While John’s dad was in rehab and then long term care, there were many caring women and men who helped take care of him.  Except for the professional therapists and some of the nurses, most of the aides and orderlies were people who had emigrated from other countries.  In the hallways you heard  English with the lilt of Haitian, Jamaican or Spanish.  It made me think about all the mean-spirited things I’ve heard and read about immigrants.

 I wonder if the immigrants to the United States were from Northern Europe (white) whether there would be such a hue and cry.  Send the Norwegians back!  No more English!  Let’s put up a big fish net to catch them all.

Sure we need a rational immigration policy.  But before you hope that no more non-white immigrants come over the border, think about this.  Not only are these immigrants the ones who clean your house, do your landscaping and cook your restaurant meals, they are also the ones who feed you and change your diaper when you become old and infirm.


To look at me, you’d probably think, “Now there’s a chubby, little white grandmother.”  But, then you are not Homeland Security.  To Homeland Security, I am a suspicious, potential terrorist.  How many times have you been pulled out of line at the airport, had everything searched and wiped with those little round explosive-finding tissues, and then been personally patted down?  Ever? Once?  Well, if you are me, this happens quite frequently.  In fact, twice in the last two flights.  And they are thorough.  Because obviously I must be carrying something dangerous in my inseam.

You know I am not really feeling safer by being the object of their intense searches.  I am just feeling pissed and intruded upon personally.  John says they pick me because I am the least likely terrorist in line and they don’t want to be accused of racial profiling.  But I want to stand up for all the other chubby, white grandmothers who are being unfairly targeted.  Enough is enough!


We are back in California after being in Florida and Chicago.  John’s dad had a stroke and we were with him for his last two weeks in Florida.  We attended his funeral this past Monday in Chicago. 

I just didn’t feel like writing much over this period of time.  Hopefully, I’ll get motivated to start blogging again.


We are here in the Ft. Lauderdale area to be with John’s dad during a critical illness.  I’m not going to write about that.  It’s a grim reality which we all may face some day.

We arrived in Miami ahead of time and then had to wait almost an hour for our luggage.  Then we got messed up trying to follow the signs to  I-95 and lost another half an hour.  Isn’t it amazing how when you want to get some place quickly, fate steps in to lend a hand?  Anyway, we made it to the hospital around 10 PM after landing at 7:29.

Now here’s a sign of the times, on the door next to the entrance to the hospital there is a picture of a handgun with a diagonal line through it.  No handguns here!  So what does a packing visitor say to himself?  “Oh darn, now I’ll have to run back to the car and leave my handgun there?”  Don’t you think if a person was carrying a handgun into the hospital that a sign wouldn’t stop him? 

John and I frisked each other and felt we were in compliance.  What an odd place this is!