Once upon a time, some kind person realized that dogs could be helpful with their humans in a life saving way. Through much time and effort and working with the Americans with Disabilities Act, legislators made it possible for dogs to go with their humans out in public as they went through their day.

Thousands, nay tens of thousands, of dollars goes into the training of service dogs. It takes more than a year, and countless hours. These are dogs that will not respond or react to the clueless humans around them. They won’t poop or pee where they are not supposed to.

Humans like Jack or Janet, who are war veterans – people who have seen unspeakable acts, and have service dogs who know when their humans are having a problem before their humans realize it, and comfort and protect them in public.

Humans like Lee or Lauren. Lee has epilepsy,and his service dog will sense a seizure and alert Lee so he can be safe. Lauren has diabetes, and her service dog will alert her to a low blood sugar, so she can address it before she passes out- or worse.

These are just a few made up names to represent a portion of what real service dogs do.

Ah, but we live in the generation of entitlement, and this is why we can’t have nice things.

There are people – many, many people – like Rose, who has an ill-tempered ankle biter, that has never had a day of training. Rose hates to leave Boo Boo at home, and decided to pay the small fee to the predatory online hucksters, who sent her a service dog vest and a certificate for her money. Now Boo Boo goes everywhere with her, and she’s happy.

Her Boo Boo is a threat to real service dogs – because Boo Boo will snap and lunge from her retractable leash at the real service dogs. The real service dog will keep calm, but will be distracted, and may miss a cue to save their owner as they deal with the out of control Boo Boo.

Don’t you dare ask Rose if Boo Boo is a real service dog – she knows her way around the law. I have no doubt that Rose loves her Boo Boo, but she is a public hazard.

I wish I had the power to change the legislation so Rose and her ilk cannot take their pets out in public. I wish I knew how to protect the real service animals, and their deserving owners.

I fear that eventually there will be so many Roses with their “service” dogs, guinea pigs, hedgehogs, and other service imposters that all animals will again be banned from public areas.

Once again, the idiot masses will ruin it for the rest of us.

PS l love my dog. And cat. Even my beta fish. I don’t take them places animals aren’t allowed. Like Applebee’s for dinner.

Two years ago, I began a journey that will probably continue, to some degree, for the rest of my life.

A friend of mine runs a dog rescue – it’s a small non-profit, and she works her butt off to save the lives of hundreds of dogs (and a few cats) each year. Each animal is vetted, each potential owner is thoroughly interviewed, and each home is inspected. Every animal is welcome to return to the rescue if for some reason it doesn’t work out.

I watched from the sidelines for a couple of years. I would go to the pet store and see them set up under their canopies, each animal described in poster boards declaring all the awesome traits they had.

Then, two years ago, there was a mama dog that was dumped at the county shelter. She died in surgery as they tried to save the pups. Now there were babies that needed help.

I had no experience with newborn pups, but plenty of experience with newborn humans. I had kids at home to help me, and I volunteered to go get some puppies to foster.

“How many do you want? There are six.” I stared at the shelter volunteer. “Uh, three I guess,” I stammered.

She disappeared into a room down the hall, returning with a carrier with three six day old pups. I took them, shocked – I thought they were six WEEKS old.

Here came my on the job foster mommy training.

With the support of the rescue community, I got tips and hints on how to feed and grow these three, so small their eyes weren’t even open. My Aussie stepped in and was the doggie foster mommy, instinctually caring for their most basic needs, even though she has never had a litter. I started with bottled feeding them day and night, to soft food, then crunchy kibble. They went from a small cluster in a laundry basket, to three balls of energy running the porch.

When they were eight weeks old, all three were adopted to loving homes – and all three were crate trained, well socialized, and very loved.

Yes, it was a commitment – but it saved three lives. These dogs went to homes with contracts to be spayed or neutered, and the cycle was broken in their bloodline.

Since then, I have had a couple of adult dogs that just needed a little TLC or minor surgery (cherry eye repair), and they were in and out of my house within a month.

I have fostered pups for just a couple weeks, bridging the gap to get them to the age of adoption. I have carried them to their sterilization appointments, and cared for them as they healed.

It really is a small window of time that means so much.

Yesterday I picked up Molly. Born in the wild to a feral mom that has avoided capture for two litters, we will be the home that crate trains her, shows her human love, socializes her, and grows her up enough to her immunized and ready for her new home. The rescue president was the one that plucked her out of the woods, bathing this tiny puppy that had nests of fleas all over her. She then went to another volunteer, who took her to the vet to be dewormed, and gave her flea medicine. I am the third volunteer in the chain of life for little Molly. Her two rescued siblings have gone to two separate volunteer homes.

In a perfect world, everyone would spay and neuter their animals. Thousands of cats and dogs would not be euthanized daily. There would not be feral animals fending for themselves.

In the mean time, if you are reading this, I challenge you to help these helpless pets – volunteer to help at the shelter. Or at a reputable rescue. You could also donate money or goods to the same.

I’ve had a lifetime of dogs and cats enriching my life. I’m glad I’m able to give back.

I’ve been treading water for a while.

Treading water is a survival tactic. It’s not enjoyable.

Prior to that, there were times I was near drowning, between bouts of doggy paddling for my life.

What I haven’t done since I was a child is rest.

Most of this is due to the choices I made. I have lived life with my chin in the air, and a stubborn “I’m gonna do it my way, darn it” attitude.

My strong will did not serve me well as a child, or into me teens. My parents stayed steady, even as I flailed.

I’ve accomplished a lot, and overcame even more. I’m proud of how far I’ve come. My tenacious will is what kept me going, despite adversity.

I am just now learning how to let go – how to quit struggling, and just float.

When I go to the beach, one of my favorite things to do is float in the calm, clear water of the Gulf of Mexico. I lay on my back, completely relax, and let the ocean carry me. I close my eyes and listen to the waves, the wind, the gulls. I always come home refreshed.

I have let go of the striving. I am in the arms of God, awakening each day to see what it holds for me. I’m floating.

I’m sleeping better. I’m calmer. As hard as it was to finally let go, I’ve never felt better.

Let the healing begin, and creativity bubble forth.

It’s a weird thing carrying around my pancreas.

Well, that’s what I call it. It’s a zippered case that contains my diabetes supplies – my Omnipod meter, my Dexcom PDM, needles, insulin, alcohol, an extra Pod.

I need this case near me at all times. Everywhere I go. It talks to my blue tooth device embedded in my body just under the skin, and reads my blood sugars 24/7. It alarms with highs or lows. I use the meter to input all the food I eat in carbs, and it calculates how much insulin to give me for that meal.

It is my pancreas.

It’s been eight months since I began using these technologies to help control my diabetes. According to the Dexcom my hemoglobin A1C – a blood test that tells you your average blood glucose over the last 3 months – should be 6.5-6.6. It was 8 when I was diagnosed a year ago, and 7 before I got on the electronics. Tomorrow I find out my latest lab work.

It’s a pain to carry this thing around, but I haven’t forgotten it in a while. Knock wood.

It takes planning to go anywhere – I also carry glucose tabs and skittles everywhere I go, in case I get a low blood sugar.

I took my pancreas for granted my whole life. Now I am mindful of everything I eat and drink, recording everything.

Diabetes is manageable- but it takes a lot of work and effort.

It beats the alternative.

Here’s to the next 50 years!

Is your house even a Southern home if you don’t have a front porch?

Front porches are an important part of Southern culture.

On a suffocatingly hot summer day like today, the shade of the front porch brings respite from the oppressive heat. If there is even the slightest breeze, the fronds from the requisite baskets of ferns will wave gently your way as you sit in a wicker chair, drinking tea or lemonade. These are the required beverages for front porch “settin'”.

A rocking chair is best, harkening back to the porches of my youth in Alabama. Wood against wood creaked as the elders sat and watched the world go by, and me in the yard, playing. The big live oak had a circle of crumbling bricks around it, and I’d pry them apart to find the roly polys I’d play with while we waited for supper. Gramma Dahlia made tea so sweet your teeth would hurt, and her nana puddin’ was made with love, from scratch, every Sunday. Even on the hottest, most humid days, her meringue was curled to perfection.

Mama talks about times from her youth, when the yards were swept, butter was churned, and beans were snapped on the front porch. The house was too stifling – the slap of the screen door was the only warning you got that Mama was checking on you butter or bean progress.

Nowadays, the A/C keeps me inside for most of the summer, safe from the noseeums that love to bite my legs.

At least once a day, though, I go sit on the front porch. I remember my childhood and my grandparents, fleeting visits made between moves as an Air Force Brat.

I also fondly recall settin’ on the deck, watching fireflies at my in-laws farm. These Kentucky home memories are treasured for the quiet reflections of the beauty of those acres, and the love of family around me. Mom and I would talk about the variety of birds visiting the feeder, and the kids would run the fields, riding the three wheeler, laughing, until they wore themselves out. The somber cry of coyotes at dusk would bring these city kids right back to the house to join us on the deck or inclosed patio.

Back home on my porch in the early evening, I smell the intoxicating perfume of gardenias at night, and never cease to be in awe of the huge glowing magnolia blossoms.

I do declare a front porch is what makes a southern house a home.

You’ve got to start somewhere.

I’ve got three blogs that I have written for, off and on, for several years.

I started this blog as I start my new life as a writer, and step away from a full time career as a registered nurse.

My goal is to write daily about whatever piques my mind. This is the beginning – I’m interested to see where this goes.

The other goal this week is to start working on my novel. This is been a dream that has been with me since I was writing short stories in elementary school. From what I have read, the way to success as a writer is to treat it like s job, and write daily.

So I will.

We shall see how this blog morphs and grows, even as I do.

I also love photography, so it’s a place to put my photos, too.

This week my writing career begins in earnest – at last!

I am a person who appreciates beauty. I know I am not alone in this – I also know people who coast through life without appreciating the beauty around them.

Nature astonished me with the beauty that can be found there – from tiny insects, to fields of rippling hay, to birds of every color and size. Even as I write this I appreciate the beauty of birdcall just outside my window.

Every day a beautiful sun rises and sets, and at night the majestic beauty of the night sky can mesmerize for hours.

There are some people that are definitely beautiful, and I recognize the pleasing way that their features are assembled.

Not everyone is beautiful, and I wish, in my naive way, that the world would stop making that a measuring stick, mostly for females.

Raising a daughter is different than raising sons, though I had the same message for both – be a person of character, and look for a mate that is a person of character.

I stressed honesty – it’s a subject mentioned multiple times in the Bible, and the Ten Commandments. Every child struggled with this, but learned it was a character trait worth developing. Each lie is a trap you yourself will fall into later.

I have gone through life barely wearing makeup, but truth be told, once I got through puberty, I fell into the attractive human category. Luck of the draw, but I have not had to worry about meeting a societal expectation of how to look. Now I’m at an age where I just don’t care what people think, and I’m more concerned with my health, and taking care of myself.

There’s a huge beauty industry out there thriving on the hopes, dreams, and expectations of young girls, through women older than me. The expectation is, if you are female, you need to be beautiful. In order to be beautiful, you must look like this, dress like that.

Not everyone is beautiful in face or form.

Much better to have a kind heart, a servants love, and selflessness. This is the beauty that counts! It’s hard to be selfless when you are focused on how you look, and spend so much time conforming to societal norms.

Social media has fed the monster, and I’m just as guilty as the rest of the selfie taking females trying to focus on what really doesn’t matter.

Charm is deceitful, beauty is vain – but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Proverbs 31:30

Unfortunately, the fair of face get the attention. There will never be a magazine devoted to the good souls who get up every day, worship their God, and serve others.

God sees, though, and their reward will be in heaven.

Meanwhile social media and magazines with be filled with impossible standards, reached only by conforming or transforming oneself to meet the current ideal of beauty.

You’ll never get there. So concentrate on what matters, what you can change – a wicked heart. A selfish countenance. Lips that are deceitful. This is the path to inner beauty, and it’s the beauty that will sustain the ultimate test of time.

I’m sitting in my living room on a quiet Saturday morning. As often happens on days like today, I am grateful for the many blessings in my life – for my relationship with God, which has sustained me all these years. I’m so thankful for my husband, who is a Godly man, adores me, cares for me in every way. I’m blessed with my children, and now grand children. I’m thankful for my family, and spending time with them.

When I was aged 17-30, I was broke. At times I was on the poverty line – other times, below. I’m so grateful my parents would help when things got desperate! I lived in Florida as a single mom, working a minimum of 2 jobs, and I never had a car with air conditioning. My old Datsun got me from Utah to Florida and back – I literally drove that car until it fell apart. The last straw was sitting in the median and my entire exhaust system falling off.

I lived in a 800 square foot apartment, making $1000 a month. I made the best of it, though going to do my laundry at the laundry mat was a trial. I did like that I could get it all done at once. I just had to keep my three year old occupied.

When I married and moved to Washington in 1990, I thought I’d be better off financially – after all, he was a police officer, making $80k a year. I was in for a rude awakening – due to a gambling addiction, he had nothing to show for his wages. So we struggled financially. He was fired for insubordination in 1993, and things quickly went downhill.

We moved to Illinois, where he worked at his fathers business, getting paid under the table. I didn’t see the money. When he left for his girlfriends house for good, I knew I had to do something different. In 1995 I was working full time, going to school – and pregnant with my third child. No child support would come forth for almost 2 decades, and then it was court ordered, and trickled in irregularly.

Throughout it all, I was geographically distant from my family during the college years. My church was my family, and I did my best to raise the kids on a paupers income. They learned the value of money, of saving, budgeting, tithing. They definitely learned the difference between needs and wants.

Those years of college where the toughest yet. I had a baby, a 4 year old, and a sick 10 year old – a child with a chronic illness that was in and out of the hospital frequently. I lived in a series of dives, drove a series of clunker cars that fell apart one by one, and learned to stretch my money with coupons.

With the help of my parents and my church, I graduated from nursing school in 1997. Things began to improve.

When I moved back to Florida in 2000, seeing the laundry mat brought me to tears. I was – and am – so grateful for a washer and dryer! When I go past the tiny apartment I lived in, I’m reminded how far I’ve come. Riding in an air conditioned car, I remember the years of tossing my hair up and going to work in a tank top and shorts, just to clean up and get dressed when I got there.

I don’t take any of it for granted.

My kids grew up on hand-me-downs and good will finds. They had limited toys, but unlimited love. They ate meals out of boxes with the word Helper on them, and ate a lot of potatoes. They waited for movies to come out on VHS. They played outside with cheap water toys, and spent time at the beach with a dollar store bucket and shovel.

Despite this, or maybe because of it, they are good people. They are all adults now, and they all are servants – they look for opportunities to help others. They have sympathetic hearts. They are grateful for what they have – none of them are materialistic.

It was tough in the broke years, but it makes me count my blessings every single day.

God was faithful to my little family, and the heritage of that faithfulness is continuing on to the next generation.

I say a pray of thankfulness today, and every day.

Send me. Isaiah 6:8.

It’s my first Monday as I start my life away from a scheduled work environment.

Here I am Lord, send me.

The mission field really does start right outside my front door.

This morning as I prepare for my day, it’s the cry of my heart – what do you want me to do today? I want to be sensitive to the still, soft voice of God. To go where He tells me to go, do what He tells me to do.

Today I start teaching Vacation Bible School. There will be 60 young lives and hearts passing through my class. I’m humbled and very mindful of the responsibility I have.

I couldn’t do it without God. I wouldn’t!

I’m praying today for God to saturate that church with His presence. Lord use this frail vessel to show Your love and teach Your Word.

Here I am, Lord.