Author: Bev

Many folks of a certain age who think we’re still young but who are we kidding, played with things called trolls when we were kids.  Whoa baby, times have changed.  Trolls today are mean-spirited bullies who verbally and wholly rip to pieces those with whom they disagree.

Trolls in the 1960s were small hand-sized dolls, if you will, that had wild, “Don King hair” of colors such as fuchsia, canary yellow, blue or green.  They were creatures otherworldly but benign to our childlike minds and hearts.  They were play things.

There may be one or more troll dolls in a holding pattern somewhere in the crevices of our attic or I may have thrown them away in my more zealous Christian period.  In the Scandinavian folk stories of long centuries passed, the trolls of legend, were quarrelsome, antisocial, and slow-witted creatures.

Today’s trolls, and there are aplenty in the world of the Internet and beyond, are especially quarrelsome, human beings.  Their entire existence is based on malicious intent to inflame a reaction from their many targets.

If you have a weakness, and you feel strongly about something, anything, you’re likely to be baited by a troll.  Trolls viciously attack people personally just because they disagree with them.

The Internet has given every ordinary citizen the opportunity to express his or her opinion in increasingly harsh terms and nasty language.  And we had a President, like him or not, who bluntly disparaged everyone with whom he disagreed.  This President does the same, really, but in a slightly different style.  This is now.

Some of the first targets of Internet trolls, way back in the 90s were Christians.  Imagine that.  The Bible says something about Christians being targeted for persecution and voila, here we are, prime bait for trolls.

Why bait Christians?  Many have strong, uncompromising beliefs.  And there are so many kinds of Christians with a myriad of specific beliefs that make this group enticingly ripe for the spoils of Internet-anonymous, vindictive trolls.

I’ve heard it said about Judaism, that there are practicing Jews and there are ethnic Jews or folks who are of Jewish heritage but do not practice Judaism, the religion.  But I’ve not heard the same about Christianity.

However, there are Christians who identify as Christian because of family or ancestral tradition.  Or, maybe historically, these guys associate with Christianity as their religion, but they rarely practice it except on religious holidays and tragedies or near-tragedies, when prayer is emergent.

The Bible, an historical document, sacred to millions, and which references three historical religions: Judaism, Islam, and Christianity, makes its “hermeneutics,” the science of interpretation, ripe for trolls. Some Christians are militant political warriors and will put up a fight in defense of Scripture.  This is all delightful fodder for trolls.

Do you know that one definition of evil is, intent to harm or at the least, ambivalence toward harm done?  Trolls of any ilk, however, are so extremely self-centered that they don’t consider their assaults on another’s emotional or spiritual well-being, to be wrong, or evil.  “What’s wrong with making a point,” they ask.

Sadly, because of the “you bully because you’ve been bullied” circle of life, there are Christian trolls out there on the world wide web, alongside the others who troll.  Christians are not immune to intentionally perpetrating unkindness toward other Christians not of their kind, denomination, sect, worship-style, church attendance, shared political favorites, or interpretation of the Bible.  Unbelievers are considered okay fodder for Christian trolls because they’re not “one of us.”

Trolls are otherwise called, “malignant narcissists,” or in plain speech, self-involved bullies who often hide behind the shield of Internet anonymity.  They just don’t care who they harm. It’s a “me first, you thirst” attitude.

I believe that most Christians don’t intend to offend when they act out their spiritual faith.  But I also think that some of us just offend some people by being who we are.

Internet trolls, however fully intend to offend the folks they target for offense.  Who does that?  I thought such behavior was reserved for sociopaths or psychopaths.  But if you follow any thread of conversation or comment on the Internet, you’ll encounter a troll or two with their daggers out.

Perhaps folks like this just don’t have enough to do.  If you have the time, or maybe I should say, take the time, to make ignorant comments about random people on the Internet, seriously, you need something productive to do with your time.

If you’ve ever looked at a well-developed depiction of a family tree you will have observed that it’s loaded with branches.  From the main trunk, large branches extend outward with bunches of branches growing out of other bunches of branches.

When I think about Christians, “the Family of God,” I’m reminded of The Pointer Sisters song, “we are fam-i-ly, I got all my sisters with me…we’re together…birds of a feather….”  Christians are a family with all kinds of brothers and sisters, half-sisters and step-brothers, all stemming from the same root system and trunk.

Many families don’t see eye to eye on everything, but most of us acknowledge our connectedness. We’re kin, and there is a history and familiarity that reminds us that we’re related through a similar ancestor.  Kinship garners respect, if not agreement.

You’ve heard the saying that you can’t pick your family.  And honestly, we can’t expect to agree with the whole “family of man,” or even accept them.  But maybe we should start acting like kin, just the same.

There’s something to be said for the concept of “live and let live,” and to just shut up.  How about instead of trolling the folks we don’t see eye to eye with, we scroll on past and adopt the benign concept of, “no comment.”

 

I was pondering getting rid of a candy dish, full yet of sugar-free hard candies, that belonged to my mother.  She passed away in 1999.

I’m not particularly fond of that dish, which has been housed in the back of my China cabinet for over twenty years.  I’m doing a bit of a clean-out, thus the question of whether to keep or donate that dish.

That multi-colored, patterned dish with a lid is among other items such as candle holders that serve only as place holders in the cabinet.  It’s not beloved, and or usable like other items that are kept in one of the two built-in China cabinets in our dining room.

The rules of simple living and decluttering your life include: don’t bring a new item into your house unless you first sell, donate or throw away at least one item that you already possess.  This simple rule helps keep your clutter to a minimum, if you can do it.

We won’t discuss my husband here, too much.  But I will say that he has been forbidden to purchase another colored t-shirt, either short or long sleeved.  Every color and shade of shirt is presently represented, and some color-duplicates are stuffed into our small closet and chest of drawers.  One more t-shirt and he will have slipped right over the precipice into hoarding, and I’m determined to save him from the embarrassment of such a stigma.

Now, back to myself and mom’s candy dish.  I love glassware.  Maybe it stems from a diet trick I adopted years ago, to eat small portions from a pretty plate, drink tea from a beautiful cup and juice from a delicate wine glass.  It made me slow down and eat deliberately and savor that cup of tea or drink of juice, even more because the delivery method was thoughtful and nice.

So, I’m inclined toward the glassware section of every shop, or store that I enter.  But our house is small, and storage is limited.  For this I’m grateful, that our fateful forever-home purchase all those years ago saves me from a potential overindulgence in the glassware that I crave.

About that candy dish, I asked myself silently if I would be disloyal to mom’s memory if I donate that dish to charity.  Then I thought of my friend who recently lost her mother and is presently sifting through her things.  Her brother declared her utterly unsentimental as she decided to get rid of this and that item, found among the myriads of unused stuff that her mom squirreled away for way too long.

I took an honest look at my own temperament and determined that I too am unsentimental.  Realistic and practical, utilitarian and commonsensical suit my style.  I’ve been known to say “there’s not a romantic bone in my body.”  This I inherited from my mom.  LOL was not her style nor is it mine although I do laugh out loud on the rare occasion.

Understand this, the fact that we rarely laugh raucously, doesn’t mean we aren’t happy.  We get amused by things and our joy may be unbounded.  But it’s an introvert thing, that outward expression of the multitude of internal material that we possess, is not gonna happen often.

I have both negative and positive memories of my mom.  I particularly and fondly remember her for the uncontrollable giggles we shared at inappropriate times and places; oh, and her literacy, which I value above rubies, her birth stone.  On the other hand, I don’t thank her for the couple of OCD traits that she modeled and which threaten to overflow from my own brain on occasion.

But these are memories not things.  I realize that things are symbols of memories but the memories stand alone and only take up space in our heads, not our closets.  “Skeletons in closets” comes to mind, though.

About that candy dish, I think, my practical, utilitarian self has decided to donate it.  Maybe someone will buy it from the charity shop and love it, treasuring it as their own.  Clearly my memories of mom are intact and do not threaten to leave me because that candy dish no longer takes up space in the back of my China cabinet. 

I confess, however, that the decision to throw away the candy from the dish, tugged a tad at my heartstrings.  So, I guess there must be a shred of sentimentality in my temperament, after all. 

Are you sentimental?  If so, are your feelings of nostalgia connected to a disposition to save things, hold on to things, feel uneasy letting things go, and thus accumulating too many things?

I don’t know, give it some thought.  Hearts and flowers, chocolates and hugs y’all, if you need them.

 

“Truth is, you had a purpose before anyone had an opinion.  Finish your mission.”  This quote is one of those to which I have responded on Facebook.  Consequently, they keep coming via cookies or some such tracking software which identifies the type of media you follow on social media or the internet in general.

Don’t get me wrong, if I win something, I’m happy, but given my wholehearted agreement with the opening quote in this column, if I lose, I’m also happy.  These days I do most things because I love doing them or at the very least because I want to do them, not because people respond positively when I do them.

In the spirit of Sally Field’s once famous utterance at winning an award, “you like me, you really like me;” I’m genuinely grateful when someone responds positively to my work, whether it’s mowing the lawn, planting a flower, producing an awesome meal or cake, cookie or salad, writing a funny or enlightening article, or cleaning up something that was once dingy or sad.  Although your positive response is a welcome and lovely bonus, I’m doing this because it’s what I do, even an expression of who I am?

Good, better, or best, I’m delighted to have been in the running of any race.  In fact, I awoke this day thinking of the word, “good” and if it’s one of those that we had to “conjugate” in high school English class.  I recall analyzing words like good, better, best and I think conjugation goes something like that.

I don’t believe I have to expend the mental energy to verify if good is one of those words, but in the context of my thoughts here, the concept of “best of the best,” is just another form of good and better.  You’ve heard someone say, “I’m good,” when responding to your asking them to do something and they’d just as soon not?

Well, I’m good, and I mean it in the best possible way.  It would feel good to be voted the best, I won’t deny.  It feels nice to be admired for your abilities, your looks, a job well done, and to be paid, which is one way of telling you you’re good.

Google informs me that “both good and well change to better and best in their comparative and superlative forms.  Use the comparative form – better – when comparing two items.  Use the superlative form – best – when comparing three or more items.”  So, you’re only considered best when you’re better than three or more other good people.  Hmm.

I learned many years ago to try really hard not to compare myself to others because comparison can be a root of jealousy, self-blame, and/or conceit; none of which are pretty.  So, when I want to be the best at something, I try only to compare myself to my former self.  Am I the best that I can be?  And, just as importantly, are you the best that you can be?

So, democracy and the idea of voting for your favorite – really a popularity contest, rankles me just a little bit.  I wonder, is the most popular one, the best one?  Doesn’t popularity wax and wane?  Popularity isn’t solid, in my view.  It’s fickle.

My mom once called me fickle and I was highly insulted.  I think it was in relation somehow to being late for church when my husband and I had to drive twenty miles compared to her one-mile trek.  Mom, really?

So, the fickleness of popularity and democracy, neither sit well with me.  Now, Republic, which America is supposed to represent, is another story.  Republics are based on the rule of law or constitution which theoretically protects minorities, the unpopular ones who might be trampled by the popular ones in a society.

If you’re popular, you probably don’t notice injustice quite as much as those of us who have to fight through the massive crowd to get noticed.  Imagine being a minority, it’s like being an eternally short person in a sea of giants, jumping up to get a glimpse now and then of what’s out there.

I’m competitive, but with myself.  I push myself to be better.  But I’m no salesperson and I don’t take to self-promotion like a duck to water.

So, good, better, or best, pat yourself on the back for running the race, putting in an effort, and doing your best.  I’m good if you’re good.  In fact, whether you’re voted for or not voted for, popular or unpopular, you’re really the best.

It seems that one person’s joy is another’s allergy.  In fact, I once marveled out loud at what I called the heavenly aroma of Russian Olive trees, or was it Honeysuckle, while walking the woods nearby.

I thought it was a benign statement until a friend reminded me that it couldn’t possibly be a heavenly aroma to those massively allergic to it.  Point taken.  I won’t debate the theology of what might constitute a heavenly aroma and/or whether allergies could exist in the spiritual place called heaven.  To me, that aroma was something indescribably beautiful.

I suppose if you’re allergic to peanuts, you couldn’t enjoy the pleasure of smelling them roasting, or eat them in trail mix, or mixed with caramel in brittle or a candy bar.  If perfume is too much for your respiratory system to tolerate, it’s a pity that you can’t pamper yourself with the feeling of luxury and allure that a pleasing perfume affords.

We still own cats even though my husband has been allergic to them his whole life.  He sneezes once in a while.  I’m potentially allergic to dust and, well, you know where I stand on dust.  It happens, daily, allergic or not.

If there’s an allergy season, quite possibly it’s now, late Spring.  Pollen and pollinators are stirred up and frenzied to get their jobs done, and the wind is helping them along.  Hay fever was one of the first allergic reactions identified, thusly naming the respiratory ailment so many millions of us abide, or are threatened by, depending upon their severity.

Some of us are unfazed by allergy season since indoor allergens are just as fiercely attacking our respiratory systems as outdoor ones. And if you’re allergic to dust mites like me, hello OCD because you are what some have called “shit out of luck,” because dust is everywhere.

Just like wind, air circulation, aromas, a vast variety of foods, and furry friends, one will find something to sneeze at, cough over, weep, develop a morning sore throat, tear over and run for the tissue box in a mild or miserly reaction to some such substance either man made or natural.  When did allergic reactions to this, that, and the other thing, become so prevalent?

I’ve been allergic to penicillin since infancy.  I developed hives.  But, aside from that allergy, I was free of seasonal allergies until the last few years and with each birthday they increase in their nuisance-quotient.  Both my spouse and I have been fortunate that our allergies are for the most part an inconvenience and we’ve ignored them.

I was advised in early adulthood by a medical professional not to test the strength of my penicillin allergy as it may surprise me with an accelerated and dangerous reaction, akin to anaphylaxis, compared to the hives of childhood.  I wonder what’s with the acceleration of allergic reactions as we age.

I never used to be sensitive to dust or pollen but nowadays I sneeze, cough, and wheeze through the days, spring, summer, fall, and winter.  I’m thankful, for me it’s not severe and just a nuisance, rarely requiring any medical assistance, just a passing, “God bless you,” or “gesundheit,” which never hurt anybody.  And, during COVID, a stray look of “stay away from me,” occurred when clearing my throat behind my mask.

It is my understanding that allergies begin with a genetic predisposition combined with exposure, over time.  So, it makes sense that the “over time” bit, makes us more allergic to more substances as we age.

From peanuts to perfume, strange and unexplained allergies have descended upon the world along with climate change and wokeness.  I wonder which came first, the chicken or the egg.

I was thinking about the children’s book, “The House that Jack Built,” that always reminds me of my big brother of the same name and profession.  The book flows in a clever verse that I can’t duplicate here, not being that clever.

But, in the context of this tome, it goes a little like this: thanks to the bees which pollinate the flowers, growing on the plants, and which make the honey that can help us through these lovely sneezy breezy days of Spring.  Anyway, gesundheit and God bless you, one and all. 

I’d been wanting to visit French Canada for years, decades even.  We, by which I mean my husband, partner, and best friend, one of the trifectas of marriage, and I, got serious about going to Quebec a few years ago.  Then Covid hit and the northern border closed, along with much of the world.

But we finally made it a road trip in recent weeks.  Can you say water?

I won’t be popular in confessing that I’m not a fan of water in the form of rivers, oceans, lakes and such.  But our journey was afloat in such like.

If it wasn’t the finger lakes and their wine grapes, it was the St Lawrence River that might as well be a sea, the ocean-like Lake Champlain, Eagle Lake, featuring nest after nest atop power poles of said national bird, and what seemed minor lake after lake, it was one big marsh after this water hole or that, for hundreds of miles from north to south through Pennsylvania to New York, Vermont, Ontario to Quebec.  If you think that was a mouthful, take a big gulp of water and let’s move on.

I can appreciate waterways, and have learned as I age to value the stuff as my beverage of choice.  But I stop at the border of loving the stuff “en mass,” so to speak.

It’s not so much a clinical fear of water because I don’t consciously dread facing death by drowning, but I can’t say I’m keen to sit, stoop, walk or live in the confines of a vessel stranded on top of nothing but water.  She shivers me timbers a bit.

I’ve crossed the Atlantic on two ocean liners, over and back, tackling the “big pond.”  I’ve ridden paddle boats on what was Lakemont.  The speed ferry with me and mine aboard, hovering atop the English Channel from Dover, England, to Boulogne-sur-Mer, France, was fine, since, true to its name, was quick.

My husband has conned me into rafting on the river and got me into a row boat.  I cruised the Hudson River and drove across it via a bridge or two.

Speaking of bridges, not so fond of them either, not surprisingly.  There was the swinging bridge of my youth, reminiscent of “Little House on the Prairie,” walking to church from Sunnyside to Eichelbergertown and the metal bridge with the big rectangular holes just about the size of a little child’s foot where I once lost a shoe into Yellow Creek below, between Sunnyside and Hopewell.  I’ve had up close and personal experiences with bridges.  Not a fan, but I’ve crossed a few and lived to tell the tale.

I’ve been known to claim that I can swim enough to save my life.  I took the obligatory swimming lessons as a child and hated every second of it.  “Swims like a fish,” could never be used to describe me.  And my head under water feels anomalous to life as I know it.

My version of the endeavor called swimming is more like a cross between doggy paddling with my head well out of the water, partially because I have hair that takes issue with water and because I breathe air with lungs not gills.  Flailing to beat the band, while floating, finishes the flourish with which I swim.  This is all in the attempt to propel myself forward and backwards, imitating real swimmers.

My “swimming” is a form, as well as functional effort to appear that I’m swimming but honestly an epic fail at doing it anywhere near, right.  But again, I’ve lived to tell the story.

I’ve been to Sea World and I love a good Aquarium.  I’ve gone fishing and don’t mind most seafood but I can confidently say I’ll never jet ski, water ski or fulfill any activity that involves my legs donning any accoutrement, a lovely French word by the way, that replicates walking, running or skimming the surface of water.  Don’t you people know that was an action reserved for only the likes of Jesus?

Creeks, rapids and falls are some kind of beautiful, but remember that the origins of my name, Beverly is the highly industrious, yet troublemaker to small waterways, the Beaver.  We’d rather work the water than lollygag in it.  I’m a serious fan of woodlands.  And, for me, the miniature, winding creeks that spring up randomly in the woods are a sound and sight source of pure joy.

About getting wet while fully clothed, that’s a no for me.  My husband is fully versed in my simple protocol on this matter, yet for a man who washes his hands and is perfectly happy to walk around afterwards dripping H2O to and fro in his wake, he doesn’t fully respect my gangsta about getting wet.  Can you say wet socks?

He loves rainy days too.  I, on the other hand, identify with Karen Carpenter’s Rainy Days and Monday’s sentiment.  They are more likely than not, to be challenges to my mood.  But rain on a metal roof is kinda soothing, I will give you that.  But don’t make me go out in it.

Actually, water gets us places, and it keeps us water-based beings (some forty-five to seventy-five percent), living, breathing, and is vital to our survival.  Navigating the earths waterways to get hither and thither is part of our heritage and our future.

So, thank you water.  I might do a bit of complaining about you, but you’re a good bloke, and ducks are mighty fond of you.

“The more you love your decisions, the less you need others to love them.” – unknown

I’m usually content to be good old neutral Switzerland.  I remain more of a mediator than an activist and will most likely always be an independent thinker.  I’ve been a happy politically middling Independent, for years.

My dad was a staunch trade union, spendthrift Democrat and my mom was a socially and fiscally conservative Republican.  We were a two-party family in a sad but realistic, two-party system.  I naturally gravitated to the Independent middle, ideologically and socially.

Someone has changed my mind and I’m reluctantly surrendering my firm position as a registered Independent, so that I can vote for Nikki Haley in the next presidential primary.  This public confession is so not me, but I’m stepping off the cliff with the courage of conviction, something familiar to Ms. Haley.

In case you’re unaware, Independent’s cannot vote in primary elections.  Theoretically and logically, we should all be able to vote for our candidate of choice, no matter the party.  But given the best system our nation could muster; logic does not always reign.

I’m encouraged that Nikki Haley is a minority, who isn’t a victim.  I’m not mad that she’s conservative.

When she makes it easy to be envious of her accomplishments, I’m not jealous that this woman has won every race that she’s entered, when I have clearly lost a few non-political ones.  She’s been bullied by the best of them, but powered through by the courage of her convictions and her desire to make a difference.

I’m inspired by tenacity.  I’m motivated by an underdog who gets through the race, win or lose.  I’m empowered by people who try their best, never give up, keep their heads up, and doggedly persist.

I grew up with a work ethic and I like hard work and hard workers.  There is no way on this earth that I will ever believe that hard work is racist or wrong.  So don’t even attempt with such absurd thinking to convince me otherwise.  It won’t happen, and of this, I am sure.

Part of the work ethic is stick-to-it-iveness or persistence.  The ethical factor in hard work is that you won’t, even can’t, quit until the job is done, the work is completed, and the goal is reached.

It isn’t racist nor is it elitist to win.  To strive to be better isn’t unfair nor out of balance.  Competition isn’t dominance as much as it’s encouragement to try harder.  If you’re trying to be the best you won’t consider settling for the least.

When you try, when you’ve done your best, when you’ve engaged and run the race, you’ve inspired someone, somewhere.  That’s the courage of conviction.

Having the stamina to struggle, to work, is a worthwhile goal as we age.  So is getting smarter through education and critical thinking, and wiser through the experience of lessons learned.  “Work smarter not harder,” should be the mantra of the aging.  It’s easier on the joints.  But work, we must.

Nikki Haley was an Accountant, first.  She understands a balance sheet, cost-benefit ratio, and small business.

She never has belonged in the traditional kind of politics of double-speak, and constant talk but no action.   Surely she’s an introvert who thrives on meaningful conversation and has little time for small talk just to pass the time.  I don’t know her, but I’m offering an educated guess.

Nikki Haley is not confusing nor confused about anything.  She says what she means and means what she says.  That’s the courage of conviction.

She has been a first before but that’s not why she’s running for President.  She’s running because she can do the job and this nation needs her, for such a time as this.

Some time ago, Haley said that South Carolina had enough politicians in their legislature but needed a good accountant.  Don’t we have enough self-serving politicians in Washington, but need a good, smart, governor, leader, ambassador, accountant, and loyal servant representing us in Washington?

We need a leader with the courage of conviction.

“Courage is so rare nowadays, that one gets cornered for having courage of conviction and living by one’s ideals.  However, it is great to be cornered, since the corner with courage is never too crowded.”

– Jeroninio Almeida

 

I can boast that I have several minor superpowers which include a remarkable ability to grow plaque on my teeth and a lesser ability to grow diverticula in my digestive system.  Not everybody has these “Grow-Girl” powers, so I’m feeling pretty special.

Superpowers are perhaps just the tools we’ve been given to combat the challenges and fulfill the tasks, roles, jobs, and visions that are part of who we are and why we’re in this place and time.  It’s all in how we define superpowers.

Most of the Marvel superheroes are conflicted about their superpowers.  They use telepathic ability, controlling the weather, super-strength and durability, gamma powers, phasing, and optic blasts for the good of humankind.  But there is always a downside to their highly coveted powers.

In a dream, I traded in a black garbage bag cape with yellow drawstrings, for a yellow jacket.  Something was clarified for me in this dream.  Another of my superpowers is cleaning up messes and sorting bureaucratic entanglements, though I’m not so happy about this “Garbage Girl” superpower persona.

It can be bad enough when people tell you what they’re thinking, let alone knowing what they don’t say out-loud.  So, I’m not offended that I don’t have telepathic superpowers.

To know what someone is going through is not telepathy, it’s simple empathy.  Empathy is a superpower that can be learned.  When you’ve shown empathy toward someone and they reply that “you’ve read my mail,” doesn’t mean that you’ve read their mind.  It simply means that you’ve observed a certain amount of human nature and inherently know what someone might be thinking, under certain circumstances.

Who would you trust to control the weather?  When one neighbor loves summer and hates winter, and another friend loves winter and hates summer, do you want either of them controlling the weather?  I’ve heard people say they love our Pennsylvania weather with its taste of all the weather systems at one time or another, but others can’t wait to get out of the state fast enough.

I think we could all do without technology once in a while, but we don’t really need gamma powers to jam the signals we all benefit from periodically.  Which signals do you choose to jam and which to enhance?  It’s a bit of a turn-off for someone else to control your use of technology.

If we all could phase through walls and pass through matter, we wouldn’t have exercised our muscles enough to stay healthy and alive.  We’d all have to have the immortality superpower also, because otherwise we’d be too weak to function.  And, really, forever?

Speaking of forever, I mean, Garbage Girl?  Just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean you should have to do it all the time, for everybody.  Can you say burn-out?

Standing here between Mother’s Day’s in Britain in March, and the U.S., in May, and reading Nikki Haley’s book, “If you want something done,” I’m impressed by the abilities and extraordinary powers of many women to get stuff done.  Speaking of getting stuff done, Haley’s book title was borrowed from Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, who originally said, “If you want something said, ask a man.  If you want something done, ask a woman.”

Haley herself, former Ambassador to the UN and former Governor of South Carolina, now Presidential Candidate, collected in that concise book, the stories of some little-known women with superpowers.  The first such woman that I recall was Claudette Colvin, the unknown and unsung teenage predecessor to the well-known Civil Rights pioneer, Rosa Parks.

Virginia Hall was a spy among spies for Britain and America, single-handedly saving numbers of human beings targeted for untimely death while literally hobbling over mountains with a heavy wooden prosthetic leg in the early 20^th century.  Nadia Murad endured unconscionable rape after rape, and went on to work tirelessly to prevent others from experiencing what she did.  Murad wrote a hopeful and poignantly titled book, “The Last Girl,” which empowered her to conquer the most stinging and horrific memories of her ordeal.  Subsequently she went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize in 2018, among other awards, for her work.

These are women, a few of the millions, with superpowers that escape the lights, cameras, and action of celebrity media, although these are the few with merit, who should be celebrated.  Let’s get our priorities straight, open our sleepy eyes and start celebrating the ordinary superpowers of our unsung neighbors. 

I’m proud of you, the one next door to you and me, who has survived the unbelievable, the one nobody knows about, because she or he didn’t want to make a fuss or call attention to him/herself.  Maybe what seem like superpowers at first glance are more simply, regular people doing what’s right and trying to make life better for somebody else.  Maybe we’re doing what’s set before us in the only way we can, with what we’ve got.

How about we give a hearty cheer to all those using their superpowers to excess every day, and they’d just rather not.  What do you say we celebrate the ordinary superpowers of the unsung whom we know and love, by giving them some sort of “applause-plause” for their extraordinary efforts in so many areas.