Yankee Doodle

Fireworks just aren't what they used to be. Bottle rockets, sparklers, and flares have been replaced with poppers that shoot streamers and glow worms that look like a pile of growing dog poo. I miss writing my name through the air with a flaming tin stick that shoots off little flesh burning sparks.

Independence Day

Eleven years ago, sitting on an old seven inch bleacher, I watched sailor after sailor methodically march left, left, left, right, left across the pine floors. The smell of lacquer lingered alongside the anesthetized stench of harsh cleaning chemicals in the humid summer air. A few steel fans buzzed against the trumpets and drums of the Navy band. Each sailor's white uniform told a unique story of service. Emblems signifying this rank or that, a duty station, or a specialized field of study. Not one out of place. Four hundred sailors marched their way onto ships, off to forlorn lands, and into hospitals taking care of the country's wounded and broken.

In the years that have passed most of those young men and women have assisted in earthquakes and hurricanes. Some have saved a soldier's life on the battle fields. Others have been a witness to the birth of new democracies as bronzed statues of oppressive leaders fell at the hands of their people. Still more have come home wounded themselves in attempt to leave no soldier behind. A few have been left behind. A pair of dog tags and a tightly folded American flag with it's stars standing squarely at attention against their midnight blue sky are all that remains of an ultimate sacrifice.

Amid the barren housing and lacking pay, there is an honor in serving. It is revealed in the clean square line of a new haircut, the stretched khaki canvas of a sea bag slung over the left shoulder, and the tiny fingers of a small child grasping the plastic pole of a rippling flag with thirteen strips and stars while his daddy stands firmly planted aboard the edge of a ship beckoned to help another in need.

There is a code they live by. An unspoken brotherhood of understanding. A knowledge that despite the mummer of politics, and the rants of citizens both home and abroad, they are engaged in an important work that connects them to something bigger than themselves, and gives them pride in serving a company and country they love.

To those who have served, continue to serve, and have died serving...thank you.

Send in the Clowns

As a young child, I was terrified of clowns. I can't say if it was the make-up, the clothes, or the over the top antics, but I was terrified of them. Apparently my mother thought this fear was best addressed with "exposure therapy" and had a clown come to my fifth birthday party. So there I was in my pleated skirt, crisp shirt, bobby socks and piggy tails in the middle of the living room staring down a clown that wanted me to reach up her sleeve for a prize. The reasons I remember so little of my childhood are suddenly becoming very clear.

Now, as the mother of my own 5 year old daughter, I believed her clown fear would be best resolved at the "clown college" of the Ringling Brothers and Barnum Bailey Circus. The first exposure exercise was with a clown that hardly qualified as a clown. He was in a sequence Phoenix Suns jersey, giant shoes, and minimal make up. Still, it did not go well. He was passing out clown noses for the kids. Never one to turn down the possibility of free treats, Hollywood quickly outstretched his arm to receive the prize. Next one was tossed to Curly. The toss to her was not met with quite the zeal and the packaged nose ended up right in the hands of the wee one. Our first exposure therapy failed.

We then moved on to the stilt walkers, acrobats, magicians, and more clowns caught in precarious positions. There was even a painting elephant. The more they saw, the more enthralled they became. Gradual exposure from a safe distance with 200 other kids paid off and we gradually made our way to our seats for the real show to begin.

When they asked for volunteers, I respectfully declined...
Can you imagine the nightmare that would be?

Long gone are the days of the three ring acts, it is more of an assault on the senses these days. Each time I looked over at the kids, I thought I would have to wipe drool from their gaping mouths. There was magic, clowns, acrobats on ribbons, swings, and wheels. There were zebras, horses, elephants, tigers, and even dogs. There was music, smoke, lights, and lots of color. Of course no show would be complete without cotton candy. Although it's been years since I went to the circus, and my distant days of working with the PETA crew had me a bit on edge with the animal trainer, I would be lying if I didn't admit it truly is "the greatest show on earth."

Say

On occasion when I am in the drudges of my own fox holes in the war on life, I forget that there are many people out there with bigger problems. I would love to say these short bursts of actualization come from reading the Wall Street Journal or the New York Times or even CNN; but the reality of the situation is, I most often realize this being a blogger stalker. I would say that I am a blogger reader, or even engager, but that wouldn't be necessarily true. This is when I decided there were a few rules of blogging I have learned along the way.

Rule 1. Bloggers love comments. My first indication of this should have been all of the posts that people write on their walls. "I love comments," "Leave as many as your heart desires," "You leave comment, I love you long time." But being the emotional dead head I am, I didn't get it until I was totally called down on it after a friend chided that I apparently only leave a comment when I have the opportunity to win something. Touche.

Rule 2. Bloggers view blogs as more of a phone conversation than an online journal. Sure it's a record of life's events, both big and small, but journals don't usually come with a comment feature, and a journal isn't usually checked daily to see if its answered any of the questions you asked it.

Rule 3. Bloggers seek validation. I am of the belief that secretly, most people still feel like the 14 year old freshman on the first day of school looking for a crew to hang with. This is the function of the "Follow this blog" section found on most blogs I write, I mean, stalk. Truth be told, I actually get angry when I see that someone has 161 follows and I have one. Sure I get that I have a polarizing personality, but jeez, one follower that's family. Frankly, it makes me feel like a loser. So I removed the feature. I don't need to be reminded of the fact every day when I am checking to see if anyone has left a comment, or to see how many people have visited my blog to date.

Rule 4. Bloggers that reveal their soul get more comments. Which makes me think if I didn't glaze over my life events the way most glaze their Thanksgiving turkey, I might receive a few comments now and again. Dully noted. Can't commit, but noted.

Rule 5. Bloggers are actually people. Something I often forget. I process the information like I am reading People or E! online. So I hereby promise not to mentally grammar check or fix the flow of your writing anymore. I will remember that you are my friends (or used to be) and that you are writing about your very important lives. I promise that when you blog about the brownies you made for Family Home Evening, I will comment that they look delicious and that I wish you would bring some over. After all, brownies comfort me when people don't comment on how funny all my posts are.

**Editor's note: I tried to remove the "follow me" feature, but my 14 year old self wouldn't allow it. She is still dying to be popular.