Author: Amanda Marrazzo

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Me and the family tree

I love a good, full, strong, colorful tree.

Whether it be a light early summer green, or an August deep forest emerald, a fall-kissed yellow, orange or red.

I love watching the change of each and every tree and its leaves outside my kitchen window, year round.

You know the ones that have an intertwining bunch of branches, or those with the super large trunks you only see out in the forest preserves?  The way they shoot strong, fearlessly into the sky. I love the trees out by my friend’s lake house in Wisconsin. Just watching them on a summertime visit, so deep and green and prominent in the summer sun as they silently dance, glide in the summer breeze…. It brings me peace and serenity like nothing else.

And as the season’s change those leaves morph into a multi-dimensional display of changing colors. I love that each leaf of any and all trees is completely different. And I marvel at how any leaf you focus in on becomes a completely different leaf, depending on what time of year it is.

Like people, there are no cookie-cutter trees, leaves, branches, twigs or trunks. Like people, each product of nature is unique, special and intentional.

And I stand in awe of the older trees, like the Red Woods on the West Coast that I have only seen in pictures. They are gigantic, heavily defined and have twisted bark, their wide trunks, and long, multiple branches are intentional, committed, everlasting. Some families are like those trees.

As seasons change the branches, either turn in new directions seeking the warmth of the fading sun, or those that are not strong, mature or sturdy enough to survive the seasonal elements, simply fall to the ground. They break away from the efforts to survive because it just become too difficult. They seek their own, singular path. They break away from the original, shared path that at one time was committed to. Instead, they do their own thing. They quit.

When my daughters come home from school and ask about our “family tree” because they are doing a school project, I cringe.

After I cringe, and swig a sip of my cocktail, I turn the girls right over to  my husband. He knows his family lineage with such certainty. His family tree has long, strong, sturdy branches, that stay together, and leaves of the same proud, bold colors. I admire his family and their family tree. He knows  exactly who is connected to who and what nationality everyone is. He can tell you what boat his father’s Italian family came over from Italy on. He knows his grandparents’ and his great-grandparents’ names. They stayed together through the whole life cycle, as they promised to God that they would. That then led him to me.  That then gave me my beautiful daughters. That then gave me my life. A new tree to grow.

My family, which I have long referred to as not a family tree, but  broken branches and fallen leaves, presents a cluster of uncertainty, questions that will never be answered, sadness, disappointment, disfunction, shame, guilt and regret. My weak branches are like those that have drifted to the ground on a windy day.

My leaves, however, are bright, multi-colored. They are, at times feared, avoided, yet desired. Some of my family branches are like fragile twigs, too afraid to be who God meant for them to be, while others are strong. But those left this earth far too soon.

For me, I am only trying to grow into a new, strong, proud branch with a multitude of colorful leaves to share with my daughters, who will one day add on to my small tree. Though small, my tree will be complete for them. As I promise to grow from what comes from love, truth, honesty and goodness.

I think that my girls will have an amazing and colorful family tree that will withstand the winds of change, embrace the sun in the summertime, dance with the blowing wind, while embracing each and every unique leaf, and stand strong in the winter months as the ice and snow weigh heavy upon each and every branch.

I have learned in my life that nature is more beautiful the more unique it is, the more different it appears.

So in my life, my tree with its broken branches and fallen leaves, is beautiful, strong, ever changing and everlasting.

I do hope my daughters see the perfect blend of their father and I and our very different families’ trees, strong branches, broken twigs and fallen leaves as gifts – gifts that I believe God intended for them all along.

My tree, their tree, will from today forward grow in strength, honesty, love, and reach for the sun season after season. No longer will my tree’s branches, their tree’s branches, break away and fall to the ground. And their tree will have no sadness or shame only love and promise.

 

Tell me about your family tree.

Please comment, like, share.

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Amanda Marrazzo's avatarAmanda Marrazzo

Walking with my girls at Augustana College.

I have nothing to write about today.

I don’t feel like writing about taking my daughter on a college visit this last weekend, because then that would lead to me writing about marking the beginning of the end result, which is, my first born child leaving the nest for college.

I don’t want to write about my younger daughter finishing eighth grade in a few months, and that I’ll no longer be able to watch her walk safely to and from school each day across the field behind our home. Because then I’d have to talk about when she starts high school in August and she’ll be climbing on board a school bus or hitching a ride with a teenage friend or her own sister to drive about 20 minutes away to the high school. I’d have to think about how the security of having her in the school building…

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From nothing comes a whole lot

Walking with my girls at Augustana College.

I have nothing to write about today.

I don’t feel like writing about taking my daughter on a college visit this last weekend, because then that would lead to me writing about marking the beginning of the end result, which is, my first born child leaving the nest for college.

I don’t want to write about my younger daughter finishing eighth grade in a few months, and that I’ll no longer be able to watch her walk safely to and from school each day across the field behind our home. Because then I’d have to talk about when she starts high school in August and she’ll be climbing on board a school bus or hitching a ride with a teenage friend or her own sister to drive about 20 minutes away to the high school. I’d have to think about how the security of having her in the school building, that I am looking at right now, just outside my kitchen window, will be gone forever.

I really do not want to talk about how the news has been diligently covering the story of that brave little 14-year-old girl in Pakistan who was nearly killed by maniacs who climbed aboard a bus, singled her out and shot her in the head just because she is fighting for girls to be able to attend school, learn to read and write and do math. And then I’d have to lecture on how lucky our girls are here in this country to be able to just go to school at all. And how fortunate they are to wake up each morning in this country and have freedoms, opportunities and choices that others are being killed for trying to achieve.

Oh then there is that tragedy of the man who killed his estranged wife and two other women, and injured four more women in a spa in Wisconsin. His documented hatred and anger has now ruined the lives of so many innocent people. His wife had already had a restraining order out on him, because she feared for her life. Yet two days after placing that restraining order on him, which required that he turn over all his firearms, he went out and bought a new gun. Then the next day after that, he killed her with that new gun. Monday morning my phone rang and the editors at the newspaper sent me out to knock on the door of the wife’s parents’ home. They understandably slammed the door in my face. That was not the best day this week. I’d like to forget about it and pray that I did not cause these poor people anymore pain than they were already in. I do note, however, that while I was blessed to be enjoying this wonderful weekend with my family, planning for our own daughter’s future, laughing and enjoying warm fuzzy feelings, someone else in this world, not too far away, was so enraged, psychotic and killing people…… Killing people……. He murdered someone he loved and who he vowed to cherish and protect. I also reflect on dozens of others in the news this morning who were killed senselessly this weekend. It certainly puts a new bright light on the weekend I was having. It makes me grateful for the good that I have.

Or how about the changing of the seasons. I could write about how we are now at the end of what I thought was just a perfect, beautiful fall. The colors were amazing and the sky had that perfect shade of gray on so many days. But I don’t want to dwell on this either because that opens the discussion of what may be a frigid, winter to come.

Or I suppose I could talk about the presidential debates and the changes in our country. Nah.

Well I’ll see you next week. I hope to bring you something to chew on!

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The moon in my dream last night

I have to share this and those who read my last entry on amandamarrazzo.com will understand why.
Last night I dreamed that I was looking up at the night sky and it was just beautiful. The moon was bright and the stars were shimmering and clearly defined clouds were all around the moon but broken up in just the most perfect pattern. It was like looking into heaven for a moment. I wonder if this Man in the Moon and Me entry inspired my dream. If so, keep it coming! Very peaceful night’s sleep. I wish I could paint what I saw in my dream and hang it on my wall!

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The man in the moon and me

As we should all know by now, Neil Armstrong, the first man to step on the moon, died in August. He was 82. And from all accounts that I have read he was a good man who lived his life quite modestly after doing something that changed, maybe connected the entire world, if only for a little while.

For this Blog entry I literrally scoured the internet and read about a dozen obits on this man.

I did this because when he died, there was one graph in one of the many, many tributes to him that hit me on such an emotional level.

A feeling that I still have not been able to shake. And I believe it is worth reprinting and discussing and sharing with the “blogasphere” why it touched me so.

I finally found it at the end of a piece written on Aug. 26 in USA Today.

Here it is:

For those who may ask what they can do to honor Neil, we have a simple request,” his family said in a Saturday statement. “Honor his example of service, accomplishment and modesty, and the next time you walk outside on a clear night and see the moon smiling down at you, think of Neil Armstrong and give him a wink.”

Oh man, it happened again! I got that lump in my throat re-reading this.
Why?

Because the idea, the visual this presents to me is so simple, yet so so so grandiose.

One thing is, I have always seen the face of the man in the moon. And so many times, since I was a child, I remember asking others if they see a face in the moon. And, not everyone does. I could never wrap my head around that.

The other thing is this.

There is one moon, billions maybe zillions of people in this world, again just one moon. OK, we see it at different times of the night. There is one Big Dipper, one Little Dipper, one of each unique, brilliant star in each of its little own endlessly dark piece of the sky. (Please stay with me here)

I have dear friends and family in many parts of this country. Sometimes I wonder as I look up at the sky at night and take in the beauty and the wonderment of the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, the moon, that one little super shiny star, that I think is a planet, that sets just to the bottom right of the moon… I wonder sometimes, are any of my dear, long-lost friends or family in other parts of this country looking at that part of the sky at that very same moment. And we just recently had that beautiful, magical Harvest Moon display, and I wondered the same thing. Is anyone out there looking at it and taking in all of its magic at the same time I am.

And if they were would we not be connected in that very moment?

When I was 11 years old, I met my biological father for the first time. Before meeting him I never even knew his name, never even knew he existed. Further, I never even knew that I was not who I had long believed I was. It was– and still is– quite complicated and hard to work through.

The reason I bring this up, is this – I remember in the months and couple of years afterward– after meeting this man, this stranger, this man who added so much confusion, pain to an already tumultuous existence–looking up at the sky sometimes and wondering if he was looking at the same part of the evening sky and thinking of me. I particularly recall one New Year’s Eve, shortly after meeting him, when the town was doing fireworks and fire crackers right at Midnight, and I went outside…There were people and noise makers everywhere, noises from all parts of town, I felt so alone. And I wondered where he was and if he was looking up at the night sky too.

I wondered in my young mind, if before he met me did he ever look up at that vast sky and wonder where I was. Did he wonder, was his child also looking up at the sky, the moon, the man in the moon? Did she see the man in the moon even?

Did he see the man in the moon?

Did we share that?

Did he care?

I’ll never know any of these answers. And the thought of this, me as a confused and sad child not knowing who she really is or whether or not it even matters to anyone, who she really is, makes me so sad.

So now as an adult, now that I have control over my life, and a loose handle on my emotions, I take these same moments when looking up at the evening sky and think of old friends, relatives who make me happy and confident and secure, people who made me laugh, smile, dance. People who love me and make me feel love. And those who may be far away, but still close in my heart and I think- what are they looking at right now? Are they seeing what I am seeing? Do they see the face of the man in the full, bright moon? Are they giving old Neil a wink?

I know, I am.

What do you think of when you look up at the evening sky? Do you see the man in the moon?

Please share thoughts, comments, likes or dislikes, click “follow” and share.

See you next week. 🙂

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The furry pieces of our heart

Last week went straight to the dogs!

No, seriously.

I worked on a number of stories last week and three of them had to do with dogs.

I worked on these stories while two of my own pups, Lucy and Minnie, rested at my feet. Awesome working conditions, huh?!

One story had to do with one man’s search for the link between dogs, humans and cancers. 2 Million Dogs raises awareness of the possible environmental links between dogs, humans and cancers. This mission was started by Luke Robinson after suffering the loss of his beautiful Pyrenees, named Malcolm to cancer.  He later put to rest another furry buddy named Murphy. He said he wants to know why his best friends-and zillions of other dogs, cats and humans die from cancer. (This full story will appear in Health and Family section of the Chicago Tribune Wednesday Oct. 10)

The other story had to do with how pet owners can learn a dog’s parentage through DNA testing. By learning exactly what breeds your dog is made of will help in knowing what illnesses, common injuries and other important information to watch out for. (The test cost about $150 and is available at most vet clinics, full story will be out next month in the Chicago Tribune)

The third story was  about  Shakira, a beautiful Siberian Husky with piercing blue eyes who disappeared from her family in Georgia five years ago. It’s unclear where she was for that five years, but she eventually was sent from a shelter in Georgia up to Harvard Illinois to a Siberian Husky rescue.  While at that shelter, she was scanned and an identification chip was found under her skin. The family back in Georgia was finally notified. The last time they had seen this beautiful dog was when she was just 1. They never knew what happened to her, but they  likely never stopped thinking about her or loving her.

So after receiving a call from the shelter that their dog was alive and well, Shakira’s human mamma drove 14 hours, straight through the night, to get her back. The reunion was swift and they turned around and headed right back home to where three children were waiting to reunite with their dog.

Wow!

Where was she all that time? Why was she not scanned by the shelter in Georgia five years ago? Or, if she was not at the shelter all that time, where was she? And how did a shelter in Harvard Illinois, more than 700 miles away from Georgia, get involved anyway?

Many questions went unanswered because the dog and her owner left so quickly after their reunion and Shakira’s owner never returned my calls for the story.

But on the important side, the family is reunited. In the photos provided by the McHenry County shelter,  the dog looked beautiful, healthy and her human mamma, she looked so happy, relieved, and well, tired.(story and photos on-line at ChicagoTribune.com)

Again, what was learned, what was observed here in this last week?

Well, first off, I can say that I for sure, without  a doubt, have the very best working conditions, the most attentive and loyal assistants.

When a human loved one or a pet gets cancer we want to know why. We need to feel that we are  doing what ever we can to learn how to save them. We fund studies, create organizations, participate in walks, to find the answers as to “why” and learn “how” can we fix them.

When we really love another person– or a pet– so much, we want to learn everything there is to know about them. We want to know how best to care for them and keep them with us for as long as possible.

There is no love like the love a parent has for her child —or for her pets. As if a child were lost to us, emotionally or physically, when a dog is lost, no matter how long he or she is away, or how far they travel, they never stop being part of our family.

And  when we love a pet so much -as we love our two-legged children- and suffer their loss only to learn they are still in this world with us, there is no distance too far to travel to retrieve that little furry piece of our heart.

Let’s see what this week’s news brings. See you next Monday!

(Please click “follow” then share and leave a comment!)

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Good and Bad

Last week, I covered a wonderful, uplifting story for the Chicago Tribune about a group that works to secure funds from large corporations and organizes volunteers to build playgrounds in low-income or impoverished neighborhoods.

The group KaBOOM! has built scores of these elaborate playgrounds around the country, there are more than 140 in the poorer communities in the Chicago area. This story was about a playground built by nearly 500 people/volunteers/community members/businessmen and local officials on the east side of Elgin Ill.

The older, working class neighborhood is bordered by busy roads and dotted with run down homes. If a child from that neighborhood wanted to go to a park, they’d have to cross very dangerous roads and walk far from their home in unsafe neighborhoods to find one.

 So on that beautiful Fall day, hundreds of  people –many not even from the area who will never know a child who will call that their playground– laughing and chatting up strangers turned work partners for the day (and possibly friends for a lifetime) gathered to assemble play equipment, shovel tons and tons of mulch and black dirt and mix and pour concrete on an eight-acre site.
As this was going on, another group of volunteers was going to various nearby run down houses, cleaning up yards, doing some much-needed painting and other household repairs that needed tending to. Many of these homeowners were just too old and not able-bodied to do these tasks, so volunteers did it for them.

One story I heard involved a group of men who walked up to knock on the door of a tattered old house to ask what they could do for the elderly woman living there alone. As they walked up to the door, the porch of this home literally collapsed! Imagine if that poor old woman would have been alone and fallen through that porch.

In another story I heard about that day, volunteers knocked on the door of another older woman’s home, while at the same time a different group of volunteers met a man who lives nearby who sad he is always looking for ways to help the community.  He just happened to be an experienced rehabber. So the volunteers put these two different homeowners, who live just steps from each other, together. Now the man has committed himself and his four teenage sons to “adopt” this woman and help her out around her home on a regular basis.

These heart warming, genuine stories of simple human goodness reminded me that there is just so much good in the world. And it was a reminder I so badly needed. Because last week I also worked on other stories that were less than warm and fuzzy.

These stories involved  allegations of sexual child abuse, a husband sent to prison for trying to murder his wife, another man who is going to prison for trying to murder the ex-lover of his girlfriend.

These scenarios were all so very different from those that I witnessed and/or heard of in Elgin.

The one common thing involved: humanity. In one week I experienced the best and the worst in humanity.

This compilation of stories and experiences, a glimpse of just one week in my life, again reminded me of this lesson: We all have the potential for good and bad. It is a choice to be good or bad, to do good or bad. And whatever we choose affects countless numbers of others.

You choose.

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Homecoming and the *Grind*

This weekend was my daughter’s high school homecoming.  My daughter Emily is 16 and a junior. She  attended with a group of friends and they all looked great and had a great time.

But it was a great night that almost never happened.

Last week, I kept asking Emily why she didn’t want to go to the dance. I felt sad for her because she has only one more year of school and I didn’t want her to miss out on a fun high school evening. But I was sad when she finally told me why she didn’t want to go. She said it was because it is uncomfortable and “gross” because all the kids “grind” on each other when dancing…Definition: the boys and their female dates “grind” i.e. he is behind her and their bodies fit into each other and … you can imagine the rest.

I don’t live in a bubble and anyone who knows me knows I am not a prude, but I really liked hearing her say that sort of dancing was offensive. It showed me that she has a strong sense of self and self-respect. She knows how she ought to be treated by a boy. She knows how she wants to present herself to others.  It told me that she has a great self image.  I told her I was happy to hear that she felt that way. I said it’s sad, but truth is that those girls who present themselves like that with a boy, may very well be good girls, but others who see her behaving like that will make judgments and make her the next hot topic of the high school rumor mill. And the boy, well he’ll get off scott-free, such is the land of high school.

But, eventually I convinced her to go to the dance and she went with a group of friends and she looked so pretty, elegant and lady-like. She had a great time and the next day said, although there were couples “grinding” she was happy she went.

But wait, there is more.

The morning of the dance, in the Chicago Tribune my super cool reporter friend Lisa Black wrote a story about local high schools banning dirty dancing or “grinding”. I could not believe the story I was reading was about the very issue I had just been dealing with!

It talked about how schools are considering passing policies to police dance floors at school dances. One school sent letters home to families saying how they would be monitoring the dance floor and if students were caught “grinding” they would get one warning then the next instance be asked to leave the dance.

So Lisa went on to write about this 16-year-old boy at one high school who was just so offended by such a school policy that he was trying to find a place to hold a separate homecoming dance where kids could dance how ever they wanted to.

His mother was so proud of him saying it was so wonderful that he was standing up for a cause.

OK after I spit out my coffee all over myself, I began shaking.  Are you kidding me? Are there no other causes to take up? Bullying? Domestic violence in high school dating relationships? Raising money for new books, sports equipment, childhood cancers?

Let me be clear, I do not think the school should make such policies. It is so reminiscent of Dirty Dancing and Footloose, no I do not agree that is the direction to take this issue.

What needs to happen is parents need to talk to their children about self-respect and dignity. We need to talk about in what light we want to present ourselves. We need to have on-going conversations with our daughters about how to present themselves with dignity and morals. We need to also teach our boys how to respect and treat girls. It all starts in the home. We do not need another policy set down upon us from any sort of institution.

I so wondered how this boy’s mom would respond if she had a 16-year-old daughter and some 16-year-old hormonal boy was fighting to have a dance where he could “grind” without penalty.

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Reboots

I’ve seen this word a couple times this past week “reboot.” 

 

Once it was used as a headline to a story in a magazine about Katie Couric. She was being interviewed about her life, different transitions in her career and her latest move in starting her new talk show.  She said something along the lines of life is a series of reboots.

 

I really get that.

 

I think about when I was younger before marriage and kids. My plan was to go to college, move to New York and actually be a version of Katie Couric or Diane Sawyer. I’d travel the world, meet amazing people and tell stories of all kinds to a huge TV audience on my show that would be like a 20/20 or Dateline.

 

And for a time, I was on the road to that life, so I thought. I went to college, had internships at a local TV station, started a full-time job as a reporter right out of college. I worked really, really hard to get to where I believed I belonged, doing work that everyone would be interested in. During this timeframe of my early 20s, I made no money, but it didn’t matter because I believed all the struggles were necessary stepping stones.

 

But life came along and had a different plan. I got married and had two daughters. So, I had to reboot.

 

I knew I couldn’t just quit my dream completely of being a professional writer and reporter and doing work that I believed really mattered. I had worked so hard to even go to college (I had all those student loans to pay back), how could I just quit?

 

So while living in a suburb of Milwaukee with two little girls and Tony, my husband who worked long hours, I began writing for local newspapers from home. I recall bouncing a baby in a baby chair with my foot, so she wouldn’t cry, as I had my hands on a computer keyboard and a phone wedged between my ear and shoulder interviewing a local politician. I was terrified she would cry and I would not seem professional to this man on the other end of the phone!

 

So as time went on, I thought, OK, Milwaukee is a great area for news and people, with great schools (now that kids are part of this new reboot). I’m making wonderful contacts and building a good reputation here, so I then planned for a life as a cheesehead. Things were going along pretty well for a few years.

 

Then, another reboot.

 

Tony was transferred to Indianapolis and of course we went along and set up a new life in a nice suburb. I once again found the local paper and so on. But this time after just one year, a sudden reboot.

 

Tony was transferred to St. Louis and we all moved to a very nice suburb in St. Charles County Mo.  I again found the biggest daily paper and a great magazine to write for, from home. We settled into a nice home, pretty neighborhood and looked forward to the girls attending great schools.  Then guess what? After two years, another reboot. 

 

We relocated again, this time to a suburb of Chicago where we have been now for 10 years. I followed my same steps in rebooting, set up shop with the biggest newspaper in town and a couple magazines. The girls are in great schools and enjoying a wonderful childhood with friends and activities allowing them to grow, mature and be amazing young adults. And we have added one cat and two dogs to our family.

 

So it’s been pretty calm now as far as where we live. There have been some minor career reboots, but I’m still writing and telling great stories. 

 

As I look back on what is now 20 years since graduating college, two decades away from that young girl with a wandering spirit and lots of ambition who thought she’d be on TV alongside Diane and Katie, I wonder … . Where is she? What would have been? 

 

I truly think I am where I am supposed to be today. I believe that although at times it was challenging and exhausting, rebooting my life every few years has strengthened who I am.  I know that I am nowhere near where I thought I’d be in my life today, but I’m still here.  And I’m doing OK. No, better than OK.

 

I know there will be more reboots down the road. The one thing I can always count on in life is there will always be change.  But I can handle it!

 

Oh the other “reboot” I saw was for a boot sale at a local fashion store! 

 

I do need to go get some new boots.  

 

 

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Honey Boo Boo Child!

So I have been listing ideas for what to write for my very first entry on my new long-awaited blog entitled simply   “My Stories”.

I reviewed the details of this last week since first setting up the blog.

I want to use this blog to pick up where the Balance Columns (originally published in Chicago Tribune) left off – addressing scenarios, feelings and thoughts I encounter in my travels as a wife, mom, daughter, friend, observer, writer, etc.

So let’s see then, this week in my travels, I started off Monday with a radio show on WGN with Bill Moller.  I met the mother of an Olympian runner, covered a council meeting, covered the trial of a teacher accused of inappropriate behaviors with a student (who then walked out of the courtroom a free man), took my girls to various doctors’ appointments, watched Emily audition for Peter Pan, in which she was cast as an indian. And I was thrilled when I saw that a picture of Emily was posted on a big screen in the middle of Time Square!

What else? Oh yeah, went apple picking with Abby and a couple of dear friends. I also attended a family wedding shower and met a woman who said she will officiate the wedding as she is an ordained minister for the on-line Church of Life. Huh? Never heard of that before, I find that interesting.

Oh, and let’s talk about the news this past week:  the presidential conventions, Hurricane Isaac and how about all the antics surrounding the Drew Peterson trial, and the guilty verdict that wrapped up the month long ordeal.

So, you see I have lots of topics to draw from.

But what is the one thing that I cannot shake from my exhausted brain?

Honey Boo-Boo Child! Seriously.

Alana Thompson, 6, star of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” on TLC. That little girl, first seen on “Toddlers and Tiaras”, cracks me up with her pure, honest, innocent whimsy.

Her laughter, her spirit, her simple take on everyday moments, her love for her pet pig “Glitzy” (that was given away, devastating her to tears) and her efforts to win that elusive pageant crown.

My favorite moment so far on the program- that includes mom, June, dad, Sugar Bear, and three sisters (one 16 and pregnant) – was when she stood up in front of the family huddled around their small couch and started waving her hands in the air and said “Mama look I’m dancing to the song I’m making up in my head….”

I was crying I was laughing so hard!

Oh and I love all the new terminology I’m learning like “vigigglejaggle” (not sure how to spell but I think it means the extra skin some heavier folks show off when they ought be more covered.)

I find them a kind and harmless family.

Now, I have read a few posts on line, on Facebook and other sites, and I am disappointed at all the meanness and bullying targeted at this family.

Yes they are poor, they do not have the healthiest diets, yes they are southern and refer to themselves as red necks, they appear to have little education and even less money.  They don’t care about material items or fancy cars and big houses.

To these people throwing stones, I point out the good I have seen in this family — nothing but love and kindness for Alana and each other. They laugh, they hang out together, they even held “Christmas in July” to give toys to local kids who do not have much. Remember, they also do not  have much.

Further more, it is clear beauty pageants are not cheap, yet they do whatever they can so that little girl can participate.

From what I read on Examiner.com, Kardashian mom Kris Jenner criticized the family saying they are exploiting Alana for money and she cannot understand why America is so fascinated by them.

Really?

Apparently it was reported by Radaronline.com that she went so far as calling the family  “classless.”

Really?

Don’t you also have a reality show detailing all of your family’s antics Ms. Kardashian?  And doesn’t one of your daughters have a sex tape? Oh well, maybe it’s a “classy” sex tape.

Don’t judge. Don’t bully. If you choose to see the negative in people, beware because it will come back on you one day, and you will not like it.

I think they are sweet and they are kind and we need way more people with such qualities in the world and fewer self-absorbed Kardashians and murderous Drew Petersons.

We need more days to meet fascinating, successful people, dance and sing,  and go apple picking – and less time to stand in judgement of others.

Please leave your comments and check in next Monday for another entry in “My Stories”.