Last night, after watching a marathon session of Hoarders, which, by the way, I've concluded Americans love because it makes one feel better about oneself ("Hey, at least I'm not THAT bad!"), I went up to bed at 3am. My daughter decided to remain lying on the floor for just a little longer, as she was "resting her eyes" in that "I'm too tired to go to bed" mode.

After the usual bedtime routine, I settled in with my latest biography. I'd not gotten past the first page when I heard a huge THUMP. This was followed by another THUMP. Then a third THUMP, followed by one of the fastest ascensions up thirteen steps that I've ever heard.

My 21 year-old daughter burst into our bedroom, and announced "The WEIRDEST THING ever just happened. I heard my phone go off and was looking around for it. I looked under the couch (eye level at this point), and there was a MOUSE looking right back at me!"

Fearing the worst, I asked"What were the THUMPS?"
"Oh, I jumped onto the couch with one move, then onto the chair, then onto the stairs landing before running up here," she told me.

Our daughter went on to explain how it was cute, but scary, staring at her with those little eyes. She opened her eyes wide, to show me how the mouse, who she said had a little head, looked at her. "How big was the head?" I asked. When she explained, I worried. "Maybe it was a rat?" By this time, her father was out of bed, and gone downstairs to investigate. Within minutes he was back, cupping the little critter in his hands. Of course, our daughter protested, saying please get it out of here. But after he showed it to us, we decided to not kill it.

Here's a picture of the little fellow as our daughter first saw him....The MOUSE?

The Yellow Telephone

We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up. Our home was half of a duplex on a lower middle class street, and it was rented, "to boot", as the Old Irish would say. I was aware that there was not any money for extras, but this was such a natural state of affairs that it didn't bother us. Besides, there was always plenty of food, our house was always warm, and our parents were hard working. It was a gentile poverty. Hand-me-down clothes were a way of life. Only "rich kids" got new clothes. Besides, what did it matter? Our Catholic school, which was free to attend as long as you belonged to the parish, which we did, commanded we wear uniforms. These, too, were handed down from my two elder sisters.

Being the stubborn and little independent thinker that I was (and still am), I decided that, at age five, I was too old to attend the local public school kindergarten. I would go right to the lowest grade level, first, at the Catholic school which my six and eight years older sisters attended. So off I went, without knowing numbers or "ABCs", as we called the alphabet back then, in my second-hand, navy blue wool serge uniform and little Catholic school girl "beanie", as our yarmulke-like, woolen caps were called.

There were nearly one thousand Baby Boomers, from grade one through twelve, attending that Catholic school in the early nineteen sixties. The school, a large, multi-wing brick building one block from Main Street, had caught on fire and it's interior severely damaged the year before I started school. While reconstruction of the school went on, makeshift classrooms were scattered in the basement of the church, the first floor and basement of the large convent, and the basement of the rectory. First grade that year was in the basement of the rectory, which was directly across the street from our church.

Attendance at 8am daily Mass was required of all students. We were seated in the massive church, modeled after St. Patrick's in Manhattan, by grade level. First graders were seated near the back of the church, and were the last in live to leave, led, of course, by the nuns. I was the last in line of this massive exodus.

Somehow, no one told me about "staying in line". So after the required daily Mass, I followed my first grade classmates out of the church and across the street, but kept walking up the hill instead of making the right into the classroom, as did everyone else. This seems like a ridiculously stupid mistake, as I look back. But when you are a five year old on their own for the first time, without the guiding hand of a parent or older sibling, who knows what could happen.

The other sixty or so first graders made it safely to our basement classroom and were already getting to know the dreaded Sister Regina. In the meantime, I continued walking up the hill, past heavy traffic and stately homes. It didn't take me long to realize I was lost, and tears followed soon after. But I was lucky: a friend of my parents, who was the mother of one of my fellow first graders, had been walking ahead of me on her way home from Mass. She already knew the answer, I'm certain, when she asked me if I was lost. Within minutes I was seated one of the old-fashioned wooden desks, still containing an ink well, and getting acquainted with life as a student.

(to be continued)

Racism is rampant in America. But the racism I've experienced is not white against black. It's the reverse. Our country is divided, and President Obama and Al Sharpton have strongly contributed to the boiling racial tensions now running rampant across our country.

I, personally, am FED UP this racism of blacks against white. I have to be honest that I thought this country had moved past all that years ago. Certainly I was not aware of the attitude of so many, many blacks against whites just because of their skin color. I experienced this recently. Last week, I was called a NIGGER by a black minor, and his mother clearly heard him and did nothing. Well, she did something. She banged into our parked car, as she pulled in, right before that. There were many other parking spaces available, but she pulled in next to us anyway. Instead of apologizing for hitting our car...she laughed. Others in the car laughed. When we remarked about the laughter, she tried to blame us because she said we "parked wrong".

Obviously, because the word nigger was used, there were racial thoughts going on in that car. Perhaps racial baiting is the exact term. What if I, or the people in my party, had responded by calling anyone in that car NIGGER. No doubt, there would have been a tidal wave or reaction. Perhaps the police would have been called. But because we were not black, and were called the name, it was OK? I don't think this is ok.

I'm not going into the whole sad story, so don't ask. As if calling me the "N word" wasn't enough, a child in the back seat threw us the finger as they drove off. Nice parenting, "lady", is all I can say.

. You can have special interest scholarships, groups, etc., and use the word black in there, but if the word white appears, it's racism. We elected a black-appearing president (he is half white) and 98% of the black voters voted for him (believe it or not, only 2% of blacks are strong Republicans).. I VOTED FOR OBAMA AND NOW REGRET IT! Our young people spend billions on black music, listen to it, dance to it, repeat the words. We support sports teams comprised of predominantly black players. You cannot turn on the television without a far greater proportion of black news anchors, and on panels, than are in the general population - most of them with a slant toward their own race. Racism is all over, our country is divided.

Now we have black activists openly calling for the murder of white cops, and white people. And our president is not appearing on television to be outraged. Where is he? Where is that racist and race baiter named "Reverend" Al Sharpton, who is largely responsible for this black hatred toward whites. Why was he even allowed a microphone after the Tawana Brawley fake claims.He's been granted an audience nearly 100 times with Obama. Why? He's racist, obviously, and only concerned with promoting animosity toward whites.I blame him for any of the police deaths which have occurred since Michael Brown. Our country is ripe for a race war, and it's not white on black racism which will cause this war.

By many estimates, about 25% of the adult population is on, or has been on, some sort of antidepressant. The pharmaceutical industry is having a bonanza. Many children are on these medications. I wonder how those oldtimers born 100 or more years ago made it through WWI, the "Great Deression", and WWII? There must have been an awful lot of "unhappy" days. There were no antibiotics to fight infections, no cancer therapies, no heart medications or bypasses, and no insulin (until 1922). Many occupations were dangerous: coal mining, railroading, working in factories, etc. Childbirth could easily end in death of not only the child, but the mother, as well. We have it pretty good today, yet so many of us feel we need, or are told we need, medication to make it through the day. This is food for thought

I hate texting.

It's almost evil, really Think about it. If you don't want to "reply", you simply don't. Then you lie, if asked what happened. It's not like the phone where you have to answer or lamely pretend you got cut off, � la "HELLO? HELLO? ARE YOU THERE?". Now, that took some good acting. With texting, you just don't "reply". Or, you reply hours, even days later. Then you pull out a stock excuse. "Oh my God, that message just came in today! When did you send it?" "I didn't get your message." "Sorry, I fell asleep." "Oh, that must have been when my battery died." "I was in a 'no service' area, I guess." "My minutes/plan etc., ran out." Oh, sure.

Sometimes the aforementioned circumstances and resultant explanations do occur. But, the truth is, 99% of the time the person, perhaps even yourself/myself, just didn't care enough to answer. Or you/I had better things to do.

I'd rather know absolutely who feels that way about me, and proceed from there. It's much more respectful, in my opinion. Avoidance is just cowardly, lazy and, worst of all, disrespectful. Which is why I hate texting.

I have always been a movie fan. I learned to appreciate good films from my father. Even in my pre-teen years, I remember sitting with Dad watching the "Late Show". He'd tell me the names of the stars from Hollywood's golden years. our favorites were black and whites and, especially, film noir. Sometimes he tell me a little history about the stars: "poor Virginia Mayo. Someone told me once they saw her selling movie tickets in New York City."

Movies became a luxury when I was raising my two children. Having been born ten years apart, when I was on the cusp of turning thirty and, for the second child, forty, I was kept busy for decades. But my love of film often kept me up later than I should have stayed up, just to watch the films that were either on television or which I had rented.

It was my love of film that caused me to tune into Siskel & Ebert, the two famous, often disagreeing, film critics. Even if you couldn't remember which was whichh (Siskel was thin, balding), you knew their faces. They had originally been rivals, and later became friends, despite what you saw on the television.

When Gene Siskel passed away from a brain tumor in 1999, it was rather shocking. He was, by most appearances, the "healthier" one - Siskel's weight was within the "normal" range, while Ebert was visably overweight. Ebert had already gone through a bout of cancer surgery. in 1987 for a salivary gland tumor, was the harbinger of much more serious and disfiguring surgery years later. (We won't go into that: we've all seen photos of Roger Ebert in his last years.)

Roger Egert felt it necessary to not hide his illness nor his disfigured face. He thought that be being open and public about his appearance and illness, he would help others facing the same or similar situations. He was probably right.

But this article is not about Roger's illness, at least not directly. It is more about a great love story. (This story will be continued).

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