Memorial Day is close....a time to remember our fallen men and women....

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

Traditionally Memorial Day was celebrated on May 30^th each year. The National Holiday Act of 1971 changed the remembrance to the third Monday of May. This allows for a three day weekend across the country.

Many veterans feel the significance of this holiday which began in mid-1860 is lost and we celebrate having a long weekend rather than “why” we have the extra day. Many want Memorial Day to return to May 30^th so the day will stand out by falling on different days within the week.

I’ve visited the national cemetery in Washington, D.C. and the Viet Nam Memorial. There are many more areas in which our countries fallen are recognized.

I didn’t understand until seeing the stark, clean and neat rows in the cemetery. It was then the realization hit me – these men and women, unknown to me, for many years before my birth through to the present, gave their life. 

How often do we truly think to thank them? How often do we stop and wonder who and how many these soldiers left behind? How do we honor the service that ended in the stark, clean and neat rows?

What do we say to those who search fervently for a name on the Viet Nam Memorial? When found, a flower, a flag, a note is left in reverence to a memory long past.

Memorial Day is just one day. One day we must take the time to remember we are free and that freedom is not without cost.

Memorial Day is America’s way of observing as a nation, our fallen.

Memorial Day has been swept aside in most places. However, there are still barbeques, celebrations and parades; speeches given; and poppies pinned to lapels.

We are reminded daily to thank our soldiers. Memorial Day is a reminder to be thankful for our fallen soldiers from the inception to present.

Were it not for the people who’ve willingly given of their time, separated from loved ones, where would we, as American’s, be?

The thing is we should celebrate Memorial Day every day. A life for my life is more important than having an extra day off from work.

A soldier doesn’t have that privilege if on the battleground.

Let us remember to take the time each day and give thanks to those serving our country in the past and the present.

We are truly blessed.

For my mother, whom I never really appreciated until it was too late.....

I Love You

by alisa dollar

            Blue eyes that in times past had brightly snapped, searched dully into my own like-blue eyes. I was in turn saddened and distressed at this woman’s lack of knowledge, lack of desire, lack of recognition.

            My mother.

            New surroundings were discomfiting to us both. My mother, trapped in the debilitating clutches of Alzheimer’s, viewed her space in an agitated and fretful manner. As for me-this simply was not home.

            Home. One never truly puts a finger on what constitutes a “home.”  Home is where the heart is. Home is a place to hang your hat.  Home is full of laughter and memories, both bad and good. Home is the nucleus from which we are spawned.  Home is a mother’s sacrifice-and unconditional love. A nursing home it’s not.

            As I watched my mother look about, her hands fidgeting in anguish, I felt the need to be beside her, letting her know she wasn’t alone. All to no avail.  Her lackluster eyes looked beyond me as if I were part of the fixtures in this room she did not know or understand.  Eyes roamed, but did not see. Hands reached, but did not touch. Mouth opened, but no sound escaped.

            I stood before her with tears running down my cheeks, grasping at something, anything to say, to make her somehow understand she was safe and not alone. This woman had done the same for me more times than I could count. I knew there surely had to be a way to reach the inner soul of this mind, that for unknown reasons was now distorted. This now helpless woman had conquered her past, becoming all she’d ever dreamed, plus some. She’d helped her husband in a business while raising four children.  A sports woman, she’d bowled, hunted, golfed and, in her day, played basketball.  Well-known civically, she had done many things in social organizations helping to better our small town.  And First Baptist Church surely would have cratered had she not been the treasurer. 

            Suddenly, a thought sprang to my mind as I bent down to Mother’s level, putting my hands on either side of her chair.  Eye level once again, blue to blue, I touched her cheek softly and said, “Jesus loves you, Mother,” just as she’d done to me when I was a child and hurting.

            The worrisome flutter of her hands stopped. Blue eyes peacefully examined blue and a calmness settled within their depths. I knew she understood. How marvelous that a simple sentence taught to most, generation after generation, truly had the effect of quieting the mysterious puzzle of my mother’s lost spirit. Memory being a strange entity in normal circumstances was extraordinary to watch within the bounds of abnormal. 

            For the last time, I saw her smile and I knew she was smiling at me. As I said goodbye to my mother of the past, and greeted the present, knowing each meeting from hence would be yet another person to call “Mother,” I thanked that very Jesus for the precious lesson she’d taught me, and I, in turn, had taught my children. Jesus loves you. That simple sentence I had said by rote all my life had suddenly become a startling reality-comforting, yet squeezed tightly by stark reality. Before the monotony of dreariness crept back into her eyes, I urgently leaned into her face to quickly whisper,  ”I love you, too, Mother.”        

            I experienced a true comprehension of inner peace and understanding of the faith taught to me since birth. While I could not fathom her illness, she no longer could practice her teachings.  I knew the tables had turned. I had to trust what I could not see and turn over what I could not understand. My mother had always believed in God and His goodness.  In this goodness, I had been allowed to tell my mother the one thing I should have said many times in her years of understanding and had only just said in a time she could barely comprehend.  Thus the journey into Mother’s greater darkness had begun. 

            I closed the door to Mother’s new home knowing I had expressed to her my love. And I know she saw and heard through the memory of her soul.

On Being a Mother......

(This is my last year's Mother's Day article)

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

Mother’s Day becomes more special each year because my kids are grown, married, with families.

My mother has long been gone and I can’t call. However, as I get older (and older and older) I remember the good things about Mother rather than the things that absolutely irritated me beyond imagination.

Actually, I’d gotten over most of that by the time I had both my children. It was about then I decided she wasn’t just “out to get me” or “make only MY life miserable”—she was simply being a mother.

If she’d told me how hard a job that was going to be, I’d laughed in her face. Wait, behind her back because she’d smacked my backside if I’d laughed in her face.

Being a mother is amazing. It’s scary. It’s rewarding. It’s a life of worrying. It’s not knowing how good a job you’ve done. It’s hurting when your children hurt and rejoicing when they’re happy. It’s tiring. It’s learning new things about your own mother. It’s being room mother forever because you’re the only one who can’t stand them not having a fun parties for given occasions. It’s being a Girl Scout and Boy Scout leader. It’s being a Sunday school teacher and youth leader. It’s being the house everyone piles into. It’s having a sense of humor above and beyond a normal person.

It’s never ending.

In other words, it’s a blessed honor.

I talked to son and daughter-in-law for a long while and being a mother is hearing peace, joy, and contentment in son’s voice and happy laughter between him and his wife. It’s knowing son found his soul mate and together they are embracing their future.

Daughter called amidst her own crisis (her hubby was in the hospital) to wish me a happy Mother’s Day. As I wished her the same, I realized what a strong woman daughter had become as a wife and mother. She too embraces life and her future.

They left me with “I love you” and hung up to continue the roles in their given lives.

They can never know or understand the effect those three little words have. Not that they don’t, haven’t and will say them again.

On Mother’s Day there is an unspoken thank you.

A gift no money could buy.

Happy Mother’s Day!

I'm Just One Big Freaking Ray of Sunshine Aren't I?

It has been a long day. A long week. I have been waiting since the 14th, when Jenny was here for a new washer and dryer to be delivered today. Wednesday, I had the bright (and I mean REALLY bright) idea to paint the laundry room.

Monty nearly died Thursday when he came in and said, "That looks like mustard."

I informed him it was a canary.

Whatever. Last night I painted all the area where the washer and dryer would be. It really is bright.

I sent Monty on his merry way to Bob Wills Day in Turkey, Texas. Woo---weee!!! Now I wished I'd gone. I never dreamed how hard it was to buy small cans of primary color paints to accent the big canary in the room.

I went several places and ended up at a Home Depot.

This young man asked me if I needed help. I almost started crying, I didn't know where to start!

I asked him what happened that small cans of primary paint can't be bought ready-to-go. The man standing next to me (who is painting the outside of his house so shut up alisa your laundry room is a piece of cake) told me everything changed while we weren't paying attention.

I thought if I were a painter I'd be paying attention! Probably not because paying attention is tiresome.

So, back to young man helping me. I had three color sheets. He asked if I decided what I wanted. I told him what I really wanted was a drink, but I couldn't drink and paint. He had the nerve to laugh, which is okay because it is pretty funny.

An older couple came up to get another gallon of paint. The husband was complaining he was old and one gallon of paint should have been enough and his wife was smiling like my canary wall and nodding her head. I was too tired to say anything.

However, he started laughing....at me...and I mean belly laughs.

I said, "What? There is SOME paint on my walls." I thought it was because I have yellow paint on my arms, pants, glasses, and ankles. I don't know how I got paint on my ankles, but it is possible. Trust me.

He said, "I thought my day was shot and you just made it."

I said thank you and looked the other way. I heard him telling his wife to read my shirt.

I'd forgotten I had on a t-shirt that Jenny got me when she was here a couple of weeks ago. It says: I'm just one big freaking ray of sunshine aren't I?

I guess my day was made too since I entertained (for free) at Home Depot.

Now I'm waiting for the rest of the canary to dry to I can paint my primary squares and triangles and then hang some really neat wild colorful things I bought.

Hopefully I will have it all done by the time Monty gets home.

I only want him to have one attack of the vapors.

He can't handle any more than that.

Last year's Easter piece.....

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

Easter is nearly here and I know I should be thinking about things that go with my beliefs and all I can think about is new shoes and spring clothes!

Seriously, this is the time of year that brings in the new and stores the old. I suppose in a warped way that could apply to a spiritual beginning.

I’m aware speaking of Easter has somehow gotten to be less than accepted in some arenas. Like at Christmas, Nativity scenes being ruled a no-no and other religions could show their stuff. 

In schools, children can learn about all other religions of the world, but mine is a no-no.

I find myself growing impatient with being nice about patience and tolerance with everyone and their particular religious practices and mine are not shown the same respect.

The sad thing is everyone I know of different beliefs are very respectful, curious and tolerant of my practices at certain times of the year as I am of theirs.

One-on-one our world is a much happier and peaceful place to be.

It’s when we allow other people to do our thinking and speaking and it’s nowhere near what all the different religions feel about the other.

With that said, I’m reminded of how my beliefs were formed and solidified over the years with the birth of the Christ child, His journey while on this earth and at Easter His death and resurrection.

I and those who practice the Christian faith are not no-no’s.

It’s a time of year all the symbolism, which varies throughout the many denominations, is re-talked, re-thought, and re-taught.

I like to think of this next week as a divine booster shot in the spiritual pew dweller.

The way I see it, life is too short to fight over who is right and who can practice where, and what can be visible in a court house lawn and what can’t be.

Life is so short that we best all be paying attention to what is right and just amongst the many differences and pray that somehow the Master planner is not gonna let this big world sink!

Next Sunday I’ll be in a pew, with new shoes, next to husband listening to the preacher read the story I’ve heard since I was a little girl.

Isn’t that how all religions work?

Happy Easter!

Why me?

Jenny and I went to Big Lots then Walmart. At Big Lots, Jen found a book of....well an erotica book. So I put it in the basket along with the other stuff we bought....while I was checking out, the checker picked it up and I immediately said, "that's for my daughter!" (Darah I'm going to let her borrow yours :-) too)


The she started talking about a book she was reading that made her blush and I immediately knew the author from the title....and I said "Oh I love her and I've gotten a friend hooked on her." She said, well, she makes me blush and I'm sitting and reading by myself.


When we got out, I had to call Kay (she's the friend) for 1) to let Jenny hear her and 2) what the checkout lady said. Now she and Jenny are friends on FB and I might regret that, but I doubt it.


So...we go to Walmart to buy material (I think I am a quilt queen now) and stuff for the kids and for Jenny and a few baby things for the new baby in the family. Okay a lot of stuff.


A young man checking us out said some little girl is lucky and Jenny told him she'd waited forever to be an aunt!


Then out of the blue he starts saying the military should get paid and went off into this sort of tangent about congress and the president. I said they are getting paid. He said no they're not. He said he blamed the president and I was about to say who doesn't when he said I like him. That's when I got really quiet. I did really. You can ask Jenny.


He went on and on and on and I finally remembered that I had on a very faded Sarah Palin 2008 shirt. Ilooked at him and said, "Are you telling me all this because of my shirt?"


He said, "Well, I know who you voted for."


Jenny butted in then and said, "You are wasting your time, my mom is a die-hard Republican."  Jenny said she was just trying to give the boy an "easy out" but he didn't take it.


When we got to the car, Jenny laughed and said apparently he didn't know who he was messing with and you were sure biting your tongue.


Fun day.

Joan of Arc....NOT!

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

I got my hair cut with a picture of Jamie Lee Curtis going in and came out looking like Joan of Arc.

If I were Joan I’d be happy because she wasn’t old and lardy. She was young and lordy.

A woman of passion, belief, ready to die for all.

I was only dying to mimic Jamie Lee Curtis’ look.

This guy had cut my hair once.

He really likes to chat. The first time I had on my “Be careful what you say or you’ll end up in my novel” t-shirt. He asked if I was a writer.

I’m sure all of Frankston’s ears were burning as I told him I had a weekly column in your paper. He asked me if it was hard to think of things to write since it is a slice-of-life column.

I told him no because a slice of my life is a genuinely klutzy, curious person. I’d gotten myself into many things in my lifetime and seem to still manage a few in my golden years.

I told him I had a lot of stories I couldn’t write because the owner of the paper said they weren’t for human consumption. Okay, maybe he said they were a little more than he wanted printed in a local newspaper owned by him.

He did say they were funny though.

Whatever.

This time I had on a Texas Tech t-shirt representing the student chapter of the American Society for Civil Engineers.

He asked if I was an engineer. This was before whipping out Jamie Lee Curtis’ picture and told him I wanted to look like her.

After snorting laughter, I asked if I looked like an engineer, to which he replied, I’m not sure what an engineer is supposed to look like.

“An engineer doesn’t look like me. I do their money.” After thinking about that, I added, “Which might of greater concern.”

While he clipped, we talked about Facebook people posting minute by minute happenings.

I put on my glasses, gasped, and remarked how short my hair had become.

“I thought you wanted to look like Jamie Lee Curtis.”

I so wanted to run home and put this on Facebook.

Instead, I wrote an article.

Apparently he didn’t remember the first t-shirt I’d worn.

He will when I take the paper in to him.

Moral?

Hair grows back.