My favourite person these years is Kenny Furlong, Carson
City and County Nevada Sheriff. This man goes way beyond his official duties to
assist whomever and wherever he is needed.
Kenny, as he is known by all, loves his hometown and knows its gifts and
problems, and it shows.
Here are some examples:
Kenny shows up at Pioneer High to learn the names and encourage these
alternative students to strive for heir goals, and he is always there at their
graduation. He does the same for the
Capitol City C.i.R.C.L.E.S. Inititave, which is “Building Self-Sufficiency, One
Family at a Time”. And, I have
encountered Kenny late at night checking on the volunteers who are sheltering
the homeless in their churches during the winter.
For many years Carson City citizens have been attending the
Sheriff’s Academy, a ten-week course which is held once or twice a year. The mission is to keep the sheriff’s office
transparent and bring personal and community safety awareness to the fore.
Kenny is very approachable for anyone to bring a complaint
or suggestion. One goal has been finding
alternative places for the mentally ill rather than the jail. Concerned social and medical groups worked
with him over several years, and now we have a new behavioral crisis center.
This year Kenny brought in an expert on working with female
inmates to assist the whole Sheriff’s Department to better understand the
disparity between men and women when confronted by the law. The instructor gave stories from her practice
of the kinds of abuse and desperation the women have had. She answered the deputies’ questions, such as
what helps to calm the situation when a woman must be arrested.
These are just some of the examples that I know about my friend, who, by the way, is a Republican.
This is one of many
stories from a wide variety of sources and a multitude of forms contributed by
people upon request for my 70th birthday. They are posted without editing, with the
attribution that was with them. I will
be posting these regularly until they run out next year sometime: if you have
others to add, please send them to me.
The Paradise (CA) girls’ volleyball team had a championship game set for Saturday, the 10th, but had lost all of their uniforms and equipment in the fire. The girls said they still wanted to attend the game up in Auburn, CA regardless of not having the proper equipment.
Upon arrival, the opposing Auburn team had made each of the girls uniforms, purchased them new shoes and pads! Not only that, they made them a meal after the game, provided each girl with a $300 gift card, gave each girl a large bag of supplies and clothing. Then they presented the team with $16,000 they had raised for them!!!
This is one of many
stories from a wide variety of sources and a multitude of forms contributed by
people upon request for my 70th birthday. They are posted without editing, with the
attribution that was with them. I will
be posting these regularly until they run out next year sometime: if you have
others to add, please send them to me.
Inuit students are learning how to monitor climate shifts in their homeland. They work with researchers over a number of years to see the change in ………. Over a number of years. They are learning skills they can use in jobs in the future.
Cape Town – a very segregated city
Young people are taking children from a very poor black housing district to the beach and ocean. They are teaching them to surf and swim. Most of these students have never been out of their community and have never been by the ocean or downtown Cape Town. Opens up vision of future possibilities and learn new skllls.
Brazil – Amazon
Young adults becoming caretakers of the UNESCO Reserve (huge
area) – They patrol waters and there are special projects by young
veterinarians to care for endangered species.
South Africa – remote corners
Wildlife census with loads of live cameras, citizen scientists around the world – students etc. are analyzing videos to learn about the large animals in particular habitats
This is is one of many stories from a wide variety of sources and a multitude of forms contributed by people upon request for my 70th birthday. They are posted without editing, with the attribution that was with them. I will be posting these regularly until they run out next year sometime: if you have others to add, please send them to me.
I want to share a bit about my experience in Ecuador, a few things that seem to
capture the spirit of the people, the country. There are many more I could
easily add.
Acts of Kindness
Yesterday, a bit weakened from a flu bug, I lugged a 50 lb suitcase up the street to a corner where it was easier to get a taxi. My goal was to put a few things in my new apartment that would make it more like a Jane home. Taxis were busy but it taken me too long to flag one down. The taxi driver opens his trunk but was positioned in a way he couldn’t easily get out of the cab to help me. I go to put the behemoth into the trunk when a man appears to help. He was standing by the corner tiende just behind me, someone I had not noticed. He puts the suitcase in the trunk, smiles at me and goes back to the tienda. No request on my part. No looking totally helpless. Just an observant Ecuadorian aware that I needed help and graciously giving it.
When I get to my apartment, the taxi stops and the rather old taxi
driver gets out and takes my suitcase out before I could do it. As he does, the
guard at the gate of the apartment unlocks the gate and comes out and gets the
suitcase. He walks me into the apartment to the elevator and makes certain that
I know how to get to my apartment, “Seis Say” or 6 C.
Shortly after I get into the apartment, open the windows and begin
to unpack the suitcase, the doorbell rings. Such a thrill to hear my doorbell
ring. It was the man mopping the building entrance floor. He is in charge of
building maintenance. He introduced himself. I invited him in. He checked to
make certain the gas in the stove was working and that I knew how to use the
stove (not an easy thing) and then he checked to make certain that I had water
in the apartment, particularly hot water. He left letting me know to contact
him if I needed him.
In the midst of the craziness and divisiveness in the US, I was grateful for so many simple acts of kindness I experienced in just one morning in Cuenca, Ecuador. I think I will like my new home.
This is one of many
stories from a wide variety of sources and a multitude of forms contributed by
people upon request for my 70th birthday. They are posted without editing, with the
attribution that was with them. I will
be posting these regularly until they run out next year sometime: if you have
others to add, please send them to me.
On
July 31, 1968, a young, black man was reading the newspaper when he saw
something that he had never seen before. With tears in his eyes, he started
running and screaming throughout the house, calling for his mom. He would show
his mom, and, she would gasp, seeing something she thought she would never see
in her lifetime. Throughout the nation, there were similar reactions.
What
they saw was Franklin Armstrong’s first appearance on the iconic comic strip
“Peanuts.” Franklin would be 50 years old this year.
Franklin
was “born” after a school teacher, Harriet Glickman, had written a
letter to creator Charles M. Schulz after Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot
to death outside his Memphis hotel room.
Glickman,
who had kids of her own and having worked with kids, was especially aware of
the power of comics among the young. “And my feeling at the time was that I realized
that black kids and white kids never saw themselves [depicted] together in the
classroom,” she would say.
She
would write, “Since the death of Martin Luther King, ‘I’ve been asking myself
what I can do to help change those conditions in our society which led to the
assassination and which contribute to the vast sea of misunderstanding, hate,
fear and violence.’”
Glickman
asked Schulz if he could consider adding a black character to his popular comic
strip, which she hoped would bring the country together and show people of
color that they are not excluded from American society.
She
had written to others as well, but the others feared it was too soon, that it
may be costly to their careers, that the syndicate would drop them if they
dared do something like that.
Charles
Schulz did not have to respond to her letter, he could have just completely
ignored it, and everyone would have forgotten about it. But, Schulz did take
the time to respond, saying he was intrigued with the idea, but wasn’t sure
whether it would be right, coming from him, he didn’t want to make matters
worse, he felt that it may sound condescending to people of color.
Glickman
did not give up, and continued communicating with Schulz, with Schulz
surprisingly responding each time. She would even have black friends write to
Schulz and explain to him what it would mean to them and gave him some
suggestions on how to introduce such a character without offending anyone. This
conversation would continue until one day, Schulz would tell Glickman to check
her newspaper on July 31, 1968.
On
that date, the cartoon, as created by Schulz, shows Charlie Brown meeting a new
character, named Franklin. Other than his color, Franklin was just an ordinary
kid who befriends and helps Charlie Brown. Franklin also mentions that his
father was “over at Vietnam.” At the end of the series, which lasted
three strips, Charlie invites Franklin to spend the night one day so they can
continue their friendship. [The original comic strip of Charlie Brown meeting
Franklin is attached in the initial comments below, the picture attached here
is Franklin meeting the rest of the Peanuts, including Linus. I just thought
this was a good re-introduction of Franklin to the rest of the world –
“I’m very glad to know you.”
There
was no big announcement, there was no big deal, it was just a natural
conversation between two kids, whose obvious differences did not matter to
them. And, the fact that Franklin’s father was fighting for this country was
also a very strong statement by Schulz.
Although
Schulz never made a big deal over the inclusion of Franklin, there were many
fans, especially in the South, who were very upset by it and that made national
news. One Southern editor even said, “I don’t mind you having a black
character, but please don’t show them in school together.”
It
would eventually lead to a conversation between Schulz and the president of the
comic’s distribution company, who was concerned about the introduction of
Franklin and how it might affect Schulz’ popularity. Many newspapers during
that time had threatened to cut the strip.
Schulz’
response: “I remember telling Larry at the time about Franklin — he
wanted me to change it, and we talked about it for a long while on the phone,
and I finally sighed and said, “Well, Larry, let’s put it this way: Either
you print it just the way I draw it or I quit. How’s that?”
Eventually,
Franklin became a regular character in the comic strips, and, despite
complaints, Franklin would be shown sitting in front of Peppermint Patty at school
and playing center field on her baseball team.
More
recently, Franklin is brought up on social media around Thanksgiving time, when
the animated 1973 special “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” appears.
Some people have blamed Schulz for showing Franklin sitting alone on the
Thanksgiving table, while the other characters sit across him. But, Schulz did
not have the same control over the animated cartoon on a television network
that he did on his own comic strip in the newspapers.
But,
he did have control over his own comic strip, and, he courageously decided to
make a statement because of one brave school teacher who decided to ask a
simple question.
Glickman
would explain later that her parents were “concerned about others, and the
values that they instilled in us about caring for and appreciating everyone of
all colors and backgrounds — this is what we knew when we were growing up, that
you cared about other people . . . And so, during the years, we were very aware
of the issues of racism and civil rights in this country [when] black people
had to sit at the back of the bus, black people couldn’t sit in the same seats
in the restaurants that you could sit . . . Every day I would see, or read,
about black children trying to get into school and seeing crowds of white
people standing around spitting at them or yelling at them . . . and the
beatings and the dogs and the hosings and the courage of so many people in that
time.”
Because
of Glickman, because of Schulz, people around the world were introduced to a little
boy named Franklin.
So
I have to share this story. As the fire engulfed my hometown of Paradise, this
93 yr old woman lost power and phone and the fire was about to overtake her.
Her garbage man, despite being told by his route supervisor to evacuate
immediately, decided to drive back into the flames and run his route and see if
any of his elderly customers were in trouble. She was pretty immobile, recovering
from a broken back and she stood in front of her house, waiting to die. Then
she saw, out of the smoke, her garbage truck driver come into view (her words)
– “in his giant green monster” racing to check on the people along
his normal route. He stopped and knew he would probably lose his job for
letting someone ride in his truck as that violated company policy, but despite
that he gently helped her climb in. As they raced to safety through the flames
(her words) – “It was like we were entering the bowels of Hell.” He found
out that she had no family nearby and had nowhere to go. His supervisor heard
this story and refused to let her go to a shelter. She now lives with him and
his wife and their four kids… and that ain’t changing any time soon.. Her
words to him on inside edition “You are the most wonderful creature that God
produced” Say what you want, but he is hero. As a friend commented
below… “this is the America that I believe in.” Love 1 – Hate 0.
Love wins. #paradise
This is one of many stories from a wide variety of sources and a multitude of forms contributed by people upon request for my 70th birthday. They are posted without editing, with the attribution that was with them. I will be posting these regularly until they run out next year sometime: if you have others to add, please send them to me.
I was checking into my hotel in Surrey this evening and I
asked the man at the desk if he knew if there was a restaurant in the hotel. He
told me that there wasn’t but there was a lot of restaurants up on 152nd. I
made a face and said I didn’t really feel like getting into my truck and
heading out to look for a place to eat but I guess I’d have to. We finished up
with the check in procedure and when he gave me my key card he said that his wife
was bringing him some food for dinner and he could tell her to bring some extra
if I wanted to join them. I was taken off guard completely. When was the last
time a hotel worker offered to feed you? I felt awkward and stammered a bit and
said that I didn’t want to impose. He assured me that there would be plenty of
food and I should meet them in the breakfast room at about 6:30 when his dinner
break started.
I went up to my room
and got settled in and then I headed down to the breakfast room for dinner. I
walked in and the first thing that hit me was the delicious smell. Mohammed
introduced me to his wife Aseel and we all sat down to eat. OH. MY. GOD!
Falafel, kebabs, fattoush, shawarma and other amazing foods. I was treated and
fed like a King. We chatted for a long time and they explained to me that they
had fled Syria and came to Canada with the other 60,000 refugees last year.
They spoke very
little about how bad things were in Syria but they couldn’t wait to tell me how
happy they were to be living and working
in Canada. Mohammed is a pharmacist and upgrading at University and
Aseel is a lawyer who has to pass the bar in Canada before she can work as a
lawyer. They were so enthusiastic to be here that I couldn’t help but share
their enthusiasm as we spoke. At the end of the meal Aseel wrapped some food in
tinfoil for my lunch tomorrow (Wendy’s
laughing I’m sure) and Mohammed said one last thing to me. “Don’t take
your country for granted” I of course got a lump in my throat and gave
them a hug and thanked them profusely.
While I was walking up to my room it occurred to me that a
Syrian Refugee family came all the way to Canada and fed ME! I got off the
elevator and walked a little further and corrected myself. A CANADIAN family
fed me.
There is a small group of extraordinary folks in a SW Florida community who have and continue to make a difference for both humankind and animals. Feral cats, although not natural to, have become an important element of the Florida ecosystem. In Florida females have 3-4 breeding season. When a feral cat colony is in close proximity to humans the interaction can create several public health concerns. In a community of 1000 homes, 10 people came together creating a feral cat trap, neuter and return (TNR) program to ensure a healthy feral cat community. They fundraise through a variety of small events three thousand dollars a year to pay for the veterinary services associated with the feral cats in their community. These funds also cover the costs of helping injured feral cats, rehoming domesticated cats that need a forever home and adopting out feral kittens. The Committee has been acknowledged by the larger community and highlighted as how to create a local community TNR program. The Community now educates local community residents on the value and need of feral cats and the rehoming of domesticated cats reducing the incidence of many undesirable, inhumane and unacceptable practices.
This is one of many
stories from a wide variety of sources and a multitude of forms contributed by
people upon request for my 70th birthday. They are posted without editing, with the
attribution that was with them. I will
be posting these regularly until they run out next year sometime: if you have
others to add, please send them to me.
We’d just had another dump
of snow but my heart was colder than my driveway. I waved goodbye, full of fake
smiles, to my young children, who were blank-faced in the windows of the
receding van. My frozen disbelief was reflected in their expressions, emotion
held sub-zero because if it started to thaw it was going to hurt. The first of
a thousand such goodbyes; a commonplace Friday-night moment in tens of
thousands of divided homes.
The first Weekend At
Dad’s.
I went back inside to the
first beer. I imagined the children climbing out of the van, dragging their
feet into their Dad’s elevator, entering a new world without their mother.
I heard a scrape, scrape
from outside my front door. I groped along the corridor and peeped around the
curtain. I saw a tiny figure with a Dollarama snow shovel stoutly working his
way along my drive, clearing the snow. He had mismatched gloves and shouldn’t
he be wearing a hat? But there he was, intent on his task, Adam, the neglected
child from across the street.
Adam was notorious. All the
neighbours would shake their heads over him and mutter darkly, “it sure takes a
village…” Adam was placed with a surly nanny at two weeks old and returned her
hatred in equal measure; his mother always walked straight past him after she
leapt from the taxi, briefcase in hand; he couldn’t share, wasn’t invited
anywhere; he expected nothing from adults and even less from children. I had
always talked to him – reprimanded him a couple of times, too, for minor
infractions – and once showed him how to bake a cake.
He had never shovelled my
snow before – hadn’t shoveled anyone’s snow – but there he was. It was getting
dark, cold and late; no-one came out of his house to look for him. I watched
him, mesmerized, rather curious about his next move. I assumed he’d seen older
boys make a dollar or two and would come knocking on my door once the drive was
clear. Instead, he dumped the last spade-load, straining a little under the
weight, and idly plodded back to the sidewalk, flicking his shovel at a few
untidy ice scraps on the way.
He was gone before I
gathered my wits.
Before that sub-zero night, we had never seen Adam do a single selfless act – he had been taught well. Yet there he was, shovelling my snow on the most painful winter weekend of our lives. Somehow, he knew. In the only way he could, in a peculiarly Canadian way, he wordlessly expressed his sympathy for the sad state of affairs. Shovelling as an act of love.
This is one of many
stories from a wide variety of sources and a multitude of forms contributed by
people upon request for my 70th birthday. They are posted without editing, with the
attribution that was with them. I will
be posting these regularly until they run out next year sometime: if you have
others to add, please send them to me.
On October 2, 2018, Rockhill Apartments, which houses the YWCA
offices and 33 units of family transitional housing (run by the YWCA) burned to
the ground in the early hours of the morning. The building was completely
destroyed. What was so amazing, is that by 1 pm that afternoon, every one of
those families was rehoused in new apartments, complete with beds, furniture,
clothing, and funds for immediate purchases. Some of the local property
managers donated vacant apartments, furniture retailers donated beds, local
NGOs and the entire city donated cash, clothes, furnishings, kitchenware, gift
cards, etc. Yellowknife is a city of about 22,000 people. It, like many
northerners’ communities, never ceases to amaze me at the level and speed of
support when some of its own are hurt. The level of communication and
coordination from the YWCA and other service providers to channel public
donations towards what was needed most, when and where is on par with disaster
management anywhere and I think would stand up in the face of any crisis. Over
the time since then, there have been additional fundraisers and a search for
new office space for the YWCA to continue the efforts to replace the less
urgent items and begin the slower process of getting back to normal, or the new
normal.
It was truly a heart-warming story up here. For families whose
lives were turned upside down at 5:30 am, to be in new space, safe and warm
within 8 hours is truly astounding.
I have followed this story
for 2-3 years. The SAI (Save Animals Initiative) Sanctuary is located in the
Kodagu district in the Indian state of Karnataka.
Anamazingcouplehavetransformedburnedoutfarmlandand a polluted stream into a private wildlife sanctuary.
The husband and wife have spent 25 years buying up wasteland farmers no longer wanted; now elephants, tigers and leopards roam free there.
Sometimes it takes a village, sometimes it just
takes a person or two, as in the case of Anil and Pamela Malhotra who
together are creating what is likely India’s first private wildlife
sanctuary.
Having met and married in the United States in the
1960s, the couple moved to India in 1986 after visiting for the funeral
of Anil’s father. While generally it would be the beauty of a place to
inspire relocation, for the Malhotras it was the opposite – the terrible
state of nature in Haridwar was the attraction. “There
was so much deforestation, the timber lobby was in charge, and the
river was polluted. And no one seemed to care. That was when we decided
to do something to reclaim the forests in India,” Anil tells the India Times.
After
looking for land to purchase, in 1991 they settled on a 55-acre plot
down south in Brahmagiri, a mountain range in the Western Ghats. The
land was a mess, Anil, 75, and Pamela, 64, say that the owner wanted to
sell it because he could no longer grow on it.
“For me and Pamela, this was what we were looking for all our life,” says Anil. And thus began the transformation, orchestrated by Mother Nature, of barren farmland into what is now the Save Animals Initiative (SAI) Sanctuary.
Since then, the couple has been purchasing land as it becomes
available, most of it agricultural acreage that has been stripped of its
fertility.
“Once we bought the land, we allowed the forest to regenerate. We planted native species where necessary and allowed nature to take care of the rest,” says Anil.
As of now, the SAI Sanctuary boasts some 300 acres of beautiful bio-diverse rainforest that elephants, tigers, leopards, deer, snakes, birds and hundreds of other animals all call home. Naturalists and scientists come to do research on animals as well as the hundreds of indigenous trees and plants. And guests are invited to come and stay in the two eco-tourist cottages on the property as a way to help support the continuing efforts of the Malhotras. Efforts that are making waves in both a mountain range in India and all the way across the world as news of this noble endeavor continues to spread.
This is one of many
stories from a wide variety of sources and a multitude of forms contributed by
people upon request for my 70th birthday. They are posted without editing, with the
attribution that was with them. I will
be posting these regularly until they run out next year sometime: if you have
others to add, please send them to me.