Fair words...plain talk....

I’m reading posts about tears right now. Crying jags, people worry...and I know it’s overwhelming. As a military parent, I am horribly reminded of the time my son was deployed to a war zone. That feeling that someone one wants to kill my child because of who he is, the flag on his shoulder, our support group has discussed this horror in great depth….and compared it to how our black mothers must feel every time their child walks out of the door right here in the USA.  Or to the parent sitting by the bedside of a gravely ill child...... I t’s beyond overwhelming. Every part of a mother’s being is geared to taking care of that kid, protecting that child, loving that boy or girl...who is now an adult and now, in our case, totally under the command of Ma Navy.  Helpless doesn’t describe it. Fear isn’t a big enough word. Crying is everyday….The difference with today and living through this pandemic and being that military mom is that we can’t tell one another to get ...

My observations about the homeless community....first, they are not "all alike", let's be clear about that...second, in my mind there are different categories, and those that fit no category (that's an understatement!). There are those in one group who I think will never be in a home, not one we'd consider "normal". They do not want the rules, the closeness of others, they like their community of those like them. On some level, I guess that could be considered mental instability, I just kind of think of them as renegades, living their own lives they way they see fit. Unfortunately, that puts them, many times, on the public dollar.  Another group is those who have been  homeless for a long time, and fighting for day to day survival is their way of life. Those folks could be helped into better living situations, but it will be a transition, it won't happen overnight for many reasons....health issues, aging issues, mental issues and simply helping them...

No, I'm not an angry person—I'm just a good and loving person who is really pissed off at the lack of goodness and love I see in the place I call home. I'm an otherwise joyful human being who's finding it difficult to fathom how hard some people work to damage other human beings, and this has tempered my joy greatly. No, I'm not hateful—I just despise bigots, racists, religious hypocrites, and powerful people who prey on vulnerable human beings. If I seem angry to you, you may be one of those people—or you may be one of the people silent right now.Either way, that's a you problem. You can call me angry if it helps you feel better about your discomfort over my outspokenness, or if it keeps you from dealing with your apathy. I'm actually really good. John Pavlovitz July 2019

An old blog from myspace...getting ready to leave that behind, but I like this story about the kids in long, long ago old Austin...  Sunday, July 29, 2007  cloudy day  ..I'm not much of a drinker any more...a couple of beers...a little bourbon occasionally...and I knew today when I went out, it was not a day for me to drink...but there I went, si tting at Freddies under those oaks...and a beer was the way to go.. Freddies is a cafe with a large outdoor area and stage...and about 35 years ago, there was an old farm house on that piece of property instead. Probably the original old house from a farm started long, long ago...and my friends the Admiral and Miss Becky lived there...in the house with those oaks all around it...raising a goat or 6...I lived with my daughter down around the corner on Gibson St...yet another restaurant occupies that spot...and at the Admiral's on any given day, you'd find people...under those oaks...cold beer, sweet smoke, pink cheeked children, s...

I have my mother's hands....that's not a bad thing in itself, her hands were so gentle, so cool, so calming when she touched us....the hands of a mom, a nurse, a loving human being....but as she aged and as I have aged, the arthritis has made them its own. We have other similarities, especially as I age...because of course, I remember her best in her aging years....my skin, and how frail it is becoming, my cardiac issues that she had as well, although without near the medical expertise that I have available to me today....and being estranged from a child, or in her case, two...how that must have broken her heart, so glad she had my younger brother and his kids as well as my daughter and me to know she was loved and needed. She adored her grandkids, even the one she wasn't allowed to know very well. I have a photo of her when he came to visit one time with his father, she is just beaming! Niece Holly was young and curious about this cousin, and my nephew looked a lit...

Beer joints and Mormons, good dogs, loving neighbors and homemade flour tortillas ….that’s the background of a Johanna Street kid…. We grew up rough….we saw a lot of life that other kids did not as they grew up in the 50’s…but we were safe in that little cocoon of that little neighborhood, bordered by a main street that grew into a free way, and a road running south to Mexico. Horses in my backyard, dogs curled up by my feet every night, nothing could touch me….except when my dad died. Blurry memories there….sometimes brought out with a jerk with the discovery a new photo of him…those eyes of mine looking back at me.   Hillard Vernon Webb, USN

Deerfield Massacre of 1704 My 6th great grandmother was   Sarah Basset Webb Field Price,   a Connecticut pioneer. Her husband,  Zachariah Field , my 6th great grandfather, died in an Indian attack and she remarried to  Robert Price . Their village was attacked by Indians, incited by the French, who burned their homes, and started a force march 300 miles to Canada in the winter cold. Weak, young or elderly were killed to keep the march moving quickly.  The young pastor, who seemed to be the target of the raid, had a young wife who recently gave birth. I read where she was so weak, she and her husband said good bye on the side of a freezing river, and she walked into the water to die. An Indian brave went in and gave her a quick death with a slice of his knife. My 6xgrandmother was 54 , and viewed as too old to make the march and died on the side of the road with many others. (This Webb line is my secondary Webb line, not my father’s Webb line. T...

for my old friend... For Linda Ady, 1944-2005, and what she taught us all... There once was a woman who woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and noticed she had only three hairs on her head. "Well," she said, "I think I'll braid my hair today" So she did and she had a wonderful day. The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror and saw that she had only two hairs on her head. "H-M-M, " she said, "I think I'll part my hair down the middle today" So she did and she had a grand day. The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror and noticed that she had only one hair on her head. "Well," she said, "Today I'm going to wear my hair in a pony tail." So she did and she had a fun, fun day. The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror and noticed that there wasn't a single hair on her head. "YEAH!" she exclaimed, "I don't have to fix my hair today!" Attitude is Everything...... ...

Ogden, Utah about 1945 Squeaky doors…. That’s what old memories are like…that old, squeaky door that creaks open just a little bit….out comes one memory and soon, it swings wide and there they all are….some make you giddy, some make you cry and the all remind you of why you are you. Martin Hillard Webb was born 10 August 1936 in San Diego, California to Hillard Vernon “Tex” Webb and Sarah Vernona “Denny” Denning Webb.  He was actually named Hillard Martin Webb, but the names were inverted on the official birth certificate. Hillard Martin Webb  As a young military family, there were frequent moves around the country and the world.  In 1939, they were in Panama on the Panama Canal. My mother used to tell the story of how eggs were so hard to come by, and being an Idaho ranch girl, she wanted her son to have fresh eggs. So she hunted them down so that every day, Hillard had that egg in his diet.  Mom also said they didn’t have many diapers ...

November 22nd. Wayne Wesley Webb Kostoryz Elementary We all have our memories of this day....I can remember my mom, big with baby...and my dad getting into that old car and heading the NASCC ....and a few days later, my little brother coming home in her arms. Today is his 60th birthday, and I know that as it has been for decades, it will be over shadowed by the deaths of heroes in our lives. Happy Birthday, Wayne Wesley Webb ...you have a lovely name...the best a big sister 5 1/2 years old could do...WWW. (Now, only my mom and dad would know if I ACTUALLY chose that name...but they gave me the credit!) One year later, at about this time in the morning, I could hear my mother's cries...finding my father with no heartbeat in the dining room of our home...the home they had bought after almost 30 years of his Navy career...retirement to a beach town, stables for our horses in the rear, no more moving around. I remember most calling Margie McBride to tell her to come quick, som...

Written on 9/11/2006 Nothing has changed the history of this day. Thankful my son made it safely through his 6+ years as a Navy Corpsman, including 5 years greenside with the Marines. Thankful we have a thoughtful President who does not rush to war but believes in putting force to back up diplomacy. 9/11 Worked all day the anniversary of 9/11....I guess that was better than watching it all unfold one more time on the tube. All those memories, the things I learned...Matt, Buster, the grandkids here, their mom far away...it was just mind numbing circumstances....and yes, Buster...the dog. At the beginning of that day, the last thing I thought as I walked out the door was about going by Tomlinson's for dog food. Now Buster was a rescue, he'd had his share of hungry days....and I know in his heart that even after 10 years of living with us, he did not trust us to always give him food. I'm telling you, the animal never missed a meal with us after Matt got him for his 6th birt...

Corpus at sunset, I believe this photo is a Rick Avant one. Things I remember about growing up in CC… The Horse Shoe Inn, and Margie and Bill McBride who stood with my mom after my Dad died when I was 6 years old. Riding old Tony who was the best friend a  sad little girl could have. Lexington Elementary where I was in first grade;  Kostoryz Elementary, all portable buildings….Mrs. Dobbs, Mrs McAllister…  and South Park Junior High and all those football players walking around singing “Duke of Earl”…and Mrs Rouse, my Texas History teacher who gave me a beautiful Texas Sketch Book. Also Mr. Pitts, and all those handwritten notes we copied from the black board. Walking all over town with Sharon and Karen, hitting the ball field over by Lexington Elementary…Ayers Theater via the bus…Wed night church with Wayne and Barry playing  those Everly Bros harmonies… Mary Carroll High School…..being told my skirts were too short when I grew from 4’ 11’’ to 5’ 7’’ in one...

src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnneuj6bYmDT3vshZyOp9sWUFRWGCWoo-tMBAEg6B1CO1lP-FZa0upkwAe3Y9NZWCPO3LewwuXTsAvpjMEY0aUzrPTHagjnfqVshPDiGWHBrHE3j0KVRp_VF6Dlgjn-1oRsygEyMa497A/s320/rosie.jpg" width="320" /> My dog, Rosie, suffered her first episode of canine pancreatitis in late November of 2012.  A Sunday of vomiting, and watching her in such pain, followed by 3 days in the vet’s Clinic on IV for fluids. The vet tech told me that for many dogs, this would be an issue the rest of their lives, always right on the surface, waiting to appear again. It was like that with us, we’ve been through 3 episodes since then, and I’ve researched and researched, learning everything I could about it. Rosie was nine years old that first time, 27 lbs, a Mixed Jap Chen and Bulldog. She was a little overweight, middle aged, spayed and had been on cortisones for different allergy issues over the years….all the right things to have pancreas is...