A Means to get Americans Back to Work

A trip to my local grocery store this weekend was an eye opener. A few months back I began mentioning to store employees that I noticed hardly any fruits and veggies were from local farmers and were from such faraway locations as Chile, Equador and Mexico. I queried them why they did not carry locally grown produce, and they squirmed and struggled for a response. I did notice, however, that in the coming months more locally grown produce began appearing.

Which is why this weekend's shop was so shocking to me. Every fruit I picked up was grown in Mexico, Equador, or Chile. I found no California-grown fruit. When I picked up the asparagus, I noticed the attached tag did not indicate place of origin. I then noticed a sticky tag placed on the asparagus itself and it read, in very small print, that the asparagus was grown in Chile. Do we not grow asparagus right here in California?

As I then ventured into the rest of the store I found almost every item, in every category - cheese, cereals, breads, canned goods, cleaning supplies, had a portion grown or produced in a foreign country. This disturbs me as it should you.

Pick up your most recent catalog from your favorite store be it Macy's, LL Bean, JC Penney, Target, and take a look at the origin of just about every piece of merchandise and you will find it originated overseas. Store management I am sure will argue that Americans don't want to spend a lot of money on clothes, gift items, etc. While that may have been our thinking in the past, I'm sure there are Americans out there who would agree to pay higher prices if it meant our fellow Americans had jobs.

We need to join the folks protesting on Wall Street and throughout the USA, defying corporate greed for profits and kicking to the curb Americans who are struggling to find jobs, and live the American dream. Demand that stores sell USA made merchandise. Ask your local grocery store to stock only USA grown and locally produced items.

We have just begun rethinking how we live our lives. We are now much more frugal, we think twice before reaching for that credit card to purchase a "want" vs a need, we frequent and purchase gently used clothes at consignment shops, Salvation Army stores and estate sales. We sleuth out great bargains on E-Bay and other sites, antique stores, and even our local garage sales.

We now need to take that one step further, and give this thinking our voice. Speak out for America, ask for American made goods and be willing to pay a bit more.

Americans want and need to work, let's begin today.

A Choice We Make and Promises to Keep

Working with and living with animals has always been a part of my life. For years I’ve volunteered at the local Humane Society. My tenure there began when fourteen years ago my son, then 12, and I ventured into the shelter to select a new dog to share our life. We made a promise to ourselves not to simply pick the first cute set of eyes and ears we saw, but rather take a casual stroll through the facility and simply view the offerings. We knew this choice was a decision we would have to live with for at least 13 years or so and wanted it to be a good match.

My son and I decided to split up, he walking to the right to take in that share of kennels while I concentrated on the leftmost location. He quickly called me over to look at a German Shorthaired Pointer who stood staring at us as if he was totally bored and simply wanted to be released from his prison. We wrote down his name and cage number. A bit later I spotted a Basset Hound, 5 years old, typical droppy eyed and dewy expression on his face that only a Basset Hound can demonstrate and still look lovable. His number and name were added to our list.

While David concentrated on a beagle mix, a sudden flash of white bouncing body caught my eye as I neared a cage holding three mixed breed puppies. The one with a white husky looking mask, and big, big front paws stood smashed against the cage door with what could only be called pleading eyes, staring directly at me. As soon as she knew she had me, she quickly darted back into the cage to gather up her cage mate who up until then had been snoozing contentedly. I called my son over and asked his opinion. He wandered over and soon was caught up in her energetic, sheer determination to get us to look at her. There was something special there beyond her name Chiquita, and her cage number went on our list.

About an hour went by before they called our number to screen us for adoption and quite frankly, my son and I were concerned that our picks might already have been adopted. Once we were seated and talked about our previous two dogs who had passed within the last year, the second passing within six months of our older dog’s passing. They liked the idea, we knew, that we had been the sole owner to our two previous dogs their whole lives and also rallied at the thought that my son was 12 years old which made their decision easier. As they went through the list of dogs we had chosen, the pointer had been put on hold for medical reasons and was not readily available and the bassett had just been adopted by a couple. That left us with the cute mix of husky and who knew what else. After asking us if we were still interested, they brought us to the meeting room and brought in the bouncy golden white bundle of energy we had selected.

Chiquita it turned out was surrendered by her previous owner because she had grown too big for them, and they didn’t want their baby around such a large dog. She was a backyard dog and they said with the new baby they simply didn’t have time for her. So she ended up in the shelter. The adoption host stared at her and was trying to determine what breeds she might be, a guess of lab-x was the best they could come up with. I might mention that during this time Chiquita, or Maggie as she would soon be renamed, walked in and went directly up to my son, laid her head in his lap, looked up at him with those soulful eyes saying “let’s go home!” After about a minute, we both looked at each other and said “let’s take her!” Maggie had found a home.

So here I sit some 14 years later recalling my first eye contact with Maggie. As she sleeps near my feet as I write this, I'm fully aware that each day now is precious, our time together is counting down. We both have been through a lot together and I'll surely miss my sweet girl when she passes. As I watch her slowing down, as have I, I expect to one day be met with the look. The look that tells me she is ready, ready to end this life she has lived, ending a relationship we both have cherished. It will be a difficult day, one I will remember and cry about for years. But when friends love friends, they care enough to make that hard choice. And, Maggie, I'm sure knows in her heart that she will be replaced by another lucky shelter dog who will enrich my life in much the same manner that Maggie does. For shelter dogs know, they simply know.









I’m not a person who enjoys making a presentation to a large body of people. Perhaps that’s why I was in a state of denial and awe when I was offered the role of School Board President at my son’s school.

David was in elementary school at the time and while I found him academically
challenged enough and enjoyed volunteering at the various social and school-themed events, I never in my wildest dreams thought this opportunity would present itself.

I remember the phone call to join the School Board. I gave it a few minutes of thought taking into consideration the time I would have to expend, the date the board met, and even the evening hours. After determining this might be a good fit and easier than some of the other volunteer assignments, I accepted.

The first night we met that season I was warmly greeted and the meeting was called to order. Following Parliamentary rules the meeting progressed and then the topic of choosing a new School Board President was presented. One board member raised her hand and suggested that I be named and another member quickly seconded this proposal.
Quicker than I could open my mouth and respond the Board chimed in agreement.

As I sat in awe and I’m sure bug eyed, I suddenly had a new role, one for which I hadn’t a clue I had been drawn to by perhaps less than honest means. After the usual round of congratulations and clapping, I took the gavel and found myself conducting my first board meeting.As I routinely worked through the agenda items with the team, I slowly came to understand their roles, their concerns, their strengths, and most of all their personalities.

The school had some solid concerns about budget, curriculum, and student progress. By the end of that first session I had divided the group into three teams, each assigned a project; one was to take a serious look at the budget, find and suggest some cost cutting measures that didn’t impact the bottom line and maintained the high standards the school hoped to maintain; the second team was to view the current curriculum, study the revised and suggested changes demanded by the archdiocese and report back on their findings with some solid ideas on how best to immediately address these issues; and finally, the third team was to issue a report on student progress – were they upholding the high standards both the state and the archdiocese demanded, determine weak links, establish solutions. And, as always, questions or concerns, were to come to me first, before they got too far into the process.

Following that first night, my board members and I managed to trundle through that first year offering up some solid suggestions and changes. We learned about each other, I learned the weak link and the solid performers in the teams. I was forced to face my fear of public speaking in a big way, several times, having to speak before the parents of the entire school on various issues. While not perfect, I struggled through and managed not to make too great a fool of myself. I guess I did a decent enough job that I remained school board president for two terms, six years.

Physicians play a vital role in our lives; educating them, stimulating ideas and research, tracking their progress all are essential mandates of securing an MD degree. Evaluating their progress during training is a routine, yet vital task undertaken each day.

As a new staff member in the Oncology Division I was charged with collecting evaluations of our trainees. My first day at work found me mailing a hard copy of a standardized, somewhat ineffective (at least in my opinion) evaluation to each trainee and faculty member who had either interacted with or mentored them. After a week of doing this tedious task I decided changes were necessary.

First and foremost the evaluation seemed weak, leaned toward biased branding, and certainly did not leave enough open ended questions for true evaluation of the trainees skills and or lack of them. I decided I would rewrite the form. Secondly, forwarding these forms via inter-office mail seemed extremely dated and unwieldy in this famous, high-tech valley we lived in. I found it difficult to image that Stanford did not have a database or other tracking mechanism that could easily handle this task

My first pass at updating the questions, leaving enough room for comments and rethinking this whole process switched my focus to getting this whole process online.
I placed a few phone calls to contacts and friends I’d made through the years, and discovered that indeed, the School of Medicine was working with a new system that did evaluations of their medical students. I promptly set up a meeting to meet with the lady working this new system. After about five minutes of reviewing the process and the outcome I knew we had to incorporate this into our program. I secured the contact information and rushed back to my office.

After several website searches, talks with the company customer service rep, I wrote up a proposal, including pricing, and directed it to both my boss and the Division Chief.
They agreed to a demonstration, were excited about the possibilities and thanked me for my efforts.

A few months later, after the demonstration by the company reps, approval of the pricing structure, and a final presentation to the rest of the faculty members, the system was instituted. Now evaluations could be created, generated, collected, and filed easily and efficiently. Following our purchase several other divisions began to use the service and eventually, about two years after our purchase the School of Medicine decided this was a stellar idea and went to bids with several companies and ended up choosing another
vendor, whose product was a twin, with a few extra tweeks.







Volunteering has its own rewards. Working at Stanford University offered up many such opportunities. In some cases, volunteering was a job requirement. For major venues like Reunion Homecoming Weekend staff volunteered to set up the food concessions, guarded boxed lunches, maintained crowd control. Menial tasks but positive studies in human nature.

Humane Society Silicon Valley simply could not function without its dedicated team of volunteers. Doing everything from helping staff mail out invitations to fund raising events at Santana Row or simply sitting next to, gentle rubbing and consoling dogs recovering from a spay or neuter operation. Each important, each inspiring.

People who manage volunteers are a gifted set of personalities. Juggling schedules and making sure all shifts have ample volunteers to successfully complete a task, to dealing with personalities and interests, and in some cases slumping motivation.

Working an event, coordinating your volunteers, making the best use of their talents while sometimes raining in their exuberance are keys to success or failure. Human nature makes people attending an event expect the best, demand the most, and in some cases, dismiss the hard-working volunteers. Volunteers on the other hand can educate, inspire, make an event more festive and fun.

If you’ve ever worked the Special Olympics or participated in your kids Walk-A-Thon for a good cause you get a sense of what volunteering is all about. Although you curse the many hours and frustrating delays, changes, and sometimes disasters that befall working with a team, you know of what I speak.

But as you watch the special needs kid crossing that finish line, faces aglow with victory, or surrendered to the slurpy kiss of a dog giving thanks for finding him a new home, you are witness to the rewards. Life is precious, volunteering can help.

We're All Getting Older and Larger - But Why?

There seems to me a lot of concern from the medical community and insurance companies these days about Americans growing older and larger. Despite all the motivations to exercise, diet programs to stem our cravings, and a dedicated group of medical professionals eager to support and help us get trim, Americans are becoming more and more obese.

I admit I'm one of that number, I'm obese and getting larger. My question is why. I've struggled with my weight my whole life; at birth my mom's doctor stated "She's big enough to go to school". And I was, with a birth rate of 10 lbs 11 ounces.

Grade school was hell. I was teased, picked last for teams during gym class, laughed at. Even as a preteen, while at the beach, guys would walk by and say "Look a beached whale!"

At twelve I was put on medically approved speed. Yes, you read that right speed. I did lose weight, about 12-14 lbs that first week. And I recall the drug-driven sensation of my skin pulsating, feeling like it was going to split open and peel off my body. After about two weeks, I was taken off the drug and my weight slowly crept up.

I've tried every diet known to man, Weight Watchers, doctor-driven diets, even those over-the-counter diet aids. I've lost 100 lbs, I've gained 100 lbs. Once, I even did it by myself, with no pre-dictated formula except my own, and I lost 100 lbs. On my wedding day I weighed in at 138 lbs and wore a size somewhere in the range of 4 or 6. But that didn't last long, babies and a husband who hit me sealed the deal. I gained it promptly back.

I've beaten myself up for not being strong enough or dedicated enough to lose. I'm a coward I felt, I simply want to hide behind my fat. What is it that keeps me fat?

Even now as a 60ish old women, who still occasionally dates someone from one of those senior dating sites, I experience the awesome pleasure of being taken down when they outright make crude comments about my weight or never call again beyond that first date.

I've stopped beating myself up. I'm done. I still dream of someday being slim. Able to slip into all those slinky clothes I once enjoyed. I keep praying there's a man out there who will appreciate me for who I am, the real me, not the superficial outside shell. Someone who will love me for who I am, not who they wish me be.

And there's a part of me who wonders if all this recent weigh gain by Americans is linked to depression, we're largely older workers kicked to the curb by corporations too eager to relieve their insurance costs by getting rid of the people who most need medical coverage, their older seasoned, experienced workers.

And these same corporations work hard to see that we don't come back, by combining 4-5 jobs into one, lowering pay scales, and asking the impossible of their remaining workers by burdening them with additional responsibilities, leftovers from jobs now eliminated and gently disbursed amongst those remaining.

Sure Americans are depressed, first they lost their homes thanks to the dedication of crooked bankers and now they've lost their jobs. Do we wonder that Americans are eating junk food, drinking more, doing more drugs, experiencing increases in gang and crime activity. Americans are fed up, and so we eat.

The Spirits that Surround Us

We're all pretty much familiar with all those ghost hunting, paranormal or haunted places type tv shows by now. The question remains, "Do you believe, have you had an experience or been harboring your secret for years".   I have.

Even as a young child I recall  having a sense of someone watching me, the creepy sensation of my neck hairs rising in alarm for seemingly no reason.  Only now as an adult and being fully aware of my surroundings and activity can I claim many paranormal events in my life.  I give credit to the recent rash of television shows educating us about the paranormal for it is they, I think, who made it possible for so many people to come forth and acknowledge that they too have had experiences.

My first encounter, at the least the most blatant beyond that creepy being followed or watched feeling, was after my grandmother had passed.  She lived in our home and as she aged lost her leg to diabetes.  Being bedridden she would beckon my mother by banging on this metal table next to her bed.  The day following her death, my mother and I were clearing away the dishes.  She was drying them, I was putting them away in the pantry.   Suddenly I clearly heard the metal table banging loudly, I stopped, turned, and looked at my mother.   We both knew in that instance that we had entered a new phase in our education.  Grandma wanted our attention and she got it.

Many years later I was living next door to an elderly neighbor who passed away at home.  A few days following her funeral, my dog and I were in our yard.   We had the typical California mandated five-foot high redwood fence where you could just barely see your neighbors heads as they move about their yards.  This particular day, as I opened the door from the garage to the yard I saw my neighbor walking along the fence line.  My dog immediately began following her along the fence line.  As I stood on tiptoes hoping to verify my sighting I watched my neighbor and my dog walk side-by-side, the fence between them.   Gradually the figure next door faded and dissappeared.  Immediately my dog whined and returned to me, no longer tracing the fence line.  I stood there in disbelief and marvelled at how my dog had reacted.  My final thought was that she obviously wanted to check on her pet cat, Midnight, who through her death was now homeless.  Midnight was taken in by her niecc who eventually moved in the house.  I never told her niece my tale, not being sure just how she might react.

Throughout the years I've had several ghostly encounters while out walking my dog.  On occasion I would spot a shadow person running across the street in front of my car, enough to make me brake and think about the experience.  I once saw a ghost dog run across a street, while I held my dog back as she whined and wanted to give chase to this ghost apparition which vanished once it crossed the street.  And another time my dog and I were walking near an old burnt-out abandoned farm house,   As we approached closer to the farm house we spotted a lady, dressed in a longer coat, black in color, who simply stared at the farm house.  She began to walk away and we thought nothing more about it.  We completed our walk and when we drove by the same location on our way home the lady was there again, but somehow whispy and not clear.  I looked in my rear view window, she had vanished.

Winchester Mystery House holds a creepy feely sensation in my heart after I experienced at least one visual experience of a ghost and all sorts of sensations while on the premises.  Out-of-state relatives always enable us to take in the Winchester House experience and on one of those duty-bound visits I and a team of visitors on our tour witnessed a full-bodied ghost.   We were in a hallway and another hall ran to our right.  As our tour guide was explaining the kitchen area, we all saw a man suddenly appear in the right hand hallway heading our way.  When I say appear I mean appear because he seemed to flow out of a wall and begin his trek towards our group.  He had on a longish brown coat and larger brimmed hat frequently seen in old-time movies depicting the 1890's early 1900's periods.  As he approached our tour guide stopped mid sentence, looked and asked us to wait while she walked toward the man, seemingly to find out who he was.  As she headed towards him he abruptly turned and walked quickly back down the hall and then vanished.  She continued for a few paces, turned and looked on both sides of the hall and walked back to us and explained, "Well, I guess you've just seen one of our ghosts."  On other visits, I've seen a woman figure in the upstairs window of the mansion, felt a cold creepy wind sweep through me on a very tight stairway during a 90 degree plus summer day, and have seen shadow figures, running low to the ground and vanishing.  This tourist mecca is certainly challenging and an interesting place to ghost hunt.

Last year my sister passed away, she living in Chicago and me living in California.  She was ill with cancer and while I had a scheduled flight out to see her she made contact.   I was reading the paper in my living room, my cat on my lap, my dog on the floor next to my chair.   Suddenly a loud bang shook the house, sounding like it had come from the kitchen.   I walked in the kitchen and found my purse in the center of the kitchen floor.  This purse had been on the counter, pushed back against the back wall.  If my cat had not  been on my lap he would have taken the blame.  I picked up the purse and returned to my reading.  About a 1/2 later my other sister calls and lets me know my sister had passed; when I asked her the time, it was the exact time that purse flew onto the floor.  Coincidence?  I doubt it.  My sister was letting me know, and she did a good job.

So whether you believe in the paranormal, or think its a hoax and everyone who believes is crazy, I have some words for you.   Be open, be aware, keep close watch of things about you.   They definitely are out there and they often want to make contact.

Dan and the Pit

Dan gently lifted the panicked, bleeding pit bull dog off his truck. A quick bump of his hip against the rickety back door to the shelter found him standing in front of the metallic table used for emergency deliveries. The time was 1:45 A.M, and he silently wished he had chosen to cut out early rather than decide to make one last swing through the park. His brain flashed back to the dark forested corner where he caught a quick flicker of movement as he casually cruised by, hoping to finish off his evening with a quick checkout and peaceful drive home to his loving family. Lisa who warmed his soul and made him cherish each moment of their existence together. Then there were Jared and Frankie, their 3-year twins so much alike that he often confused them for one. And, of course, there was Maggie, their mixed breed mutt and Smudge and Sandy their shelter found cats. A family he could relate to, a family he truly loved. But this minute was urgent, his thoughts were needed here, his family would have to wait.

The pit looked up at him with pained soulful eyes. The choke chain collar, long ago claimed his neck as a young pup and now fully grown claimed his life as it slowly choked the life from him, as it cut deeply into his raw, dirt encrusted muscle, slowly allowing nature to go on a rampage and begin its attempt at healing, by growing new skin over torn flesh and choke chain.

Don't you worry fella, I'm gonna get you some help. He punched hard on the metallic button bell, announcing their arrival, and waited impatiently as the duty bound late night receiver, Fred, stuck out his head to welcome them. Frowning and anguished at the scene before him, he quickly grabbed some clean towels, a pair of pliers, and some antiseptic from the nearby shelf.

Motioning to Dan, who responded by gently hugging the big pit closer to his chest, eyes scrunched in disbelief, Fred slowly, gently slid the pliers under the section of chain that was still accessible, above skin level. Gathering strength he crunched down, slowly shadowing a smirk, as he felt the chain link crack and splinter. Eyeing each other they slowly slipped fingertips under the chain, under skin, and with a daring flash jerked hard and out. The chain tore swiftly and hard, rending flesh, blood and muscle to the floor. A quick swatch of antiseptic and a gentle towel completed the job.

Pressing against each other Dan and the pit bonded as one, entrusting each other with release, hope and wonder at how a human could be so cruel, so determined to destroy, so inhumanely capable of doing such harm to a living, loving creature.
Dan, Fred, and the pit sat silently.  Eyes closed, praying for restraint, Dan's heart and soul slowly, quietly grieved. Silently, a wet sloppy tongue lapped his nose, once, then again. Turning, he repeated the exercise on Fred's face, nose, eyes, mouth. 

We forget, they forgive.

Country Living, Boars and Dogs

Henry’s cotton laden long sleeved shirt melted into his frame as he heaved yet another crate up into his 1952 Chevy pickup.  A hand-me-down truck from his dad, who had recently passed, brought him both fond memories and a realization that we all will someday succumb to the final moment.  Why only last week he and Jon had to walk the embarrassing walk of two men whose truck had decided to quit right in the middle of town.  Luckily for them, 3 pm in Biloxi didn’t mean much traffic in 1962. 

“Get your butt down here boy!” He loved his son, Jonathan, even though his wife, Melissa, managed to convince him oh some 8 years ago, that a name like Jonathan wouldn’t cause too much trouble for the boy at school; none likely except for the day-to-day walloping he got from the Fletcher boys.  Those hayseeds grew more and more despicable each day they shared this earth and he was convinced sooner or later they’d end up behind bars.

Jonathan leaped off the back of the truck bed and proceeded to help his dad pick up the fallen crates of melons destined for some fine market up north where they would be sold for some ridiculous price, much more than he or his friends would ever pay for a “melon”.

Just as they were inching up the final crate and securing the bungee cord, a chorus of rapid, repeating, ear-splitting, howling, growling hound dogs bounced by in an old split oak pickup, stacked six deep in crates meant for not more than one grown or two pups.  “Where they going with all them dogs dad?” Jon wanted to know.  “Most likely over to the Hanson place, where they’ll set em loose on a rogue fox or two.  Might even send em after a wild pig.  Whew, pig sure does sound like something I could eat right now.  How about you boy, you hungry?”

“Dad I’d rather go follow that truck and watch em chase pig.  Sounds like fun.”   “Well, I’m not sure your momma would be much happy with me if I was to set you down watching those dogs track, corner and kill that ol pig.  Can get mighty bloody and stuff.”

“Dad I want to go!  Please!”  

“Tell you what Jon, you help me tidy up these crates, and we’ll swing by Sadie’s deli and grab us some sandwiches and head on out to the Hanson’s to see what’s up.  That suit you fine?”   Great Dad!”

Thirty minutes later Jonathan and his dad were busy eating their fried bologna and cheese sandwiches while hanging by one leg on the Hanson corral fence.  Inside were six ranch hands, two ol timers and a bunch of men standing about with long, black, aprons and huge, jagged knives.   “Look Jon, here they come!”.

Staggering up the north hill, panting and heaving with crushing gasps a 100+ lb hairy, wild boar followed by an even dozen driven, charged hound dogs entered its final chapter.  As the pig drew nearer to the corral its glazed eyes sought escape – first right then left – but when one of the ranch hands swung open the gate, in it flew believing if it made it to the other end it would somehow find freedom from the menacing, noisy pack.

Jonathan dropped what remained of his sandwich as his hands sought a tight grip on the top rail that held him.  Look Dad!  They’ve got him!    Faster than the average eye coulda made some sense of it a bellow of terror, pain and torture stabbed its way out of the boar as he slipped and fell into the corner of the pen, staggering, weaving, spinning wildly to stop the bites, stop the barking, stop the rapid snaps on his ears, tail, legs, jaw.  He managed to get a tusk into the vulnerable part of the neck of one huge black and white hound while swinging him clear across the corral into a pile of red well worn and rusted buckets.  The dog whimpered and clawed the ground attempting to get up, but after several moments lay still, life slowly seeping across the hay strewn bloody corner where he lay.  Meanwhile the boar was losing the battle for life but winning the war on the dogs, managing somehow to draw strength and determination to continue to gorge, bite and savagely shake any portion of dog he would mouth. 

Jonathan’s eyes, marbleized with fear, shock and simple terror clutched his dad’s sleeve trying to hide his face in his dad armpit.   The tortured yelps, crys and dying bays of 12 slaughtered dogs couldn’t move the farmers to act.  They too stood in awe at the boar’s power, even in death.

Dust hung in the air, a few remaining whimpers, a series of swift shots ended the boar’s life, and then routinely, in a rhythmic pattern the dogs were put to rest.  No one looked into eyes, no one said much, except “Let’s clean up this mess and get those dogs out of that area before we have to spend more time covering up the mess with that good hay we intend to use for the cattle next week.   Gathering burlap sacks, the farmers routinely went to their task, tossing dogs and dog parts into each until finally all that remained was the boar.

“Hey Jon” called Fred Hanson, how about you help me cut up this here pig and we’ll cook us up some pork sandwiches.  Jonathan pulled his eyes briefly from his dad’s sleeve, tears brimming over, dripping slowly down his cheeks.  “Daddy, how could they do that, daddy.  Why?”