She's Sherrie

Duck and Cover A very long time ago, school children practiced a drill called Duck and Cover throughout the United States.  These drills became a part of our school lives, a routine,  designed stupidly, to protect school kids from the blast of bombs delivered to us by our enemies, Russia or Cuba. The early 1960s were stressful times for everyone in the United States.  Life could be eradicated at any time by Nikita Krushchev, the leader of our mortal enemy, Russia.  Russia and the United States were enemies.  We distrusted them, with good reason, and they hated us because the U.S. stood in their path of spreading Communism by overtaking weaker countries.  We were like two pit bulls locked in a fighting ring, snarling at each other, one representing freedom, one communism. The tensions between the countries were so intense that private citizens were having bomb shelters built in their homes' basements.   Looking back on it and knowing what we know now about radiation and the

Today, my friend Connie was buried.  She did not die from an illness, she did not die from an auto accident; she died due to human error during a medical procedure—human error.  The misstep of a surgical instrument during a non-critical operation took my friend's life.  She should still be here.  But she isn't. She left a message on her Facebook page, telling her family and friends that she loved them.  She posted that early in the morning before she left for the hospital.  Did she know, did she have a premonition, a doubt?  We will never know. What she did do was to reinforce her feelings for those she loved, just in case.  I commend her for that.  She left no doubt, nothing unsaid, to those who would feel the pain of losing her.  It's something most people might not think about or might not do.  Her love for her family and friends was so intense that one of the last things she did was reassure everyone that they were loved.  Some of us never got to return that affir

On February 6, 2018, my acquaintance, co-worker, friend, and fellow CWA Union sister, Connie Sanders Glover Orms, was taken from the lives of those who loved her by a surgical procedure. Connie was the purveyor of Local 6215 faces, words, and events for most of her adult life.  In her own quiet way, she was a cornerstone of our local union office, just as much as Gene Vance, James Holbrook, Frank Crow, J.D. Williams, James Allen, and Carrol Magee were.  She was always there, and she was there as the local shifted into a higher level of activism as leadership evolved.  She didn't make speeches, she wasn't an extrovert, but she was always there, taking pictures of us at meetings, events, picket lines, picnics, conferences, and conventions. Still there, maybe you didn't see her, but she was there recording history. When I first met Connie, she was a single mom.  She always talked about her boys, and they were seen with her at union functions.  Raising boys alone were and

My brother, Staff Sargent Strickland, assisting a wounded MP at the US Embassy in Saigon, 1968, as reported by Life Magazine. In January 1968, in a faraway place of  Saigon, South Vietnam, during a celebration of the new year known as Tet by the locals, my brother Ronnie, an MP at the Embassy, lost his life.   He and all of his brothers in arms were engaged in combat with North Vietnamese forces who had successfully penetrated the secured area's grounds.  The battle to hold the embassy lasted for hours, and many lives were lost, and many of the soldiers and Marines were injured in combat.  News footage exists of my brother and another MP carrying a wounded soldier to safety.  Many of my brother's friends were killed that day, and maybe they were the lucky ones; they would never have to endure the painful memories of battle and gore and loss.  It was over for them.  MP's escort a captured prisoner after the  Saigon Embassy battle during the Tet Offensive 1968.

Attack Plan  We worked in a pretty stressful, demanding job. There was always something new to learn, something changing, always that customer on the other end of the phone.  Our daily routines were so rigorous, so well monitored by so many people that we had to stay on our toes every day.  There was always a management person going behind you checking your work, looking over your shoulder, or sitting next to you.  And people were incessantly listening to your conversations.  Looking back on that, it was a good thing.  We were putting out quality work.  We were accountable for everything we did, and screwing up was not an option.  The quality product that we delivered then does not exist in current service-oriented jobs.  It just doesn't. So I worked in this big office with 98% of the people being within the same age group, give or take a year or two.  Overall, we all got along very well, and even though there were many of us, we were pretty close-knit. Someone c

Wild Turkey Meanwhile, back at the dinner table, Steve's stepdad made his rounds with the crescent rolls. When he came to me, I just shook my head no and waved him off, acting like I had food in my mouth.  He told Steve to hand him my plate.  I know my eyes were huge with fear. I grabbed the plate and covered it, and said I just could not eat another roll.  He sat down.  I was eating slowly as I often do, chewing and concentrating on what I was doing.  Before I knew it, I caught a glimpse of something scarlet-colored hitting the table. I looked over, and right between Steve and Gail was a big blob of cranberry sauce.  And then everyone started laughing except me.  I just sat with a stupid but relieved grin on my face.  I didn't get it, they were all laughing, nobody was mad. Steve and Gail were accusing each other of making the mess.  I just sat there.  Waiting.  And then I got the explanation.  Ron, Steve, and Gail were trying to set me up and make me nervous enough to s

Wild Turkey I've been through many Thanksgiving Days in my life, some good, some bad, some funny, some sad.  I know you probably have too.  At the age I am right now, many of the people I shared those times with are no longer here.  All I have left of them are memories, good, bad, or indifferent.  It gives me something to hold onto during the times that I have alone during the holiday season. The earliest time that I was ever really aware of what the day meant was in first grade.  You know the spiel, Plymouth Rock, pilgrims, Indians, back before the time of political correctness, sharing food and being thankful way back before we stole the country from the "red" people and forced them onto reservations.  Yes, in first grade, you only learned the friendly version of history. I remember tracing my hand on a paper plate and making a turkey out of it.  As a class, we made our turkeys and took them home for decorations to be placed proudly on the fridge.  Except mine n