By Lorry Myers
We sat together in the common area of the nursing home, visiting and watching the news of the world. Strikes and looming shutdowns, pouty, spoiled politicians and war; there is always a war to report. When the first commercial break came on, my daughter, who was feeding her new baby, looked at me and my mother.
“Has the world always been this messed up?” Mariah asked.
My daughter’s question caught me off guard. I quickly thought about my growing up days with John Kennedy, Martin Luther King and John Lennon. I remembered sit-downs and showdowns and protests on college campuses. The Viet Nam War, Iraq War, the War in Afghanistan.
Those weren’t the only wars.
There were wars against discrimination and riots for equal rights. Drug wars, race wars, and gang wars.
Wars come in many shapes and sizes.
Now, apparently, our government is in a war against themselves. Our House remains divided, compromise is punished, and the very people we voted to represent us, have agendas that don’t include us. Our politicians appear to be wrapped up in the high school drama of who likes who the most. They seem unaware of deadlines and budgets and toss around the word “shutdown” like it is a threat we can do something about. Somehow our elected officials have forgotten the “for the People” part of their jobs.
No wonder there are always wars.
The life I have lived ran through my head as Mariah finished feeding my new grandbaby. I was reluctant to tell her how I honestly feel right now, about the world we live in. I want to be full of warm, fuzzy feelings, but the news tells me I shouldn’t. Unions think they deserve more, our children are falling behind, and families are falling apart. Now, there is another world war to worry about.
While the news continued, Mariah placed her baby in my mother’s arms so she could hold Tilly, and cuddle her, which is the very reason we came that day. Mom, who is ninety-two, recently made the nursing home her home, and simply glows every time my daughter brings her newest great-grandchild to visit.
There is something about a baby in a nursing home.
My mother sighed when she looked down at Tilly and tenderly rubbed her knotted fingers along Tilly’s soft cheek. She bent down and kissed her, adjusted the baby’s blanket, and turned to look at Mariah.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.
