FROM THE PAGES OF B.D.S.
Columns: Keeba's Korner
Delusions that are forced to appear real
It is unfortunate that so many, too many fail or refuse to watch news reports. Whether it is religious reasons, lack
of time or loss of interest, one might find of interest what the new laws the government has forced upon the
people.

While I am so sure that many are troubled with, unemployment being an all-time high since 1953 and increased
oil prices since the days of slick Willie; some people may feel a need to find and adhere to other distractions.
Many worried folks not knowing if they’ll have a place to lay their head or where their next meal is coming from,
may have tried to do something with their time and make use of current resources. (Whatever they might be).
Notwithstanding, some still deciding if food and other necessities are more important than having medication or
a roof over their heads. As for desires, well, they are outdated and have hence become a thing of the past; forget
about it here in one of the richest Countries on this planet. (At least for now.)

While I attempt to spread joyous news and be amiable, it is often difficult. I was so sure that this would be one of
those times, however I am wrong.

When I first became eliminated from the workforce, I spent many hours watching FoxNews Network, CNN,
MSNBC, and many other worldwide news stations. I read the newspaper from front to back as well as the small
local free newspapers left outside the door of retailers. While I am so sure I was being informed about the world
around me, I was becoming inundated with politics, crime, and the like. I had ceased paying attention to the
things that I enjoyed most. Almost demented with the plethora of information flooding my surroundings, I had
considered admitting myself to the nearest mental health institution. I tell ya, I was just so sick and affixed with it,
that it became apparent to my family that I had become neglectful a.k.a. partially or totally insane. I began to
imagine what the tight white jackets would feel like. Heck, you have to admit (both women and men), no matter
what color of clothing you wear, white goes with everything.

Well, suddenly I assumed that I had good news. Wait, let me say that before hurricane Katrina, I finally realized
my obsession to current events and slowly ceased my manic craze, but with Web Pointer MD saved in my
favorites and Dr. Kevorkian’s number in speed dial. Yes, I continued to watch the local news two to three times a
day and kept informed by daily news articles, however within reason and with www.biologicalunhappiness.com
at my fingertips. Notwithstanding and with all earnestness, I could not tear myself away from the television while
I watched with sadness, fear, and disbelief while the catastrophic event destroyed and took so (too) many lives.
At one moment, I began to watch sitcoms. Whew! That was more than I could take. I enjoyed re-runs of All in
the Family, Sanford and Son and many others. While Everybody Hates Chris is still a must see, I had to put an
end to all of the others-new and old.

One afternoon, I received a call from a friend of a relative, and wham! I became inspired again.

Here’s my story:
One evening, I was pecking at the keys on my keyboard and I felt it was time to hear the jams from my favorite
musician’s strum. I finally unwrapped a box that I had received some time ago. I knew what was inside - my new
office-stereo. I performed my ritual when I received new things that came with an Owners Manual; I tossed aside
the wrapping and Owner Manuals and plugged it in. What about the Owners Manual, you ask. Well, it must
remain in the factory shipped wrapper until removal is necessary. See the way I see it is that when I finally do
read it, - a year or more from now – I will discover new things. And walla, it’s just as new as the first day I
opened the box a year prior! With the reference book close to the wastebasket, I plugged in my new stereo. I
played with the CD thingy (no wonder I needed a new one), touched all the unread buttons and then started
turning the knobs. Finally, I tuned into one of my favorite radio stations and noticed something that has not
occurred in such a long, long time. (Wow, just the little things amaze me.) THEY WERE NOT TALKING! Nope,
no talking nor commercials but continuous jams. I was groovin and a movin. I was on to something. They called
themselves, Jammin 92.5, whereas I think they should have considered something more fitting like, Continuos
Jams or something ‘nother. (I’m so sure if I gave it more thought, I would have come up with a catchier moniker.)
Now, I know, you might say, she is some over-weight broad who has nothing else to do but waste time watching
television or listening to music 24/7. But, you’re wrong. When able and not stuffing my face, I hit the treadmill or
ski machine and when I do, I would listen to the continuos jams from my Walkman. Now, listen, I’m not an
advertiser for any musician or radio station, but just desired to spread good news; something I think would help
ease some folks from the day to day drab.

Well, this release has changed
As I said, I just wanted to spread some good news or share something that I had embarked upon and was
delighted to pass on. For all I know, the good news I wanted to pass on may not have been new to many.
However, like a used car or any used item passed on to me, it may be used, but I was not the previous owner, so
hence, it would be new to me. Nevertheless, I will say that I have listened to this radio station for years – at work,
in the car. However, I was always limited with time; I had a job with clients who did not share my taste in music
and my manager wasn’t too kind when I walked the office with headphones attached to my head. Thinking back
on those dark days, I suppose it may have had something to do with the time someone accidentally pulled the
fire alarm and I failed to notice the panic of 100plus employees. And, as far as the car. Well, tell me this, how
much time can one spend in a car? I can eat and drink (non-alcoholic beverages, of course) and even get a little
freaky inside my car, but then again, I cannot sleep in it. I mean at least I’m not forced to do so as of yet.

While I wanted to relay good news, I have awful news. The radio station once known as Jammin 92.5 is gone; it
is no more. This disappointment came at a surprise, as I had no idea that the change was coming.

This is how I become aware of the transition: Yesterday morning I was performing my morning ritual. You know,
feed the dog, take the dog out. Feed the fish and see if any fish need to be taken out. Wash my hands, wipe the
kitchen counter, go to the bathroom and check my look in the mirror. (Yep, its me.) Turn on the shower and the
shower radio, grab my shower-mat, looffa bar, and wait… Uh huh, something is new here. Should I have saved
that Owners Manual or, should I have not listened to my 17 therapists? The radio was doing some sort of count
down. What the heck! I did as I was told when the announcer told me "not to stare at my radio." By the time I
finished cleaning, the count down thingy had come to an end and the announcer proclaimed that 92.5 was the
new radio station for Country "Willie 92.5." What?!?!? I quickly dried my not so corpulent not so J-Lo body,
applied lotion, dressed in my drab, and went into my bedroom. I turned on the amp and searched and searched
for my radio station but to my displeasure, it could not be found. Later that day, I made a call or two and sent
emails to family and friends inquiring about my station but no one seemed to know. I believe they were spending
time with their co-workers or not inside a vehicle.

Today, December 16th, I opened an email with the title, What Happened to 92.5FM? I read, and I read. (frown)
The radio station is gone. After reading the article, hmmm, I didn’t perceive any obvious reasons, so I’m not so
sure as to why I am being forced to tune into FoxNews, yet again. While considering a call to the good Dr., I
thought about the changes the station had made when Gloria Neal was added to "The Morning Show." It was a
comforting that an African American was attached to Old School music played by mostly African Americans.
Now, don’t get me wrong, as certainly I enjoyed the former, popular DJ Neal replaced, but just that it made sense
or was easy to grasp. (No irony there) It was a different twist to the range of listeners.

I suppose, this release has made a round trip. As stated in the beginning, people are stressed and stretched
about the economy and their lack of means to know the definition of economy. While money certainly isn’t
everything, it certainly helps. And at times like these, it seems so prevalent that there is a lack of it. Well now, the
good news is this: Those who love country music well, they have a new station for b-boopin and line dancin.
Don’t get me wrong as I’m considerably eclectic when it comes to music, however I have a preference of time as
well as when and where. The good news for me, well, as for me, wellllll, look on the bright side: white goes with
everything and reasonably poises well against my pale skin. In addition, due to my own struggling surplus, I
may be forced to live in my car WITHOUT a radio but with "Fuzzy Math."

©Keeba Smith-Hankered Writer and Feared Compressor
K Smith is an author, columnist and social issues commentator
KSmith023@yahoo.com
The Price for Beauty                                                                 (1,794 words)

Beauty Has its Price Getting Implemented
Yesterday, I had my hair beutified. Now what does that mean? Well, as an African American woman, I define it as making an
appointment at my favorite beautician, then waiting an extra 40 minutes even though I made the appointment last week. I sit and I
wait to have my hair washed and then dried with an extra-hot flaming-heat blowtorch-dryer. I then sit and wait an extra 15 to 20
minutes and then am directed to another chair-as if the first one was not suitable for styling, but yet a warning. Nonetheless, I sit and
watch the beautician apply gunk to my hair, grab additional combs and styling brushes, teasing devices, along with more styling-
gunk and more flame to detonate the hairstyle. And then 1 hour and 45 minutes later, ta-da, I am beutified! Simple? Yes. It was worth
my time and $125 as I walk out of the salon and watch old men gawk and stare. Although my scalp is still burning, my ego is pumped
as the old men whistle at me as well as their dogs in the nearby park. But the dogs are anxious; jumping around and then chasing the
fire engine. Too bad they missed the fire on top of my head. I thought, whoever said it is better to be pissed off than pissed on, was
not walking around with a fire on their head and dogs running loosely to urine on fire hydrants in lieu of my hair.

I ignore the compounded-tingly-sensation yet open sores in my hot, painful scalp. Men need to understand that we women go
through complete burning hell to look good.

After the blowtorch torture, I bypass the rinky-dink stores and drive to a retail franchise to purchase non-chip fingernail polish.
Could you tell I was a glutton for punishment? While there, I purchase facial cleanser and other items that would only be used once
and then saved until dehydrated in the bottom of the bottle. Next year, when I’m invited to the party of the year, I hope to consider
going to the cheaper outlets to buy unnecessary products. If not, I would be sure to apply water in an attempt to revive what was
meant to be preserved or placed in a time capsule.

With my fiery head and tortured wallet, I am at the end of the line in my grocery store buying pain reliever.

That night, I slept in a fashion that only sistas or women with class would understand: I recline on my left side with my left palm
adjusting my swollen scalp. Throughout the night, I may have given my failing wrist a break, thereby switching to my right side. If
my head should slip out of my palm, I would gently pat my head to make sure the style stayed in place. Of course, my eyes would
remain closed, as I would do anything to alleviate swollen-eye-bags to match a swollen head. (Good thing I went to bed at 7:00PM.)

The next morning, I tried to focus on my chores before getting ready for the party of the year. With the pain ever present, but
reduced swelling, I was able to clean part of the house but adhere to every need of my owner a.k.a. my dog, D. Queen.

Hours passed when I had finished complying with my dog’s demands. It was now time for a need of my own. One must take into
account that all I wanted to do was to make myself feel and smell better. There I was in my bathroom partially dressed, as I certainly
was not expecting company. I was preparing myself for my shower routine. Now, I’m so sure that most people just get into the
shower, bathe two or three times and hop out. But, no, not me. I have a routine to adhere to, it is extremely important, and a must-
have that I do it or everything in my life will fail. Ok, now, that is extreme, just my day, or is it my psyche that goes haywire.

There I am shaping myself for what others can complete in a matter of minutes. One would think that with the increased prices of
water and other public utilities that I would try to get this done in less than 5 minutes. No one would know ‘cept for me. Well, not
only me, but also everyone else who stands within 5 feet of my person. Most people do not know this, and I would certainly hope
that this isn’t shared with anyone. But, you see, over the years, I had developed a minor, sometimes severe chronic illness, which
causes me to sweat like a rhino in 100-degree heat. Well, although I often looked in the mirror at my naked body, it would come into
view that I had the frame of a large beast. Nonetheless, the grotesqueries had been with me for over 30-plus years, I had not
intentions on attempting to change now.

I looked in the mirror and wondered how well my makeup would stick to my face because only inches above it was very irritated. I
tossed the shower mat into the bottom of the tub and reached for my beauty bar. Who moved it? While searching, I accidentally
broke a nail, thus chipping my non-chip very expensive fingernail polish. If only my husband would not move things that should not
be of interest to him. Besides, wasn’t it he who thought it was a great idea for us to share the same bathroom? Hmmm, perhaps I
should teach him a lesson by using his tools.

I went to his special tool drawer, removed his crazy glue, and thought about not putting it back where I found it. I unearthed the
mucilage in a package that had been opened. I took the glue out and squeezed the tube just lightly. Hmmm, nothing came out. Drats.
I opened the main opening and saw that the seal had not been broken. I reached for a pin and slightly pierced through the foil. Ah. I
replaced the lid and unscrewed the tip of the tube, slightly applied pressure to the tube and waited for about one and ½ seconds, or
less. The glue gushed out unto my fingers and the countertop. Immediately, I reached for a towel and wiped the porcelain along with
some of my fingers.

When I thought the danger was over, I picked up the tube, applied the glue to the nail of my thumb, and attempted to replace the
cap. With the glue still on my thumb and forefinger, I kept my coolness when holding on to the open glue machine thingy. Through
all of the craziness of the crazy glue, I had glued two of my fingers together. I couldn’t get them apart! I began to panic, which
brought back the pain to my skinless-scalp. Lawd! I thought about calling the man who promised to honor, obey, and do everything
I say, but he was out picking up my dress from the cleaners. The next thought, was to call 911, but because I was partially dressed
and peering as though my fingers were throwing gang signs, I feared that it was not the best thing; at least not at the moment.

I hurried into the bedroom, retrieved some fingernail polish remover, and poured it on my fingers. I tried to yank-stretch my fingers
apart, but as the advertisement on the glue tube says, "Instantly bonds," that was not about to happen. With my burning scalp, I
had no idea that I would even think or consider reading the package. However, it states, "this product should be kept out of the
reach of children, avoid eye or mucous, contact" – along with some other useless small print. There were multiple warnings on this
small wachamacallit. (There were other explicates I could assume to utter.) I peered at the crazy glue warnings. The words were small
yet firm (no pun here). In such a panic-emergency, my eyes glanced over some of the words, but what I can gather, the tinny tiny
warning of words, calmly stated the following:

 If you are over the age of 21, please do not consider yourself an adult.
 Consult a man who can read as well as follows instructions. (No, not just any instructions, but THESE instructions.)
 Consult a man who actually follows directions and actually knows what the consequences are for using this product - Even if he
made the mistake of gluing his hands to his face or other body parts in the past.
 Once a man has made the mistake of misusing this product, it is considered trial and error, however, he is certainly certified,
authorized and bonded (no pun intended), to make use of this product. However, MUST be done with supervision of the maker of
this product, three doctors, and two lawyers.
 Before making use of this product, make sure you have your wife’s permission to use her fingernail polish remover. Or, better yet,
purchase your own fingernail polish remover or some other strong smelling glue-removing device.
 Before making use of this product, make sure all pets that you wish to own after today, are removed from the immediate area. If not
avoid the humane society legalities by making sure that any pet identification is removed from the deceased.
 Prior to using this product, make sure 911 is in speed dial.
 If you are just stupid enough to glue your body parts together, then have enough sense to pray to the good Lord. Asking Him to
shine His ever-loving light on the idiot who just had to use this product improperly and without the certified supervision, and/or the
help of a smart minor.
 Continue with prayer while soaking a q-tip in some fingernail polish remover and GENTLY pry the source apart.
 If you decide to skip some of these instructions, but read the very last one, yell to the top of your lungs in hopes that the EMT’s
will hear you.


*** ****
Oh lawddddd, the paramedics just left my home. Oh my, for those of you who witnessed this near "fatal for my dog" who was staring
at me event, I wonder how will I ever show my face in public again. Oh, and for those that missed it, I thank God that you did not
miss much. The neighbors came out and were staring and pointing at my partially dressed body. Just a horrible time to kickoff the
holiday season among other things.

Now, I am literally stuck with the embarrassment of my neighbors and glue residue. And to top it off, my scalp hurts!

©Keeba Smith-Hankered Writer and Feared Compressor
K Smith is an author, columnist and social issues commentator
KSmith023@yahoo.com
Columns:

New Years Resolutions - 2006                                                         (2,103 words)

I tried making New Years Resolutions, Renewals for the New Year, Promises for the New Year, or whatever you desire to refer to them
as. It does not matter what you call them, because I know one thing for sure and that is, they do not work for me. About some odd 22
years ago, I had an epiphany – a revelation came upon me and I discovered that they were false promises I was making to myself and
that they just didn’t work. So with this newly learned thing, that if it doesn’t work, then try something else, and hence, I did. Now, this
is not a secret as I have decided that I would share only with the selected few.

Before I reveal the secret remedy, just remember that an insane man finally came to his senses and said that if one continues to do the
same thing over and over again, the reveal their own insanity. I say the man/woman who made that statement that had to be insane
because they found out through experience. Well, as you know, I have been released from the white jackets and hence, have learned
that encouraging New Years Resolutions is a huge waste and I would like to think that I listen to myself and at least attempt to try to
learn from my mistakes.

I stopped proclaiming to others what I promise to do and not to do, as I just know that I am not willing to make such a sacrifice and life
change. And when I think of making a life change, I think how far reaching that would be for a person like me. "Life change" seems
silly and useless. The words alone are not profound; they do not carry much weight.

In the past 22 years, I have learned that I will never change and as my dear dad use to say, "That’s just how it is." Moreover, as some
unknown smart person once asked, "Why change a good thing?" No, I’m not perfect in all that I do, but hey, I’m as happy as an
effeminate man in Canon City prison.

Over the years, one of my New Years Resolutions were that I would lose weight. Well, as you know, that was not true as I am certainly
a few pounds overweight and contest that I have gained and lost more than 100lbs in my lifetime. Some of my New Years Resolutions
were that would eat healthier. I have eaten healthier from time to time, but if I am hungry, I eat, and if I’m not, then I won’t eat. It is as
simple as that. Since I have an order to eating, I adhere to an illness that calls for medication that increases as well as decreases my
appetite. Either I eat, eat, eat, or I do not eat at all, and hence, I have developed an eating disorder. Now, have no fear, I’m not worried,
as it’s just how it is.

The epiphany I received, just came upon me one morning while I was in the shower, or brushing my teeth one or the other, I forget.
Either or, but I seem destined to repeat what I already had done and was not willing or able to discontinue my old habits. It was just
that, a habit. The secret: just continue to do what you’ve always done! You can expound on it, just as long as you continue it with
decency, dignity and consistency and with complete joy and satisfaction. I needed to be true to me and remind myself that someone
once said that honesty was the best policy. Who was the weak exposed person that said, "To thy own self be true?" It works for me.

When the clock struck 12:01AM, I vowed the following:
 I promise to eat whenever and whatever I want.
 I promise to not care what anyone thinks as I have learned over 25 years ago, that no one cares as much as I do, and that’s a lot
about nothing.
 I promise not to telephone people (that I know) who do not wish to be called after 9:00PM.
 I promise to continue picking up trash from both sides of my home as well as well as the debris from both of my trashy neighbors.
 I promise to wipe the kitchen counter 3 or 4 times daily even when I don’t make a mess.
 I promise to yell obscenities at anyone who calls my home after 10:00PM if they are not in need of my immediate services, sick,
dying or dead. (Dead people can’t call, and if they did, I hardly think I’d yell any profanities.)
 I promise to love and obey my dog for as long as she demands and commands it and as long as we both shall live.
 I promise I will not forget those that have forsaken me.
 I promise not to promise anything, but keep an honest conscious thought about what I promised.
 I promise that I will not promise not to get upset with stupid people including the Village Idiot, my government, my husband, my
family members, friends and foes.
 I promise not to promise that I will never procrastinate ever again.
 I promise that I will not promise to say what I mean and to mean what I say.
 I promise not to promise to stop abusing my health.
 I promise to limit my shower time to 30 minutes.
 I promise not to promise to tell white, black, green, or any other color, lie.
 I promise not to promise that I will not eat after 8:00PM as well as in the bed.
 I promise to read more.
 I promise to try to listen and adhere to God more.

Seems easy enough for me and I wouldn't mind if you made a copy for yourself.

Most people seem to be more practical when making the vows and promises for New Years Resolutions. I have heard that they will
lose weight, be a better driver, clean their homes more, cease cheating on their spouses, pray, read their Bible, be more content, slow
to anger, be more trustful, etc.

For those of you who have made those promises, I only have a few responses to you fat, licensed-yanked, dirty, cheating, sinful,
dyslexic, irate naïve folk.

I will always be fat
When I was just a little baby, the doctor told my mother that I was overweight. My mom argued that I was just so cute that I
resembled a fat little dolly. The doctor however retorted that I was so fat, that it was dangerous to be so fat. And that although I was
just a baby, I could have a heart attack.

The doctor gave my mother some goat milk to help me slim down those extra pounds, but my mother said I cried and cried. Now, I can
only imagine that no new mother likes her baby crying without supplying aid, so my mother did what any mom would. She gave me
portions of the regular milk that I enjoyed so much.

With that said, I could, although I would never, blame my mother for promoting my obesity. I still wonder where my beauty derived
from. "Milk does a body and complexion good."

I will never be a better driver in less than or within the next 365 days
For the last two years, I have vowed to be a better driver, but today, I am the same nasty impatient driver. I still spout obscenities at
other stupid drivers even when I later realized that I was at fault. Consequently, I do not think that was a wise resolution to make as
my doctor had told me several times not to drive in the first place.

I will not keep my office cleaner
When I was younger, my parents always made us clean the house from top to bottom, from bottom to top. It was such a chore-
dusting, mopping, washing clothes, and making beds. Sheesh, it was an all day job. I felt as though I was a live in maid. Now that I am
older, I dread the thought that there should ever be such organization. Once, I cleaned my office so well, that I called my brother to
inform him of my good deed. And as the youngest of seven, yet older than 21, I suppose I expected a rooha or a trinket. However, my
brother was not amused, but simply asked, "What do you want me to do?"
"It looks really good," I chimed.
"And?"
"Well, I just wanted you to know that it’s much cleaner than what I usually keep it."
"Humpf, you act as though this is something that is unusual or that you’re not suppose to keep it clean."
I was disappointed by his remarks, so I just say the heck with it. If no one else cares, then why should I?

I will not dust every item in my home on a regular basis
As a child, we had to dust every single Saturday, so I need to rebel at some point. With my parent’s heavy slaved labor, it kept me
from doing what I enjoyed most; playing with my Barbie dolls from sunup till sundown. If we decided to skip dusting a piece of
furniture, my mom or dad would come along and write their name on it; an indication that Barbie would be playing by herself.

Every now and then, I will play those same smarts as my parents, but when I write my name across the coffee table or TV on Saturday,
I end up writing the date on it two Saturdays after that. I suppose I should have had children, or better yet, hired a maid.

I will always try to be a faithful wife
I am as faithful as my opportunities. I have never cheated on my husband, but my characters have and that calls for some heavy mind
alerting fantasies. What am I suppose to do, allow all of my characters to have a perfect life, with no personality defects? What is a
story without conflict?


I will always pray
I never claimed that I would cease praying, but did pledge to pray more often. I use to pray six or seven times a day. Now, I only pray
constantly.

I will always read my Bible
When I was just a young child, my preacher said, "Don’t believe me, but read it for yourself." After that heavy concession, I went out,
purchased a Bible, and read it all the time. As the years would follow, I would purchase a New Translation Bible and read chapters at a
time.

I have read the entire New Testament and am currently working on the Old. With my great organizational skills, I am sure to finish it
before my worn out days when I am confined to my bed.

I will always ask God for forgiveness
I am not proud, but must be honest when I say that I am a hypocrite. Enough said.

I will always be content with Peace
Some years ago, I prayed for patience. I received Peace, and I am as about as happy and content as my dog rolling in the dirt after a
shower.

I will always consider that the Village Idiot was wrong to go to war in Iraq. (Even if WMD’s were found)
So what if Saddam Hussein had WMD’s in his possession? Was it not we who gave them to him? Duh! So what if Saddam killed his
own citizens. People in the U.S. certainly are not living longer because of their government. And for those who are, wish they weren’
t… (well, I’ll leave that for next year IF I’m found alive after publishing anything about Iraq, the president or the likes.)

Seems to make sense or is no big wup to our government that they allow people to go without medical insurance, food, water,
housing, and other necessities while they sit so comfortable in their warm HOUSES.

I will never trust anyone
I put my faith and trust in no man. Case closed.

Through the years, I have learned two things about the past. 1.) One who never learns anything about the past and their mistakes, is
bound to repeat them. 2.) Memories reflect realities, and the reality is, I am not going to change, or at least, I promise not to promise.

After that, pray for me. (You too)


©Keeba Smith-Hankered Writer and Feared Compressor
K Smith is an author, columnist and social issues commentator
KSmith023@yahoo.com
I do not have children....BUT, I USED TO BE ONE!                              (2,025 words)

I do not have any children
If you are childless and are planning a move, move to a place without children. Mind you, I do not have kids, but I use to be one, and I
certainly know what it took to be Mr. Smith’s child and I tell you, it certainly was not easy. At least at times.

My parents were just that: PARENTS. REAL parents who took the time to raise their children. They took the time to raise their children
while facing many sacrifices. I certainly applauded them for their dedication as well as discipline.

While growing up, my parents seem to raise us with little effort. Well, it appeared effortless until they had to discipline us and remind
us who was boss. Nevertheless, they did a GREAT job!

I live in a supposedly controlled community. The association is suppose to regulate or manage mine and some other 5000 plus
properties. However, what they are unable to do, is watch other people’s kids. I call them Bay-Bay’s kids who run amuck 24 hours a
day 7 days a week, destroying people’s property. And what makes matters worse, the parents do not even care. One may argue and
say that the parents do not know, then I would ask, "Why? Why don’t they know?

Here’s my gripe
I went outside this morning to retrieve the morning paper and you know what one of those bad rascals has done? Yep, they broke one
of my security lights! Not the wireless cheap ones, but one of the electric lights that will take some time to be replaced.
Lawd!

Those Bay-Bay kids are destructive and this is not the first time they have taken it upon themselves to alter my property. Last year,
one of those scoundrels purposely kicked one of my fake squirrels off the wooden frame around my tree. At first, I thought my spouse
had removed it thinking that it was too girlish or something. As I prepared to give my spouse the third degree and compose him to
receive 5 hours of questioning under the hot lava lamps, I discovered he was innocent. I suppose it was obvious that it was not the
Tim Allen-wannabe who walked around the house as well as slept in an empty tool belt.

It was a short investigation when I looked at the wooden frame that once housed my friend the squirrel, as his little, insy-winsy tinny
tiny squirrelly foot was intact. So no, it was not the home improvement person.

Last year in June, Home Improvement guy and me spent many laborious hours replacing and redecorating our white stones on the
West Side of our home. What did the little scoundrels do? Yep, they found pleasure in removing a few rocks at a time and placing
them in a location that was suitable for them! My only question is where were those little snots when I needed them last June.


I do not have kids, but I use to be one. My parents would have slapped me to sleep if I even THOUGHT about touching someone’s
property. And if I ever THOUGHT about removing someone’s property, they would have called the police on me only AFTER I
endured 6 weeks of Mr. Smith's torture.

One day, I was only a mile from my home, when I noticed these scoundrels standing in this man’s yard, holding one of the man’s
rocks. I rolled down my window and told the Bay-Bay kid to put it down. You know what he did? Yep, he ignored me.

Yesterday, when I was leaving my home, I noticed a very large bolder-like red rock sitting displaced. It was just sitting there away from
the other rocks. Who did that? I am certain that the owner did not decorate his landscape that way. Who did it? Do you suppose that
particular rock decided to step away from the rest, a Black-rock of the other rocks? Hmmm, perhaps this rock was a rebel of rocks. I’m
not sure.

I have politely asked the scoundrels behind me, time and time again - lawd - I am so tired of asking them to stay off the fence as I paid
more then $200 to repair it. Do they listen? Please, I would have a better chance being adopted by Donald Trump.

I do not have kids, but I use to be one. When we climbed up on the fence, my dad would beat us down as if we stole something. Now,
I do not condone beatings, but I DO condone discipline.

I recall a friend of mine, Teresa. Some years ago, I was at her home and her child performed an act that was not to Teresa’s liking.
Teresa informed the child that she would be spanked. The child was unlike me when I was a child – quietly shaking in my boots. No,
not this child. She yelled, screamed and hollered BEFORE Teresa even laid a finger on her. I thought the child was just considering the
thought of getting the beat down. Lawd! Anyway, the child’s roar was heard a million miles away and before you could say, "I was
only kidding," the police was at the door.

Teresa stood her ground when the cop told her he would have to place her under arrest for child-abuse.

"You can put me in handcuffs now, or you can put me in handcuffs later, said Teresa. "But she will be spanked."

"Ma’am," said a posed cop in a cop-like stance and voice. "I can not stand here and allow you to spank this child."

"Well, then you can leave and then I’ll spank her, but she will be punished."

"Ma’am, I can not allow you to do that."

"Well, then you take her."

The police officer vacated the property without having to labor over paperwork.

Now mind you, I’m not saying that every parent should go around beating the stuffing out of their children. No. At least not to the
point that the white meat shows, but I do believe strict discipline is always in order. Moreover, I honestly feel that parents are not able
to be their child’s friends, as it just does not work.

When I was a youngster, we had chores from sun up till sun down, or when Mr. Smith went to work – which was often. Nonetheless,
the second warden, Mrs. Smith was ALWAYS on duty. She was strict, but allowed us to have our freedom (from time to time).

While the history books state that the emancipation proclamation was signed in 1863, we were in dispute as my parents did not
recognize it as law. We were not free! We had chores on top of chores = chores-galore! Lawd, it seemed to never end; just endless.

We were rich! Yep, richer than most as we had 4 dishwashers, 7 remote controls and in-home housekeepers 24 hours a day, 7 days a
week. You see, my parents thought if we were busy working around the house, then there was less time for us to get involved in any
mischief.

One of the most memorable moments, was when my Mr. Smith did a roll call: "Lynn, Cymmne, Greg, Sean…"  Once all of the seven
crumb snatchers answered, Mr. Smith was able to account for all of his little progenies and knew who he would be calling to do this
and/or that.

Another one of Mr. Smith’s stunts: He would call out, "Lynn, go and tell Cymmne to come here." If memory serves me correctly, Lynn
was outside with Cymmne!

Last Smitty stunt: Mr. Smith would be standing near the sink, which was only a foot or less from the refrigerator. "Ranell, give me a
glass of ice water."

When Mr. Smith was on late night duty, he would make sure that the kitchen sink was empty. If not, then someone would be wakened
from a deep sleep.

The tile floor in the kitchen was always mopped. Throughout the house, the bare wooden floors were always mopped AND waxed.
The furniture was always dusted and the windows were so clean that they appeared as if the glass was not even there. All of the beds
were made daily and the bathroom spotless. The worse part of it all, was waking up at dawn to pickup paper on the front and back
lawns.

The worst and BEST part of it all, my parents did it out of love - teaching us respect and responsibility.

I do not have kids, but I use to be one. Some years ago, my brother was arrested for hitting his child. At the time, my brother worked
for a juvenile detention center. My brother was also a detainee in the same detention center as a youth and was doing his best to keep
his child from becoming a number-bearer.

I applaud my brother for doing whatever it took to be heard. He is a parent who has a job to do. If not, then the State can have him.

I do not have kids, but I use to be one. I have witnessed kids talking back to not only their elders, but to their parents! Please, if I even
THOUGHT about attempting such an act, my parents would have skinned me alive.

I do not condone beatings however I do condone strict discipline. I have seen kids run up and down the aisles in grocery stores, while
the parents do nothing but wish they were childless. I watch in sadness as the parents try to act as though they are calm, but I know
differently. Instead, of watching excessive gray hairs extend from the parents’ head, I perform an act that is unlawful but permissible
by the tired parent. Yep, you guessed it! I trip those kids for their parents as I feel it’s the least I can do. The parents will thank me later.

Once while in Wal-Mart, I noticed this young mother with an over-sized child in her shopping cart. The woman seemed to be in a rush
as she darted out from one of the aisles in such speed, that I could have sworn I seen smoke burning on the wheels.

"Just wait till we get to the car," I heard her calmly say. "Just wait till we get to the car."

Moments later, I was in the checkout line and I noticed a very similar woman. This woman had on the same attire as the one with the
child in the cart, but her equipoise was totally different. Here, I seen a very calm mother pushing her child in the store. I do not recall
the expression of the child, but mommy seemed very pleased.

I do not condone Charles Martin’s actions, but I think I understand. I honestly believe there is more to the story then just some kid
"walking on this man’s lawn." I believe Mr. Martin was just fed up with the scoundrels who rendered stress to a hobby that he once
enjoyed. I believe that he enjoyed working on his lawn and was probably a favorite pastime. However, I believe he was just so
annoyed by the destructive acts of the rascals in his neighborhood, that one day he just loaded his gun. The story reports that Mr.
Martin called the police and waited for them to arrive and he admitted his crime. He sounds peaceful to me; a caring and observant
property owner’s dream neighbor. I wish that he had not taken this kid's life, as well as taken the law into his own hands. In contrast, I
can only imagine that he was at wits end and that the law had not worked for him in the past. At least that is my experience, anyway.

(My heart goes out to the family as well as to Mr. Martin.)
I do not condone people killing others.

I do not have kids, but I use to be one and am certainly thankfully that my PARENTS taught me respect and responsibility.

Remember Colorado’s “Cool Mom?  Well, don’t be a friend, but a parent.

©Keeba Smith-Hankered Writer and Feared Compressor
K Smith is an author, columnist and social issues commentator
KSmith023@yahoo.com
Ode to the old clothes                                                                (2,003 words)

Old Clothes

She said her husband’s underwear was so ragged that the crotch would wave in the wind as he walked. She said he refused to let go
of the underwear although she had purchased several new pairs just for him. The wife just could not understand as to why he loved
those old pants.

Over the years, I have listened to women complain that their spouses refuse to say goodbye to old clothing and each of these
women seemed clueless as to why. Some men who love these old raggedy clothes deem them a necessity in their lives seemingly as a
comforter. I presume it is similar to a child with a pacifier - a must have to sedate.

As a woman who thought it elegant to wear matching dress, shoes and purse, I thought these classy tattered men just failed to look
good for the women in their lives; forgetting mom’s adage, Make sure you have on clean underwear just in case you get into an
accident.

Now I know these men knew what mom meant and that they were very obedient to their mothers. Yes, they were men who actually
listened to what mom said. She said that the underwear had to be clean NOT store bought. There is a huge difference.

While growing up, my parents had 7 crumb-snatchers to feed and clothe as well as themselves. Now count the number of people on
your fingers and you will see that amounts to 9 people to purchase the necessities for. Often time, we would receive hand-me-downs
from family friends and/or shop at our nearest Kmart. We could not always afford brand new clothing, but my mother said that as
long as the clothes were clean, then we were in good shape.

"If you just have one dress, make sure that one dress is clean; no missing buttons or holes."

Okay mom, we heard ya.

I got my first job when I was 15 and found that I was able to purchase the necessities of an overabundance of clothes. Yes, each pair
of shoes matched my purses, which matched my new dresses. I thought I looked good. Every chance I got, I would drive to the mall
and pickup a dress or two along with the matching necessary accessories of more shoes, purses, earrings, fingernail polish, bracelets
and other items to fill my over crowded bedroom. (M.S. and the other homemaker-decorating-queens would be proud that I was able
to store over 200 pairs of shoes in such a small closet space.)

Often I would receive opposition from those who did not understand that just because you have a brown pair of shoes does not
necessarily mean that you have taupe, tan, or even auburn. In addition, the color black comes in more than one shade of black and
any intelligent person is aware of the different styles and shades of gold, gray, silver, blue, light blue, baby blue, sky blue, green,
winter green and hunter green. Please even white has different, noticeable shades; bone, bone-white, off white, pearly white, egg
shell white, golden pearl, etc.

While I was purchasing all of these nonsense items, it never occurred to me that I was spending my college money, a down payment
for a home, additional life insurance, payment for a car and other important things, but I was looking and feeling good for the
moment. It wasn’t until my dad said, "Keeba, give me some of that money to put away for you," did I realize that there was such a
thing called saving for a rainy day.

Humph, who did he think he was? It was MY money and I should be able to spend it any way I wanted. Uh huh, at least so I thought.
My dad drove me to Colorado National Bank and purchased a few savings bonds. Please! What the heck was I suppose to do with
those pieces of paper? They didn’t have any value; for the moment. I wasn’t happy, but I suppose that just how it was going to have
to be; at least until I was able to afford to live under my own roof.

While I was able to increase my waistline at McDonalds, and purchase more cheap shoes, I bought food for the house and paid both
the electricity and water bill. (I had to do my little part.)

Today, I am thankful I was able to learn from my mother after she endured much pain while continuously wearing cheap shoes.

Thanks to my dad saving my little funds, I was able to purchase a reliable vehicle. Of course, I wasn’t too bright when I allowed my
car insurance to lapse at the same time as this marijuana-head man smashed into the back of my car. Yes, I suffered in more ways then
one when I walked away with severe whiplash and an uninsured vehicle that now looked like a badly smashed-inflexible boot on I-70.

Thanks to my dad in helping me pay some of my creditors who sought me out in the daylight with a flashlight seeking their money
when I lost my job.

Thanks to the education system and commonsense that the word, "temporary" is just that, temporary; short-lived and passing. Yes,
my job title read, "Temporary Supplemental" and was only gainful and attainable while I was in High School. (I was awfully bright as
you can tell.)

Thanks to the excess McDonalds-weight program I learned that additional money would have to be made to cover my body
expansion. And that I learned I would no longer eat fast-foods until I gained some type of employment.

Thanks to God, commonsense and experience, that I learned that beauty is temporary and brains are forever, well…

There came a time when I did not mind wearing the same alternated clothes in my closet. And the shoes, well they became hard and
discolored while sitting in the uncovered shoeboxes. There came a time when I either grew up or didn’t have much concern as to
what I wore, but just that the clothes were clean and neatly pressed. Only age, wisdom and experience would allow me to consider
owning a dry cleaning business as well as buying stock in "No-Nonsense Pantyhose." But I was young and the future was never a
factor in my temporary mind.

I wished I had gained some knowledge regarding healthy and nutritious eating or lack thereof while dinning at all of those fast food
restaurants.

Today, I am a few pounds lighter, but certainly much more aware (not necessarily smarter) of my expenditures. So much so, that I
remember my mother telling me that I could own one dress just as long as it is clean and pressed. When I go shopping for clothes, I
seek the cheap outlets and for shoes, JC Penny, Sears and shoe outlets.

I’m not proud of the experiences, but am thankful I learned from them, as I certainly would not wish them to define me. In addition, I
do not wish to be characterized as a cheap person, but know a good bargain when I see one. Howeverrrrrrrr, my mother thought I was
tacky when I went to the thrift store and purchased several blouses to wear throughout the summer months.

"Keeba, aren’t you ashamed?" she asked.
"No," I said. "When we were young, we received hand-me-downs and there wasn’t any problem, so I certainly don’t see a problem
with wearing used (recycled) clothes now."
"But that was then and this is now. You can afford to buy clothes from the mall and not some cheap place like the thrift store."
"But mom, you wouldn’t have known if I didn’t tell you now, would you?"
"No, but since I do, well lets just say that you’re just so cheap that you won’t even buy descent clothes."
"Mom, you and daddy told me about saving money." (See I actually did listen.) I continued to state my case. "When you see Bill
Gates, he doesn’t look as though he stepped off the run-way, but as if he purchased those wrinkled khaki pants from the second
hand store."
My mother let out a shameful and pitiful "ummmmmm," and shook her head.

I hoped she was not so ashamed of me, but I did look good or presentable anyway. I mean, the blouse was neatly ironed and it was
certainly clean. Besides, I had a few extra bucks saved in the BANK!

Some years ago, I embarked on an endeavor that greatly took me by surprise. While at home, I didn’t see any reason to continue to
play dress-up, but instead took on more of Mr. Gates tactics and dressed down. With my flexible weight, I took on elastic pants from
Wal-Mart. Ah! I felt good. Well, maybe not so much, but at least my stomach was not eating the waist-line of my pants. I purchased
8 or 9 pairs of those comfortable fat pants and wore them 7 days a week. Wash and wear was great; no more dry cleaning bills! Yes!

Does anyone know that you can not wash those cheap pants repeatedly and expect them to last more than 1,095 days? Well, I didn’t.
Well, not until one of the many black pairs began to produce openings in various places in the material. At first, the material receded
and produced a small hole in the leg, and then in the other and then the knee and shortly after, near the ankle area. It was not until
later that a small rip in the seam of the crotch that I noticed I might run into problems. I continued to wash and wear the pants until
one day I discovered a large, oversized cavity in the knee and crotch and that I would have to do the unthinkable and pull out the old
needle and thread. I sewed the pants without considering wasting gas, time or money to purchase new ones. It cost me no more than
15 to 20 minutes for me to repair my oldies but goodies and to top it off, I looked and felt good; at least for the moment.

One day while visiting my mom, I suppose I was not sitting in the fashionable lady-like stance; I really don’t recall. Anyway, my
mothered looked at me and made some reply regarding the unsaved pants. She laughed. I laughed. She continued to laugh and point
while I sat with a disfigured look.

After a few bouts with self, I decided to put the stretch pants to rest and try a size 10 Rider jeans. I felt good knowing that my butt
was not trying to swallow the back of my jeans.

Every now and then, I pull on a pair of the old goodies and I feel fine, although others seem to have a problem with the holes and
permanent stains. I am not going to a fancy diner, and gone are my so-called modeling days. Furthermore, every time Mr. Good
Wrench a.k.a. Home-Improvement-Tim Allen-wannabe asks if I want to take a drive, and I say I need to change clothes, he just
simply responds, "Who are you dressing up for? Its just you and me… you like fine…lets go."

So, if Mr. Bad Wrench doesn’t have a problem with it, then neither do I. Again, I do not wish to be defined as to who I am or am not.

Proudly, I still own a few pairs of old trusties, but my jeans are wearing fine - for now.

With much compunction, I finally have the courage to say goodbye to one pair of thee most trustworthy clothes I have ever had the
great opportunity in owning. I have been good to them and them me as I have certainly got my monies worth. And to all those men
who enjoy the waving crotch, keep it up, or down, just as long as you’re comfortable. I won’t judge, but will simply say, I understand.

©Keeba Smith-Hankered Writer and Feared Compressor
K Smith is an author, columnist and social issues commentator
KSmith023@yahoo.com
That’s just how it is                                                               (1,164 words)

My dad was either born in 1920 or 1921. Not sure which as it was never so important to me until I had to compile memoirs for his
obituary.

When I was faced with the uncertainty of my own illness years prior, I began to reminisce about my childhood while writing my own
autobiography. As I looked back, I recalled something my dad always said - either directly to me, or while I was in his presence. Over
the years - especially when I was just a young child - I would never understand as to what he meant by, "That's just how it is."

Those few little words are not profound. In fact, just so easily to be said. Easy to utter such words when you are not going to do more
to change the circumstances you're dealing with.

When I was young and I heard those simple words, I thought he was giving up; that he had accepted things (pangs of life) so easily
without the strength and/or desire to do more.

Humph! I say this about a man whom, as long as I've ever known him, had more than two jobs at one time. I say this about a man who
owned and operated two very successful businesses. I say this about a man who gave each of his 7 children the opportunity to go to
college while he worked day and night-night and day to pay for it. I say this about a man who slept less than 4 hours a day just to keep
food in our stomachs, clothes on our backs, a roof over our heads, electricity, medicine, telephone and a television or two. I say this
about a man who didn't spare the rod while putting his own selfishness aside while supplying above and beyond the necessities. Yep,
he gave in too easily when he said, "That's just how it is."

Blacks weren't voting, "That's just how it is."

Denver Water has increased their fees - no longer the basic $60 every two months, "That's just how it is."
Nixon is impeached, "That's just how it is."
Rising gas prices, "That's just how it is."
The Iran Contra Arms, "That's just how it is."
My mother crying like a baby when my brother left for basic training in the Air Force, "That's just how it is."
Didn't receive the job because you're born in the wrong color of skin, "That's just how it is."
The president has raised taxes, "That's just how it is."
Need additional money for this and/or that, "That's just how it is."
And the list goes on with, "That's just how it is."

Saying, That's just how it is, seems as if one has just accepted the situation so easily-as if you're not or can not do any more.

As I muse "That's just how it is," I must consider why those insignificant words were spoken and when. I mean, one has to accept
and/or encounter the certainties as well as the uncertainties of daily living such as arguments and disagreements, unplanned births,
lack of money, war and corrupt government deals, death and taxes, injustices, liars and thieves. Moreover for those who are Black,
racism.

My dad, a Black man born in either 1920 or 21, in Alabama… I suppose it wasn't so easy to say, "That's just how it is" and actually be
at ease with, "That's just how it is" when there are so many troubling circumstances to contend with.

As the years go by, I grow more certain that somewhere somehow, I am missing the clues to these riddled unsettling questions about
what true principles are and their meaning. Every single time I think I actually know, or even have a hint and am getting closer, I get hit
upside my head with yet another losing blow; forcing me to face reality. The reality is, I DON’T KNOW! [To my own self I must be
true] I concede and have concluded that I never ever will know. Today, I am 39. No, it's not my birthday, but today, I am announcing,
coming clean, verifying, stating, and being honest, that I am at ease with all of the unknown answers that plague so many. I am at ease
with not knowing the solution to all of this that surrounds me and I am ok that I never will. I am peacefully at ease.

Daily, my surroundings consist of the following:
A silent disease that controls my body even while I'm sleeping. A spouse who worries about things that he will never be able to
change or at least come up with the solution at that single solitary moment. Ok, be at ease, as I know that this is or may be trivial and
too close. However we can consider tax dollars used for unmarried women living in section 8 housing with men who own two luxury
vehicles while too many US citizens strive for the menial things in life, like um food on their tables and "extra" money to pay for
medicine to live a common life. We can consider the United States government spending 6 million a year of our tax dollars on wood
investigations.

I am surrounded with a plethora of emails regarding the malady of the person who attempts to run this country. In addition, I ache for
the founder of Gold Star Families for Peace Cindy Sheehan who's son, just after five days arriving in Iraq, was killed in Sadr City. Ms.
Sheehan left the comforts of her California home only to stand outside the president's ranch to receive unanswered questions
regarding the Iraqi invasion! I am surrounded with obvious racism within our government, in my local grocery stores and shopping
centers etc. More closely, the in-depth test given by the Denver Fire Department. I'm troubled not to mention deeply concerned that
the Village Idiot who thinks that "fuzzy math" is acceptable to the American people and worse, the Sheep who blindly welcome it. My
concerns draw adversity regarding police brutality, religious ignorance, government officials receiving a life pension, disabled people,
9/11 and the United States, the Iraqi invasion, U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan and other injustices.

Yes, the events vary, but I have had enough! There aren't ANY solutions to the things I face. Yes, some of these are forced upon me,
others I suppose I have explored and implored upon myself. Nonetheless, only NOW, do I KNOW why my dad stated those
superficial yet very profound words.

As one who has attempted to find the meaning to ALL things, I know what my dad meant by, that’s just how it is, and it is no longer a
secret. That’s just how it is, simply means, who cares; I don’t.

As stated by my former favorite poet, "Yall wondered when it's going to get better…. It aint gonna get better."

As my dear dad use to say, “That's just how it is.”

©Keeba Smith-Hankered Writer and Feared Compressor
K Smith is an author, columnist and social issues commentator
KSmith023@yahoo.com
HAPPY DAD'S DAY (To all the REAL Dad's)                                         (876 words)

Dad’s Day

I always say that no one needs to state who they are, but their actions should speak as to who they are and or are not.

As often stated, my dad was not a man who walked around proudly and claimed he was a dad as his actions spoke LOUD and clear.

My dad was not a man who just allowed a woman to have his children, but fathered the seeds. My dad had 3 and sometimes 4 jobs
to supply our habits of eating, our strong desire to sleep inside a warm home with electricity, as well as the longing hope to have
clothes on our backs and medication when needed. Often his brothers would call and asked, "And how is the family?" Now, I do not
believe their inquiry was limited to my mother, the dog and the limited-lifetime fish, but my dad’s children as well.

I am very happy as well as pleased when I honestly say that my dad could easily answer the question, 'How is the family.'

Today, I ask, where are the dads? Can you proudly say I AM A DAD? Do you know the definition of "Dad?"

Microsoft Word provides the following definition of "dad" as: 1.) Father 2.) Male parent 3.) Progenitor 4.) Sire 5.) Parent.

The Super Thesaurus describes "Dad" as, 1.) Daddy 2.) Father 3.) Pop 4.) Papa 5.) Old man 6.) Parent 7.) Governor 8.) Protector.

The Holy Bible "heritage edition," states, FATHER, a word which means "protector" and has several meanings. It can mean an
ancestor, (I Kings 15:11; II Kings, 14:3) a founder (Genesis 10:21; 17:4,5; 19:37) a benefactor (Job 29:16), a teacher (I Samuel 10:12), or
an intimate relationship (Job 17:14). The position of the father as the head of the family finds its root in the patriarchal government
(Genesis 3:16; I Corinthians 11:3). God is designated as Father of Jesus Christ (Ephesians 1:17; I Corinthians 8:6), "the Father of light"
(James 1:17), "the Father of spirits" (Hebrews 12:9), and the Father of man (Acts 17:26; Luke 3:8).

When referring to the Bible, the 5th commandment clearly states the duty of the children, however, the duties of the parents to the
children are also strongly emphasized in the Scriptures. The job of the parent is to train the child to fear and respect the Lord and
must refrain from provoking the child to unnecessary anger in order that the child will not be discouraged (Deuteronomy 6:7;
Ephesians 6:1-4.)

If children are to be gifts from God, then why don’t we as parents do more to show appreciation and cherish the gifts by being
parents to the child?

Let us not boldly proclaim our own self-given titles, but actually live up to the name we proudly wish to be acknowledged by;
allowing our actions to show and speak for themselves.

For all of you REAL Dad’s, I can onlyyyyy simply say, THANK YOU!

Thank You for getting up all hours of the day and night to tread to work so that your children can enjoy the necessities of food,
electricity, clothes, and a roof over their heads. Thank You for chastising your children when needed and thereby keeping them from
harming others, but worse yet, themselves. And though tired, Thank You for staying up late to tell them bed time stories even when
they feel they are too old to be read to and tucked in. Thank You for staying up late at night, securing the home, and making them
feel safe. In lieu of blaming the lack of concern in our education system, Thank You for taking the extra time to help them study and
finding the answers to not only the questions in their study books, but in life as well. Thank You for taking the time in not only
saying you love them, but showing it as well. Thank You for being dads and not just a donor of life but donating to an enriched life
for your children. Thank You for showing – being a role model for your male children and teaching your female children how to get
along in this life. Thank You for being there when the mom’s could or would not. Thank You for teaching them that they must be
aware of their own actions/accountability, thereby teaching them respect and responsibility. Thank You for teaching them how to
save money as well as to spend wisely. Thank You for being a reflection of what a REAL MAN is and that his/her heritage is
something to be held to the highest esteem and hence should be carried on with the same integrity.

I Thank You, MEN [REAL MEN] for putting all of your selfishness aside and sacrificing your own needs by putting your children
first. To all of the MEN, who are and are not biological dad’s, Thank You for being a parent for the children.

The children Thank You for teaching them how they too can be prosperous and active dads in years to come. In addition, they
Thank You for teaching them right from wrong and how to care for you in your old age.

For that reason, I simply wish to say, Thank you!

©Keeba Smith-Hankered Writer and Feared Compressor
K Smith is an author, columnist and social issues commentator
KSmith023@yahoo.com
Superstitious, dreams and a genius                                                 (1,528 words)

I never considered myself superstitious as nothing really draws my attention ‘cept for plum stupidity and inside influences-at which
time, I am entertained. While growing up, I was told never to walk under a ladder as it would bring me bad luck, but my question was
when? When will it bring me bad luck? Is this bad luck immediately, like within seconds of the under the ladder walk, within an hour or
tomorrow morning? Does it even mean I would not wakeup tomorrow? Would my legal yet criminal-like act cause bad luck to my
immediate family, or better yet, my nemesis? I go for the later because if that is the case I will make it habitual; seeking ladders in the
daylight with a flashlight 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Yes, I like that idea!

When I was younger, my sister said that I should be leery of crossing a black cat. Humph! Now that doesn’t make any sense. How
could one ever "cross a black cat" when most cats are pretentious and will not allow humans to come close enough to cross it. Back
then, she said it would bring bad luck to cross a cat, but again, I must ask, when and to whom? Will this bad luck occur the next time I’
m crossing the street after crossing a black cat? And, who has to be the victim while crossing the street, me or the black cat who I just
crossed? Just seems odd... I suppose the cat could cross many humans and be fine, but it should watch for one of its 9 lives while
crossing the street, so yes, I bet it is safer for the black cat to cross humans more so then crossing the street.

As a youngster, we were very fortunate to have great neighbors who took a liking to the fresh vegetables in our over-sized garden.
(They had a cat, but luckily, Judy wasn’t black.) This elderly couple loved our family as we did them and visited one another often.
We mowed their lawn and enjoyed the rotten apples yielded from their over-sized tree. Thinking about that tree, I wonder why we
never climbed it. Was it because it wasn’t ours?

Mrs. Monroe was a pretty woman with lovely long hair that she kept tucked in a nicely designed bun, and as she got older, she took it
upon herself to share and hand over some of her treasured possessions. One thing she bestowed me, was a light green matching,
mirror and brush set. I hardly used the brush, but because I believed I was some thing or someone to view, I admired and amused
myself in that small mirror quite often. While the soft bristly-brush hardly received much use, the set laid neatly on my seasoned
dresser and from time to time when I needed a good laugh I’d pickup that treasured mirror and find free entertainment. One day, while
making note of the cluttered dresser top, the mirror walked over to the edge of the dresser and jumped off, cracking the glass! I was
saddened that a once cherished piece had been damaged. When my dad noticed the mirror, he mentioned the bad luck thing, and
again, I have to ask when and where and to whom this misfortunate would befall?

I was warned to never go on the wrong side of a pole as it would bring on the bad luck thing, but walking in the street, or playing with
fire would not necessarily bring on the bad luck, but could certainly cause death. Which is worse, being alive suffering the insanity of
this world, or being dead? Of course, I have never met anyone who has returned from the dead and then reported the pros and cons of
the other side. All of this and my elders had to warn me of all the superstitious "bad luck" as if it were the monster-boogie man.
Nevertheless today, I have made a continuos decision. Yes, I have decided to file a suit against all of those who warned me of the bad
luck monster. But for them, I would not have an ulcer and if I can medically attribute my worries due to the ulcer to my other health
problems, I will solicit the commercial attorney’s to file and seek restitution for all of the years I was a victim. Let’s see, that should
amount to millions of gazillions of dollars.

I have never found a four-leaf clover, but a butterfly or two has landed in my bed. However, after having a certain dream, my parents
would place a bet on a certain number and win. Yes, they warned me of that also, along with an itchy hand. Now, I am not
superstitious, but I must say that those very, very, few slim times my hands would itch, money would grace my pockets from time to
time. The money that magically appeared was never in large amounts, but just enough to say I was content for a limited amount of
time. Today, I could use a few bucks, so I have decided to either stop washing my hands for a few days or continuously wash them
with bleach in hopes that they dry out in a matter of days.

Last night I had two memorable dreams that I was so sure was real. In the first dream, I dreamt that I had decided to do something to
my hair…re-perm it or something. While washing it, instead of using the shampoo provided in the box, I used my usual Jhirmack. All
of a sudden, I was horrified to see my long hair coming out and laying loosely in my hands. When my hair stopped subsiding, I was
left with a short curly Afro, and later worried if I would be able to wear enough hair-gel to slick my hair back and daunt a fancy fake
ponytail. I was livid!

My second dream was more pleasant as I dreamt that I was at work. Well, working isn’t what most would deem as most pleasant, but it
was what occurred while I was at work that I find necessary.

There I was talking to my human resource manager while she had an 8½ x 11’ paper in front of her that seem to report some well
thought out figures. As she talked, she informed me that the monthly income I was receiving from the Company was incorrect and that
I would receive more money. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am as about as honest as any politician, but with more common sense. See, I
told her the exact amount I was already receiving only because I didn’t want them to retract their generously gifted funds and honesty
after they realized months or years later that they made a mistake. Trust me, I have had this happen to me before when I was overpaid,
and I must say, it wasn’t easy while robbing Peter to pay Paul to repay for their mistake. However, this time was different. She said,
"Even with the money you’re already getting, we still owe you the money, so instead of the $150 we give you per month, you will now
receive this (pointing with her pen) and this amount."

When I looked at the numbers, - the $200 and $483 - I calculated a sum of $833. Wow! I was ecstatic, as I would be able to move from
the ghetto to the slums. No longer would I have to pit the bills against one another when placing them in a hat and drawing out the
lucky creditors. No longer would I have the necessary worries of paying the mortgage, electricity or food, but living the good life
because I now was able to afford medication too! Yes, I tell ya, that was one of the best dreams I’ve had in a long time; at least one
that I can remember anyway.


The other day, about a week or a month ago, my hand was itching, and so now I wonder if that was what the last dream was all about.
Hmmm, I suppose I have received all of the additional funds I superstitiously deemed necessary.

Last night, I noticed that my head was hurting due to the tight stocking cap I had on my head. I thought if I had a touchup perm-kit, I
would be able to smooth out my rough edges and cease strangling my poor brain under the cap. But I suppose after dreaming of the
great hair loss, I will just keep my nappy hair in tact under the cap.

Now you can view me as your specious psychic and/or one who can detect dreams. Feel free to give me a call as I do all the reading
under this tight brain-strangling, stocking cap – all without air to my brain. Also when you call, don’t mind the person who answers
the phone, and be patient while answering to all 15 of psychiatrists, but just be sure to ask the operator to speak to "The Genius" a.k.
a. The non- superstitious dreamer.

Signed,
The Credulous Intellect


©Keeba Smith-Hankered Writer and Feared Compressor
K Smith is an author, columnist and social issues commentator
KSmith023@yahoo.com
©All columns are partially owned by K. Smith & B.D.S.
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