align: justify;">The best gifts are the ones that become part of who you become. The people in our lives are, themselves, gifts. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Have a Merry Christmas, filled with glorious gifts, given and received.</span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p>Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-54247127245416901162007-09-29T22:52:00.001-07:002019-01-10T11:42:00.871-08:00From a Tiny Tear to the End of America's Fascist State – How to extract yourself from the Web Corporate Greed.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnC9aMwlE9ZtUtJq0sPt8oGmGVmgG4xPYOvEYBqQSxVsx69XclygwqMtXA1hsU-7g4DYnodby5teUrSgumdS2xh_ADq_jsGncGCEq5ub-uGWBwcQBGOs9kk_I1olY5czQP7KzjWA/s1600-h/cropped+halloween.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115871340220563506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnC9aMwlE9ZtUtJq0sPt8oGmGVmgG4xPYOvEYBqQSxVsx69XclygwqMtXA1hsU-7g4DYnodby5teUrSgumdS2xh_ADq_jsGncGCEq5ub-uGWBwcQBGOs9kk_I1olY5czQP7KzjWA/s320/cropped+halloween.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a><br />
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Halloween, 1976 was special. I had made princess outfits for the girls, then two and three. They were excited by the promises of sweets to be plopped into their own little plastic pumpkins. Dawn, the oldest, dressed as a small version of Snow White, asked what she was to do when the pumpkin was too full. I told her I would take a pillow case. Pausing, she told me to take two. Dawn remains an optimist today. </div>
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Trick-or-Treating was always fun. The kids and costumes always made you smile. But that Halloween we had a special added feature. Mom, that was me, had made special Halloween literature to pass out with the Trick-or-Treat announcement. The kids had that down cold. They had passed out their first literature with their first anti-tax rally the April 15<sup>th</sup> before. </div>
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Our Presidential candidate was Roger MacBride.</div>
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Roger was a jolly candidate. The adopted grandson of Laura Ingalls Wilder, he was then often in Los Angeles working on the TV Series from the Little House Books. He had promised to have the National UnVictory Party right there in LA if we got him on the ballot in California. The Party was planned for the old Ambassador Hotel. We all went. </div>
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This piece of literature was brown and the front read, Caught in the Web of Higher Taxes and Inflation?” It went on to urge you to vote for Roger MacBride for President. I knew the pieces would be read. No competition and the recipients were curious, you could see that; mostly they were reading while still dropping candy into the upheld pumpkins. We did well in that precinct. </div>
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My kids were raised Libertarian. That meant that Victory Parties never were held because of the hope anyone had won, but because the campaign was finally over. Dawn and Ayn, Ayn was just 13 months younger than Dawn, were 11 and twelve before they realized that sometimes candidates won. That was a shock. </div>
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When she was 12 Dawn would insisted that 'her' candidate, Ed Clark, be included in First Lutheran Northridge's Mock Presidential Election. Ed did better there than anyplace else in the county, coming in with 20%. Dawn was always eloquent. She remains so today, but today she has moved Green with Market Attitude. Ayn is still Ayn, which means I named her correctly. </div>
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The kids knew how to fold, staple and mutilate literature, how to sort mail for bulk mailings, how to lay out newsletters, and the rudiments of boothing by the time they were eight and nine. They also could unerringly choose the right answers for what is today known as the World's Smallest Political Quiz on line. Then, we knew it as the Nolan Chart, for its originator, David Nolan, the founder of the Libertarian Party. </div>
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A stalwart Libertarian Activist, Ed Ogawa, made up the box with electronic components and switches to be used at the L.A. County Fair. It was used there, but its heaviest usage was between times at home. </div>
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Dish washing was occasionally punctuated by questions because of the Nolan Quiz and literature, as the kids got older. </div>
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“Mom, what is drug legalization?” “Mom, why do you want to get rid of people after they eat?” </div>
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“What?” Actually, I knew Libertarians who had stranger views than that. “It says we want to abolish the FED.” Oh. Explanations were always forthcoming. Had to be. </div>
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<b> </b>Raising children is always a challenge, especially when you persist in being different. But sometimes that political experience came in useful for real life, for instance, one day when Ayn was in 7<sup>th</sup> grade.</div>
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Ayn had a tiny glistening tear just beginning to roll down her cheek when I picked her up from school that day. The year was 1986. Ayn had been attending First Lutheran School, Northridge near our home in California since she was two years old, beginning at their pre-school, for four hours a day. </div>
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At that point she was just a few weeks from graduating into the 8<sup>th</sup> Grade, which was as far as First Lutheran went. </div>
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“Honey, what's wrong?” I has always been the kind of Mom who wanted to know about all ouchies so I could fix them. If possible. </div>
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Ayn sniffed, wiped her eye and began. “They are having the election for school officers for next year. I want to run for Secretary, but I can't.”</div>
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A campaign! One of my favorite things. </div>
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“But Honey, why can't you win?” </div>
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Ayn was and is a very intelligent girl. She received excellent grades, was diligent, hard working, responsible and full of lots of other virtues that qualified her for election to a position of responsibility. She also managed to come back in from playing still clean, no matter what she and her siblings had been up to. Ayn always looked just perfect. With long gold hair that hung in ringlets that <a href="http://www.infoplease.com/ce6/people/A0859304.html">Fra Filippo Lippi</a> would have wanted to paint and her startling blue eyes and perfect skin she looked like a little angel. All that biological capital would be a real asset when running for office. My mind leaped ahead to the possibilities. </div>
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“Because I am not one of the IN GROUP.”</div>
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I paused, considering for a moment what to say to this outrageous assertion. </div>
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I had at that point been politically active for a long time. Starting when I had barely put down my copy of Barry Goldwater's “Conscience of a Conservative,” when I was eleven I had been on one continuous and unending campaign. The campaigns came in various kinds. I passed out literature for Goldwater, later for any candidate I thought stood for the principles of freedom, free markets, and civic rectitude. I had left the Republican Party, along with thousands of other people in 1971 because of the outrage of Nixon's Wage and Price Controls, announced on August 15<sup>th</sup> of that year. I found the LP a short while later and joined, reregistering Libertarian, while I was actually pregnant with Ayn. </div>
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Losing causes obviously did not faze me. An election that was winnable was impossibly intriguing. </div>
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Ayn thought she could not win because of a few erroneous ideas. She had accepted those ideas as true because the other kids did. I knew the four girls she was referring to. They were not stupid but neither were they particularly intelligent. One always seemed to need lots of extra tutoring. They were all blond, not ugly, and had no visible infirmities; their parents did spend a little more money on irrelevancies, like buying them far too many toys over the years. One, I recalled, had gotten no fewer than ten Cabbage Patch Dolls that she displayed to her less fortunate friends from school. </div>
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Like all cliques their 'in power' depended on ideas linked to 'things' that represented status and the assertion of same. Human social ordering is very changeable if you understand the underlying principles. Changing ideas is like changing your underwear. Easy if presented persuasively. </div>
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“Honey, you are going to run and you are going to smash the opposition.” Ayn looked up at me doubtfully. The election proved me right. </div>
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The girl Ayn ran against cried when she lost. Changing the usual practice school officials refused to announce the vote totals. </div>
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Ayn had run her campaign against the bullying presence of cliques with my help as her campaign manager. Fortuitously, this tiny clique had been very obnoxious for many years. Like I said, the kids had known each other from the time they had been in pre-school together. Voting for Ayn became an opportunity to give those in 'power' a slap down. That is irresistible to oppressed majorities.</div>
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I injected humor, picking a campaign graphic of the ugliest old woman you can possibly imagine. </div>
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Every day Ayn took a few campaign buttons to school using variations of this graphic and a joke and gave the buttons away. She reported that people were buying the buttons from each other. </div>
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Check. Attention was riveted on Ayn, the installer of a new school paradigm. </div>
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I had tried to persuade Ayn to run for School President but she had resisted the idea she could be elected to such a lofty office. </div>
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The whole election was very disturbing for the school administration; they changed the rules for elections immediately. Not that it would have mattered if I had wanted to do it again. More rules create more opportunities. </div>
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That election did persuade Ayn that she was not consigned to the nameless mass of betas. Ever after, through High School and college and today, Ayn is an alpha. </div>
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The lesson I was trying to illustrate was that ideas can change and when ideas change so does everything else, immediate circumstances and the prospects for the future. </div>
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Ideas hold lots of things in place over time. The idea that some small group of people are inherently destined to rule is just an idea a small group manged to sell to the majority. The more recent idea set wholesaled by Bush Co. and the corporations have lot to answer for. The assertion that they have some kind of special decoder ring and are therefore destined to rule are just as silly as Ayn's IN GROUP. </div>
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Change the ideas, you change the outcome. Naturally, making Bush Co., their friends and employers, cry because we eliminated their streams of income and power will be just a little more complicated but it can be done. </div>
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Project: Installing better ideas. Better ideas are those that let each of us hold our own power and build our own futures. </div>
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Doing that is not rocket science. </div>
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Centralizing all power and money through streams of income that delivered money into the hands of a bunch of people who act like cases of arrested moral development was a scheme that it took generations for them and their employees to work out. But changing it can be pretty quick. </div>
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You need to lose your illusions. </div>
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Those illusions are many; they all take you to the mind set that allows others to control you. </div>
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“Baffle them with your bullshit.” That is the strategy they have been using for longer than you can imagine. </div>
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Those who want to control you will always assume the robes of authority. Question ALL authority. That is how they sold so many trusting people on the idea that a nation founded on the idea that each of us have an absolute right to autonomy somehow ended up being subject to a government that acts like a monarchy. </div>
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Silly when you really think about it. </div>
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We can in fact change our ideas and so change the whole structure of how we organize ourselves. Doing so will cost less, leaving much more for the things we want to do for ourselves and our communities. </div>
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The tools are readily available and more are coming on line all the time. </div>
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Start looking for the alpha within. It is there, you just need to recognize it in yourself. Ask Ayn. </div>
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And this Halloween, do your own Trick-or-Treating for Ron Paul. </div>
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Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-39742827234673427912007-09-26T20:04:00.001-07:002007-09-26T20:53:59.989-07:00Finding Beauty in the Silence. With thanks to James Dean and Arthur on this anniversary.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8V6NB4M_ZRAssp-4TpkMLZBxLmlGvNJX84i6h-97qCCV_h5bUBJTKrTc7VjRmKQekEj_JnJi5HrWBEkMILEvNKb2fEuYv6ms2pyVpPOO5B71jqBYJt553h0ut2pi8QKYb9K8qQ/s1600-h/Arthur+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8V6NB4M_ZRAssp-4TpkMLZBxLmlGvNJX84i6h-97qCCV_h5bUBJTKrTc7VjRmKQekEj_JnJi5HrWBEkMILEvNKb2fEuYv6ms2pyVpPOO5B71jqBYJt553h0ut2pi8QKYb9K8qQ/s320/Arthur+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114714997585526706" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Rob was surprised to hear that James Dean was not the angst-ridden youth he portrayed on the screen. Rob teaches meditation and that was the subject that brought up Jimmy. I was around five when Jimmy taught me to seek my inward Silence, letting all fear, sadness, uncertainty drain out as I reached into the silence behind the wind.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> That is what my Dad had called it when he told me about finding it himself when he was eight. The auto accident in 1911 that killed his mother and father left him afraid of heights; he had been thrown from the car as it careened into a canyon.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Jimmy had listened to the story as we sat on the lawn one afternoon; My father had told me about hearing the Silence as he learned to climb the cliffs of Yosemite. Dad had learned from his father, who had been afraid of heights until he had been lost at 10,000 feet dangling on the torn girding of a balloon over San Francisco in 1909. Looking down, Arthur C., his uncle and adopted father, lost his fear, whipped away in the wind and wonder. That had helped Dad when he started climbing in Yosemite. I have picture of Dad when he was around nine, sitting with his feet dangling into nothingness on Overhanging Rock.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Jimmy understood.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Jimmy was the person who told me that the same Silence connected me to God.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Much later I realized that the Friends he talked about that day were Quakers. He had learned about the Silence in Meeting. Sometimes it takes a while for things to connect when you don't understand the terms. I was raised Congregationalist.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> My conversations with Jimmy ranged over many subjects in the years I knew him. I remember each of those conversations. I remember the excitement of rolling the ideas around in my mind, tasting them, examining them from different angles. I stored them up, taking them out to examine frequently. Each brought with it trains of other new ideas, each leading inevitably and logically to others.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Over the years I learned that ideas lead you in new directions, to discover unexpected beauty in things you thought were completely ordinary.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Rob, who is also a Buddhist priest, was surprised to hear how Jimmy described the process of photosynthesis. <i>“Trees breathe; They breathe in light – and breathe out life.”</i> Jimmy had told me that on an earlier occasion. I had in that moment seen the connections between the breath I took and the tree that made some part of the air I breathed. Oh. The tree's life flowed into me.....amazing, connections knitting life in all directions.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Jimmy surprised everyone who really understood him, though as time passes I understand how few must have seen this side of him.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> This September 30<sup>th</sup> Jimmy will have been dead 52 years. He was 24 the day his Porsche Spyder swerved to avoid a clunker on the road ahead in Central California so, if he had lived, he would now be a cantankerous 76. I know, if he had lived, he would still be excited about ideas and the world would be a different place. He had firm intentions in that direction.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Life brings many changes, not all of them ones that fill us with joy.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Tomorrow is the 27<sup>th</sup>, the tenth anniversary of another event that brought enlightenment and changed my life. That is the day when my oldest son, then 19, nearly died for the first time.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Arthur went 300 feet 20 feet in the air, thrown off his motorcycle. He landed on his face. No one at the hospital thought he would live; it was a near thing. Six months later he shot himself through the brain. He lived, the doctors did not expect that, either.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Looking back you always wonder what you could have done to change one moment in time, to give events a different course. Imperfect knowledge breeds imperfect outcomes and leads one to wonder about the nature of 'perfection.' All of life is temporary, imperfect; but what we learn is forever. Arthur is glad he is alive; so am I. Sometimes finding yourself takes you into unexpected places that bring amazing blessings.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> When Arthur was small he learned to ride a skateboard; watching him was terrifying at first, but there was beauty and grace there as he glided over the pavement. I know he did not see that himself. He was looking for a different kind of perfection. I could see that as elation on his face when he came home.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> After he shot himself he had to learn everything over again and it took years before he could walk unassisted. Those steps were slow and unsteady. But in each step there was strength and courage that deepened my respect. Others may see the handicap. I see the man who has found that same Silence internal that my father and Jimmy once helped me find. But I also remember my son, gliding down the street as if he flowed on air.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Memories endure in the Silence; a reservoir of joy and love that never fades. Even if that were all that life is, it is enough. </p>Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-30325243783064779612007-08-27T15:46:00.000-07:002018-09-25T11:48:56.387-07:00Anne and the Gifts Life Brings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nk33OfoqIBYklHx5xOFsaXGwb5gJJC4WAWisdqU__I7XYiqWZDKlpXnBv4D935fm_nB471v_Hlu7LmLP8f5XUCHrkbq2-BsgalXWaX8JYXP48Q7ATACpX_uFUQhOOc9Sjn45Tw/s1600-h/1951.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103520020452757090" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nk33OfoqIBYklHx5xOFsaXGwb5gJJC4WAWisdqU__I7XYiqWZDKlpXnBv4D935fm_nB471v_Hlu7LmLP8f5XUCHrkbq2-BsgalXWaX8JYXP48Q7ATACpX_uFUQhOOc9Sjn45Tw/s320/1951.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">From right to left - Melinda, Carol, Stephen, Anne and Cappy</span></span><br />
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Anne and the Gifts </div>
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The encounter began in a stark waiting room in a Japanese hospital in Tokyo. My sister, Anne Pillsbury Gripp, was occupying a room in intensive care there, having suffered a heart attack while attending an orchid show in Tokyo in 1994. Anne was the owner of the Santa Barbara Orchid Estate located in Goleta, California. </div>
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I had flown in to be with her and with her two mostly adult children, my niece Alice and nephew Perry. The next two weeks were surreal, punctuated by bewilderment and occasional humor. </div>
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Anne had always had problems with her heart, we knew that. She had suffered from Rheumatic Fever when she was two years old and it had left its print on her health; her cardiologist was optimistic but realistic. She and I had gone through the loss of the sister who was between us in age, Carol Sylvia, twenty years before. Carol had been 36 when she died of a heart attack. You don't like to think about what that might mean to you about your own heart.</div>
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Carol was just two years younger than Anne but no one would believe they were related. That was sort of amazing when both their last names were Pillsbury and they, unarguably, had the same parents. Anne was tall, skinny and dark haired with dark brown eyes. Carol was short, curvaceous, blond, and had huge, vivid blue eyes. Anne was a book worm who went on to major in math at UCLA. Carol went to secretarial school right out of high school and went on to dominate any job she took. Anne would become a mathematician for GE right out of college in 1958. </div>
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Anne and I had talked just before she took off for the airport to finalize plans to take all of the kids to Disneyland as soon as she was back, mine and hers. When the phone rang that day I picked it up expecting to hear her voice. </div>
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That waiting room was a long ways from Disneyland, no matter how you looked at it. There was too much time to think about how fragile life really is and about whether of not that still figure in the bed upstairs would wake up and see us. Twice a day we got to see her unmoving form for 45 minutes. </div>
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Carol had died the day before Valentine's Day, 1974. I was 9 months pregnant with my second child then. Later, my mother returned to me unopened the Valentine I had sent Carol. Inside were two embossed cards, one from me and one from the baby she had promised to Godmother. I still have those small cards in my desk. Every so often I take them out and hold them. </div>
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The nursing staff did not speak English but they were very firm about the time limit. </div>
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While in the waiting room we had little to look at except the other families. Some of these changed over that two weeks; some remained the same. </div>
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We could not comprehend when those who shared that small room with us spoke, although we knew it was about the people they hurried to see when the time came. We all of us went up together. Sad events brought all of us there, we understood each other. Waiting and not knowing is hard. </div>
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One day I bought a small box of candies and shared it with the lady and her little girl who were sitting cross from me. Her face lit up and she bowed, accepting the small confection. I smiled back, using the word for “you are welcome,” I had just then learned. </div>
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That started the Battle of the Gifts. I was about to learn about the Japanese custom of gifting. Giving gifts is a custom that is taken seriously in Japan. Gifts are a major line item for companies and for individuals. Gifts given at specific times of the year even have special names. A midsummer gift giving is traditional and called O-chugen. At the end of the year another gifting period blossoms with presents and is called O-seibo. Those are usually gifts given to those to whom you feel indebted. </div>
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The next day I was astonished to receive a beautifully wrapped gift handed to me by the lady who looked like a porcelain doll in western clothing. She smiled and bowed gracefully. I bobbed and accepted. Inside was a perfect pastry enclosed in cellophane. Delicious. </div>
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It was a much needed distraction at first. The gift-giving continued every day and the value and permanence slowly grew. Delicacies to be consumed turned into a small book, a set of cups, tea to be used in the tea cups. Alice and Perry began wondering aloud where it would end. So did I. Eventually, we found that out. </div>
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Talking to the English manger of the hotel where we were staying I learned that it might never stop. Frightening thought. But it was a distraction we all needed, I think. </div>
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Every night, on the way back to the moderately priced hotel, I looked for shops where I could get arm my self for the Battle of the Gifts. I enjoyed watching the shop girl wrap it. They were so fast and precise, making an art form of just handing it to me, small bow included. </div>
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Back at the hotel I would put it carefully on top of the tiny chest of drawers. Japanese hotel rooms are well appointed, but they are very small. Space at a premium the small bathroom had a bathtub that did not allow for stretching out anything. Breakfast in the morning was classical Japanese, grilled fish, Misho soup, tea and rice consumed rapidly at a counter in one of the small places we passed on the way back to the hospital. Occasionally I would hear from my children or from my husband back in Santa Barbara, but they sounded distant over the phone. They laughed over the continuing Battle of the Gifts. </div>
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Then that Battle drew to a close in a way that was very unexpected. I had been in Japan for two weeks. </div>
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None of the staff spoke English well enough to tell us what was happened. Straining to understand what the prognosis might be we had decided to put her on full life support a week after I arrived. I had immediately contacted the American Embassy to ask for translation services. They hung up on me after passing me around for an hour. That happened more times than I can remember now. Then I remembered a friend had mentioned the American Express would provide some services to gold card members and called them. </div>
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Within a day they had arranged for a specialist who spoke English and Japanese to talk to the physician overseeing Anne's case and communicate with Sue, my brother Cappy's wife back at Stanford Medical Center. Sue is a physician specializing in Oncology and Radiology. </div>
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Sue's tones were professional and sad at the same time. Anne had suffered a heart attack. If this had happened out on the street with friends present in the United States the emergency personnel called would have suspected a possible heart attack. In Japan heart attacks are far rarer. Anne had suffered irreparable brain damage. Her body was there, she was gone. </div>
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Alice, Perry and I needed to talk. </div>
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Sitting on the beds in their small room we cried together. We all knew what Anne would have wanted, there were no doubts. </div>
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I flew home alone. Alice and Perry stayed to arrange to have Anne medivaced back to the U. S. so she could be disconnected and die, as she always said she would want to do under these circumstances, at home in her own bed. </div>
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I still miss Anne. We took turns reading her favorite books to her and she was never alone. Dawn, my second oldest daughter, was reading her Pride and Prejudice when Alice said that Anne had stopped breathing. </div>
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When I was getting ready for the memorial service I discovered how many people remembered the pumpkin pies Anne baked for everyone every Thanksgiving I remembered the many garments and other items she had made for her family from a huge bolt of bold red and white stripped material that felt like it was made of canvas. I got a skirt and blouse; I was five then, that was scratchy where it touched the skin. I also received a jacks bag that lasted better than leather.</div>
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All the men in the family got short sleeved shirts that made us look like escapees or a singing group. It was so Anne, we used to say. Anne loved giving gifts. I thought about that during those hours in the waiting room, thought about the gifts, small and large we had exchanged over the years and what gifts mean. </div>
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In Japan gifts are very conscious parts of life. After those weeks in that stark, small, waiting room with the ugly linoleum floor and those hard chairs giving and receiving looked different to me. They mean more and now they are more than objects. Gifts are many things. Anne's death and the Battle of the Gifts taught me many things. Some of the gifts life brings, the least visible, connect us across time; the greatest gift, love, connects us us past death, and that I find as I grow older and hopefully wiser, is the most precious thing we ever receive. </div>
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Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-89732779583642279322007-04-14T01:21:00.000-07:002007-04-14T01:24:44.868-07:00James Dean: A Recipe and a Memory<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">A Recipe and Insight from the life of James Dean. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><b><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">The Eclectic Sandwich Delight</span> </b> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">(Ingredients vary depending on what is available)</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">Peanut Butter</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">Strawberry Jam</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">2 slices of bread</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">onion so thinly sliced you can see through it.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">Tomato “ditto”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">Lettuce “ditto”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">One of the big, fat dill pickles also sliced very, very thin</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">Potato chips, crushed to the tiniest possible shreds</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">Ketchup for dipping mostly</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">Lightly toast the bread so there is no brown but it is just a little crisp. Slather on the peanut butter on one piece and the Strawberry Jam on the other. Layer on the onion and tomato so that the whole surface of the peanut butter is covered only once with each. Then sprinkle with the well crushed potato chips and cover with the very, very thin slices of pickle, and just enough pickle so that the surface is barely covered. Sprinkle lettuce with a touch of Ketchup on top and cover with the other slice of bread. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> Jimmy cut his on the diagonal. I liked that. Served with lemonade and a small glass of milk. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> I saw this sandwich prepared and assembled and then consumed by James Dean in the early 1950s. I was struck at how precise he was and how thin the tomato and onion were sliced. Jimmy and I both wore glasses nearly all the time so I tended to lean in close to watch and nearly got my nose trimmed. I was very young at the time. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> Jimmy had dropped by at lunch time for a chat and most probably for a bite to eat. He was very skinny and Mom was sure he needed a meal. His Mom and my Mom had known each other before Jimmy's Mom died. Jimmy ate lunch sitting at my small table with me in the kitchen. Mom had already eaten, actually. Jimmy showed me how to peel up the top of my sandwich (Beanie, with just peanut butter and the jam) and sprinkle on the crushed potato chips. I loved it. Then he let me have a bite of his; interesting taste. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> Jimmy had unusual tastes in food but when he assembled things it worked even when you thought it wouldn't. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;">(From my book, What Jimmy Taught me about Growing Up.)</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-family: georgia;" align="center"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> After lunch we went into the back yard. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /> Mom was showing her roses to Jimmy, pointing out the colors and other details like aphids. The War of the Aphids was a theme that brought on updates at various times to all of us. I wandered off. I was not much interested in roses. I had been pushed into a small grove of them some months earlier and had not forgotten the experience of being a pin cushion.<br /><br /> I went off to play under the Avocado Tree while they talked. That was my favorite destination in the back yard for making mud pies. The Tree murmured, making comforting, familiar sounds as its leaves danced and wavered in the wind. Being under the Tree made me feel like there was a tent over head and under the Tree it was always cool. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> For some reason the mud there was especially fine grained and therefore looked like chocolate. Didn't taste like chocolate though. I had already ascertained that on a previous occasion. As I made up hamburger patties of mud, folding these into other shapes suddenly an idea struck me. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> I had something I wanted to show Jimmy. I knew he would like to see it; he would appreciate it as no one else would. They were just walking back into the house when I grabbed Jimmy's hand. I told him he had to come look at something – right now. My mother smiled and went in the house. Stevie had started to cry, I could hear him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /> A tingle of excitement runs through me even now when I remember dragging Jimmy by the hand over the concrete pathway along the side of the garage. My arm was up at an angle because he was so much taller than me. I looked ahead to the rather dense and tall bush against the back fence. On one brief occasion I was off the ground because I was pulling so hard. Jimmy was going to be impressed, I just knew it.<br /><br /> I rounded the tall bush and pointed, triumphantly. The bush leaned slightly outward, creating a small alcove behind it. There was just a foot or so of space and there was my prize. I had been visiting it for weeks. I don't know how it got there. It certainly had not been ours. The dead Tortoise had been past all hope when I first found it there spread eagled on its back. I had been watching it being eaten by ants for these many weeks, never mentioning it to anyone. I tried to look every few days, although I knew that I should not tell Mom. She would remove it, I was pretty sure.<br /><br /> Jimmy looked at the Tortoise for a long time, just standing there. Then he squatted down to get a better look, pushing the bush aside. He looked at me and smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, as I stood there waiting for his reaction. I have lived a long life but I have never again been so right about someone who was still nearly a stranger. Jimmy was delighted; he nodded. We understood each other. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /> Then Jimmy told me that he had watched the same process himself back in Fairmount only it was with a whole cow. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> I shuddered. Cows were huge and without shells you could see much more. Jimmy was the first person with whom I discussed the physical process of mortality. Normally, when things like gold fish died they were immediately buried, usually in the toilet after a brief prayer. That did not allow me to check back and see how things were going. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> I had yet to persuade my parents to let me bury a deceased goldfish in a Band aid box to be dug up later for minute examination. The tortoise came first. Jimmy filled me in on various aspects of the process with horrid expressions of face and gestures of hands as he made rubbery faces that made me laugh.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> We had a cat then, Tiger Lady, later Tiger when his gender was correctly identified. Tiger was still a fluffy kittenish presence then. Mortality was an issue still past my horizon for anything but goldfish and the tortoise. I was curious about the physical process of death, but Jimmy did not leave it there. With Jimmy answers led inevitably to more questions. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> Jimmy told me right then and there that the essence of the Tortoise was gone. Its form remained but the thing that had built it out of the raw materials of the Earth, just like we were built, had left its body and moved on. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> With just a few words Jimmy had given me more things to think about. From the process of the deterioration of the physical body we had arrived at the question of the force that created and moves the body while it lives and the destination of that essence after death.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> Those questions were revelations in themselves. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> How were we built out of the Earth I wondered, looking down at the dirt? I put that thought away for another time. Now I wanted to know where the Tortoise had gone, if anyplace. I asked Jimmy. He paused, cocked his head to one side and looked right at me. He told me he did not know, exactly; he wondered himself if it was a place we could really understand while we were still in our bodies. Perhaps we would have to wait to know. He told me that if he found out he would tell me. He nodded as he said this. Jimmy did not mind admitting the limits of his knowledge. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> The death and aftermath of the life of Tortoise opened up a series of conversations about the nature of the world to me that filled several of Jimmy's visits and spilled over into conversations with my father, too. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> Death, Jimmy told me, was not the end of the life of a Tortoise any more than it was the end of our own lives when death came. The essence that made us what we are continued. When he told me this he pointed out that I could not see the wind, only the things the wind carries. I was only aware of the light when it was gone. But all of these things were far more tangible than the essence that created and moved the Tortoise. All continued; Death was transition and illusion.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> I already accepted that Jimmy would not lie to me; that was part of the trust that came with his reaction to the Tortoise. But I had learned that people would tell me things that were not strictly factual and often thought this was funny. Jimmy didn't do that. Jimmy told me the truth as he saw it about everything that came up. Then he told me to think it out for myself and never, never accept what others say as the truth until I had done that. <br /><br /> That was the first lessons that Jimmy taught me. Death is not the end; the essence continues; question what you think is true; trust yourself. These were lessons I would carry with me always. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> <br /></p>Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-1127170066832111052005-09-19T15:43:00.000-07:002005-09-26T18:24:39.876-07:00Why James Dean is worth remembering.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5885/1159/1600/19511.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5885/1159/320/19511.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Our Christmas card the year I met Jimmy</span><br /><br />Earlier this month the Fresno Bee published yet another article, citing someone who postures as an authority on the life and significance of James Byron Dean; this September 30th will mark the half century anniversary of Dean's death in a automobile accident in Cholame, California. During his life time James Dean was not famous. At the moment he died only one of his three movies to have been released was East of Eden. Rebel Without A Cause was not yet in the theaters.<br /><br />When he died no one had yet considered the tiny body of work Dean left behind as his legacy. No one expected him to die. James Dean's movies represent the only tangible statement of his skill. But those movies in themselves proved to be a monumental commentary. The three films illustrate ability- that plumbs depths and exhibits an intelligence unusual in an actor only 24 years of age. The roles he created in those movies expand to dominate the screen against far more experienced actors. The intelligent portion of Hollywood understood that, but as with all professions only a few could see that. Most people who are fascinated by the magnetic appeal Dean was able to project ascribe that appeal to those causes that more define themselves than they do James Dean.<br /><br />"He represents eternal youth," Legnon says, leaning on the memorial. "If James Dean had lived, he wouldn't be the icon he is. He'd just be an old guy, like [Marlon] Brando or Montgomery Clift or any of the actors that Dean came of age with."<br /><br />It is easy for strangers to ooze opinion about someone when that person has been six feet under for a half a century. James Byron Dean died when he was 24 years old; he died having completed only three movies but those movies burn with the intelligence James Dean brought to every facet of his life. Many young actors are the product of the need in Hollywood for fresh meat. Not so with James Dean.<br /><br />Shelby Legnon, who never knew Jimmy, says that if Jimmy had lived he would have been, “just some old guy, like Brando of Montgomery Clift.” No one could be more wrong. Legnon did not know him.<br /><br />But his movies speak to those who possess the wit to understand.<br /><br />Jimmy was an individual who saw clearly and who had values that were defined and honed through years of thought.<br /><br />If he had lived Jimmy would have transformed the entertainment industry; injecting the vibrant ideas and values that moved him originally into acting. Because that industry supplies the memes and cultural content of so much that we, as Americans, live and breathe every day of our lives, and because the world watches us as the edge of cultural change, it is fair to say that James Dean would have changed the world. That was his intention and his aim; to impact the world through the craft of acting.<br /><br />He understood how it could be used. He intended to use it.<br /><br />James Dean had confronted such issues and the life of the spirit, mortality, the profound differences between people, and the ideas that drive the world when he was very young. He began life as a Mama's boy, enveloped in maternal attention. He shared with his mother a world of make-believe.; they also talked about ideas. That world was shattered when his mother died and he was relocated to Indiana to live with his aunt and uncle, two people who were decent, kind, hard-working and very different. He was a sensitive child. He did not forget his mother, he continued to remember and to grieve, creating an intense internal life of ideas. Those ideas eventually took him into acting. People who are highly intelligent and creative make their own rules.<br /><br />I knew James Dean; he was no hormone-driven Hollywood wind up doll. He was insightful, intellectually alive and very aware of the kind of people and motives that confronted him in the reality of Hollywood, 1955. To be successful in Hollywood you had to play the games Hollywood expected. Jimmy understood people; he understood their limitations and their prejudices. He had learned to project what was expected of him.<br /><br />The Hollywood perception of James Dean is colored by the timing of when he died and by the limited access he allowed to those whose approval he needed to succeed in the career he was passionately pursuing. If he had died three years later he would have had time to let Hollywood know who he really was; if he had died ten years later he would have changed Hollywood. But that is not what happened.<br /><br />There was only one James Dean. How much of him you saw depended on how much it was safe for him to show.<br /><br />Jimmy knew what Hollywood wanted him to be so that is what they saw. He was much more.<br /><br />I have spent my life fascinated by ideas and James Dean was a major influence in creating that interest.<br /><br />James Dean explained to me the process of photosynthesis by telling me when I was just a small child that, “Trees breathe; Live exists on Earth because the green growing things breathe in the light of the Sun and produce the oxygen that we, and all life, needs to survive.” An amazing way to make that process real and viscerally available to a child.<br /><br />James Dean loved thinking about the processes of life. He loved books and the ideas that roil in the mind when that mind weaves the possibilities of what is now with what could be. He pounced on new facts with delight.<br /><br />The first time I met Jimmy it was over Beanie sandwiches in the kitchen of the family home in West Los Angeles. He was a student; I was a kid. He was the kind of person who listened to children and responded thoughtfully, by which I mean he was able to connect and engage in a real discourse, not talking down to me but exploring the ideas that found their way into our conversation, introducing ideas as part of the text. With Jimmy if there was conversation there were ideas to discuss.<br /><br />It was on that very first visit that Jimmy and I discussed mortality. It was the first time anyone had mentioned the subject to me. I had been watching a tortoise dissolve back into dust, so to speak. I had discovered the tortoise already very dead behind a bush in the back yard of the house. I was fascinated by the process of its dissolution as ants carried it away and it shrank into itself. I had not told anyone else because I knew how they would reaction. The tortoise would evoke shrieks and Mom would remove it.<br /><br />Given a chance I hauled Jimmy back to look, too. Jimmy was delighted. He proceeded to tell me about observing the same process with a cow on a farm back home. Then, squatting down for a closer look, he told me that the essence of the tortoise, the thing that had make it move and live, was gone. The same happened to all that lived, he told me.<br /><br />From that time on we talked about ideas whenever he showed up for a visit. Towards the end of the visits he had started talking to me about books he was reading and the ideas that excited him in those.<br /><br />Jimmy was looking forward to a career; that career would only begin with acting. He mentioned moving on to directing and other work. He had been unhappy with the way a book he had read was made into a movie. The book was Fountainhead. He wanted to remake it because he thought the characterizations were flat and had failed to evoke the wonderful potential of the human life. I suspect now, looking back through a life time that has afforded me the opportunity to know more than I want about Objectivism, that if he had tried to do the remake he wanted Ayn Rand would have strenuously objected. Jimmy had a strong sense of spirituality that would have offended her. Jimmy would probably have ignored her objections. He was like that. He knew what he wanted and he was determined.<br /><br />I have many memories of Jimmy; he always found time to talk to me and since we shared a fascination with ideas there was always lots to discuss. The essence of spirit, the past and how we know and understand it; the flow of time. All of these things were subjects we discussed. He did most of the talking, naturally. I listened carefully and asked questions.<br /><br />Does a shallow, self indulgent kid greedy for fame and the potential for self importance and what fame can buy spend that kind of time with a child? No. Would that kind of discourse slip from the lips of an angst ridden pop tart? Hardly.<br /><br />If Jimmy had lived he would not have become a fat, self-indulgent has been. He would have taken the capital he had created in name identification and respect and invested it in projects that pushed the edges of thought in new directions. Hollywood would have followed his lead because he was worth following. He would have started projects for kids in Fairmount, Indiana; he would have, perhaps run for office. He would have done good in all directions. He cared about people and he cared about the kind of world his generation would leave behind.<br /><br />I know that to most people he exemplified the undirected angst of youth. Ironically the image he left immediately in the minds of most Americans was the product of hard work at the craft of acting. To see that perhaps Legnon should stand back and consider the intellectual vigor it takes to achieve that outcome. Jimmy was directed, focused, intent, inquiring and passionately interested in everything around him. That remains the unspoken and compelling presence that continues to fascinate, even if the viewer does not understand why.<br /><br />I wish you could have known him. Then you would understand why he is worth remembering.Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-1118351059378675912005-06-09T14:02:00.000-07:002005-06-23T17:49:57.006-07:00Beatty vs. the Governor: Send Arnold back to HollywoodI read with interest the article transcribed from a speech given by Warren Beatty today from the keynote address delivered at the graduation ceremony for UC Berkeley's Goldman School for Public Policy. While I agreed with the underlying sentiments expressed I found myself wishing Mr. Beatty had stood up for actors. Certainly there is no reason to assert today that actors contribute less to our common happiness and wellbeing than do politicians. I would make a case for the contrary. I know one honest politician but I have known several honest actors. And actors do not expect the lavish retirement accorded to members of Congress and the larger legislatures. They know if they don't give the audience what it wants they could starve. A laudable attitude that keeps them on their toes.<br /><br />The state of California would be far better off if this actor turned governor were still making the same quality movies for which he was so well known.<br /><br />So I would I suggest to Mr. Beatty that his respect for politicians is misplaced. We all have wish lists of issues but first and foremost America needs to return control of governance to the people and reinstall accountability in governance. That is after all, the original idea. That does not mean handing control off to a new form of aristocracy which is what politicians have become.<br /><br />Being elected to office is the equivalent of winning the lottery.<br /><br />It has been going bad for a long time but it was the idea that politicians can experiment on us that destroyed the basis of accountability. The ideas of the past, grounded in the failures of socialist thought and utility theory do not work. With the advent of socialism in the early 1900s the practice of installing clever ideas with no proof they would work became accepted. Theories are nice but should never be used without full liability for harm caused and a comprehensive impact study, not in business and not in government.<br /><br />No-fault divorce, welfare reform, and other nifty ideas foisted on us through legislation have destroyed the expectations of generations of Americans. It has to stop.<br /><br />And in a world where Americans cannot trust the electoral process discussing health care is like shuffling deck chairs on the Titanic.<br /><br />We are as able to audit the accounts of those convicted of crimes like Enron as we are the ballots that elect our leaders. Therefore, America has no reasonable expectation of an honest vote. That should scare you. So, while I very much enjoyed the warm sentiments and insights of Mr. Beatty I would urge him to rethink his priorities.<br /><br />Consider for a moment the retirement and benefits packages of those who serve. Definitely not what they voted up for us. Personally, if I had my way I would put the Congress on whatever privatized Social Security system they elect for us and give the elderly the retirement packages customized for Congress. To expensive you say? Just cancel the present war and we can afford it, I answer.<br /><br />Which brings us to another issue on which I disagree with Mr. Beatty while sharing his sentiments. Taxation is not the best way to equalize wealth. The robber barons of California went after the money with the help of various legislatures and then bought respectability and acceptance, which was all too cheaply for sale. Being able to buy acceptability without fear of liability makes thievery carried out under the guise of “business” and “government” far too attractive. If this had not been the case, if liability were the disincentive it should be, then the problems with California's 'energy deregulation' would by now have resulted in the seizure of the ill gotten gains and hopefully restitution would have been rendered to those harmed. Jail time is far too good for them. Give them jobs at Walmart. Wealth is not the problem; what wealth makes acceptable to us is.<br /><br />This kind of predatory behavior is not a recent development and predates both Mr. Beatty and myself.<br /><br />Far from representing a forgotten era of capitalism the Roaring Twenties was alive with larceny, the legacy of law and practice already distorted by the growing partnership between government and big business that is only today reaching its full flower through the logical consistency of the NeoCons. The motto of these Grandees of Greed ought to be, “If you are going to steal, steal everything.” No one can deny they are efficient. Who else would have ended combat pay the second a soldier is wounded and then charged the injured for food and treatment while still in the hospital, rendering a bill on discharge?<br /><br />One can imagine the murmurs of awe and respect issuing from the now dead lips of Nazi bureaucrats.<br /><br />I will happily accord any politician the respect I give my plumber if he or she does the job as promised. Politicians deserve exactly as much respect and profit as they earn by fulfilling the duty they owe to those who pay their salaries. Perhaps at sometime in America's past being a politician meant a life of service but for longer than either Mr. Beatty of I have lived being a politician in America has meant, for most of those 'called' to that profession, serving up Americans to the interests of power. Being an actor is a profession far more worthy of respect. Honor is in any work well and honestly performed, not in the kind of work. Any actor posing as a corpse can tell you that.<br /><br />So, Mr. Beatty, give actors the respect they deserve. I'd rather have a bad actor acting than one playing politician any day.Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-1117737631801231262005-06-02T11:28:00.000-07:002005-06-23T17:50:34.696-07:00Faith and Religious Practice: Quantum ConsciousnessWhen we accept the presence of the sacred in our lives and begin to listen to the flow of spirit coming to us from a place unseen we are confronted with a profound choice. Will we choose to hear or will we shoulder past the ineffable and continue on our way, ignoring what our minds tell us is irrational?<br />No choice comes without risks. But what is risked is not necessarily apparent, either to the one confronted or to those watching the logic of choice work its way out into the material circumstances that will record the totality of our individual lives.<br />The verities of the religious experience may be very different than we have thought.<br />This goes to several questions. One of these touches on the nature of reality, which we are beginning to understand through the insights offered through quantum physics as very different that previously believed. It is not the finite, knowable world that we saw it to be at the beginning of the 20th century. Most human institutions still rest on the assumptions of that century if not on an even earlier century. The structures of human institutions, born from the ideas of generations past, function as repositories for the conservation of moral and institutional capital and are therefore falling edge indicators for coming change.<br />This takes us to the question of faith, not in the way we have traditionally understood this but in a new way that I characterize as quantum consciousness. According to quantum physics each part of the whole, no matter how far removed from all others, is actually in immediate and intimate contact. This means that the faith derived article of belief stating that all life connects is literally, physically true, the spiritual then being understood as an aspect of our nature heretofore seen as separate and problematical.<br />But if we are all cojoined, both with our own spiritual nature and with the material world that extends from that nature then this is not faith but intuitively derived truth. There have been indications for a long time that those arenas of human insight, including art and literature, actually function as predictors for oncoming waves of change in how we perceive the nature of reality.<br />Dr. Leonard Shlain's book, Art and Physics, Parallel Visions in Space, Time, and Light, notes the relationship between the underlying conceptualizations in edge art and their predictive function in physics.<br />What, then is intuition and how can we use it as a tool for human progress?<br />Is religious intuition a partially understood means through which we as humans may understand our own nature and progress towards some unseen horizon? This would seem to be the case. But as with all intuition this is subject to interpretation filtered through the veil of ideas each of us uses to construct the immediate nature of our everyday reality. Because we see through those filters of our own internal experiences we use iconic representations that provide a context for meaning. This in large part explains the difficulty in communicating between individuals coming from different perspectives. But only in part. We can also be mistaken about what specific iconic representations mean to others seen through cultural filters when we translate these into language.<br />Assumptions about what may seem obvious are a constant block to real communication.<br />We are spirits living in bodies that see the world through images, language and ideas that may vary widely in understanding. Our backgrounds, genders, cultures, level of spiritual development, education, age, and other factors moderate our 'beliefs.' Our beliefs create the reality with which we react and interact with others.<br />We are spirits in process of becoming. What we are becoming lies beyond the horizon of our ability to understand. But if we are connected in the way that intuition and quantum physics now indicates then the comfortable and artificial limits we have provided through human culture, practice and religion are as fragile as a curtain suffering long exposure to the sun. It is ready to tear and only our assumptions are holding it in place. Those assumptions are what created it in the first place, let's remember.<br />So what does this mean to us as individuals and as a people? It means that as individuals we need to confront the nature of the world in which we live and the nature of the world that lives in each of us. Today that need is greater because we are living in a time of transition. Every institution of humanity is showing the strain of long use that has worn it to shreds. Those institutions, forged from the ideas originating in the human mind, are failing because they are not modeling the coming change in consciousness that has been so long predicted.<br />Baldly stated, that change is from a hierarchal structure for human organization to a flatter, matrixed model for human relations. Equality expressed spiritually.<br />This is evident everywhere, even in the excesses of hierarchy reaching its logical conclusion as a form of resistance to change. In politics today it can be understood as the one predicted Rapture, that being in truth, the realization that all are one, Christians seeing this as a union in the spirit of Christ, others seeing it through the explanatory iconic representations of their own belief systems. Interestingly enough, nearly all human religious have predicted a transition in this period of time, another argument that the intuition driving these visions has predictive value.<br />As with all monumental transitions this one is tumultuous, impacting many in immediate ways. <br />The form and content of churches, giving place to the continuing human need to experience the sacred, are changing in unexpected ways that are leaving members of the older generations bewildered and isolated. The cognitive process to which the younger generations have been subject may well have changed them organically far more than we yet understand. The familiar structure of the human experience, firmly invested in a hierarchal world view is rapidly growing flatter through a series of punctuating events. This bald fact has been observable in business, with the downsizing of the Fortune 500 through the collapse of middle management with the advent of the desk top computer. This has been balanced by the almost hysterical desire of those in positions of power to hold on to the past by accumulating reservoirs of wealth.<br />The effect of quantum consciousness first appeared in venues for human action that were most easily modified by the forces of market choice. America, representing the optimization of freedom remained a mystic beacon for human hope even as the objective conditions that had made this true were diminished. Where choice is possible, in religion, in occupation, in relationships, choice has been exercised with growing frequency. We are seeing it last in government and other organizations that fail to allow for the modifying power of individuals voting with their feet and finances.<br />Quantum consciousness is the realization of human freedom, not in the political realm but in all parts of all venues for action.<br />Individuals from all parts of the world have accepted the idea that they should by inherent right be free. All of us are now trying to understand what freedom means practiced in the individual life. Our beliefs and the hope it generates may be changing the larger direction through the compiled force of quantum consciousness itself. Nothing is separate, as we are coming to see.<br />The body of human knowledge has increased exponentially. It is no longer possible for any one human being to know everything in even a subsection of one discipline when only ten generations ago it was possible for one individual to have working knowledge of the whole of human knowledge derived from Western Civilization. This rate of change has only shifted upwards with the interface created by the presence of the Internet and other means for the dissemination of memes that would previously have taken years instead of seconds or minutes to change the idea sets of individuals across divides of space and time.<br />So what does this say about how we should view religious practice?<br />With respect, with an open mind and with the view of understanding it as an overlooked tool for human understanding of the entire human experience.Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-1117736877104657742005-06-02T11:26:00.000-07:002005-06-02T11:27:57.110-07:00Evangelicals are hypocrites: Do not emulate them.<span style="font-weight: bold;">Evangelicals are hypocrites: Do not emulate them. </span><br /><br />It is all well and good to call for the signing of endless petitions asserting some kind of ownership in a belief in Christ, but those are empty words. No one owns the message; but each of us can deliver it. How we do that tells everyone whether or not we are living in the Work.<br />It is not hard to tell. No one mistakes the concentration camps as acts of Christian love. No one who really looks and listens can believe that the evangelicals now pounding their chests and staking out the moral high ground are about anything but deceit. That many of them may be deceiving themselves as well is pathetic.<br />Those evangelical Christians who offend by using words to change His message are not acting as Christians. But are you? Christ is not about politics in the sense that politics can be used to force others to act. Christ is demonstrated in us when we act as Him, allowing the Gift of His spirit to move us in our own lives.<br />Sorry if this seems unkind but it should be so obvious. I spent most of my life as an atheist until Christ claimed me. But now I have no doubts.<br />Reclaiming Christianity cannot be done with words. As the gift was given so must it be lived. Only your acts have the power to affirm His message. Consider for a moment the message of Christ.<br />Christ gave us his body and blood as a meal to satisfy our needs. He did this freely. He could have at any time avoided the pain of torture and crucifixion. He welcomed it. This was not in His words but in the sacrifice of His human life on the Cross. That was the first part of His gift, but not the greater. The fact of His eventual death was determined at the moment he was born. What could death, even death on the Cross, be to the Son of God who clearly saw beyond its veil?<br />That death meant nothing. But then, He rose from the grave and appeared again among His followers to speak and to teach. He told them He had still one gift to give. And this time He gave His Spirit. It was not in words that He gave His spirit to dwell in each of us. This He did as a tangible, living act that broke His spirit like the loaf of bread He had held in His hands at the last Supper. After that moment in time we dwelt in Him, as He lives in us, all of us. It does not matter if you believe in Him, He lives in each of us no matter how we doubt and fear.<br /> He has given this precious gift to each of us.<br />His actions changed the course of history. Because of His acts today we are different. The reality of his acts and Gift sent a message into the world that became greater than its parts. This happened because Christianity was not founded on words but on actions. If you would reclaim Christianity then you must retake it by the compounded acts of your life speaking out the simple but profound beliefs spoken by Jesus with His own life.<br />We are One in Him. What you do for anyone else so do you do for Him, directly and immediately. Love others as yourself. Love yourself so that you can love others.<br /> This was foundational to the beliefs of the church Christ left behind in trust. <br />It was this belief made manifest throughout the first centuries of Christianity that changed the face of the world, moving humanity towards a vision of love and unity through the life of one Man.<br /> As it was so it is today. <br />So toss that petition in the trash can. Now take your life, which is a gift from God, and make with it the living reality that speaks the essence of the message and the reality that is our living gift from the Messiah. Make your own statement. By so doing you will confound those who misuse Him.<br />Instead of requesting that someone else, in this case the government of the United States, care for others take up the duty left to you by Christ and do it with your own hands. In so doing you can bring the consciousness of Christ back into the world. Where there is disease, heal, as did the Christians of the early years.<br />In those early centuries the cities of the Roman Empire were frequently subject to plagues that killed thousands. As a practice, pagans had abandoned their own relatives to die when they fell ill. But early Christians, recognizing these victims as extensions of the Body of Christ, made them comfortable, feed them and tended to their needs. As a result as many as 70% lived. This was living the Word; the extrapolation of faith into acts.<br />The early church was a tool for making the Word real in the sight of all humanity. They heard and came. But this process was not through preaching words but in the eloquence of action.<br />There were many reasons for becoming Christian. To be Christian was to be persecuted, marginalized, despised. But it was also a force for change and the least among pagans saw, heard, and came.<br />For a woman becoming Christian meant that she owned herself. She could not be sold into marriage when she was as young as 10. She was not required to abort or kill her babies if her husband did not want them. She controlled her own property. If her husband died she was not given back to her father to be sold again into marriage. She could control and sell her own property and hold positions in the early Church. Many early Christian women did just that.<br />The promise of freedom built an early church culture of benevolence and love. 60% of early Christians were women. We know these things from careful study of the objective facts left behind, not from the obfuscations of later generations of 'church fathers.' Read the Rise of Christianity by Dr. Rodney Stark, a study in the sociology of the early church if you doubt.<br />The human spirit was hungry for more than food. They also hungered for freedom, especially the least of these, women. Women had no standing or rights in the pagan world.<br /> That was the living truth on which Christianity flourished, the living word of Christ in works. <br />Where there was hunger, they feed that hunger. In a world that hungered mightily for freedom Christianity was a feast of the spirit. We know Christ today because that early church feed all of the hungers of a humanity with many needs.<br /> We hunger for freedom today as much as for food to fill our bellies. <br /> Where there is want and lack fill those needs. <br /> It is much easier today than it was 2,000 years ago. <br />Now we have cooperative organizations enabled through our culture that allow us to donate, work, teach and heal with our spare time. Because we are more productive we have spare time. Go into your own community and see what needs to be done. Then do it.<br />Given the direction of the government of the United States and the message now being delivered by the Evangelicals awaiting the Rapture in the Rose Garden, there is, every day, more to be done.<br />Stop giving unto Caesar what is not due to him. Today you can choose. You can start giving to those who hunger for all of the things that the early church gave to those who they touched. Those things are still needed. You can hold up a mirror that makes the lies that offend you obvious to all who see.<br />But do it from your own heart, from your community, and from the love that Christ gave you without using the coercive power of government.<br /> Christ never voted for the lesser of two evils and neither should you.Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-1117473163632536792005-05-30T10:11:00.001-07:002022-01-24T08:14:00.715-08:00A Lovely Tea at the White House with Laura Bush!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5885/1159/1600/Jackie%20Stafford%20at%20the%20tea.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5885/1159/320/Jackie%20Stafford%20at%20the%20tea.jpg" style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Jacque Stafford of Colorado, a good friend.<br />(Melinda took the picture)<br /><br /></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table>
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Thanks for the Memories </span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">The White House – May 11, 2001</span><br />
By Melinda Pillsbury-Foster<br />
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The tea was held upstairs, past open doors that held the portraits of First Ladies and mementos of previous administrations. The People’s House is large enough to hold all of the variations of which America is capable. Therefore it must be large, more on the inside than in any other dimension.<br />
We scaled the broad and beautiful stairs while listening to the floating music of a military string quartet that played in the foyer across a gleam of marble flooring. The music drew us on.<br />
Various of our number stopped to study the portraits of the presidents that hung on the walls and more than a few paused in front of the bust of Lincoln that gazes into a place far away at one side of the hallway.<br />
The People’s House hushes voices and fills the heart with pride. <br />
We have known so many disappointments and failures. The light was gold and clear drifting down to touch the marble and gleaming carpets.<br />
The event was everything any of us imagined it could be. We had dressed accordingly.<br />
The tiny pastries epitomized all that is delicious. As rapidly as we could empty the trays they were replenished by the hovering servers. Our noble best did not suffice to empty even one before it was whisked from sight to make way for another.<br />
The day was warm. So instead of sipping hot tea our thirsts were quenched by the most excellent iced tea, delicately flavored with just a touch of mango. Cautioned not to take souvenirs a few of our number did tuck a single paper napkin into a dainty purse.<br />
We basked, remembering the hours of labor that each of us have invested in bringing this administration home.<br />
Pictures were taken, smiles and words exchanged with the First Lady. She shared with us her hopes for a better tomorrow through her work for all children everywhere. Her hopes were made tangible and accessible through programs that enable each to work within their home and community. We listened, moved and delighted with her simple informality.<br />
The contrast served to remind each of us that this administration is very different from the last.<br />
The People’s House is large. It is not so much a home as a symbol and destination for thoughts and deeds. We snapped our own pictures; unofficial mementos to be savored over and over again through the months and years ahead.<br />
Tea. Pastries. Music. A lavishing of thoughts and a reminder that the building is a symbol of things we cannot touch. Those things we can and did take with us.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEJjgNzuvcHLsmMbnqD0qkwxOsZOcXhyphenhyphent7QVRbCwuD-mzLYnf1sAKWePfLaAD4Jixwd8nZybUjj5qL-Dke2vPpEKCABxRreD3XqVcqU5KQrF-RgjIynkSzs-hiMVHuyEHc3GYhQ/s1600/Laura+Bush+and+CA+contingent+croppsed.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEJjgNzuvcHLsmMbnqD0qkwxOsZOcXhyphenhyphent7QVRbCwuD-mzLYnf1sAKWePfLaAD4Jixwd8nZybUjj5qL-Dke2vPpEKCABxRreD3XqVcqU5KQrF-RgjIynkSzs-hiMVHuyEHc3GYhQ/s320/Laura+Bush+and+CA+contingent+croppsed.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laura, two other NFRW Regents, and Melinda in red</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-1117472770933021572005-05-30T10:03:00.001-07:002020-12-07T08:01:31.321-08:00Raspberry Gumballs and the President<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Raspberry Gumballs and the President As told by Little Carolyn to her Mom.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><i>Please note that in 2012 much of the anguish suffered by my parents and others in the family was explained when I realized 'Little Carolyn' is a psychopath. Accepting this was devastating, but necessary. Recognizing the signs of psychopathy are important to all of us. No matter how painful it is better to know and take action to protect ourselves and others we love. January 27, 2017.</i></span><br />
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<br />
She hungered for raspberry gumballs. These ecstatically wonderful delights could only be had from the gumball machine at the local Safeway Market. She knew it was after curfew. This limitation was an annoyance that had been mandated by frisky high school students wandering through the night looking for very different excitements. This could not apply to her. She was law-abiding and careful of the proper rights of others.<br />
Little Carolyn was always a law unto herself.<br />
She got dressed. Her aunt would never know. She could almost taste the gumballs now.<br />
The Safeway was just a few blocks away, a matter of a five-minute walk. She had often ventured into the night on some such small adventure, but this time it would be very different.<br />
The place was pretty quiet except for a clutch of people around the checkout stand at the other end of the store. Little Carolyn, standing around 4’ 8," ignored them, eyes firmly on the source of coming delight.<br />
The coins clinked into the slot and she turned the handle. The machine groaned, coughed, and fell silent. No raspberry gumballs appeared in the spillway. She tried again. Still no gumballs. She knew that appealing to the store manager would result in a smirk and dismissal. That had happened all too often. The gumball machine seemed to be sneering at her.<br />
"Hey! You can’t shake that machine!" Little Carolyn looked back to see a friend of her grandfather’s glaring at her. She had to look way up as he was well over six feet.<br />
"It stole my money and it is not going to let it get away with it – this time." She returned to her activity. Smack.<br />
Little Carolyn felt herself seized bodily and hauled off.<br />
"Apologize to the Manager, Carolyn. Your grandpa is going to be very upset when he finds out."<br />
"No. This machine steals my money and the manager won’t give it back or fix the machine. He promised he would the last time. Grandpa would say I was right to insist on having the gumballs. He might not have wanted me to hit the machine but…."<br />
"But we do not smack machines. They aren’t our property."<br />
"So I guess it is alright to steal from kids?" She looked up into the face of the 40th president of the United States, Ronald Reagan who had paused while bagging his own groceries in Goleta, California in 1981 to intercede, recognizing the grandchild of an old friend.<br />
Little Carolyn would be hauled off by a grim faced President and his accompanying Secret Service cortege and deposited home into the horrified custody of her aunt. She remained unrepentant.<br />
Authority misapplied that ignores the proper rights of individuals was the issue. It is too bad that with the best intentions in the free world President Reagan failed to see this small revolution as what it really was. Standing up for your rights includes the gumballs – even when authority wants you to shut up and just take it.<br />
Maybe if it had been jelly beans he would have understood.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">(The above story is the honest God truth and took place in 1981. I sent a copy of this to Mrs. Reagan on the occasion of the President's birthday in 2003.) </span><br />
<br />
<br />
God Bless you, Mr. President</div>
Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-1117472592274063022005-05-30T10:01:00.000-07:002005-05-30T10:03:12.283-07:00Women, War and the ERA<span style="font-weight: bold;">Women, War and the ERA</span><br /><br /><br /> The American Revolution would not have been won without its women. They have never gotten the credit they deserved. It is time they did.<br /> They don’t want much. Just equality, something they still don’t have under the existing Constitution. You might have thought it happened. It didn’t. America has not ratified the Equal Eights Amendment. It is time it did.<br /> The bill has been payable for over 200 years. It is time to pay up. <br /> It is a well known but misunderstood fact that the Revolution was funded and fought for the most part from the New England states. New England was able to put a huge army in the field because it had always depended on the productivity of women, who sharing the goals and dangers of the war, redoubled their efforts to allow fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons, to take up arms.<br /> The household based economy of the New England States made up the largest part of the capital investment that carried the revolution through its years of conflict. The women who bore this burden believed that their risk and investment would be repaid through the capital of liberty thereby produced. They expected that after the war they would receive a full share in the freedom won.<br /> Ironically, women were less free after the Revolution than before. Before the war many New England states tied the right to vote to property, so many women voted. After the war franchise was firmly tied to gender. Emigrants who had contributed nothing to the effort to establish freedom were given the prerogatives of citizenship denied to these original investors. After the war the various States asserted the right to further control women through marriage and divorce laws and other measures that restricted their freedoms.<br /> But subsequent generations of women took up the burdens of the fight for a human emancipation they did not yet share. They became the weight and the will of the Abolitionist Movement. They worked for social reforms and against poverty. Again, believing they would be included along with their black sisters and brothers in full citizenship, they were disappointed when the 14th Amendment failed to include them. They were told to wait while the Black Man had his day. Black Sisters did not matter any more than did they. In each case only a handful of men, those who enjoyed the benefits of their sacrifices, went on to work with them for the liberty of women.<br /> Those of us who cry for their rage remember those names. The honorable deserve the credit of their actions.<br /> Subsequent generations of women patriots have also been denied both the moral credit for their sacrifices and a page in history. They are still not included as full citizens under the law of the Constitution.<br /> The ability to wage war is not just about men in battle. For every soldier in the field many others labor to supply the weapons, the munitions, the food, the essential support that keeps him or her there. Today we well know that the benefits of such service are extended to all of those specialties that never include exposure to the moral dangers of battle. They are nonetheless soldiers that serve to support the effort.<br />Why then do we deny to women the full franchise and protection of law, granting this to all men? Women have always served. They have simply not been recognized or compensated.<br /> As a long time member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, as an American and a patriot I object. <br /> Extend to women the full rights of citizenship. Ratify the ERA<br /> Equality of the genders under law is no longer negotiable.Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13279820.post-1117471389668790162005-05-30T09:38:00.000-07:002005-05-30T09:43:09.680-07:00Phyllis Schlfly is wrong - but so is everyone.<span style="font-weight: bold;">Why Everyone is Wrong on Title IX</span><br /><br /> I really meant to be at the debate in Santa Barbara on Tuesday night between Phyllis Schlafly and Anita Perez Ferguson, but it just didn't happen. So I called around and asked questions, read the paper the next morning, and ascertained that for the umpteenth time the same arguments on Title IX with reflections on the usefulness of law as a means of enforcing/changing gender roles had occupied center front of the debate. I was kind of glad I missed it at that point. These arguments go like this:<br /> Feminist - "If public money is spent on sports it has to be equally proportioned between males and females." This treats males and females as if they were on opposing teams instead of enforcing the original principle, so long ignored, of the larger American vision that we are individuals and should be treated as such. Since the Founders also flubbed that one it is hard for me to apportion too much blame on this one.<br />Anti-Feminist - "Public money spent on sports should be apportioned as it has always been; Mostly to males because males are better at sports." Men have a right to preferential treatment because they stole it fair and square. It is a sanctified American tradition that needs to be continued. This is the argument of Right by Conquest applied internally.<br />Both arguments assume public money should be spent on sports. Both arguments assume that somehow competitive sports are a positive benefit that justifies their cost.<br /> Both arguments are silly. <br /> <br /> This is how things REALLY ought to be - to recycle a phrase from a confessed drug addict. <br />No competitive sports should be paid for through public funding of any kind. Schools are for educating individuals, helping each child discover and optimize their inherent strengths. Public schools should not be a farm team system for professional sports. Professional teams are a profit-making concern and should pay their own way. The need to find talent may motivate them to fund after school sports programs.<br /> Baseball, football and basketball are not what America is about. Neither is golf. <br />All students do not benefit from participation in competitive sports and focusing on such activities asserts values that have nothing to do with education. Unfortunately except for a very few exceptional individuals the direction of professional sports has been bad for the values of America. The ranks of professional athletes hold nearly as many felons, rapists, wife abusers, and bad credit risks as we find in Congress. Both groups are erroneously held up as models for public behavior.<br /> We now live in a free country where cities can steal land to build sports stadiums and no one blinks. It is a very wrong picture.<br /> The original issue was fitness for children. <br /> Physical fitness is essential to individual health and well-being. We all want our children to have positive experiences and optimize their health. But the families of students should provide those activities that they think best support their own children. These programs could be direct tax credits, either individually or through employers thus reducing the money controlled by government.<br /> Presumably, providing such programs would be a cooperative effort with the many organizations, mostly nonprofits, already providing such activities for students after school. If local schools and the parents who should have input there feel they need physical fitness on campus during school time those activities should help each student become more fit instead of pouring money into programs that focus attention and resources on a few athletically gifted students of either gender.<br /> The mistake perpetuated by feminists was their failure to recognize that the present system takes control from parents and delivers it into the hands of bureaucrats. Feminism must be about individualism because the State has never been anything but hostile to the rights of women.<br /> The mistake of Libertarians and small government Republicans was one of inconsistency. If individual freedom of choice and markets are the answer then why did they fail to make this point when Title IX was originally proposed? Title IX is a clunky add-on to a failed system meant to redress generations of preferential treatment for males now long gone from the educational system. But punishing young boys for the crimes and omissions of their elder counter parts only creates more generations of resentment. The answer is probably because most Libertarians and small government Republicans are male and they like football, basketball and baseball just the way they are, thank you very much. Southern slave owners had a similar problem.<br /> But those mistakes are in the past. It is time to do the right thing, fix the problem, and move forward together.<br /> Phyllis should go home to Missouri and act as a model for a housewife who does not speak unless spoken to. That is the gender role she says she favors; let her try it for herself. This debate might well be an attempt by Phyllis Schlafly to find new ground from which to oppose the real issue, that being the long awaited ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment so she can go on making a profit by attacking the rights other women struggled to create for her. The Eagle Forum is cheesy but it has given her visibility and benefits beyond measure.<br /> Contrary to what the overwhelming majority of Americans believe men and women are not equal under law and this has rankled and lies at the foundation of the bitterness expressed by the Women's Movement.<br /> The truth is always in what you do, not in what you say. While Americans had ratified equality in their hearts and actions the law does not reflect that and when the question is posed at the Supreme Court we already know that our Constitution will not support equality.<br />The failure to ratify the ERA, find solutions to such issues as domestic violence, the sexual abuse of children, and the fiasco of no fault divorce, another extreme outrage to the concept of individual accountability, has driven women out of all political parties in growing numbers. Women know there is a problem but do not know where to go for a solution.<br />Democrats demand women carry the bags in elections but have consistently failed to do anything to forward a real agenda for social justice, preferring to create more customers for government largess whose dependence will reinforce their power. Republicans demand women carry the bags and pull the wagon, too.<br /> The most recent Democrat justification is, amazingly, expressed in Joe Conasons's new book, Big Lies. It is that they, Democrats in Congress, steal less than Republicans. Nice to know he is honest enough to acknowledge what is usually an unspoken verity of government activity. I would like to see that one on a bumper sticker.<br /> It is time women wised up. It is time Libertarians and small government Republicans saw that they have common ground with the one group who can make freedom a reality in our lifetimes.Melinda Pillsbury-Fosterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15407874300095337146noreply@blogger.com1