Skip to main content

No Man's Land Becomes Every Man's Land


Last Thursday, the English class met for one last session before the holiday break. Between illness and work schedules and social agency programs, only four students could attend, as the teacher suspected, so we had a light schedule. Actually, we had no schedule at all except that I showed them how to make origami Christmas wreaths. We all sat around the table and folded paper and talked and talked.

The teacher asked everyone what they wanted for Christmas, and that single question led to such a discussion, we all ended up a little teary eyed. Each one of the students talked about their families, including the ones left behind in Puerto Rico and Guatemala, and how all they want is for peace and security for the ones they love. Life is good, they said, and their children are happy, and they all have everything they need, but they miss family. One of them told us her mother died when she was a little girl, and when she was just 11, her father was murdered, and she went to work in a little clothing shop. She was hard as a rock, she said, until she grew up and had children, and "then I melted my own heart," she said. She, actually, was the one who said life is good.

When the question came to me, I couldn't very well say I have had my eye on a little bottle of Chanel or that my camera seems to be slowly dying. My family is in the midst of some tough times with my mother moving in with a sister and all that will entail, so I talked about that and wanting peace and ease for the process.

Well, with that in mind, my weekly column appeared in Small Town Newspaper today, and it was about what I really want for Christmas—Peace in No Man's Land. I hope it brings you a little peace.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Happy Birthday...

to me! Update: Since you have asked, I only got one actual packaged gift, a beautiful hand-made bracelet from a friend, but both girls were home for the weekend, and we had dinner at the lake and a relaxing weekend. Thanks to all of you for your lovely wishes!

My Sitemeter is All Bloated and Not Quite Itself

I'm tempted to let it sit on the couch with its feet curled up under a blanket, a hot cup of coffee in hand, a block of cherry almond bark Chocolove within reach, and An Affair to Remember spinning in the DVD player. I'm one of those obsessive bloggers, the kind who checks her sitemeter as often as possible throughout the day, the kind who gauges the quality of her writing by the number of readers who regularly stop by. I've become less interested in the overall number of hits and more interested in the number of repeat hits. The return visitors are the ones I long for. When my sitemeter reads forty at the end of the day, and the majority of those hits are webpals who have conversed, I'm happy. Forty may seem low to many of you, but I've only been at this since August. To me, forty is a jackpot. A few days ago, I sat down at my laptop and discovered a number somewhere in the eighties. Eighties! Yippee! Yeeha ! Hoo-rah ! I've been discovered by the webworld , o...

Ish People

Tell an Ish person to show up around 9 a.m., and you'll see them somewhere around 9 a.m. Tell them to show up at 9ish, and you'll see them anywhere from 9:05 to 9:20. You have given them license to dilly dally, and who wouldn't take advantage of that? The other night at the big shindig dinner party, one of the drummers said the rehearsal the next morning would begin at 9ish. "I am an ish person," he says. Immediately the clanker goes off in my head--oh, good, I thought. I can deliver my daughter a little late. No Ish person is early, so if you say 9ish, that does not mean give or take 5, 10, 15 minutes. It's exclusively a taking phrase. Take an extra 10 minutes to drink your cup of coffee. We won't mind. We're Ish people. Sunday's rehearsal started at 2:00. Because it was conducted by the same people who conducted the Saturday rehearsal, my understanding was 2-ISH. My daughter is worse than I am about taking liberties with Ish time frames, so she d...