The Things That Endure

     It often seems that men become genuinely eloquent only when the subject is some form of combat:

     "All of the noise and all of the glamour, all of the color, all of the excitement... all of the rings and all of the money. These are the things that linger only in the memory. But the spirit, the will to excel, the will to win, these are the things that endure." – Vince Lombardi

     There’s a lot of power in those few words – but look at the subject matter: football! An hour of rigidly stylized ritual combat with a meaningless prize! Is there anything more disposable than that?

     There are innumerable things more important than football. One of the tragedies of contemporary life is that so many of us give football more attention than any of them. (Pipe down, you devotees of soccer. Your fetish isn’t important either.)

     Yes, Gentle Reader: I’m off on another of those tirades. Hey, my Curmudgeonliness has to express itself now and then. Return your seat to the upright position, close your tray table, and belt yourself in securely.

* * *

     Some years ago, I encountered this striking illustration of the importance of setting priorities. Note the conclusion:

     What are the big rocks in your life? A project that you want to accomplish? Time with your loved ones? Your faith, your education, your finances? A cause? Teaching or mentoring others? Remember to put these 'Big Rocks' in first or you’ll never get them in at all.

     The “big rocks” Dr. Covey cites are not necessarily your “big rocks.” Moreover, we must allow that priorities can change as time passes. Today’s “big rocks” may seem laughable to you twenty years hence. Yet even while immersed in our juvenile follies we must set priorities, for without them, life becomes a disorganized, chaotic mess. From such a mess, nothing we achieve will endure.

     One of the foremost responsibilities of parenthood is that of teaching your progeny about what endures. If you fail to do that, you’ll fail as a parent. A great part of that process involves demonstrating to the young folk what doesn’t endure, and why.

     The major problems in that undertaking are major indeed. Life itself does not endure. That recognition is a stumbling block for many. Emphasizing it leads to a “Why should I care?” conclusion. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may” and “Eat, drink, and be merry” are its principal implications. Given that young people are in thrall to the strongest sub-rational biological imperatives known to science, getting past those inherently bleak maxims is a huge challenge.

     As if more were required, the challenge persists throughout one’s life.

* * *

     In Roger Zelazny’s masterpiece Lord of Light, his protagonist Sam gives us the following insight into a man’s nature:

     A man is a thing of many divisions, not a pure, clear flame such as you once were. His intellect often wars with his emotions, his will with his desires…his ideals are at odds with his environment, and if he follows them, he knows keenly the loss of that which was old— but if he does not follow them, he feels the pain of having forsaken a new and noble dream. Whatever he does represents both a gain and a loss, an arrival and a departure. Always he mourns that which is gone and fears some part of that which is new. Reason opposes tradition. Emotions oppose the restrictions his fellow men lay upon him. Always, from the friction of these things, there arises the thing you called the curse of man and mocked— guilt!

     Sam renders that insight to the demon Taraka, a disembodied sentience that knows only desire, no ideals and no constraints except for the limits on its power. Taraka has possessed Sam, and has used his body to indulge in pleasures only humans can experience. But those pleasures have dwindled with repetition. Taraka is perplexed, for he does not understand that being human involves more than gratifying “the belly and the phallus.” How could he, “a pure, clear flame” that had previously known only desire?

     A lot of young men have more in common with Taraka than with Sam.

* * *

     We are confounded by the question of what endures. If life itself must end, what, then, is worth striving for? That’s the appeal of absolute hedonism. Only in appealing to a standard outside human life does any other posture become sustainable.

     The problem here, of course, is that of all religions: unverifiability. Living human beings cannot prove that anything beyond the veil of Time “really exists.” Those of us who’ve had private experiences to that effect cannot use those experiences as evidence with which to persuade others. If those others become interested in our faith, all we can do is point to historical records that the hardened skeptic can always dismiss.

     Robert A. Heinlein, who was dismissive of religion as such, nevertheless strove to find something beyond a man’s limited temporal existence in which to have faith:

     "It would seem obvious to me," Rembert continued, "that the only rational personal philosophy based on a conviction that we die dead, never to rise again, is a philosophy of complete hedonism. Such a hedonist might seek his pleasure in life in very subtle, indirect, and sublimated fashions; nevertheless pleasure must be his only rational purpose-no matter how lofty his conduct may appear to be. On the other hand, the possibility of something more to life than the short span we see opens up an unlimited possibility of evaluations other than hedonistic. It seems to me a fit subject to investigate."

     [From Beyond this Horizon]

     Note the cleavage: If we die dead, never to rise again. If even an absolute rationalist feels such an urge to find things that endure, the problem is real and the need is imperative.

* * *

     If Time conquers all – and it does – then in the ultimate assessment, nothing endures. Not achievements, nor reputations, nor families, nor institutions, nor nations, nor the Earth, nor the universe itself. Despite that, we are driven to choose things that will endure sufficiently for us. If we can’t find any, that life of chaos is where we’ll end up.

     What becomes plain to anyone who lives to age 35 is that what is pressed on us most frequently and most vociferously are pleasures as ephemeral as a soap bubble. Sex. Possessions. Occupational advancement. “Image.” If you have any familiarity with the great literature of India, you might recognize the following snippet of dialogue:

     Yama said: Choose sons and grandsons who shall live a hundred years; choose elephants, horses, herds of cattle and gold. Choose a vast domain on earth; live here as many years as you desire.
     If you deem any other boon equal to that, choose it; choose wealth and a long life. Be the king, O Nachiketa, of the wide earth. I will make you the enjoyer of all desires.
     Whatever desires are difficult to satisfy in this world of mortals, choose them as you wish: these fair maidens, with their chariots and musical instruments — men cannot obtain them. I give them to you and they shall wait upon you. But do not ask me about death.
     Nachiketa said: But, O Death, these endure only till tomorrow. Furthermore, they exhaust the vigour of all the sense organs. Even the longest life is short indeed. Keep your horses, dances and songs for yourself.

[Katha Upanishad]

     It has never been put better. What endures “only till tomorrow” is hardly worth one’s consideration. Whatever your personal assessment of what matters enough to earn a share of your effort and devotion, let it be something that will survive longer than that.

* * *

     Remember: This is an old Curmudgeon talking. I like questions such as the one addressed above. I don’t claim to be able to answer them in a definitive way. Even so, they’re worth everyone’s attention.

     Vince Lombardi had the right idea: Give your highest priority to things that endure. Determining what they are is the next question. It’s a question I wish I’d given more time and thought half a century ago.

Awakenings

     A lot has been written about “the living Earth,” “the spirit of Gaia,” and similar notions. Common to them is a conception of the inanimate as animate: a world alive and aware, not only of itself but of all that dwells upon it and in it. It’s a thesis I’ve touched very, very lightly in In Vino:

     The others hung back as Ottavio directed Fountain to the vat of unclarified Malbec. The Monti vats were made of aged wood bound in black iron bands. They were smaller than those at Broadhead. Their bases rested flat on the villa floor. The room was filled with the aromas of wine, yeast, and fermentation.
     Fountain imperceptibly took command of her host. She urged him close to the vat, took his hands and set them against its surface, moved to stand behind him, slid her arms around his chest, and rested her chin upon his shoulder. They stood thus in silence for perhaps half a minute. Within her embrace, Ottavio Monti trembled as if his strength were being tried to its limits.
     “What is it you feel?” she murmured against his cheek. “Tell me everything.”
     “Wood,” he said. “Rough, warm wood. And...the wine. And...” His voice dropped most of an octave. “And life.” He trembled in her embrace. “It is alive! But the vat is two hundred years old and the wine is grapes crushed to a sauce! How can this be?”
     “All things are alive,” Fountain whispered. “All things are aware. What else do you feel?”
     “I...” His tremor intensified.
     “Tell me, Ottavio Monti.” She squeezed him gently. “It is safe. It is right.”
     “Love,” he whispered incredulously. “Your love. And mine.”
     “All things know love,” she said in the voice of an oracle dispensing a mystical revelation. “And all things respond to love and return it in equal measure. Do you love the wine?”
     “Si, molto.”
     “Then tell it so,” Fountain said. She laid a hand over his heart. “From here, Ottavio. Use any words, any language you like, but tell it that you love it and listen for its answer.”
     The vintner of Villa Monti closed his eyes and bowed his head. Fountain held him snugly.
     Larry, Trish, and Domenico Monti stood transfixed. Ray murmured the Lord’s Prayer under his breath.
     “Gran Dio!” Ottavio whispered.
     He pulled his hands from the vat and dropped to his knees. Fountain released him, ascended the steps to the vat’s rim, took up the dipper that hung there, extracted a cup of wine, and descended. She knelt before Ottavio and offered him the dipper.
     “Taste it.”
     He did. His eyes brimmed over. He handed the dipper back to Fountain.
     “Now do you see?” she said.
     He smiled through his tears and nodded.
     She rose, brought the dipper to the others, and bade them taste it. They did, in turn.
     “Wow,” Larry said.
     “Oh my God,” Ray said.
     “As good as Broadhead’s, maybe even better,” Trish said.
     “Gloria a Dio,” Domenico said.
     Fountain nodded serenely.

     Now and then, I’m blind-sided by the idea. I certainly was when I wrote the above.

     If it’s true, which I doubt, we have no evidence of it. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be true someday. David Brin’s novel Earth toys with that possibility. It’s thematically related to his other “Uplift” tales, in which nonsentient creatures are “uplifted” to sentience through genetic engineering and selective breeding.

     No, I’m not saying I expect it. But the notion itself is appealing. A world alive and aware! What would it do? We worry about extraterrestrials finding us and proving unfriendly. How much worse an enemy would a living, sentient planet be, were it to weigh us in the balances and find us wanting?

     Hey, I’m a writer. Ideas like that one are both the tools of my trade and toys for my imagination. And I have to admit, the idea of uplifting the whole planet is more than moderately ambitious. One must ask who would see it as worth attempting, at what risks and at what cost.

     Anyway, the idea of awakening the Earth itself, calling forth the Weltgeist (or giving it one), found a remarkable expression in melody that I’ve only recently discovered. Hearken to the incredible, angelic voice of Ekaterina Shelehova:

     Did the souls of your ancestors cluster about you as you listened?

     Mine, too.

In Praise Of Ordinary Life

     Recently, I read the following from a supposedly sane and well-balanced young woman:

     “I want to marry the man who gets more excited about my birthday than I do.”
     “I want a man who plans little surprises to make my eyes light up.”
     “I want a man who never treats my joy as an inconvenience.”
     “I want a man who asks how my day is and actually waits for the answer.”
     “I want a man who celebrates my wins louder than anyone else.”
     “I want a man who is proud of me on the days I’m not proud of myself.”
     “I want a man who knows I like my coffee sweet.”
     “I want a man who warms up the car while I tie my shoes.”
     “I want a man who hears me talk about my dreams and then turns them into plans.”
     “I want a man who chooses ‘us’ even when life gets loud.”
     “I want a man who makes ordinary moments feel like magic.”

     That wish list drew a lot of negative commentary. Of course, wish lists are often impractical, but the impractical ones are usually materially oriented. This one demands a fantasy creature for a mate. But, as my favorite late-night TV philosopher has said, wait: there’s more.

     The fantasy mate is expected to deliver a fantasy existence as well.

     I can only speak for myself, but I’m unaware of anyone who enjoys a magical life. Even the very rich have fairly ordinary lives. Granted that they may do less housework than the rest of us. Even so they rise in the morning, spend their days dealing with the necessities of their lives, retire to bed in the evening, sleep through the night, and – if they’re really fortunate – rise the next day to do it again.

     And what on Earth is wrong with that?

---

     Many may dream of a life filled with adventure, excitement, and reward:

     I didn't want to go back to school, win, lose, or draw. I no longer gave a damn about three-car garages and swimming pools, nor any other status symbol or "security." There was no security in this world and only damn fools and mice thought there could be.
     Somewhere back in the jungle I had shucked off all ambition of that sort. I had been shot at too many times and had lost interest in supermarkets and exurban subdivisions and tonight is the PTA supper don't forget dear you promised.
     Oh, I wasn't about to hole up in a monastery. I still wanted—
     What did I want?
     I wanted a Roc's egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get up feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, Then pick a likely wench for my droit du seigneur—I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilling of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles.
     I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, "The game's afoot!" I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and the Lost Dauphin.
     I wanted Prester John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be what they had promised me it was going to be—instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.

     ...but such are dreams. Such are the inventions of professional fantasists. Were it otherwise, there’d be no market for fantasy.

     Nobody promises anyone such an existence. A good thing, too. It would be next to impossible to deliver on such a promise.

     Some soldiers sometimes have excitement-filled lives. For a few years, anyway. Ask them what it costs. Don’t forget to factor in those who paid the ultimate price.

     Ordinary American life, with all its compromises, frustrations, and vicissitudes, is the best bargain going.

---

     The dreams of young women are often extravagant. The young – both sexes – are like that. But there’s a shortage of unmarried handsome princes just now. (Please don’t demand a government program to address the shortfall!) And even the handsomest princes usually come unequipped with magical powers.

     Time was, women – even young women – understood that. They aspired not to adventure, excitement, and the life of a fantasy princess, but to love, comfort, and security. They knew from the start that what they sought would demand work, prioritization of desires, and prudence in their choices. They thrilled to the “demon lovers” they found between the covers of gaudily decorated paperbacks, just as do contemporary American women – but they knew that between those covers was where they must remain.

     It appears that something has gone wrong with the upbringings of young American women. I haven’t raised any myself, so rather than discourse further on it, or prescribe a method for its remediation, I believe I’ll stop here.

“Why, Fran, Why?”

     I’m sure my Gentle Readers have noticed that I’ve left the political commentary to my esteemed Co-Conspirators these past few days to do other, lighter-toned things. I do that now and then. A steady diet of politics is bad for the soul (Just look at what it does to politicians.) Life in these United States is pretty damned good despite the corrupt state of our political system and the elite that largely remains at its helm. We may be living off our progenitors’ momentum, as Milton Friedman once said, but the ride continues to be a pleasant one.

     So I’ve been writing about things that tickle rather than enrage me. I hope they’ve tickled you as well, but…well…tastes do vary, and I know that there are people who need their spleens and bile glands refilled daily. Happily (?) there are many sites that will serve that need; Liberty’s Torch can afford to depart from it now and then.

---

     It’s now twenty-two years since I completed my first full-length novel. So many things have happened since then that, in the usual course of events, one might expect a novel written in roughly contemporary society to become dated. Out of curiosity I revered the book with an eye to that possibility, and found only one item that appears time-worn: a description of a personal computer.

     Have things really changed that little? Of course not. But when composing a story, the writer must concentrate on what matters to his characters as he’s defined them. Most of the changes that have come upon us these past two decades have made astonishingly little difference to the ways in which we live, conduct our affairs, and relate to one another.

     I take this as a confirmation of the late John Brunner’s Two Great Commandments of Fiction:

1. The raw material of fiction is people.
2. The essence of story is change.

     Brunner cleaved religiously to those dicta in his own books, which is what makes them so readable – for me, at least – despite his openly averred socialist convictions. His Hugo Award winner Stand on Zanzibar remains one of the greatest landmarks of the science-fiction genre. That’s not because of the few, relatively mild SF-like motifs it incorporates, but because it concentrates on developments in the lives of three unusual people: Donald Hogan, a scholar trained as an assassin; Norman Niblock House, a corporate executive immersed in an intriguing development project in Benin, Africa; and social theorist Chad Mulligan, a curious combination of misanthropic genius and ardent lover of Mankind.

     Brunner’s magnum opus makes the Hugo Award winners of recent years look like masturbatory finger exercises. Their authors should be ashamed to stand in his shadow, much less to let their shadows fall upon him.

---

     Long Island, New York is a special place in many senses. Among other things we have the least predictable seasonal weather patterns along the Atlantic Seaboard. It pays for a Long Island homeowner to be braced for anything and everything…and not to be too put out when it doesn’t arrive.

     About every third winter, for example, we get buried in snow. The entire Island grinds to a halt for two or three days while residents dig themselves and their chariots out of the snow and the Powers That Be try to remember who bribed them most recently and must have their streets cleared post haste. One chance in three of an apocalyptic snowfall is enough for us – the private citizens, not the political grifters – to prepare ourselves, and so most of us do, typically with snowblowers and large quantities of rock salt.

     So when December rolls around I roll Snidely, my 400-pound Toro dual-action snowblower, out of the shed where he summers and into the garage, from which I can extract him most readily should the need arise. Snidely usually returns to his summer cottage on or around April 10, as the latest in the year we’ve received a significant snowfall since I took up residence here fifty-two years ago was April 9. But as I deploy him, I also utter a silent, heartfelt prayer that Nature won’t put him – and me – to the test. The winter just behind us, that prayer was answered favorably, for which God be thanked.

     But there’s always a downside. When Snidely comes out for the winter, I must fill a gas can for him. He eats voraciously when in use. Thus, I must now dispose of a can of gasoline that’s five months old and nominally unsuitable for internal combustion. But backyard bonfires are considered passe, damn it all…to say nothing of the frowns of the fire-prevention authorities.

---

     It’s nearing the hour when another feature of Fortress life, my C6 Corvette Joy – remember Joy?

     …will make her seasonal debut. I think this will be my last year driving Joy. Among other things, my back has been complaining of recent abuses. Anyway, it costs the Moon to insure her. So I intend to enjoy her as much as possible this spring, summer, and fall.

     But there’s a downside here, too: As she’s a convertible, Joy must sleep under a roof. Therefore Milla, my Mercedes S550, must do so outdoors for the next few months. That makes it problematic to keep Milla’s batteries charged. Who in his right mind would run an electrical cord to a car battery trickle charger outdoors for such an interval? Not this Long Islander; the high school kids around here have too extensive a record for doing unfortunate things.

     Suggestions would be appreciated.

---

     It’s time to address the demands of the day. I hope the above hasn’t disappointed my Gentle Readers unduly. We all have lives, and despite my enviable status as a retiree, mine has its odd developments and requirements just like anyone else’s. Now and then those things are uppermost in my thoughts. Anyway, they make a refreshing change from the political blather.

     I’ll return tomorrow. Enjoy your Monday, if that’s not too unthinkable.

Quickies: Life, Death, And Matters Of State

     By now, anyone who reads Liberty’s Torch will be aware of the fate of Alfie Evans, whose parents were denied, by the British government, any opportunity to save him from the murderous claws of the British National Health Service (NHS). Indeed, armed men were posted around the hospital in which Alfie was confined, so the NHS could starve Alfie to death without interference.

     This atrocity must be publicized worldwide. It’s already received considerable play on conservative websites and talk radio. But that’s not all that’s required.

     Questions must be asked, and loudly:

1. When Alfie failed to die “minutes after life support was removed,” as the NHS doctors assured us he would, why did they not revise their opinion of his vitality and prospects for survival?
2. Had Alfie been the child of parents who are not British citizens, would the NHS doctors have taken a different attitude toward him – or toward his parents’ right to remove him from their “care?”
3. Had Alfie been the child of Muslim parents, would the NHS have obstructed their quest for treatment that might allow their son to live rather than to die?
4. Are the doctors who condemned Alfie to a slow, painful death by starvation willing to stand before the television cameras and justify their totalitarian decrees? What about the judge who ruled against Alfie’s parents’ ordinary parental rights over their child – rights that would have been honored without question in a civilized nation?

     I want the answers. I’d say Britons who are parents, or who are contemplating becoming parents, would want them too. Do you, Gentle Reader?

The Gift Of Life...

     ...is particularly poignant when the life at issue is someone else’s.

     Herewith, a textual condensation of a truly inspiring Twitter thread that brought tears to my eyes.

     For my twitter friends who actually care, i said one day I’d share the story of why I’m so damn pro life:
     I was about 22, i mostly lived to party. I’d get drunk every single night at my favorite dive bar before heading downtown to whatever party or bar was happening. I had nothing going for me. Dead end job, lived with my parents, barely working car. I probably would have wrapped it around a tree drunk if given a few more years.
     On my birthday, a bunch of my friends came out, and i got exceedingly drunk. I ran into an old fling, nice enough girl. We had a one night stand. A few months later, I’m working the night shift stocking shelves at a grocery store, i get a call. It’s he girl from my birthday night. She’s pregnant.
     Fuck. I make 9.50 a hour and work at home. What the hell am i supposed to do? Call a guy i know who is a pastor. He’s a pretty understanding dude. Asks me what i plan to do. Plan? I haven’t planned a thing in my life, i live in the moment. He asks me if i want a kid. “Hell no!” He gives me a card, says it’s a relationship counselor, tells me to call her and explain my situation.
     I called her, explained what was going on, and she had a reasonable proposal: why don’t you two come meet me, and we can talk about this in a environment that feels safe and open. I called Jenna (my wife now) i tell her that i want to try to be a good person and maybe we could talk about it with this person who is in expert in bad situations.
     First meeting comes and this lady is a little out there, but very understanding. Jenna and i are able to talk about what we want. We come to a tentative agreement that we should get to know each other.
     Jenna’s dad is a doctor, she’s had everything she’s ever wanted or needed in life. She’s a great student and college athlete. I’m a fuck up, my parents, while wealthy, have mostly cut me off and i have a awful relationship with them at this time.
     That poor woman is faced with a couple bad choices: hitch her wagon to a fucking deadbeat loser, get an abortion, give the baby up for adoption or keep the baby, cut me off and try to finish school as a single mom at 20. In the worst decision (later best) she’s ever made, she decided to go with me... a guy who stocks grocery stores, living in his parents basement with a car that barely runs.
     We started going to couples counseling twice a week, literally to get to know each other. Now Jenna had never dated anyone before. Suddenly this deadbeat scruffball shows up with her at all her family events, church and dinner on Sunday, the whole 9 yards.
     We eventually got to the point where we decided we wanted to keep the baby and maybe get married. This is about 4-5 months into the pregnancy. She hadn’t told her parents yet and she was starting to show a little. Everytime we tried to tell them, she’d have a panic attack and we wouldn’t tell them. Eventually it got to the point where someone had to do tell them or they would guess. Eventually i realized that i was going to have to tell them myself. I looked her dad up on his hospitals website and called his office. Asked to meet with him.
     Folks, i was not a brave man. I always took the easy way, i was a coward and a weasel. But i went to that fucking meeting and i broke that poor mans heart. He knew what i was, and now his beautiful, intelligent, sweet daughter was forever linked to me. Hardest thing I’ve ever done is telling a good man that i may have just ruined his daughters dreams, and his dreams for her.
     My FIL is a saint folks. He took it stoically. He didn’t yell or scream or kick my ass. He thanked me for telling him and said he would be in touch, that he had to talk to his family.
     Jenna called me a hour later. She was furious. Called me every name in the book and then some. She would have made @liars_never_win blush. Her mom called an hour later and asked me to come to dinner that night. Talk about walking into a bad situation. I went that night.
     It went great actually. Her family was supportive of her, wanted to make the best of the situation and offered to pay for the counseling we were going to (100 bucks a week is a lot when you make 9.50).
     After a month or two we decided we would get married. Jenna dropped out of school and started sewing decorative pillows to make a little money. I started to get my act together with work. I went from a shit employee to the best motherfucker they had. I completely turned my life around. I had no choice, it was sink or swim and i had to carry two others on my back. I worked my tail off and got some promotions and small raises.
     Out of the blue, my parents made us an astounding offer: they would buy a very modest house for us, and would defer payments for the first couple years of our marriage. We found a nice house in a safe neighborhood and they bought it. A month later Charlie was born.
     Charlie changed my world. From the moment i found out about him, he began to save me. Charlie transformed me from a directionless fuck up to a man with a purpose.
     Hindsight is great right? I didn’t see it then, but that tiny little human inside Jenna changed me more than any outside influence ever could. He made me be a man, he saved my life, and he brought the love of my life into my life.
     So why am i pro life? Because i understand that a small, seemingly insignificant and helpless human can have a profound impact on the world. Simply by existing a unborn child has the power to save someone, to radically change a life. And Charlie didn’t just save me, he brought Jenna and i together, and through that came Henry and Annie, two more wonderful amazing people who will have a huge impact on their world.
     A life is never a mistake! The power in a life to save others is immense. It may not be clear at the time, but in time it becomes clear. Charlie saved my life. I would never want someone to lose that amazing chance.
     Side note for those curious: Jenna’s pillow business took off, and what used to help feed us, now helps pay for the kids school, and our house that we bought with our own money. I worked my way up through a factory into a supervisory position, and now manage a factory of 200.
     My relationship with my parents has never been better. I love my inlaws so much. Jenna and i are able to help others in need. I can’t imagine where i would be if we had choose abortion. Abortion is an evil thing.

     With the exception of a couple of periods added at the ends of sentences, that's exactly as it appears in the cited Twitter thread. Note especially this stunner of an admission:

     He [baby Charlie] made me be a man.

     If only more unintentional fathers-to-be felt that way.

Finding Equilibrium

I've been a focused person most of my life. I finished college with 3 kids and a husband, while working part-time. I worked full-time as a teacher, while building a business with my husband, and with 3 kids at home.

When I decided to work on my Master's, I threw myself into it whole-heartedly, while continuing to blog almost every day.

In SC, I worked as a teacher, often taking on new classes with unfamiliar content, and simultaneously attending and providing professional development, earning an amateur radio license, mentoring other science teachers, and writing a book.

Oh, and still blogging - for about 14 years now.

How did I do that? I'm a relatively single-minded person, who puts all her energy into the most important task at the moment. I'm good at breaking things down into bite-sized chunks. I'm also capable of ignoring other issues/tasks until I have the time.

Like cleaning the house. Or shopping for groceries. I'd be lying to say that it hasn't led to a few arguments with my spouse. However, I always kept the main task at the top of my mind, and attention.

When I retired, I anticipated finally having time to complete an in-process novel; I'm still working on the revisions, although I've made notes on what needs to change. My goal is to have it ready for copyediting by the end of the year.

So, I've begun looking at other possible choices for part-time money. I don't need a lot, just a few hundred a month to fill the gap between income and expenses. Whatever I do, it will have to fit into my household organization, novel revision/next novel planning, and volunteer work.

In short, I will make - at last - efforts to bring balance to my life.