MAIL

I vaguely remember that when electronic mail became the vogue in my house, I heard and began using the expression “snail mail.”  I wanted to adopt the techie jargon and to be a part of this new way of doing things.

I have since had a change of heart. I realize now that “snail mail” is a really unkind way to refer to one of the most accomplished, honorable, professional organizations that exist in our country today.

 Mail carriers are on par with fire fighters, police officers, and our military.  They help keep us functioning as a society. They are people who work hard every day—would you like to carry a mail bag in all kinds of weather all day?

Postal service men and women carry the mail across the country on 103 degree summer days and when the snow is feet deep. They hand deliver love letters,  college acceptance letters, Dear John letters and pictures of the first grandchild—all for a mere 44 cents per first class letter.

We are as a society an impatient and self-centered lot if we are willing to admit that about ourselves.  We complain about having to wait in line. There is even an ad that says, “There is nothing worse than having to wait in line.”   

Really?  Where on that scale do famine, heart disease and childhood brain cancer fit?

Waiting in line is something that we learn to do in kindergarten and it is something that we will do perhaps for the rest of our lives. It is an opportunity. The question is what are you doing with your opportunity?

Does the line go faster if you fume and fret or complain and disparage the workers who are helping other customers?  Do you enjoy your day better if you speak rudely and treat the worker serving you with sarcastic comments and a snarky attitude?

I am not suggesting that I like waiting in line. But I do accept it as part of living in a civilized society and I make an effort to do my part. Courtesy does not go out of style. I find that it makes my life work better.

So as part of my effort to treat the United States Postal Service and its hundreds of thousands of postal workers to the courtesy and respect that I want for myself, I am eliminating the phrase “snail-mail” from my vocabulary.  Snails, after all, do not travel across the country in a day or two.

This week my mail box was filled with Christmas cards that brought joy and delight to my life and my day. I thank my mail carrier for bringing them to me…for a mere 44 cents…a bargain at twice the price.

K.I.N.D. : KIDS IN NEED OF DESKS

Last year about this time I heard about a school in Malawi where little kids who love school sit on dirt floors for the 8 hours that they are in school. Or, they sit on concrete floors for eight hours all for the privilege of learning. The story inspired me to buy a desk which can be had for $48.00. Two or three students are sitting in the desk I bought last year and for this whole year they could listen, learn and participate in school seated…in a desk.

Since that time, over 40,000 desks have been made locally in Malawi and this industry has changed countless lives. Those workers who build the desks enjoy the dignity of work and are able to count on being able to feed themselves and their families. That is not something that can be taken for granted in that country.

The desks are manufactured by local artisans, using local materials and the desks are built and delivered to the schools. The students greet the arrival of the desks with excitement and great joy.  Having desks in their classrooms gives they hope that education is the key to a better life for them. Education is the key to their future, a future in which they can afford and will wear shoes.

As this year draws to a close, I get another chance to change the lives of three students. I am buying another desk this year. Visit K.I.N.D. and give the gift of a desk and hope to three children you will never meet.  The link is below. Merry Christmas…

http://thelastword.msnbc.msn.com/_news/2010/12/17/5670988-how-to-donate-a-desk-to-a-child

SCUBA FOR NON-SWIMMERS (original publication date October 2011)

So, how does a non-swimmer take a scuba diving course?  Well, it takes chutzpa doesn’t it?

It happened this way:

I actually wanted to be better able to snorkel. We had been snorkeling before, and though the underwater seascape was compellingly beautiful, my mask kept leaking, my hair got in my eyes, and then the mask fogged up—so there was a lot of stop-and- start to this enterprise.

I wanted things to go more smoothly. So on the underwater nature shows, those divers did not seem to have any of the problems I  was experiencing, so I thought, I would be able to be more fluid with my snorkeling if I had some of the skills taught in a scuba diving course.

So, I never really wanted to scuba dive:  I just wanted to have more fun snorkeling. However they do not—or did not then—teach snorkeling 101. So I figured I would learn what I needed to know in the scuba class.

I would learn to use the mask and regulator etc.  so I could really have fun snorkeling.

That was really my idea. I never intended to do any diving—certainly, I never intended to dive backwards off the side of a boat.

Diving became an issue, but not at first.  The course had 6 sessions. Three of the first four lessons were a piece of cake.

In order to qualify to take this course there was a minimal proficiency that you had to demonstrate in swimming. I knew that.

Before lesson one was the swimming test. I was a little worried about that-- because at the time, I could not swim.

I didn’t really figure I would actually need to know how to swim since the scuba equipment causes you to float and I would have the oxygen thing in my mouth so I could breathe and the mask so I could see. And you do most of this stuff on the surface of the water anyway, right?  So, other than being found out as a non-swimmer, I was not really worried.

We are waiting around for the swim test. He says “Get in the water”.   We all do.

Then he says, “Okay you all pass!”

I realize now, that he must have figured this way: no one would be here to take scuba lessons that could not swim so this swim test thing is just a formality.  He had not counted on me, of course.

When I realized I was not going to be outed as a non-swimmer—when he had pronounced that I along with the whole class had “passed the swimming proficiency test”, I felt pleased and relieved. Surely if I really needed to know how to swim he would have tested and screened me and I would have been eliminated, right? That confirmed for me that I was right; I really did not need to know how to swim to take the diving course. Such was my tortured “logic” at the time.

The sessions begin and we learn all kinds of cool stuff—clearing your mask, de-fogging your mask, breathing through your nose – or is it your mouth?—this was a while ago. But I remember feeling pretty good about all the things we learned and practiced—in the shallow end of the pool—five feet of water. I am 5’6’’. No sweat!

Then came lesson four.  I had not been pre-warmed about this: diving.  

While it felt like diving to me—in fact it actually felt like diving from a 100 foot platform into a teacup!—it was really only jumping into the water something swimmers do all the time and something non-swimmers like me do not do all that much.

Not only was it jumping into the water, it was into a part of the pool I had not paid attention to until that time--- until he said that the water we were jumping into was 24 feet deep!

I might have been able to do it if he had not said how deep the water was.

Of course, I was now afraid since I had deceived him into letting me take this course, allowed him to assume I knew how to swim. Maybe my chickens were coming home to roost!

I believe in retribution.   It would be some sort of justice if, since I lied my way into this deep water deal, if I had some sort of untoward result.

Gulp! (Oh, goodness, please God don’t let that gulp be water!)

We all lined up along the side of the 24 foot deep pool—I don’t know where he had been keeping this pool because I swear I only saw the 5 foot pool before. But we line up.

And all the brave souls when they arrived at the front of the line, and he called on them to jump in the water. They jumped.

I was at the back of the line.  As each one jumped, my heart beat louder in my ears.

My regret at having lied about knowing how to swim increased with my rising blood pressure.

At last, there was no one left on the side of the 24 feet of water-- except me. They were all in the water looking up at me.

“It’s your turn. “                      (I don’t want a turn. Next lesson.)

“Go ahead.”                            (Do I have to? I’d really rather not.)

“You can do it.”                       (That is what you think!)

“It’s your turn. “                      (I’m okay here. Can I wait for the next part?)

“We’re waiting on you.”         (Yes, I get that—could you just disappear? Could I just disappear?)

I was not quite paralyzed-- but I wished I were: that way I would not have to jump into that water!  I prayed. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. My mouth was dry. And they kept calling on me to jump.

Eys was in the water.  “Come on Sweetheart,” he said, “You can do it.”

 I do not know if I was talking or giving excuses or just looking at them like I wished to be anywhere except here on this ledge standing over 24 feet of water. Time seemed to stand still.

The water was still in front of me, with only a few inches of concrete separating me from life on the edge of the pool-- and the uncertain future for me if I jumped into 24 feet of water knowing full well I could not swim.

So, what happened? What do you think?

 Do you think I wisely said,” Look I am here as an imposter and I think I’ll just go on home and you keep the money for the other two lessons?”

This was the most scared I had ever been—of anything-- in my life-- absolutely white- knuckle- terrified.  My heart beat so hard I swear it felt as if it would pound right out of my chest.

I did not actually have to jump—I had to step off, into space, over the 24 feet of water. I prayed. I promised God… and I stepped off—

The water was there! I did not go straight to the bottom as I had feared.

I clenched my teeth tightly around the regulator in my mouth. I held on for dear life—it is a wonder I did not bite clear through it!

I made it off that ledge and into the water. Everyone (else) was very happy and they congratulated me.

I was tremendously relieved! I was crying I was so grateful to be still alive—and not exposed as a non-swimming imposter.  I had promised God if He let me live – I would leave that scuba class and never return.

So far I have kept that promise.

HAPPY CHILDREN ARE NOT THE GOAL!

                      

So I just saw this commercial and I had an “aha” moment.  The commercial’s aim is to sell some “snack” food that will translate into “happy” children.  Maybe this is where young parents get the idea they are supposed to aim for “happy” children.

But having raised three of the finest young adults in  American that there are—not that I did it alone; my husband and love of my life Eyston and I with, God’s help did all we could and left the rest up to God—I believe I have some standing to speak to this issue.

My experience is what I will share. Raising “happy” children never entered my mind.

My goal was to raise children into adults that I could like—not love, of course I love them. But I mean “like” as in I choose to be in their presence as much as we can both work it out.

For example, our daughters elected to forego college homecoming weekend to attend my 52nd birthday party; another example is that our son when he got the chance to spend a month in our town after living away for nine years. He did not call up a buddy to crash with him—no, he chose to spend that month with us.

Twenty-somethings who like their parents—and whose parents like them—that is an admirable goal.  But “happy” children? That is a recipe for disaster—as I see in so many young families.

What are “happy children” anyway? Do you know any? Do you have any? How long does “happy” last and how much does “happy” cost?

Happy is not something you can buy --- for long. Trying to make your kids happy is not in their LONG TERM best interest… and as a parent, you must think LONG TERM.

I think this is where some parents with less experience than others miss the mark: they do not think long term. They think peace at any price – right now!

Here’s the thing: right now changes all the time. They want a toy in the checkout line. They beg and whine and plead after you initially said no and you then buy them the toy.

What have you taught them? To beg whine and plead and then I will get my way! That may work with you for the moment, but I assure you the future employer of this “child” that you are teaching to beg, whine and plead to get his/her way WILL NOT THANK YOU for what you are planting in your offspring.

 You are in fact poisoning his future—for what? For what reason will you risk his future ability to be successful on a job and in life in general? So he won’t “embarrass” you in the checkout line?

That is …thinking short term and what you sow in the short term you will reap in the long term the disastrous consequences of having made such a foolish choice.  Maybe you did not know this but in raising children your goal not only is not to make your children “happy”; your goal is in fact to regularly thwart their insatiable desires!

Nor is it your goal to be “liked” by your kids. That is not your job! What they think of you is none of your business! They are kids! What do they know? If their opinion mattered, they would be raising you!

Your job is to raise responsible adults. You do not accomplish this by any effort at any time in the short term to make your child “happy.”

Your child will be secure if they have adults as parents. They will be secure and serene if they have parents whom they can trust to set limits; to say no and mean no; to protect them from themselves.

When you fail to do those simple but tough things every single day—you guarantee producing a discontented adult who will- I guarantee you-- tell his/her therapist one day that the reason they are not successful in their lives is YOUR FAULT! And on this point they will be correct.

Parents, your job is to raise kids that you like—and that does not mean just in the future. It means you raise –i.e. civilize, train, cultivate, nurture, discipline, teach, guide, correct – children that YOU LIKE BEING IN THE PRESENCE OF-- RIGHT NOW.

If you don’t enjoy your kids—and if you are honest with yourselves to admit that—the problem is not the kid—the problem is how you are NOT raising them!

If you don’t enjoy being around your kids—I can guarantee you no one else enjoys them either. How unfair it is for you to sacrifice their whole childhood adventure to your weak-willed appeasement!  This is not only getting the cart before the horse—this means doing things totally backwards—what you are trying to accomplish in accommodating the kids does not work—even in the short term!

 You give them anxiety if they do not know where the limits are. Let’s say you are driving in the rain on a street that does not have the white lines on the outside to mark the edge of the road. How comfortable are you driving in a rain with no markers to see where you are, how close you are to the edge?

I am willing to assert that you would feel much better if you could see those white lines—and even better if there were raised reflective markers to indicate when you are getting off track.

Though your children can’t articulate that to you, they feel exactly the same way. The problem is that inexperienced parents will listen to what kids say-- and believe the kids assessment of a situation. How silly is that?

The kids threatens you with” I’ll never speak to you again”. SO? You believe that? Nonsense!

The kid says” I’ll hold my breath till you___ “.  Let them.

They say” I won’t eat that”. Who says?

There are starving children in America but they are not the kids who have their parents begging them to eat this or that.  Those kids are not hungry—they aren’t allowed to get hungry! Why? Because parents let them eat whatever they want whenever they want it!

Our parents—I am speaking in general for my generation—our parents did not ask us to eat. They did not beg us to eat. They put food out. We ate or if we didn’t we went hungry. Go to bed without supper—it is not child abuse. It is teaching a child something they can learn no other way:  eat dinner with your family or lose the privilege to sit with your family and eat.

The kitchen in a family home should not be an eat-- whenever you-- feel like- it restaurant!

 If they don’t eat at dinner that is okay. Morning will come and with it breakfast.

Parents do not have the confidence that they will be okay. That the kids will be okay. What I have seen is that parent will say to themselves, “My parents did this and I hated it; so I will do the opposite with my kids”. Wrong! Immature! Short-sighted!

Don’t you realize that you turned out okay? Don’t you realize that you --however insecure you feel as a 20 something year old parent-- that you know more than your five year old?

If you are not sure, you have great resources all around you and I do not Dr. this or that on TV – I mean those folks who learned from experience by raising you! Your parents—you just have to have the willingness and the humility to listen to them.

REAL MOTHER

In 1985,  I continued my search for information about my mother’s biological family.  She had been adopted.

Bernice had met her mother once when she was twelve years old. Annie Lois had come secretly to visit Bernice and her sister  Clara.  She collected them from school. 

“I am your real mother,” she said to them.  They followed her, mesmerized,  as if she were the Pied Piper.

She bought them hamburgers,  an ice cream cone each and a stuffed animal. Then, she popped the question: “How would you like to run away with me and be my little girls again?”

Clara wanted to …or at least, she was tempted. Bernice said no—and that if Clara went with Annie Lois, Bernice would tell. The visit ended and Annie Lois left town again. That was in 1937.

In 1947, Bernice was the mother of her firstborn, a son.  She went looking for Annie Lois.

She talked to everyone who was willing to talk to her in Eudora,  Arkansas. Not many were willing to talk. They were wary, skeptical, she would tell  me later.

She got no useful information, no leads. She left empty handed, without seeing Annie Lois, if she was even still there.

Then she locked all those secrets away in her heart and she did not tell me anything about any of that until 1966.

That is when Lucille showed up. Lucille was a traveling evangelist who arrived at our house and was invited to   stay for a week.

Lucille said to me, “ I am your real aunt.”

I was twelve. I was puzzled. My father had three sisters. My mother had one. How could she be my aunt when she was not one of those?

She was Bernice’s mother’s sister, she said. But I knew all of  Granny Janie’s sisters—all of them: Pearl, Mattie, and Leola. Lucille was not one of those.

“No,” she said, “not Bernice’s adopted mother—her real mother!  I am her real mother’s sister.”

Those words cut through me like a knife—though I did not know why. Real mother?  My mother had a real mother?!

Then, what did that make Granny/Janie—who loved me and gave me coffee with cream in my own tiny china cup, who taught me to bake a cake and who picked blackberries with me from her garden and them made cobbler for me? What did those words make her?

Children were not allowed to question adults—we had to figure things out from what we could overhear when we eavesdropped. But this was different. I could not wait to figure it out. I needed answers.

I went to my mother. She was busy at some task-- I don’t remember what-- but I remember that she kept at it and did not look at me.

“Lucille says she is my real aunt and that you have a real mother who is her sister Annie Lois”. I waited. She said nothing.

I felt like Abraham bargaining with God for Lot’s life but I had to go forward. “ Is it true?” I asked.  “Do you have a real mother?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, as if we talked like this every day. “Everybody has a real mother.”

“But I don’t understand. What about Granny/Janie?”

“She and my Daddy adopted me, “she said. And just like that the door closed, the wall came down and she did not say another word. I knew from her manner I had learned all that she was willing to say at that time.

RULES ARE FOR …WHO?

Recently an airline incident has been in the news. A flight attendant gave a passenger an instruction. The passenger failed to comply. Further there are reports that the passenger used foul language, was argumentative, disrespectful and slammed the lavatory door “so loud(ly) it could be heard in the cockpit”, which of course was a closed reinforced door.

How is it that you and I and everyone else who has the privilege to fly on an airline in America must comply with federal regulations regarding air travel and one person gets to throw a temper tantrum which results in delays for a plane-load of passengers?  What would give one the idea that the rules do not apply to him? His line of work? The size of his bank account? What?

My opinion is that age does not necessarily bring about maturity…clearly this is a case in point. I salute the flight attendant for doing her/his job. 

That job, by the way,  is difficult enough, stressful enough, mentally and physically taxing enough-- without having to  “parent” unruly self-centered immature “adults”.  

On your next flight, if you agree, thank the flight attendant for a job well done.

"IT'S TIME TO TALK DAY"...IT'S TODAY-- DON'T MISS IT

BLOG POST   IT’S TIME TO TALK DAY

Today I have the honor of offering my platform in service of a mission and ministry very close to my heart. My PR professional, whom I love with all my heart, represents the answer to a need many parents are unaware that they have…the need to forewarn their offspring and forearm themselves with knowledge that can be life-preserving for their younger generation especially their teens.  Even if you are not a parent, you must know someone who is and who’s daughter or son could benefit if their parents knew…it’s time to talk.

“ Dear Jan,


 In a recent article in the Huffington Post, a middle school class was asked “What do you do when your partner cheats?” A 12-year old boy responded, “Get razor blades and lemons and teach her not to cheat again.”

Though shocking and disturbing, this violent mentality and approach to conflict in relationships is a reality for many children today. One in three will experience some of the most serious forms of dating violence and abuse, including sexual or physical abuse, or threats from a dating partner. And despite its pervasiveness, research shows that parents are talking about dating abuse far less than other risky behaviors like drugs and alcohol.

The time for parents to begin these critical conversations about healthy relationships with their pre-teens and teens is long overdue. It’s time to talk. 


And on December 8^th, Liz Claiborne Inc. is encouraging parents everywhere to join in a national conversation about teen dating abuse, as part of their 8th Annual It’s Time To Talk Day.  In honor of the day,  advocates, policy makers and parents will be interviewed by leading  Talk Radio News Service hosts for “Talk Radio Row on Domestic Violence” at Liz Claiborne Inc. headquarters in New York City. We’d like to invite you to use your powerful voice to spread the word as well.

Starting conversations about dating abuse on  It’s Time To Talk Day with our families, friends and coworkers, is an easy step we can all take toward preventing violence. This issue affects us all, and the odds are favorable that even if you have never personally encountered dating abuse, someone you know – a sister, a teen, a friend, a colleague or neighbor – has.

We need your help to bring this urgent problem into the light and hope that you will join with us to combat dating violence by sharing the news about  It’s Time To Day on your blog, among our network and within your community. Below is a sample post you can feel free to use, that will encourage your readers to joinIt’s Time To Talk Day and help us combat domestic and teen dating violence.

Also, if you happen to be in the New York City area on December 8^th, would like more information or to be even more involved in It’s Time To Talk Day, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Thanks so much for your  time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Kate

It’s Time To Talk: Dating & Relationships

Did you know that 1 in 3 teens will experience some of the most serious forms of dating violence and abuse, including sexual or physical abuse, or threats from a dating partner? Despite this high number, research shows that many parents are still in the dark about this problem and more than half cannot recognize the warning signs of an abusive relationship. Parents are also talking to their children about dating abuse far less than other risky behaviors like drugs and alcohol.

The time for parents to begin these critical conversations about healthy relationships with their pre-teens and teens is long overdue. By talking  to your children about healthy relationships, parents can prevent their children from entering into unhealthy – and potentially abusive – relationships.

It’s time to talk.

And on December 8^th, Liz Claiborne Inc. is encouraging parents everywhere to join in a national conversation about teen dating abuse, as part of their 8th Annual It’s Time To Talk Day. Starting conversations about dating abuse on  It’s Time To Talk Day with our families, friends and coworkers, is an easy step we can all take toward preventing violence. This issue affects us all, and the odds are favorable that even if you have never personally encountered dating abuse, someone you know – a sister, a teen, a friend, a colleague or neighbor – has.

There are many resources available to help get these conversations started, like the free Liz Claiborne Inc., Love Is Not Abuse iPhone App that brings the warning signs of digital dating abuse to life for parents with a realistic simulator. The Love Is Not Abuse website also has free handbooks and tips crafted by adolescent development and abuse prevention specialists, for how you can start talking to teens and adults about dating violence and healthy relationships.

This year on December 8^th, start talking about healthy relationships and dating abuse with the people in your life (and on Twitter, #ITTTD) and help bring an end to dating violence.

 Kate Hunte"

Listen to her.

Thank you, Kate for bringing this to my attention. It is my honor to share it with my readers. I urge you dear readers to participate and to tell someone about today, "It's Time to Talk" Day. Don't miss it.

THINK SMALL

Recently as a society we have embraced the notion that “bigger is better.” While there is a place for this idea, it does carry with it unintended consequences.

My local food store where I have shopped for over 30 years has seen cutbacks—in hours, locations, and personnel and in numbers of brands sold. All of these cutbacks are being made in an effort to compete…with the GIANTS.

When a-- let’s just call it a “big box store”-- can undercut anyone’s prices; when they can remain open 24/7 and always have a crowded parking lot, how can a smaller state or regional chain of stores compete with that?  By thinking…small.

A few months ago I stopped into a food store on my way home on a clear sunny late morning. I was in the store perhaps half an hour. When I checked out I stood in the doorway of the store and looked out onto a monsoon blasting the parking lot. I did not have a plastic baggie with me much less rain gear. I was looking at puddles flowing and blowing sideways rain.

Before I could take the plunge, the lady manager for that shift instructed me to wait for a moment. She called over one of the stores young employees—let’s call him B.—who escorted me to my car. That in itself is not remarkable. The fact that he covered me and six feet all around me with a patio umbrella was remarkable.

My feet still got wet but my clothes and hair were dry. But even more important, that store made  friend for life that day. They have become my new place to stop in on Sunday late morning on my way home. I pick up lunch at their deli.  I have gotten to know by face many of the ladies who work in the kitchen—do you call it a kitchen if it is in a store? Well, kitchens are where food is prepared and sometimes served as well, so I guess yes, you could call these delightful ladies the kitchen staff.

They are cheerful and conversational with me. I am not a “next, please” or “ serve you, please” to them. Last week, the item that I wanted was on the very top shelf. And just beyond the reach of my hand even when standing on tip-toe. I caught the eye of one of the managers and called him over. He retrieved the item with his longer arm-reach.  “So,”  I said, “ You are the one that they put those on the top shelf for.” And, it was  stretch even for him. But his attitude was, “Any time. Glad to get it for you.”

A week or two before, I could see the grapefruit slices that I wanted and even though the shelf was not high they were out of reach.

A polite young man offered to retrieve the containers for me. Then, he did.

I am not suggesting that this is amazing—or maybe in 2011, I am—it is certainly no longer a given that you will as customer receive something called “customer service,” but in this store at this time—and on each occasion since the patio-umbrella-monsoon rescue I have been greeted, smiled at, recognized, conversed with, warmly acknowledged by dozens of employees in that store. In other words, I have been treated as a visible valuable human being.

You can get a glimpse of this kind of customer relations from 1950’s television shows: Leave it to Beaver, I Love Lucy, Father Knows Best, Donna Reed Show, etc.  Kind treatment of customers—generally speaking—was the order of the day…(with notable exceptions for certain individuals). 

From then till now there has been a decline in this kind of personal human to human interaction. The larger the store/chain the more likely it is that customers begin to be treated as annoyances instead of those who by patronizing the establishment in fact pay the employees’ wages.  This is a generalization—undoubtedly there are numerous exceptions to this “rule”.

Depending on your perspective you might say that this is a “small” thing…training your staff to treat your customers as if you are clad they are your customers. But, this works.

I enjoy shopping at that store. I look forward to a positive shopping experience.

I enjoy being helped and acknowledged and smiled at and being warmly greeted. One or two cents off a box of cereal or a pound of bananas is not the only important consideration for choosing where to spend one’s food budget.  When you are considering which stores to patronize…think small.

Think of the local neighborhood regional stores  or a family-owned and operated food business—in other words a small business.  If you can find one that treats you as well as this one treats me you will really have hit on a bargain.

THE WHITE HOUSE GATE

BLOG POST

December 5, 2001. Do you know where you were and what you were doing? I was standing at the gate of the White House, watching as bomb sniffing dogs examined the bus housing our daughters and their singing companions.

It was sunny and cold for us, brisk, windy. But it was one of those time when even though I know it was cold, I did not feel it at all.  

It was barely 3 months since the unimaginable had happened: the September 11^th attacks. Now that we are a decade past that tragic day, it is hard to recall what things were life before…when you did not have to half-undress just to be able to travel on a plane; when you were served hot meals with real silverware and  air travel was an adventure, a pleasure.

Then too, you could drive by the White House and any other symbol of our government. You could park out front; you could picnic or even picket right there on the street in front of any building.

We had free access to our national capital, even to the people’s house, the White House. You could show up and take a tour of the public spaces and know that somewhere in the West Wing or the Family Quarters our President and his family were just yards away—you could almost touch them.

You could just walk into the Smithsonian taking your lunch, a change of clothes and a backpack. But all of that was before September 11, 2001.

Because of the September 11^th attacks, our children and we were subject to search and bomb-sniffing scrutiny. 

We were there because our children’s choir had been  invited to sing at the White House. They performed two concerts for the White House Staff Christmas party.

I am sure they were magnificent.  The photos taken inside the White House certainly look as they sang as beautifully as the reputation that they had earned.

I take that on faith though. We parents were not permitted beyond the White House gate…the very one you see on TV all the time.

We were close—not close enough to hear.  At one point between concerts and before the White House tour that they were given, the singers came onto the steps of a porch and we were able to photograph them from a distance. 

We have the memorabilia—a photo of Laura Bush, the replica of the White House decorated for Christmas, a letter of congratulations from President Bush, a photo of them singing in the White House. We have their shared remembrances and we have our memories-- of standing at the White House gate.

I