Julie Pippert: Using My Words

* Title from a speech by FDR immediately after the attack on Pearl Harbor Eight years ago I was so pregnant I was at that "oh no you didn't go and make me move, now I'll have to sit on you and crush you" stage. When I woke up that morning, I lay on my side, the left, of course, with my knees slightly bent, of course, and I contemplated the floor. Was it going to be easier, I wondered, to maneuver the upper half of my body upright first, or to kick my legs hard enough to get momentum to drop them over the edge of the bed to help hurtle me into a standing position? In the end, hunger is what really got me out of bed that day. But still, I moved at the speed of snail. That's why I was still in my car zipping through Salem, slowing only to consider stopping for a pistachio donut at the greatest little bakery right before the historic square. In my mind, the morning is molasses slow motion and details are vivid. It was a gorgeous perfect New England fall day. Brilliant...

Her: I think I'm losing my mind. It's on the symptom list: loses one's mind. It's happening. Him: How do you mean? Her: Have you noticed me forgetting a lot of things lately? And losing words? Losing people? Him: What's the symptom, the real symptom? Her: ( as if quoting medical text ) Loss of memory, inability to concentrate or focus... Him: You seem a little scattered but it's been busy. Her: No, okay on Friday, let me tell you, on Friday? My friend came up to me and thanked me for the note I sent her, told me it meant a lot to her. Him: Okay... Her: I did not remember writing a note! What note? Why did I write it? What did it say? Him: Was it just... Her: It was just a note that was clearly important to her! And I had no clue! I watched as all the meaning just leached out of that note. Because I could not remember ! Him: Did you ever get it? Her: Yes. It was so humiliating. She had to explain it to me. She had to tell me about the note I wrote t...

Would you like a Peace Globe for your blog? Click here to learn how to get and make one for yourself! This is my BLOG BLAST for PEACE ! I think that most of us---the little people, the ones who actually do not sit on high or watch the world from a privileged perch, the ones who pay the very real price---want peace. I'll even venture further out on the limb and say we don't like war. "War is a necessary evil," they say. The phrase "necessary evil" triggers my red alert "brain spring into action" response. "Necessary evil" is an oxymoron, an inconsistency, a piece of irrational illogic, and that always gets me thinking. How can there be any evil that is necessary? Rape, pillage, plunder, destruction, killing...this is necessary? We've trapped ourselves in a vicious circle. "It's the only way," they tell us. And my red alert springs my brain into action, again. I am a person who sees many possibilities for solutions, rare...

Today I am finding someone with a shotgun. That shouldn't be too hard here. Today we're going coon hunting. My dog---by the way, the son of hunt champions who once upon a time was hunt trained (albeit for geese, not coons)---is in. I'm heading to the military surplus store for cammo and ammo and anything I need to succeed, because after last night...Romeo Raccoon Must Die! In case you missed our raccoon history: Part 1--- Rocky Raccoon Horror Picture Show Part 2---Over the Hedge- A Declaration of War Set: Our house, 11 p.m. or so, most of the house is dark, shut down for the night. Jon and I are working at the computers in the office. Kids are upstairs sleeping. Dog is lying asleep on the rug beside my desk chair. Enter: Two cats, meowily complaining. Julie: Hey did you feed the cats their dinner? Jon: Not yet. It's on the list. Cats escalate, jumping onto desk and swatting at typing fingers. Dog gets agitated, starts rustling about. Julie: Okay I think the time is now....

When I studied Old English in college, I not only learned a new language, I gained insight into my own culture and its past through its history of languge. I remember the strange and yet familiar words, the complex and myriad meanings, the grammatical rules, the hours groups of us spent translating and seeking the best modern word for an ancient concept. But most of all, I remember the professor. The course was taught by a former Jesuit, who left to marry a Russian emigre (please recall this was the 80s and early 90s, so that was actually noteworthy back then). I was recruited in college for a job, and this professor steered me away from it. I subsequently took a different job, which happened to be with his wife. During a major crisis at that job, we were evacuating and had a matter of seconds before contamination. I happen to be the sort who keeps a cool head during such times, and the professor's wife was not. Who knows her history or why the event affected her so much. She panic...

There is little better conversation halter than, "God says so!" That's exactly the sentiment behind the divine right of kings, a system of ruling in which a monarch owes his rule to the will of God, and not necessarily to the will of his subjects. When the divine right of kings was almost universally acknowledged and accepted, denying it was beyond treason, beyond torture and death; it meant eternal damnation. If you know much about history---including why the United States came to be---then you have some idea about why people eventually fought to the death to end the divine right of kings. (Except in England, where the monarchs are still ordained, albeit largely powerless.) So if someone today were to say that his rule was a divine right, the audience would laugh and laugh. Right? Wrong. The newest trend in justifying the modern "divine right of kings" is the same interpretation of Romans 13:1-2 that ancient and historical monarchs invoked for the divine right ...

From what I read in a variety of places that support a plethora of different points of view, Cindy Sheehan's 1200-word letter, "Good Riddance Attention Whore," brought a general reaction of, "And don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out." When Sheehan first caught my---and everyone else's---attention by camping outside Bush's Crawford, Texas ranch, I believe a lot of us didn't know what to think. I did think Bush looked churlish by not agreeing to meet with her. Five minutes. Why was that too much to ask? Five minutes for the grieving mother whose son died for this country. I realize that approximately 3500 families are grieving for the same reason. (If you want to see numbers, go here .) I realize that if Bush gave five minutes to every grieving family that would mean he'd spend 17,500 minutes (almost 300 hours, probably about 8 straight weeks) offering his condolences and appreciation. (Assuming there were no additional casualt...