My five foot one inch Uncle Giuseppe, also called Biggie, would strut around town like a big shot and a Casanova with just a few pennies rattling in his pockets. Poor Papa worried incessantly about Giuseppes soul.
It no look-a so good, hed say to Mama, I wanna to meet ALL my-a children in the next-a world.
Let us first get-a through this-a world, sighed Mama. No you-a worry, Papa, he-a come from-a good, sturdy stock.
Giuseppe would almost have to for all the dalliances he supposedly had. A man couldnt work if he
hey, come to think of it, Biggie did only work sporadically. Oh, he had his own crew of men who worked construction with him and sometimes he would be high up on a scaffold when out of nowhere, a car would pull up, honk and Biggie would practically break his neck scrambling down the ladder and disappearing into the back seat of the car with a
. You never saw him again until a much slower, tired man now ascended the scaffold, and with his face and forefinger practically up his workers nostrils hed begin with his spiel.
Ya didnt see nothin, ya didnt hear nothin, you dont know nothin, got it gang? he threatened. Hey Tony, whatd ya see?
Nothin, Big B.
Phi, whatd ya hear?
Heard nothin, Giuseppe.
Lou, what do ya know?
Know nothin, Boss.
Good! Remember, one word out of your stinkin mouths and youre all fired! And Ill see to it ya never work in this area again! Hed then slap them all on the back. Nice havin you aboard, boys.
Tell me my uncle wasnt a character---you cant. Its not like you have to condone what a skunk does, but you have to look at the whole picture of a person to get it into proper focus. Yes, he could be a lying scoundrel like when he pretended to be in college studying art. Papa senthim tuition money but he squandered it on wine, women and the horses. Yes, Uncle Giuseppe embarrassed the family, but theres a true story that he probably even made the Blessed Mother blush, that is, if she was in human form. You see, Uncle Giuseppe was commissioned by the Catholic Church to touch up the saints delicate faces in our areas churches altars. He had a skilled hand when he painted intricate things because he was articulate with detail. How a hyper shrimp could funnel such patience when working was a mystery to all. He certainly was a contradiction in character. He also couldnt work without a cigarette constantly dangling from his mouth. Of course you couldnt smoke in church, but Big B altered the rules to suit his needs and wants. Beside, Mass wasnt going on and the church was empty. Nobody would know except God, and Giuseppe always bargained with Him anyway. Off to the side was a statue of the Blessed Virgin holding the baby Jesus. Two of her fingers were positioned in the shape of a V, and while he needed two hands to mix his paint, he had to find a place for his cigarette. You guessed it, he propped it in between the Blessed Mothers two fingers, and the smoke encircled her head like a crown. Just then Monsignor walked in and paled at the sight.
You leave her alone! ordered Giuseppe, Shes old enough to smoke!
Incredibly Monsignor didnt fire him, it was like a miracle. There was something about the little twerp everybody liked. That something? Just wait till you hear what he did for Papa. (to be continued)
To read more of Karens previous articles, please visit
homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Monday, January 25. 2010
Black Sheep Add Color To Ones Family
By: Karen White-Walker
Do I dare? Oh, why the heck not. Everybody has at least one, but nobody likes to admit it because they might, God forbid, be a reflection on them. But youd have to be mighty insecure not to survive a smudge on ones familys fabric. Im referring to the black sheep in the family who, incidentally, have the biggest hearts and sometimes the biggest mouths, too.
Uncle Giuseppe, fully grown, was a mere five feet one, 120 pounds, but had a voice that could rival a megaphone. Just ask the survivors who may have attended the Passion play back in the early 1920s. There probably nobody left, but the familys offspring still talk about it. At the time, seven-year-old Giuseppe (they called him Biggie) with an angels face was playing our Lord in the play. Sister Mary Martha pulled rank because she wanted her student nailed to the cross. Thats what the Passion play, you know, re-enacting the Stations of the Cross. Little Biggie shouldered the heavy wooden cross and the entire family was captivated by the sudden transformation in the little tykes demeanor. Surely this couldnt be their smart-alect, street-wise, dirty mouth little guy?
Mama, thats our-a son, whispered a teary-eyed Papa.
Shut-up-a your face, warned Mama. Hey Papa, you tink we should kiss-a-his First Communion ring when he come-a home tonight?
The plays climatic moment was approaching but unfortunately, not fast enough. Our Lord lay on the cross while Herods men drilled nails into his hands and feet. They hoisted the cross upright and the audience gasped at the scenes authenticity. People felt the little boys, I mean, our Lords pain and there wasnt a dry eye in the place. Some people had to use their sleeves to wipe their eyes and even their noses, and suddenly the sacred scene definitely lost something. The re-enactment had been going on for hours---much too long to test a hyper, restless, little imp. Biggie began twitching and squirming, and that should have tipped off Sister Mary Martha had she been on the ball. A kids kidney can only dangle so long, you know. Suddenly his angelic expression turned distorted, mean, hateful, and ugly.
Hey you guys, he shouted out to the audience. If one of you damn dummies dont get me down from here, therell be hell to pay!
There was Mama snorting smelling salts, and the whole family never fully recovered from the humiliation. Had Giuseppe not been the product of such a highly respected family, this seven-year-old would have been run out of town. If the Vatican had gotten whiff of the Passion play gone awry, excommunication proceedings surely would have been started. Sister Mary Martha said a million years in purgatory would never absolve him from his sin of blasphemy. Maybe deep down Mama felt the same way because years later when Biggie sought his parents approval and blessing for the woman he wanted to marry, Mama led the naïve girl to the kitchen window. Rosalina, you say you love-a my-a son?
Very much, Mama, very much, the timid thing answered.
My-a dear, look outta the window and tell-a me what you-a see.
The canal? she stammered.
Good, you see-a the canal. Do your-a self a bigga favor, Rosalina. Go down-a to the canal, tie-a bigga cement block around-a your-a neck and jump-a in! Believe-a me, you be-a better off.
And THIS is the blessing the poor girl received from the family. She still married my Uncle Giuseppe, but out of respect for the sacrament of marriage, well leave it at that---for now anyway. In later years this midget of a man turned out to be a giant in the family, but first I must tell you, if you thought he offended our Lord, (unintentionally, of course) wait till you hear what he did to Gods mother!
Its very comforting that God doesnt hold a grudge, so why do we? (continued)
To read more of Karens previously articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Do I dare? Oh, why the heck not. Everybody has at least one, but nobody likes to admit it because they might, God forbid, be a reflection on them. But youd have to be mighty insecure not to survive a smudge on ones familys fabric. Im referring to the black sheep in the family who, incidentally, have the biggest hearts and sometimes the biggest mouths, too.
Uncle Giuseppe, fully grown, was a mere five feet one, 120 pounds, but had a voice that could rival a megaphone. Just ask the survivors who may have attended the Passion play back in the early 1920s. There probably nobody left, but the familys offspring still talk about it. At the time, seven-year-old Giuseppe (they called him Biggie) with an angels face was playing our Lord in the play. Sister Mary Martha pulled rank because she wanted her student nailed to the cross. Thats what the Passion play, you know, re-enacting the Stations of the Cross. Little Biggie shouldered the heavy wooden cross and the entire family was captivated by the sudden transformation in the little tykes demeanor. Surely this couldnt be their smart-alect, street-wise, dirty mouth little guy?
Mama, thats our-a son, whispered a teary-eyed Papa.
Shut-up-a your face, warned Mama. Hey Papa, you tink we should kiss-a-his First Communion ring when he come-a home tonight?
The plays climatic moment was approaching but unfortunately, not fast enough. Our Lord lay on the cross while Herods men drilled nails into his hands and feet. They hoisted the cross upright and the audience gasped at the scenes authenticity. People felt the little boys, I mean, our Lords pain and there wasnt a dry eye in the place. Some people had to use their sleeves to wipe their eyes and even their noses, and suddenly the sacred scene definitely lost something. The re-enactment had been going on for hours---much too long to test a hyper, restless, little imp. Biggie began twitching and squirming, and that should have tipped off Sister Mary Martha had she been on the ball. A kids kidney can only dangle so long, you know. Suddenly his angelic expression turned distorted, mean, hateful, and ugly.
Hey you guys, he shouted out to the audience. If one of you damn dummies dont get me down from here, therell be hell to pay!
There was Mama snorting smelling salts, and the whole family never fully recovered from the humiliation. Had Giuseppe not been the product of such a highly respected family, this seven-year-old would have been run out of town. If the Vatican had gotten whiff of the Passion play gone awry, excommunication proceedings surely would have been started. Sister Mary Martha said a million years in purgatory would never absolve him from his sin of blasphemy. Maybe deep down Mama felt the same way because years later when Biggie sought his parents approval and blessing for the woman he wanted to marry, Mama led the naïve girl to the kitchen window. Rosalina, you say you love-a my-a son?
Very much, Mama, very much, the timid thing answered.
My-a dear, look outta the window and tell-a me what you-a see.
The canal? she stammered.
Good, you see-a the canal. Do your-a self a bigga favor, Rosalina. Go down-a to the canal, tie-a bigga cement block around-a your-a neck and jump-a in! Believe-a me, you be-a better off.
And THIS is the blessing the poor girl received from the family. She still married my Uncle Giuseppe, but out of respect for the sacrament of marriage, well leave it at that---for now anyway. In later years this midget of a man turned out to be a giant in the family, but first I must tell you, if you thought he offended our Lord, (unintentionally, of course) wait till you hear what he did to Gods mother!
Its very comforting that God doesnt hold a grudge, so why do we? (continued)
To read more of Karens previously articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Friday, January 15. 2010
Elvis Straightened My Eyelashes
By: Karen White-Walker
1950s---We came of age on the swivel of his hips and that sexy sneer that was supposed to break down all our defenses of remaining pure and innocent. Speaking from the pulpits were the religious zealots warning parents not to allow their young impressionable daughters to tune in to the Ed Sullivan Show. I could clearly see why. Ed Sullivan was a terribly unattractive man and the way he moved his mouth, it was enough to scare any young girl. Oh, that wasnt it? No, he was introducing a young performer whose nickname was Elvis the pelvis, and this devils advocate was in danger of corrupting our morals. Back then parents believed everything the priests preached, so there would be no 13- inch black- and- white screen for me that evening. I tell ya, if anybody ever tells you those were the good ole days, they werent for Elvis fans forbidden to see his gyrations. Come Monday morning the news reported that the cameras only showed the singer from the waist up, a decent exposure and Mom and Dad looked so remorseful you would have thought somebody had died.
Will you ever forgive us? Mom tearfully sniffed.
No, absolutely not, never! I quickly replied.
How can we ever make it up to you? she tenderly asked.
I sensed that I had my mother right where I wanted her and for a 13 year old, that was a very heady feeling.
You cant. Some things can never be undone.
Unfortunately my dramatic snippy attitude dissolved my dads remorse---in a hurry! I didnt have him where I wanted him. You better change your tone, young lady, or that Elvis character will NEVER be allowed in this house!
Dad spoke as if the most popular person in the world would personally enter into my life. Well
1972---My parents eventually became an Elvis fan too, believing that he wasnt a threat to anyone, enjoying his beautiful mellow voice, and recognizing a shy, humble streak in his demeanor.
A giddy girl transforms into a woman when marriage, pregnancy and responsibilities knock her off her feet. She regresses for a moment when her parents present her with an Elvis live-in-concert tickets in their attempt to make retribution for not allowing her, 25 years ago, to see a certain Ed Sullivan Show. They didnt realize that the orange section of the mammoth arena was the worst in the house, so far up, my ears began popping and, being nine months pregnant, I couldnt handle my fear of heights, so I began stumbling down closer to land. A policeman spotted my bloated belly, grabbed a folding chair, and there I was, so close to the stage, to the star, to a dream.
Remember, no jumping, screaming, fainting, or going into labor, he weakly warned.
Youd have to be comatose not to have felt the excitement and electricity in the air when Elvis appeared. It was thrilling when he sang but, for him, a little on the thirsty side because he gestured for a glass of water and, after taking a few sips, he unexpectedly flung the water over his shoulder and wham, right smack in my face! It was just a few sprinkles, but enough to straighten my curled eyelashes. For a fleeting second, our eyes met and Id like to believe the gaze lasted longer than it did. And to think, my parents worried about from the waist down. Trust me, its all in the eyes.
To read Karens previous columns, please go to homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
1950s---We came of age on the swivel of his hips and that sexy sneer that was supposed to break down all our defenses of remaining pure and innocent. Speaking from the pulpits were the religious zealots warning parents not to allow their young impressionable daughters to tune in to the Ed Sullivan Show. I could clearly see why. Ed Sullivan was a terribly unattractive man and the way he moved his mouth, it was enough to scare any young girl. Oh, that wasnt it? No, he was introducing a young performer whose nickname was Elvis the pelvis, and this devils advocate was in danger of corrupting our morals. Back then parents believed everything the priests preached, so there would be no 13- inch black- and- white screen for me that evening. I tell ya, if anybody ever tells you those were the good ole days, they werent for Elvis fans forbidden to see his gyrations. Come Monday morning the news reported that the cameras only showed the singer from the waist up, a decent exposure and Mom and Dad looked so remorseful you would have thought somebody had died.
Will you ever forgive us? Mom tearfully sniffed.
No, absolutely not, never! I quickly replied.
How can we ever make it up to you? she tenderly asked.
I sensed that I had my mother right where I wanted her and for a 13 year old, that was a very heady feeling.
You cant. Some things can never be undone.
Unfortunately my dramatic snippy attitude dissolved my dads remorse---in a hurry! I didnt have him where I wanted him. You better change your tone, young lady, or that Elvis character will NEVER be allowed in this house!
Dad spoke as if the most popular person in the world would personally enter into my life. Well
1972---My parents eventually became an Elvis fan too, believing that he wasnt a threat to anyone, enjoying his beautiful mellow voice, and recognizing a shy, humble streak in his demeanor.
A giddy girl transforms into a woman when marriage, pregnancy and responsibilities knock her off her feet. She regresses for a moment when her parents present her with an Elvis live-in-concert tickets in their attempt to make retribution for not allowing her, 25 years ago, to see a certain Ed Sullivan Show. They didnt realize that the orange section of the mammoth arena was the worst in the house, so far up, my ears began popping and, being nine months pregnant, I couldnt handle my fear of heights, so I began stumbling down closer to land. A policeman spotted my bloated belly, grabbed a folding chair, and there I was, so close to the stage, to the star, to a dream.
Remember, no jumping, screaming, fainting, or going into labor, he weakly warned.
Youd have to be comatose not to have felt the excitement and electricity in the air when Elvis appeared. It was thrilling when he sang but, for him, a little on the thirsty side because he gestured for a glass of water and, after taking a few sips, he unexpectedly flung the water over his shoulder and wham, right smack in my face! It was just a few sprinkles, but enough to straighten my curled eyelashes. For a fleeting second, our eyes met and Id like to believe the gaze lasted longer than it did. And to think, my parents worried about from the waist down. Trust me, its all in the eyes.
To read Karens previous columns, please go to homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Thursday, January 7. 2010
Driving Me Toward Divorce
By: Karen White-Walker
The real reason most families own at least two vehicles is not to flaunt that theyre rich enough to buy all that gas, but that husbands and wives should never ever be allowed in the same car at the same time. Is it just us, or do other couples start fighting even before they back out of the driveway? On very rare occasions Im allowed behind the wheel, but heres the kicker---its MY car. My husband not only buckles up his seatbelt, but the second I turn the key, he immediately puts a death grip around the strap thats dangling from the side door thats just inches from his head.
If this strap was any longer and could fit around my neck, it could dub as a noose, he mutters to himself, but loud enough for me to hear. Already the mood and desire has been set---to commit murder! If I dont turn the wheel while the car is still in motion as I back out, he claims Im ruining the tires. Turn those wheels! hell yell, and already theres potential for an accident, because my nerves are shattered. Hey, I dont profess to be a great driver, Im only saying that Im not the one responsible for our insurance rates to go up, up, up, and the faith in my husbands driving to go down, down, down. To soothe our nerves and deflate our hostility, Ill turn on the radio for some of that universal language---music. But I guess music cant compare to what my husband wants to hear---Tradio. Its on a local station where people phone in to sell their wares or business services and potential buyers have a few minutes to call in and buy. Were in a moving car, dont own cell phones, pay phones are obsolete, we cant call in, so whats the point?
Its better than listening to your Canadian station that plays the same old songs over and over, talks about Canadian news and gives the weather forecast in Celsius, he gripes.
I sure wish I was the type of woman who could keep my mouth shut, and not disgustingly roll my eyes back into my head. One must conserve all her energy for what lies ahead. The frightening experience for when he gets to drive safely home. Im not saying that when hes steering and looks to the right, thats the direction the car veers---hello mailboxes and ditches. Or, God help us if he notices something to the left, were practically kissing the on coming traffic. Its far worse when its raining, not because of slippery roads, its because the man has an aversion to turning on the windshield wipers.
I cant see anything, Ill cry.
You dont have to see anything, because Im the one driving, hell snap.
Is that what you call it? Ill tease, still trying to figure out why hes afraid to wear out the windshield blades. Is it because we cant afford to buy new ones, having all our money go on higher car insurance?
Hey, why do you brake on a green light and speed up on red? I innocently asked. And do you realize you drive faster in the parking lot than you do on the highway? Look, be careful, whats that car ahead of us doing?
The mans a maniac. He pulled over to the side of the road, whipped out his drivers license and shoved it under my nose.
Do you see a family portrait on this damn thing? he demanded. No! Only my picture and that means Im granted clearance to run these roads. And listen, no article about what goes on in this vehicle. Got it?
Of course, I softly replied.
I sure wish I was a woman of my word.
To read more of Karens previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
The real reason most families own at least two vehicles is not to flaunt that theyre rich enough to buy all that gas, but that husbands and wives should never ever be allowed in the same car at the same time. Is it just us, or do other couples start fighting even before they back out of the driveway? On very rare occasions Im allowed behind the wheel, but heres the kicker---its MY car. My husband not only buckles up his seatbelt, but the second I turn the key, he immediately puts a death grip around the strap thats dangling from the side door thats just inches from his head.
If this strap was any longer and could fit around my neck, it could dub as a noose, he mutters to himself, but loud enough for me to hear. Already the mood and desire has been set---to commit murder! If I dont turn the wheel while the car is still in motion as I back out, he claims Im ruining the tires. Turn those wheels! hell yell, and already theres potential for an accident, because my nerves are shattered. Hey, I dont profess to be a great driver, Im only saying that Im not the one responsible for our insurance rates to go up, up, up, and the faith in my husbands driving to go down, down, down. To soothe our nerves and deflate our hostility, Ill turn on the radio for some of that universal language---music. But I guess music cant compare to what my husband wants to hear---Tradio. Its on a local station where people phone in to sell their wares or business services and potential buyers have a few minutes to call in and buy. Were in a moving car, dont own cell phones, pay phones are obsolete, we cant call in, so whats the point?
Its better than listening to your Canadian station that plays the same old songs over and over, talks about Canadian news and gives the weather forecast in Celsius, he gripes.
I sure wish I was the type of woman who could keep my mouth shut, and not disgustingly roll my eyes back into my head. One must conserve all her energy for what lies ahead. The frightening experience for when he gets to drive safely home. Im not saying that when hes steering and looks to the right, thats the direction the car veers---hello mailboxes and ditches. Or, God help us if he notices something to the left, were practically kissing the on coming traffic. Its far worse when its raining, not because of slippery roads, its because the man has an aversion to turning on the windshield wipers.
I cant see anything, Ill cry.
You dont have to see anything, because Im the one driving, hell snap.
Is that what you call it? Ill tease, still trying to figure out why hes afraid to wear out the windshield blades. Is it because we cant afford to buy new ones, having all our money go on higher car insurance?
Hey, why do you brake on a green light and speed up on red? I innocently asked. And do you realize you drive faster in the parking lot than you do on the highway? Look, be careful, whats that car ahead of us doing?
The mans a maniac. He pulled over to the side of the road, whipped out his drivers license and shoved it under my nose.
Do you see a family portrait on this damn thing? he demanded. No! Only my picture and that means Im granted clearance to run these roads. And listen, no article about what goes on in this vehicle. Got it?
Of course, I softly replied.
I sure wish I was a woman of my word.
To read more of Karens previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Friday, January 1. 2010
As Happy As Your Unhappiest Child
By: Karen White-Walker
Tell one of your kids that you would prefer that they complete college before enlisting in the Armed Forces, and theyll break both their legs running to the recruiting office. Or request that they be practical in selecting a career, one that offers job security and a decent wage, and there they are---trying out for American Idol or joining the circus.
I tell you, things never turn out quite like we planned, huh? And sometimes even their plans have gone awry.
Yes, Ive had my share of sheer joy, but its often off set by my wishing I owned stock in the Kleenex Company. Forget about crying a river---more like crying an ocean---all seven of them.
Why is it that the very last thing you ever could imagine comes to pass? I mean, a school administrator has a child who drops out of school, a police captain has a family member who commits murder, the ugly duckling of your graduating class turns out to be drop-dead gorgeous and youre standing next to her for the class reunion photo, and a local writer with a weekly Tuesday newspaper column has a beloved child who has made poor choices and taken a few detours in life. The irony is that of all my children, this one has the personality that blends the most beautifully with mine. I can act like a real jerk and unconditionally this one accepts me for who and what I am. Have I afforded this person the same privilege? Not even remotely. This child can act like a real dopey dork and Ill jump twenty feet in the air and scream and yell until they can probably hear me in the next county. Of course Im not proud for not having a firm grip on the situation, but you see, my lofty dreams for my children havent all been realized. And maybe they shouldnt be, because theyre my dreams, not theirs. When will we parents ever learn? Its been a long rough road, but if Im tired, how must they feel? Phenomenally popular in high school, I feel this one piqued and then felt there was no place to go but down. They say thats one of lifes tragedies---being a big fish in a small pond in your younger years and then faltering in the outside world. How many parents wish that they could take their childrens pain and hurt to spare them the agony, but didnt we have to shoulder our own suffering and look where it got us. Do I have to say? Actually, it has knocked me off my high horse when Ive felt I was invincible and instilled in me a deep compassion for the underdog.
Let them fall on their faces, the experts cry. If you coddle them youll be raising emotional cripples.
Does anybody know the difference between coddling and caring? If I slip a fifty in a birthday card, is that taking away their incentive to go to work on Monday? Look, if somebody gave me ten bucks Id be tempted to skip writing next weeks column. Dont think this isnt work!
If theyre driving on bald tires do I just look the other way and pray to the guardian angels to hover a little closer? I believe in angels, but I also believe in tires with terrific traction---so there goes $500.00.
Seems to me I should have some of the answers, but the truth is, I have none of the answers, so just like my one child who keeps plugging along, Im stumbling too.
A mother is only as happiest as her unhappiest child. Well, today Im very happy. My struggling offspring is inching his way toward the right road---angels be aware.
To read more of Karens previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
Tell one of your kids that you would prefer that they complete college before enlisting in the Armed Forces, and theyll break both their legs running to the recruiting office. Or request that they be practical in selecting a career, one that offers job security and a decent wage, and there they are---trying out for American Idol or joining the circus.
I tell you, things never turn out quite like we planned, huh? And sometimes even their plans have gone awry.
Yes, Ive had my share of sheer joy, but its often off set by my wishing I owned stock in the Kleenex Company. Forget about crying a river---more like crying an ocean---all seven of them.
Why is it that the very last thing you ever could imagine comes to pass? I mean, a school administrator has a child who drops out of school, a police captain has a family member who commits murder, the ugly duckling of your graduating class turns out to be drop-dead gorgeous and youre standing next to her for the class reunion photo, and a local writer with a weekly Tuesday newspaper column has a beloved child who has made poor choices and taken a few detours in life. The irony is that of all my children, this one has the personality that blends the most beautifully with mine. I can act like a real jerk and unconditionally this one accepts me for who and what I am. Have I afforded this person the same privilege? Not even remotely. This child can act like a real dopey dork and Ill jump twenty feet in the air and scream and yell until they can probably hear me in the next county. Of course Im not proud for not having a firm grip on the situation, but you see, my lofty dreams for my children havent all been realized. And maybe they shouldnt be, because theyre my dreams, not theirs. When will we parents ever learn? Its been a long rough road, but if Im tired, how must they feel? Phenomenally popular in high school, I feel this one piqued and then felt there was no place to go but down. They say thats one of lifes tragedies---being a big fish in a small pond in your younger years and then faltering in the outside world. How many parents wish that they could take their childrens pain and hurt to spare them the agony, but didnt we have to shoulder our own suffering and look where it got us. Do I have to say? Actually, it has knocked me off my high horse when Ive felt I was invincible and instilled in me a deep compassion for the underdog.
Let them fall on their faces, the experts cry. If you coddle them youll be raising emotional cripples.
Does anybody know the difference between coddling and caring? If I slip a fifty in a birthday card, is that taking away their incentive to go to work on Monday? Look, if somebody gave me ten bucks Id be tempted to skip writing next weeks column. Dont think this isnt work!
If theyre driving on bald tires do I just look the other way and pray to the guardian angels to hover a little closer? I believe in angels, but I also believe in tires with terrific traction---so there goes $500.00.
Seems to me I should have some of the answers, but the truth is, I have none of the answers, so just like my one child who keeps plugging along, Im stumbling too.
A mother is only as happiest as her unhappiest child. Well, today Im very happy. My struggling offspring is inching his way toward the right road---angels be aware.
To read more of Karens previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com
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