Breast Feeding-Why It Must Be Defended

        

    Almost nothing is more sacred than the bond between a mother and her infant child.  This bond is something that society has tried to protect for thousands of years.  Breast feeding is a physical representation of this bond and it is important that society protects the mother and child that are forming this bond. 

            Breast milk is the most nutritious form of feeding for an infant child.  Not only is it good for the child’s physical health but for the child’s mental well being too.  A mother breastfeeding a child is holding the child to herself.  That child is feeling its mothers heat and listening to her heartbeat.  This is the closest that a child will come to feeling like they are back in the womb.

            Why would anyone stand in the way of this beautiful moment?  Some say that seeing it is disgusting and repulsive.  Others state that it is inappropriate to “whip it out” in public.  Some people even think it unsanitary.  All of these are, of course, ridiculous. 

Breast feeding is the most natural way.  It is the way that human beings have done it for thousands of years.  Women are very modest and discreet about the act.  You will never see a woman “whip it out.”  Most will find a corner or isolated place to sit and will use a blanket to cover themselves.  Breast feeding detractors likely walk right by breast feeding mothers without even knowing that it is going on.  It is no more or less sanitary than using a bottle as the same basic mechanics are involved. 

Children deserve the very best that can be given to them.  If this means that someone has to look the other way because a woman is trying to feed her child, then it is a small sacrifice to pay.  Society should be raising these women up as loving parents instead of ripping them down. 

Newborn feeding

           

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Learning to Fly

Learning to Fly

My whole life, all I wanted to do was jump out of an airplane. Maybe it stems from the mystique of my grandfather, who was with the 101^st Airborne, or my uncle, who was in the 82^nd Airborne. To me both of these people were men in the highest esteem. Both had endured the right of passage that is Airborne school. As a child, not unlike other children, I was obsessed with all things military. I loved watching war movies and on some level, I saw my uncle and grandfather as heroes; both had parachuted into foreign countries during battle. Short of joining the Army, jumping out of airplanes was one way I could come closer to emulating them. Maybe it is something genetic that made us all want to do this, but I knew that one day I would take steps to make that happen.

Somehow, when I was fifteen, I discovered that it was possible to take skydiving classes at sixteen with parental permission. My uncle wanted to try skydiving as opposed to military style parachuting. By sheer perseverance, I was able to convince my aunt and uncle that I was serious about wanting to do it. Since my uncle was interested as well, he decided that it would make a good birthday present. I was finally going to achieve my dream.

The 82^nd Airborne had a program on post for people who wanted to do “civilian skydiving,” as they called it. A club provided training, trainers, equipment, and locations at which to jump. This was a time before tandem jumping was popular so a week’s worth of classes were required before going up the first time. We even had to learn how to pack our own parachutes. One of the training simulations in the class involved hanging in a harness suspended from the ceiling and pulling the rip cord. The first person is always the butt of a joke. I was this first person. I got into the harness just thinking that it was a realistic simulation of pulling the cord. So, there I was, hung about 3 feet off the ground about to experience what I would soon learn was called hanging agony. The instructor tells me to go through ripcord pull procedures and wham! I am no longer three feet in the air, I am now only a foot in the air and my face is as white as a ghost, but it got red fast. All the military people knew what was coming because they do it in jump school. It was a good laugh for everybody including myself. The rest of the class went smoothly. We passed our written and practical exams, and there was nothing left but to climb into the plane.

The next weekend we headed to Raeford Drop Zone. This is a pretty well known place; the Golden Knights actually train there. People are lined up everywhere talking to each other in flashy custom jump suits with matching jump caps about the newest gear and the daily grind of their jobs. I felt their eyes upon me and my club drawn, two sizes too big, used Army flight suit and hockey helmet. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and seemed to look down their noses at our beginner class. We looked around in awe of everything around us. The large field that served as a drop zone had a pit of gravel that formed a bull’s-eye in the center. The drop zone was bordered by about twenty lanes for repacking parachutes, the clubhouse, a house, some trees, the highway, and an airstrip with what seemed like very small planes to me.

Growing up, I watched all kinds of movies with skydiving in them, and in every one of them, the plane was huge and the people jumped out. In front of us was a C-182. The C stood for Cessna, and the 182 was definitely not the seating capacity. There was one seat and that was for the pilot, there was room for one person to sit on the floor next to the pilot, one behind the pilot, one in the tail of the aircraft, and the jumpmaster between us all. Outside the door was a twelve-inch metal bar. This bar would serve as the step as we would ease ourselves out of the plane and onto the wing strut. At this point we would hang until given the command to let go. This method allowed for plenty of chicken out opportunities. There was no taking a few deep breaths and making that bold leap.

We went over everything one more time and practiced our PLFs (parachute landing falls) before loading up on the plane. They slotted me as second for some reason. If you ever have to do anything scary, the middle is the best place to be. There is someone doing it right before you do, and someone that has to do it right after you. This lets you know that it can be done and that someone will see you, if you chicken out. As the plane started up, the adrenaline started to drip into my blood stream. It sat at that consistent drip, keeping me wide-awake and alert. As we climbed in altitude I started to question my sanity, and then it happened. The door opened! “Whooosh!,” the wind rushed in and my heart exploded with the adrenaline that was now flowing like a river through my body. The temperature was fifteen degrees lower all of a sudden and the air pressure had dropped. I could not hear anything other than the whining of the engines and the rushing of the wind. They threw out the tape to gage the wind and determine the best place to drop us. I watched as the first person shimmied out of the door, let go, and disappeared below us. It was then my turn. The river of adrenaline then turned into class five rapids. The jumpmaster told me to get in the door. He screamed in my ear to get out on the wing. Slowly my feet swing out the door and shakingly found the step. This step seemed a lot smaller now that I was trying to position myself on it from three thousand feet. Finally, I got my feet situated, reached out, and grabbed the strut. I slid my hands out past the red tape that marked us clear from the step. I let go with my feet and weightlessly hung there. I looked back to the jumpmaster who was thrusting his finger in my face. This was the sign to let go, but I did not need to know this because the gesture alone scared my grip off the plane. The first thing I did was look down, ignoring everything taught to me in class, and then before I could do anything else, “Wham!,” my parachute opened and I had a canopy over my head. The class five rapids emptied into a serene quiet lake.

The ride down in wide-open space, just floating, was amazing. Just like a bird, I was flying and there was nothing in between the sky and me. As I was approaching the landing area, the trees directly in front of the landing area, approached even faster. I made a quick decision and decided to chance landing myself over landing in the trees. It was a hard landing that I did not feel because of the adrenaline. I pulled in my chute and walked back into the staging area. The word that came to my mouth is the same word that came to everyone’s mouth: Awesome! Everyone found this word and I was no different. The experience itself cannot be described otherwise.

I have made a total of seven jumps since that October day in 1993. Every time the door opened, so did the floodgates, as adrenaline poured into my heart. I guess you never truly feel more alive than when you are closest to death. I know I have not. That day I grew. Maybe, I grew in the eyes of my grandfather and uncle. Maybe they saw me as more of a man, but I truly grew in my own eyes. I did this on my own. I fulfilled my dream. I knew then that I was capable of doing anything. I came of age that day not by having my heroes look at me differently, but by becoming a different person to look at.

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Universal Health Care

This was originally posted as a response to Kirk's Difference of Values post.

I think you over simplified the health care issue a lot.  I mean, I am sure every candidate would love health care for everyone on the planet (well, except terrorist), but they would probably love for the whole world to have ice cream cones as well (again, except the terrorist. . . okay the democrats would give the terrorist ice cream too, but that is beside the point).  The question comes down to who is going to pay for it.  I don't want to pay more taxes, and I don't think you do either.  I am sure that the rich would get the brunt of the tax to pay for health care, but that is just the government playing Robin Hood. 

Where do you stop for health care.  My wife wants a nose job.  The rich are still rich and we are still poor so it should be paid for (yes, an extreme example).  But what and who is covered for how much.  Why don't we all  pay all of our income as tax and rely on the government to do everything for us. 

Let's look at past projects the government has set up.  Social Security, did someone say going bankrupt.  Welfare, I heard a person once actually got off of this program.  The Iraqi war!  The common theme here is that none of these has really worked out the way they were planned.  Do we really want to give those idiots in D.C. more money for another project that will ultimately be a failure.   Heck we have had free education for years and we see how much that helps the poorest and most disadvantaged. 

How many Canadians (that great bastion of free health care) come to the US to get treatment because of backlogs and holds.  I once met a Canadian doctor that came to the U.S. because he was not limited to doing only two surgeries every week here.

Anyway, you just kinda simplified the problem and demonized the republicans as wanting to kill disadvantaged sick kids.  I am sure that they want everyone to have access to health care, but they don't want the big bill that comes with that. 

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Going Home

"That is new," I said to my wife as we passed by a large convenience store with an attached Subway. We were about to cross the river that has forever separated town from where I grew up; a little place called Cumberland Heights in Clarksville, TN. It was Christmas day, and I had returned to this community to attend the family Christmas party. I thought to myself as we passed the new store, "I wish subway would have been that close when I was growing up." This convenience store that rose up overnight out of nothing did not surprise me nearly as much as Beach's Market, the old convenience store I grew up with, being closed.

Cumberland Heights was always home to me. Visiting on holidays and summers was the only consistency for me from year to year. After high school, I joined the Army. In the Army, I would drive from Kansas to Tennessee on almost every long weekend. I would inevitably end up at some point in my stay at Beach's Market. When I asked, my aunt was able to fill me in on what had happened with the store. In her words, "those greedy Beach's moved it; they closed the other store too. Now I have to put makeup on just to get a pack of cigarettes. I can't wear my pajamas or anything." In other words, the store is not staffed and patronized by people close enough to be family anymore.

Generation after generation grew up in Cumberland Heights together, intermarrying and blurring the lines of friend and family. The feuds and politics give the area a charming simplistic feel. It is the type of place where people help others without asking for anything in return. Common courtesy requires that one offer to compensate for any help given, but the same common courtesy requires that the helper turn down the offer. People there had nicknames for each other, the reasons for which had long been forgotten. No one called before coming over, and no one expected it either. Friendship worked in circles there. People were friends for years, and then they would become enemies for a time. Eventually, given enough time, they would become friends again and forget that there was ever a period when they were not. Cumberland Heights has its problems but that only adds to the charm.

Beach's Market had that same kind of charm. A long time ago, I can remember thinking that if you stood outside of Beach's for long enough; you would eventually see everyone you knew. For a large part of my life that was true. Going into the store, there was always a person who did not recognize me until someone referred to me as Dolan's Boy. That person would then tell me how big I was and how small I used to be. Don Juan, the widowed old drunk, who lived in the burned out basement of his old house, was always standing outside drinking a Milwaukee's Best. He would call my aunt his wife, just as he did every other woman that went into the store. My dad used to go pick him up and bring him to the house. He made him sit out on the porch but he fed him exactly what we were having. Sometimes we would just take him a plate. Others in the community would do the same. As I noticed the closed store, some of the other changes started to bubble to the surface. Cumberland Heights, my sleepy little suburb of Clarksville, had grown. Where there used to be flower gardens, horse pastures, and dense woods, were now modular homes and cookie cutter houses. Front porches with swings were replaced by backyards with privacy fences. Some of the same people are still there, and then there are people with different names filling the same roles that once belonged to someone else. I was now a stranger. My dad, being dead for about 10 years, is still remembered, but it is seldom recalled that he had a son. When I am reintroduced as Dolan's boy, people give that "oh yeah" response that lets you know that they searched the vaults of their memories to verify that my dad did in fact have a son. Next-door neighbors are liable to be strangers instead of kindly old ladies that always had lemonade on hot summer days. Without the promise of lemonade the kids seemed to stop coming outside to play. I looked for the equivalent of me and my cousins, outside jumping bicycle ramps and causing mischief, to no avail. This could be a symptom of the times; maybe Beach's was just a holdout from a different time.

The Cumberland Heights that I looked forward to visiting every summer is not the same Cumberland Heights that is there today. I am not sure if it changed or if I just remember a rose tinted version of it. Either way, it is not the fairy tale that I remember. I rarely go back to visit now, unless it is a holiday, wedding, or funeral. Old Don Juan the drunk is gone, and I only realize this now while writing about him. When I would go back, I would drive by Beach's without even slowing down. My family is spreading out, everyone is doing there own thing. Most of the family did not even make it to the Christmas party. I made it, but I will be absent from other functions. I do not want to ignore my family, but an hour drive has a way of making the trip seem like a chore. When I do go back, like the store, the visit is empty. There is no longer anything there for me. Sure, my family is still there, but even they are becoming strangers. It is not that they are changing; they remain remarkably the same, but that I am changing. I have a new family just as Beach's has a new storefront. Neither of us can go back to our old location and be happy or profitable. Both of us are much busier at our new locations and often forget our roots. Even as I am complaining about the close little community from my youth, I myself am abandoning it.

As I left the family Christmas party and departed from Cumberland Heights, I drove past the old Beach's Market again. I did not notice it at all. I did not notice that the lights were not on and the shelves were empty. I did not notice the parking lot empty of everything including gas pumps. I drove by like a stranger. There was no long trained reflex to pull into the parking lot. The ghosts of my past were unable to get my attention, if they were even still trying. The demons of the present could not reach me as I barreled down the road. I was leaving this now foreign place and going home.

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Scare Tactics

ABC has a movie coming up called Avian flu or something like that.  This movie will be an over exaggeration of what will happen when the avian flu hits the U.S.  I have seen the previews and they are full of people wearing little masks and ransacking grocery stores as dead bodies pile up.  It is uncanny how closely this resembles the outbreak in other countries around the world. 

Avian Flu Facts:
The Avian flu killed more people last year than cancer, aids, and carnies combined.  Wearing your seatbelt reduces the chance of contracting avian flu.  The only cure for Avian flu is the tears of Chuck Norris, only Chuck Norris does not cry, ever.  The avian flu was bioengineered by the Penguin of Batman fame. 

Avian Flu Myths:
You can not get Avian flu from drinking wild turkey, although you still may die.  Crows feet are not an early symptom of avian flu.  Big bird has not infected the entire staff of Sesame Street.  KFC is still safe (they do not use chicken, they were actually sued and can't use the word chicken in their name, false advertising you know).  Eating bird droppings will not in fact immunize you from Avian flu.

Yes Avian flu will devastate America.  Just remember how bad SARS hurt us.

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Fear

"What we fear comes to pass more speedily than what we hope."
---- Publilius Syrus - Moral Sayings (1st C B.C.)

This quote reminded me of the self fulfilling destiny. By acknowledging
something we subconsciously move toward that very thing. Even if the thing
we are moving towards is something we fear. An important part of goal
setting is to visualize yourself attaining said goal. In fact, I would say
that it is the first step.

Most people can go through life seeing themselves in one career or another.
From childhood they want to be a doctor and by the time they reach adulthood
they are a doctor. These goals and visualizations are often thrust upon the
child, and everyone feels sorry in these situations. Why? Not why do we do
this to children, but why do we feel sorry for parents that set goals for
their children. I kind of wish mine would have done so.

The fact is that my life has little direction. Not much was expected from me
and I blew away the few expectations that were there. When it came time to
decide my own direction, there was no base pattern for me to refer to. I
wish my parents were not hippies and would have pressed the importance of
becoming a doctor, lawyer or some such to help me choose a path. As it is, I
just kind of bounce around several paths making headway in none.

I need to find a field and set a goal. I have no doubts about my meeting my
goal, because even though I don't have the goal yet, I am already
visualizing myself as a successful person. I just need to choose the path
and start my journey. A leap of faith, but I will be okay. How do I know? I
can see myself.

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The Morning Greeter

        Strange how we look at those that do something nice and immediately think that something must be wrong with them or that something is expected in return.  The human race is jaded and we oft-times miss the pure joys of being nice to others.  The elderly, grasping at the freshly cut thread of their life, often see that bringing joy can be the greatest joy there is.  They do this and the rest of us look at them and think how they have finally lost one too many marbles. 

 

          This is the limited story of one such man.  I only knew the man as the morning greeter.  I never knew the man or even had a conversation with him, but every morning, as I drove to school for an 8AM class, he was there waving from out of his wheel chair.  Not just at me, but to everyone.  In the rain, he had an umbrella, in the snow, he had a thick coat, but every morning he was there. 

          I, like most people, assumed at first that he was crazy.  At the very least, he had to be senile.  I started waving back out of sympathy, and would see the smile spread across his weathered black face.  This smile was contagious and you could not help smiling back.  So there I was, the man had me waving and smiling for no obvious reason at all.  Before I know it, I am looking forward to seeing this old black man wave at me every morning.  It just kind of started the day out the right way. 

          I had only moved into the neighborhood a few years before I started noticing this man.  The first couple of years, I had a job that allowed me to show up later in the morning, and the man was never out there by the time I went by his house.  I quit my job to go back to school and knowing parking was easier early in the morning signed up for 8AM classes.  This coincidence (or maybe it was fate) brought me to know the morning greeter.  Unfortunately, about three months later, he stopped coming out.  After a week of this, flowers started showing up on the fence in front of his home.  I knew what had happened before the flowers ever showed up though.  Lots of flowers showed up, a whole lot.  I wanted to go knock on the door and console the family in whatever way I could.  I regret to say that I did not.  I feel that a family's grief is a private thing.  Thankfully, the family thought of us in their time of pain and put a big poster-board thank you note up on the fence for all of us. 

          It is amazing how this old man at the end of his days touched so many lives by simply waving to people as they started their day.  It is a testament to the true power of kindness, and I believe there is a special place in heaven reserved for the man whose name I did not even know.  Morning greeter, I will miss you!

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