adieu, 2015!

Tonight, as I catch up on various projects, including partially composed posts, I came to a realization.
Three blogs require quite a bit of time to keep up.
This coming year, the delights 2015 will come to an end, having served its purpose. It was to document the people, the events, and the places which brought a smile to my face and cheer to my heart...and that it did!
But at what cost?
This bit of beach, which I hold dear as my sounding board, my refuge, my virtual best friend, has been left largely on its own, with great expanses of time in which I am absent.
That will not do.
This bit of beach has also become a repository of monologues in which I was ranting at the world, or to the world, about humanity's lapses in kindness or judgement or respect.
That will not do, either.
I'm not saying that I haven't done plenty of those types of rants on this shore in the past. I certainly have, as you well know.
However, until this year, those postings have been interspersed between flights of fancy or soarings of joy, tempering the tone experienced on this ether coast, preventing a gray cast to these skies.
I had noticed the uneven, almost negative tone, sometime ago and sought to adjust what flotsam and jetsam washed up on these sands. There were even times when I reposted an entry from the "delights" blog to this site, or divided up a post to appear both here and there.
Even here and there.
And once, here, and here and there.
That separation of my logical mind from my frivolous nature may have also had a cost to my psyche. Perhaps having my beach cluttered with so much pain and so little pleasure has caused me to dwell too long on the darkness instead of following the light.
That will not do, either.
Henceforth, toward the sun's light and warmth I will face when I come to my beach!
Sure, sometimes clouds may block the light and cold winds dispel the warmth, but these sands will remind me of days of joy past and days of joy to come.
Even when we cannot see the stars, they are always there.
We must simply keep looking up.
(smile)

unmaking Christmas before the new year

I don't want you to think these were the only Christmas cards I received. Au contraire!
But these didn't come from family or friends.
They were from institutions, companies, organizations.

This one was from
Linda and Carl Bleicken
at Armstrong State University.
How cool that they
paid homage to the
school's beginnings!

Cinematique is that lovely place in Daytona Beach! They'll be celebrating 25 years in February!
The Lucas Theatre has provided me with such a wide range of events to enjoy!
And the Smoky Mountain Performing Arts Center even sent a card!

The Lucas Theatre is included here
because it is where I donate
much of my time,
whereas the American Red Cross
is where I donate
body fluids to help others!

And here are three causes dear to my heart!
The Union of Concerned Scientists
has a worldwide scope,
as does Ocean Conservancy...
or should that be
an ocean-wide scope?
The only local place
that sent a card was the
Georgia Sheriffs Youth Homes.
Very nice!


Other great causes sent calendars and notepads, which I have shared with family and friends.
But I sure do like cards!
(smile)

choice of perspective

Sometimes, I need to reboot my consciousness.
After Mama died in 2001, I realized that I had been living my life with her at its center.
All I did, all I experienced, was with an eye toward sharing that aspect of my life with her, to make it real.
I had no idea that she was as much my heart as I was hers.

After she died, I was a zombie for a while, walking through the motions of my life, but rarely truly present.
My sincere apologies to my husband of those years for the many times when I was lost in grief.
My heartfelt thanks to him for the many special moments he gave me during those years.

I discovered that repeating things in the present which I had done, and shared with her in the past, allowed me to regain part of myself.
I made that discovery by a fortuitous event.
My dear friend Sue (the OriWhiGirl) was returning to Okinawa with her two small children and needed assistance for the flight back to her home. Her husband unexpectedly had to return there earlier, due to work requirements. She had asked her family for help, but there had been no takers.
Then she recalled how much I had enjoyed my time while stationed there. Would I consider making the trip with her? They would gladly cover the cost of my plane fare there and back.
All I needed to do was be there to help her with the children.
And so, I had gone with pregnant Sue and toddler Max and almost-toddler Steven.
Whilst there on The Rock, as I had known it, they took me to some of my old haunts. Hanza's elephant cage on the hill. The barracks, NCO club, and theater at Torii Station. Azul, the restaurant I had frequented. Kadena Circle. Okinawa Churaumi Aquarium and the Ocean Expo Park.
What an experience that had been! To go and experience those places again for just myself.
To not be trying to document the experiences for my mother to share with me, vicariously.
That was when I realized that I had just rebooted part of my psyche.
I had visited a place and time from my history and brought it into my present.
That was the summer of 2004.

After that experience, I set about making some other changes in my life.
After Mama's death, chocolate had completely lost its allure for me.
The love of that substance had been something she and I had so enjoyed together.
Chocolate became nearly tasteless, not signaling any pleasure sensors.
After the trip to Okinawa, and the realization of my new dawn, I discovered that custards were my new special treat.
Flans, egg custard pies, creme brulees, coconut custard, lemon custard - all of it!
In the next few years, I also discovered the joys of dark chocolate. Milk chocolate and white chocolate were still blah substances to my taste buds, but the dark chocolate - yeah, baby!

After my divorce in late 2007, I had to find myself again, as a newly-single woman after fifteen years of marriage.
The universe provided me with an opportunity to relive a particularly special time from that period.
One of the best vacations I had while married was to Italy, on an eight-day cruise. That had been my first trip to Rome and was a truly eye-opening experience.
That was when I had discovered how the name "Faustina" had come to exist for my mother (and later, for me). I realized that Grandpa had been the driving influence, with his love of Greek and Roman history.
How did I come to know that?
Jeff and I had been tromping around in the Forum, on our visit to Rome. I had wanted to do that since I was a girl, reading about Roman mythology. So, there we were, tromping around, and he spotted my name.
Carved into the marble mantel above six columns.

It was the Temple of Faustina, built in 141 AD.
Later, it had been renamed The Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, in honor of both her and her husband, Antoninus, Emperor of Rome. They had been very much in love, even after twenty years of marriage and four children. After her untimely death, he had her deified and built the temple, in the heart of Rome, to honor her.
(He also had her image, with her pearl-entwined hair piled high on her head, commemorated on the coins in use, way back then. So many of the commemorative coins were made, in different metals, too, that they are easily available today.)
So what had the universe done to help me regain my sense of self?
In 2012, my third year of teaching full-time, found me flush with funds when an opening arose in the upcoming Study Abroad trip, with nursing students, to Italy.
With three days to be spent in Rome.
Again, I was able to tromp around in the Forum.
Again, I was able to gaze upward at my name, carved into marble, withstanding the tests of more than two centuries of a changing world.
I was even able to share that experience with my ex, to better put it into perspective.
Such an amazing opportunity! Such an amazing experience!

And here we are now.
Ever since the wreck in August, I have been not quite myself. My car was nearly totaled. Although I came away with little physical damage to myself, my spirit suffered incredible bruising.
My friends and family came right to my emotional rescue, keeping me afloat in my sea of sadness, especially needed in that first week or so.
Of course, life then had to get back to normal, for all of us.
I find myself adrift once more.

In the New Hope brought forth by the latest Star Wars mythology, perhaps it is time for me to rescue myself.
I simply need to venture out there and do so.
And to remember that I am still loved by many.
That last bit is the most important.
It is also the easiest truth to lose sight of when living alone.
I am still loved.
By people in my past.
By people in my present.
By people in my future.
I am still loved.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Courageous is the soul, Faustina,
who adventures into time and space
to learn of their divinity.

For while they cannot lose,
they can think they have,
and the loss will seem intolerable.

And while they cannot fail,
they can think they have,
and the pain will seem unbearable.

And while they cannot ever be less than they truly are -
powerful, eternal, and loved -
they can think they are,
and all hope will seem lost.

And therein lies their test.
A test of perceptions:
of what to focus on,
of what to believe in,
in spite of appearances.

YOU, Faustina, are divine -
The Universe

bumble takes the tree!

Ya gotta love Ted Forth.
He's such a geeky, sappy guy!
(smile)
Here's the Christmas tree he decorated for his family.
Gold star on the top, Santa ornament on the next tier down, the Grinch sandwiched between a candy cane and a blue ornament.
Nice and normal, right?
Then you have BB-8 from the new "Star Wars" film, leading a white diagonal that includes two snowmen, Sam and Frosty.
Rudolph smiles just above the two snowmen.
Rounding out the waist-high portion of the tree are two Hermie The Elf ornaments, one Charlie Brown, and one 'Bomble.
Lots of Christmas show favorites from "Rudolph, The Red-Nosed Reindeer", but I'm totally cool with that!

Here's that same tree, but it's after the frenzy of gift-opening!
Gone is the gold star at the top! Instead, the 'Bomble reigns supreme, even emitting a little ROAR from his new vantage point!
He isn't the only one that's shifted upward.
The Grinch, perhaps?
Nope, he and Santa are still maintaining position.
So are the robot and the narrator snowman.
But both of the elves are gone! Out of sight!
So is Frosty!
Even Rudolph seems to have galloped off!
And good ol' Charlie Brown?
He's way up, occupying the site the reindeer vacated.
Hahahaha haha!
Good ol' Charlie Brown!
(smile)

white envelope

Christmas Story: For the Man Who Hated Christmas
By Nancy W. Gavin

It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past ten years.

It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it—overspending and the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma—the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.

Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.

Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was on the wrestling team at the school he attended. Shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes.

As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford.

Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.” Mike loved kids—all kids. He so enjoyed coaching little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came.

That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes, and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed a small, white envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done, and that this was his gift from me.

Mike's smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year. And that same bright smile lit up succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition—one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.

The white envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children—ignoring their new toys—would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the small, white envelope never lost its allure.

The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree. And the next morning, I found it was magically joined by three more. Unbeknownst to the others, each of our three children had for the first time placed a white envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing to take down that special envelope.

Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit will always be with us.

***** ***** *****

I think I will start doing this.

Even if all the envelope contains is my donation record as a Hope Builder for Habitat For Humanity, that's a wonderful gift of love to the world.
There's nothing like having four walls, a door, and a roof to give a child a sense of security and a feeling of being loved by someone they don't even know.

Even if the only thing in the envelope is my blood donation sticker from the American Red Cross, that's a wonderful gift of love to the world.
There's nothing like precious life-giving fluids for someone's child, parent, spouse, or best friend, to bring light back into someone's eyes and joy to their heart.

I think Mama would have approved.

I so miss sharing Christmas with her.

power of the pen

This is all about the one film I saw today.
"Trumbo".
I had especially wanted to see it because it starred Bryan Cranston, one of my favorites from "Malcolm In The Middle" (the white kids' version of "Everybody Hates Chris"). The film was about a dark decade - starting in the late 1940's - of American history, when Hollywood went after writers, actors, and crewmembers for being members of the Communist Party USA. Blacklisting, it was called, instigated by fear after Congress started blaming the film industry for begetting spies. Crazy, right?
But true.
Dalton Trumbo, a highly praised novelist and screenwriter, had to use pseudonyms and write schlock for a small studio for a decade because his name had been trashed by scaremongers like Hedda Hopper. To his credit, he made sure to spread that work to other blacklisted writers, so all were able to stay afloat.
In spite of the difficulties of writing under such conditions and in such times, the man still wrote award-winning material. Not once, but twice during this period, his scripts won Academy Awards! Perhaps you've heard of "Roman Holiday", the gem starring Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck? That was the first one, though his family did not receive the trophy under his name until 1993, more than a decade after his death.
The other was "The Brave One", based on a scene he had witnessed years earlier while on holiday in Spain. The Oscar for Best Story was presented to Trumbo in 1975, when he was 70 years old and still alive to enjoy it. (He died the next year.)
How did that terrible time come to an end? Kirk Douglas and Otto Preminger, and even President Jack Kennedy, are the ones to thank. By officially naming Trumbo as the author of "Spartacus" and "Exodus", respectively, and by the President publicly attending the screening of "Exodus", Hollywood had to kiss its blacklist goodbye.
How very appropriate that two tales of justified rebellion won the freedom of so many. One was the tale of a slave's fight against the Roman use of slaves as gladiator fodder. The other told of a fight by Holocaust survivors against British interment and for a return to their religious homeland.
How very appropriate that a man imprisoned by fear was able to craft such incredible tales of empowerment to gain the freedom of himself and others.
Hallelujah!
Such an uplifting tale!
It was also entirely appropriate for this holiday season, when the birth of Jesus is heralded. In two of the world's major religions, Christianity and Islam, Jesus is a game-changer, born of virgin birth, striving for the acceptance of all peoples on this planet we call home.
Amen, sister.
Amen, brother.
Amen.

rashes, rashes, rashes!

Trust me, if you say it like Jan of "The Brady Bunch", it's pretty funny.
That's the only way to look at it.

Today, I spent four hours at the VA Outpatient Clinic.
I had made an appointment on Monday for 10:30 this morning. I was a little late, but that wasn't the issue. I had thought I might have shingles, but that was not the issue, either. (Shingles affects only one side of the body, I learned.)

The issue was the clinic was on holiday schedule. So, even though the place wasn't that busy, I had to wait to see my doctor, after nurse Kim had verified that I did not have shingles. Then I had to wait for the pharmacist to release the Benadryl and the Decadron steroid for the two shots I needed. (The pharmacist was at lunch.) Then, my doc had to prescribe a different steroid as the pharmacy had the other drug on back-order. Then, we had to wait for my doc to get back from lunch so she could order a rash test to be performed, with the drawing of the six tubes of blood to accomplish that.
Sigh.
Kim was great. I knew none of this was her fault, so I was patient. What was my other option? Be snitty and ruin both of our days?
I opted for the less stressful choice.
Kim made sure the Benadryl injection in my left buttock was the final procedure. Then, she encouraged me, yet again, to drive straight home, as quickly as possible.
She wanted to be sure I didn't fall asleep on the way.
I did as she requested.
I made it home in time to fix some lunch before I passed out.
I slept for an hour on the couch.
Then I slept another two hours in my bed.
I would have crashed out longer if I had not set an alarm. I wanted to make sure I saw tonight's episode of "The Big Bang Theory".
I'm glad I did! Sheldon has a musical tune plaguing him for most of the show. Finally, he realizes the song is "Darlin'" and recognizes that his subconscious mind is telling him he wants to make up with Amy. She is "the fabric softener of his heart". I do love how that boy's mind works!
He rushes over to her apartment and the show ends with them in an endless kissing session.
Very nice!
Then I watched most of "Toy Story".
Very nice, too!

And what was my medical issue?
I was diagnosed as having hives from an allergic reaction.
Again.
I first had it in June, while at McKee Gardens in Vero Beach. I had thought it was heat rash, exacerbated by stress. (That was when my car battery died and stranded me on a very hot day.)
That rash on my lower arms had lasted well into my trip to the Polynesian Isles. Hydrocortisone cream seemed to have handled it.
Then, only two months later, I had the poison ivy incident. That rocked on for a month, with the rash on my arms, chest, and legs. Hydrocortisone was alternated with benadryl itch cream, as well as the two-week Prednisone regimen and oral benadryl.
Shite.
This latest rash from hell is on both arms, from mid-forearm all the way up to my shoulders. Not very itchy, except at night, or when I wear sweaters.
I've had it for about a month.
The usual at-home creams didn't faze it.
Now that school has finished and my grades are turned in, it was time to take care of me. The result of the bloodwork will be known in the next week or so. Meanwhile, back to the daily children's Benadryl doses.
At least they come in grape flavor.
(smile)

Samuel L. Jackson says: "WAKE UP!!!"

I had to get a little car work done, so I scheduled my time for that task for today.
Tuesday.
Tightwad Tuesday, as it is known at the cinema near my mechanic.
I specifically wanted to see "Chi-Raq", the latest from Spike Lee. You can always count on him to get a conversation started, right?
How very true this time around! What a star-studded cast! With Samuel L. Jackson, John Cusack, Angela Bassett, D.B. Sweeney, and Wesley Snipes, you knew the message must be important and must be meant for all people to hear.
That's quite a bit of celebrity fire-power locked and loaded, aimed straight at the heart of the matter: sex for peace. Incredible, right? Especially when you consider that this film is a timely remake of Aristophanes' "Lysistrata" - a Greek play that's almost 2400 years old. I have no idea how Spike Lee learned of the work, but kudos to him for his part in updating it into a modern script.
Kudos for him, also, for the acknowledgement that men are not going to solve the problem of black-on-black crime. The mothers, sisters, grandmothers, aunts, and female cousins of the children shot dead or maimed by stray gang weapons, these are the women of the world who are going to have to lead the fight to stop the death toll of innocents. More than SEVEN THOUSAND DEAD in Chicago? A city in a peaceful state in a peaceful country? Outrageous. Unconscionable. As Spike Lee said, "I'm trying to save lives. We have to save lives."
Amen.
Kudos to the folks in charge at the Victory Square 9 for screening this film.
Of the five multiplexes in Savannah, they are THE ONLY CINEMA SHOWING THIS FILM.
It bears noting that this location had long been regarded as the "black" movie theater in Savannah, before Frank Theatres took charge. They have certainly worked hard to remove the once-negative stigma of that branding. It was only a few years ago since I was "run off" from this cinema after one too many threatening encounters with black teen groups on one too many evenings.
So, again I say: Kudos to Frank Theatres.
Let's hope the womenfolks, the murderers, and those in charge in Chicago, ILL, take heed.
There certainly weren't any gangbangers, 'bang' shorties, or politicos in attendance with us tonight.
Me? I think only the choirmembers will show up for this practice session.
Still, I'm going to sing its praises to all who stand still long enough and all who wander to my piece of ethernet.
Hallelujah!
And pass the inspiration...

running with ghosts

Not me, of course.
Well, not literally running, anyway.
Today, the incredible Jin Hi Soucy Rand was one of the participants in the Savannah Bridge Run.
This is her fourth time crossing that span on foot.
Literally.

She posted the photo, as well as some lines from Clinton Powell, the impetus behind her first run in 2011.
He was better known in the land of hashtags as #skinnydudesneedlovetoo.

I can't control
my destiny
I trust my soul
my only goal
is just to be.
There's only us,
There's only this
Forget regret,
or life is yours to miss.
No other road,
no other way.
No
Day
But
Today

Totally concur.

spotlight on sadness of the world

How appropriate that a gentle rain was falling as I exited the cinema.
It may not have masked my tears, but it gave me a gentler reason for having a wet face and streaming eyes.

This morning, for who knows what reason, I watched part of CBS This Morning. The weather segment was on and I heard that Mark Ruffalo would be on shortly to talk about his latest movie.
I stayed tuned in.
"Spotlight" was one of the night films at the recent Savannah Film Festival. I had missed it then and I missed it again on Sunday, when I had gone to the Wynnsong to see it.
(On that occasion, I had missed about fifteen minutes of it, so I went to "Brooklyn" instead, another SFF night film which had come to the multiplexes. As I told some friends, that film was not only a nice history piece, but it also dealt with nonracial bias, which was a refreshing change of pace. It seems that black and white are the only colors of the spectrum, especially these past eight years. people who were young, scared parents at the time of desegregation in the late 1960's are now great-grandparents, spreading that fear to yet another generation. Very sad state of affairs. Change takes so very long.)

As I was saying, I was watching for the interview with Mark Ruffalo. When he came on, he was with Mike Rezendes, the Boston Globe reporter he portrayed in the movie. [It should be noted that Rezendes still works for that newspaper. Amazing.)
After listening to their talk about the scientific process of reporting, I resolved to see the movie this afternoon. After all, I would be out and about southside anyway, collecting my students' Lab Final Exams and attending the talk and luncheon.
And so I did.

Heartbreaking.
I sat there and cried throughout most of the movie.
So very much sadness in the world, sliding off the screen and into my head.
Overwhelming.
The church had known all along.
So had the lawyers.
So had the police.
The Boston Globe had even known back in 1973 and wrote a short story about it. Then, no follow up occurred.
No one - no one - did anything to stop it for many years.
Five years before breaking the story, the Boston Globe had a victim's group bring a box full of evidence. The reporters wrote him off as a lunatic with an axe to grind.
Really.
It wasn't until a non-Catholic, non-Bostonian was put in charge at the newspaper that the story of priests abusing underprivileged children started gaining momentum.
All the time, the survivors spoke of the deceit of having a man of God betray them physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
All the time, everyone else spoke of how much the people of Boston needed the church, needed to have the church's reputation as a safe haven safeguarded.
Heartbreaking.
If not for Mitch Garabedian, a lawyer working to help several victims of abuse, the story might not have ever come together. He had told Rezendes that he was arranging to have fourteen files unsealed by the legal system that had hidden them for decades.
Then the carnage of September 11, 2001, distracted everyone's attention away from the scandal with the Catholic church.
Everyone's attention, that is, except Garabedian's. He had said he would hold off for six weeks - and then he made his move. The onus was then on the Spotlight team at the Boston Globe to rise to his charge and follow through with their reporting.
And they did.
But not before realizing that their leader had dropped the ball on the story back in 1973, when only 20 priests had been accused.
Now, in 2001, the count was up to 87 abusive men of the cloth, almost six percent of the number of Boston priests.
That was the same percentage a researcher had told them there would be, based on his three decades of study.
Heartbreaking.
At the end of the film, a list of other cities in which priests had sexually abused children appeared on the screen.
Savannah, GA.
Damn.
Heartbreaking.

While in Venice at a premiere of the film, Mark Ruffalo called on Pope Francis to please use the film to promote change. He said they all were “hoping that the pope and the Vatican use this very, very sober and judicious story to begin to heal the wounds that the church also received. [Spotlight is] a perfect opportunity to begin to right these wrongs, not just for the victims and their destroyed lives, but for all the people who’ve lost a way to order a chaotic world for themselves.”

Pope Francis, please do the right thing.
Please help all of the people involved, both the victims and the abusers, to find their way back to God, if not to the church.
Please.

mizzou and the choir

Honestly, I came for the free lunch.
I had no idea what #MIZZOU meant and the invitation from President Bleicken's office did not explain the cryptic hashtag.
Google was not much help, either, sending me to the website of the Missouri Tigers.
Was Armstrong getting a football team? Highly doubtful. Those are very expensive sports teams, requiring lots of players, lots of equipment, and a football stadium.
Was Armstrong teaming up with University of Missouri for some educational benefit? Possible. There are sister cities, why not sister universities?
So, curiosity also drove me to this meeting.

A panel of five, in comfortable chairs, awaited in the Ogeechee Theatre in the Student Union. One was a student, one the new provost, one the diversity & equality aide, and two professors. Another professor moderated the event, making sure none of the panelists tried to monopolize the microphone.

The first two questions were fairly explosive softballs. No worries, the panelists had been given the questions earlier so they could each have a two- or three-minute reply.
The first question dealt with the student demands for fair treatment from an unresponsive University of Missouri administration.
The second question concerned the "Black lives matter" movement.

Wow.
Not softballs after all, but hard balls pitched directly into the gut.

Good.

Conversations like this should occur on university campuses.
Open minds don't occur without a little use of a prybar.

I was glad to be one of the many faculty and staff that stood to be recognized at the end of the discussion.
Hopefully, in January, when a second discussion is held, a larger venue will be needed.

The choir always needs more members.

taking a stand

Dagnabbit.
As much as I have enjoyed going to the baseball games these past two decades, and as much as I have enjoyed cheering for the Sand Gnats alongside Mister Willie, I don't know that I'm going to be as devoted for these new folks.
Honestly.
They've recently posted the results of their search for a new team name, as 'Sand Gnats' no longer exists.

Savannah Anchors
Savannah Ports
Savannah Seagulls
Savannah Bananas
Savannah Party Animals

Seriously? These were the "top five" gleaned from "over 1000 suggestions" from baseball fans???
Not Savannah Swarm (suggested by Sherry)? That would have been a very nice homage to the twenty years with the Sand Gnats.
Not Savannah Shamrocks (suggested by Jim C)? That would have pointed to our fine Irish heritage.
Not Savannah Sparrows (my suggestion)? That would have brought attention to the little birds first found here, but which are now all over the Southeast.
Not Daffin Ducks (suggested by Lee M)? Not only would that refer to the park where the stadium is located, but it also brings to mind that funny cartoon character.

I swear, right here and now, I will not go to the games if "Party Animals" is chosen.
I will not.

Fans First Entertainment, also known as Savannah Baseball 2016, supposedly embrace the philosophy of a fun environment for fans of all ages. How much fun could it be for children if they're amongst a horde of screaming drunks at a game? And you know that will be the case if "Party Animals" becomes the team's name.
It'll be 'Drunk Night', aka 'Thirsty Thursday', at every game.
Those were the night games I opted to miss.
I already have alcoholics in my family, thanks, and I'm willing to bet most other folks do, too.
I choose to not watch other drunks.
What say you?