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There used to be standards about acceptable behavior. What was said between friends when their parents or the children weren’t around versus what might be said at the dining room table. What was said in public versus what was said in the barracks. The difference between public and private is no longer blurred – it’s gone. And I openly admit that my foul mouth has contributed, right along with everyone else, to its demise.

But I do have to question a few things. When did it become okay to wear a tee shirt with the “F” word into a restaurant for dinner? When did it become okay to stand in line at a bank and discuss your sexual conquest from the night before? When did it become okay to talk about erectile dysfunction during family hour on television? And don’t even get me started on the people that talk on their phones (’cause we all know how important they are) while in line, in restaurants, or at the movies! When did everyone’s personal rights become more important than those of the people surrounding them?

And heaven forbid you say anything about that behavior. My husband politely asked the young man in the bank to hold it down because there were ladies present, and got a rant from this crap bucket about his right to say whatever he wanted. Managers of restaurants and retail stores say nothing because someone has told them that “the customer is always right.”

It would be really easy to blame it on television. The first time Arnold smarted off to Mr. Drummond and the first airing of The Simpson’s may have sounded the alarm for the end of the polite child. But it isn’t their fault. It’s ours. We didn’t teach our children (or our friends) what was acceptable or polite, or the difference between public and private.

And now, we’ve crossed to the dark side where we may not be able to change some of those things. Parents now face being brought up on abuse charges for delivering a well-deserved smack on the butt to a brat. Restaurant and store managers face being fired for asking people to control their children or asking them to leave because their dress or behavior is offensive to other diners.

Let me be clear – I would happily eat out in a restaurant that had a no-kids section. I hate going into a brew-pub and finding a mess of kids in the place because they’re allowed in since food is served. Really! Let’s take the kids to the bar with us? Is there no safe place? I don’t want to sit in the bar and listen to your kid scream. What is this? Date night for the people who are so dysfunctional they wouldn’t even qualify to get on Jerry Springer? I hate to tell you people – most of us don’t like your kids. We don’t think they’re cute. We’re just sorry you didn’t have to have a license to reproduce – you wouldn’t have qualified and we’d have had a nice meal without them and you. And if you’re going to ignore them – why not leave them home unattended rather than inflicting them on us!

If you are the type of parent that needs me to stand in front of the security camera as a blind so you can smack your brat – I’m here for you. If you aren’t going to control your brat – don’t call me – we aren’t friends.

I would also happily pay a little extra to eat in a place where I didn’t have to see every girls bra straps or whale tail, muffin top, bare midriff, cottage cheese thighs in short-shorts, men’s underwear – or worse – their butt cracks, and tee shirts with the “F” word. I’d also pay a little more for a restaurant that banned cell phone use completely. No ring tones, no texting, no checking your mail, and no talking to someone loudly on the phone while everyone else is forced to put up with your rude and insensitive behavior. Unless it’s a sports bar, I’d also be happy to go to a place that didn’t have a television. It’s hard to talk to people sitting across from you when they keep looking at the TV or their Facebook news feed.

But the simple fact is, the boundaries have changed and we must now live with a good bit of behavior that would have earned most of us a whipping when we were younger. There’s no way to go back in time to a kinder and gentler society – that ship has sailed. But there is always time to choose how you behave, what your boundaries are, and who you will associate with.

Here endeth the rant!

My father Jack would be the first to tell you that he was not God’s gift to fatherhood. He’d tell you that he was just a guy who tried every day to do the best he could for his family. I’d like to immortalize him in some way with all kinds of praise or flowery speech, but I know he wouldn’t really like that. If there was some kind of award involved – he’d rather if I saved the prose and gave him a new fishing pole. Daughters adore their daddies, and I wasn’t any different. In my eyes, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do and not a problem he couldn’t solve. In truth, there wasn’t much around the house or in the garage that he couldn’t fix, but I always thought he was at his best in the woods. He could build a camp that kept you dry in the rain, his fire always lit on the first try, and he had a built-in compass so he was never lost in the woods. He was a decent shot, better with a fishing rod, and he could cook anything he brought home.

Dad grew up during the depression and always had some sort of a job. He was delivering papers when he was nine years old and he was never out of work after that. During the summers when he was in high school, he worked in logging camps in the Oregon woods setting chokers. This was hard and dangerous work for any man — let alone a teenager. He came out of high school with a B average and headed for the Air Force, joining in 1949. There he was trained as an air traffic controller. He was the tower chief at tiny towers with very little air traffic such as Phelps Field, Alpena, Michigan, and at busy towers such as Nha Trang Air Base, South Vietnam.

The thing I never noticed about my father until I was older was just how smart he really was. He could do complex math in his head as easily as he could string a new fishing pole. This was the go-to guy when you had that stupid math problem of the train leaving the station in St. Paul and heading for the train that just left Seattle. He didn’t need a pencil and paper to tell you the collision would occur in Missoula at 8:45pm. He could convert kilometers to feet, fractions to decimals, and dollars to pounds without looking away from whatever he was working on at the time. The man was a flat-out mathematical wizard.

When it came to work, he was at his happiest on a busy day in the tower. He considered himself to be at the peak of his abilities while in Vietnam, directing air traffic at Nha Trang. When it came to off-duty, he was at his absolute best in his boat fishing for salmon out of Winchester Bay. He loved to watch golf and football, and if he was simply sitting somewhere, I rarely saw him without a book in his hand.

Most people who talk to me about my father mention his smile and his laugh. He was a glass half full kinda guy and smiled much more than he frowned. He was also a man that loved to tease the people he loved, and he was the biggest instigator at family gatherings. He’d get everyone wound up and then once the ball was rolling, he’d simply sit back and laugh. Dad liked to laugh.

Dad was also a man who tried to accept the changing ways of the world – an old-fashioned man with a daughter of the seventies. He was not always happy about some of the decisions I made in my life. We had more than one fight about my choices. We’d yell, he’d point his finger at me, and then he’d order me to my room. The next morning, he’d apologize for yelling and tell me why I was an idiot one more time and then unless it was simply too much for him to bear, he’d leave the decision up to me. I know now that it was tough for him to let me go and do something that he saw as a bad choice at the time. But he was the best type of father. He let me make my own mistakes. More than once I landed on my butt in the dirt from those mistakes. Dad would shake his head and tell me I was an idiot, then he’d help me get up, give me a hug, turn me back around to face life, and give me a push. Each time with an, “I love you. Go do what ya gotta do.” He didn’t waste a lot of time on the blame game, he just went for the hug and the push.

He died thirty years ago this week at the age of 54. I’m now older than my father was when he died and I’m absolutely sure that he wasn’t ready to go. There were so many more things he wanted to do, places to go, fish to catch, and books to read. I’ve never been worried that he didn’t know what I was doing or that he missed out on my life in these last thirty years. My father always seemed to know what I was doing even when I didn’t want him to, so I’m sure he’s been keeping up with me. He’s probably shook his head more than once at my decisions, and I’m sure that I’ve felt him nudging my shoulder to get back in the fight and face the world. My only regret is that I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye, so I would like to have him back for just a few minutes. One more hug and one more I love you with that little push would be great. But this time, they’d be for him, not for me. I sure would have liked to have sent him off to face whatever it was he was facing with the same gifts that he always sent me off with. There’s no doubt in my mind that he knows that too.

Fair warning – this is a rant! The next person who says my husband isn’t very supportive because he doesn’t read my books is going to find out that the long line of axe murderers in my ancestry – is alive and well in me. Make sure your insurance is paid up – health, dental, long-term care, and life, because one way or another, this will not end well for you!

Mr. Scott likes to say he hasn’t read my books because he has to live with me. To a degree that’s true. We’ve been together over twenty-five years and we’ve operated on one basic rule – we don’t lie to each other. In order to live within the parameter of that rule, we have learned to NEVER ask a question that we don’t want an answer to. So I don’t ask Mr. Scott, “Does this make my butt look big?” He has reminded me more than once to not ask him those questions that will either get him in trouble or hurt my feelings. This has worked very well for both of us. Based on this agreement, I’m actually grateful that he hasn’t read my books. If I asked him if he liked the book and he didn’t – I would be hurt. His opinion does matter to me, so I choose not to go there.

The real reason Mr. Scott hasn’t read my books is amazingly simple – he doesn’t read novels. So it isn’t like he’s throwing me over for some other author that he likes better. He devours car books and magazines and has an amazing retention about the technical aspects of American muscle cars. He has also voluntarily read all of the family history pieces that I’ve written concerning his family. His critiques of those pieces have been articulate and fair.

He did read (at my request) the first two chapters of Protecting Parker and when I asked him what he thought – he complained bitterly that I had made Gray’s Camaro a convertible. Mr. Scott has always owned hardtops. I was looking for commentary on the writing or the story – he chose to discuss the car. I offered him the opportunity to read another chapter. His response, “Unless your hero is discussing the rebuild of the Camaro’s engine – no thanks.” I was good with that.

However, many people seem to feel that Mr. Scott should read my books, and whether he likes them or not, he should spray rainbows of Skittles around the room to make me happy. That’s not support – that’s pumping sunshine up my derrière and I get enough of that from my elected representatives – I certainly don’t need it from Mr. Scott.

Tell me how I’m not being supported when you see the following.
Mr. Scott has never once:
Complained that the house was a mess – I’d rather write than clean and it is obvious.
Complained that there was no dinner – I’d rather write than cook. He’s capable of feeding himself (and me) in a pinch. He makes outstanding fried egg sandwiches or Ramen and he is a master of the drive-thru!
Complained about laundry – I keep up with that one.
Complained that I’m not taking care of the pets – they won’t let me ignore them – the cat is quite vocal if she isn’t fed on schedule or the litter box isn’t cleaned.
Complained that the other chores aren’t done – I fit in the important stuff – there are no biological mold experiments in the bathrooms or refrigerator.
Complained that I’m not making enough money – Who gives a rat’s ass – the bills are current.
Complained that I’m ignoring him – I don’t mean to, but when I’m on a roll, it happens. Most of the time, Mr. Scott would probably actually prefer if I focused a little less of my attention on him. Fortunately, he is a fully actualized human being with very few real issues, and he enjoys his alone time just as much as I do.

What Mr. Scott has done:
Moved to three different places he didn’t want to go because of my career. All of our joint military assignments were driven by my career choices not his.
Accepted my career path, in which I was often the only female in the shop, in the class, or on the TDY/deployment. 98% of my co-workers were men. I was and am much more likely, based on numbers alone, to have a night out with the guys rather than with the girls.
Backed my career choice to become a First Sergeant. He didn’t complain that my job would be 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year and would take me out of the home at the drop of a hat. He knew upfront that when the phone rang, I would walk out the door and go to work, whether it was 0200, Christmas Day, or in the middle of dinner out with friends. And, I would be gone for as long as it took to do the job. In the days before cell phones it meant he might not hear from me until I showed back up.
He sat through countless rubber chicken dinners as “The First Sergeant’s Husband” at events that meant nothing to him, but were important to my unit or me. There is no doubt that on most of those evenings he would have rather been at home hanging out with the dog.
He didn’t hesitate to step up to the plate and accept the burden of family care. He stayed behind and cared for my mother after her stroke while I went to Korea for a year.
When I had to change careers after retirement, he supported my decision to be self-employed even though it meant our income would be lower and definitely more sporadic.

For the record:
This doesn’t make Mr. Scott a candidate for sainthood. He’s just a guy and he can be pointy, stubborn, prideful, and downright mean and cranky on any given day. I freely admit that on those days, I would like to run Mr. Scott through a bright and shiny wood chipper from Sears.

But the truth is that I AM and always will be the one who is – a giant pain in the ass!!! I have pretty much always done as I’ve pleased and he’s backed me every damn time. That doesn’t make him a pushover – he’s anything but. What it does mean is that Mr. Scott has loved me enough to let me be whatever the hell it is that I needed to be.

So – saying Mr. Scott is not supportive because he doesn’t read my books just doesn’t cut it for me. And it IS me with the issue. You see, Mr. Scott is one of those self-confident men – he doesn’t really give a damn what anyone thinks. Never has – never will.

It’s me you have to watch out for!

A lot of my blogs are about conversations that began on a social networking site and were continued in private emails and chats. Often it is a question or comment that sticks with me and I’m either unable to formulate an answer at the time or it’s something that just continues to bother me. Recently, I commented that I was happy we’d managed an entire month (August) without a single American death in Iraq. This was the first full month since 2003 that we’d not lost an American in that country. I also stated that I was looking forward to the day when that damn airplane didn’t land at Dover with flag draped boxes.

I received several private emails about that comment. There appears to be a little confusion about my warrior persona versus my desire to see the war end. One person asked that if I was anti-war then how could I be so supportive of sending the people I know off to war?

It’s the first time that anyone has ever referred to me as anti-war.

This is my truth:
#1 – War is inevitable. There will always be some nimrod that doesn’t get the concept that the world would be a better place if we all got along and worked together.

#2 – Young people will die and many more will be wounded in war.

#3 – No one hates war more than a person who has dealt with the damage done by it.

#4 – Many of my chosen family are warriors. I send my brothers and sisters off to do what they have to do with all the love and support I can give them. Yes, I still have friends that are serving. This isn’t 1967 and there is no draft. My friends are people that have made an informed decision to join the military. They aren’t naïve or foolish, and they’ve been around long enough to know that they are not immortal. I’m incredibly proud to know these people and I respect their choices.

#5 – I’ll be here for my friends when they come home – no matter what condition that may be in. Ready to listen and ready to accept the inevitable changes that will have occurred to those that have dealt with the pain that war brings. They are my chosen family – I won’t abandon them.

There is no greater reality check about the cost of war than to go sit in the lobby of the VA hospital these days. It used to be that the young guys were the Vietnam vets – the youngest of them are now in their late fifties. A little over a week ago, I arrived for my appointment at the VA only to have a very young man attempt to sit down across from me. By young, I mean that this kid didn’t even look old enough to be out of high school. He was struggling to manage his ID card, the clipboard full of inevitable questions, a pen, his hat (which he’d removed), sunglasses, and a bottle of water. He was doing this with two hands that were both missing most of the fingers, and one was missing most of the thumb. As he sat down, he lost his grip on the clipboard and everything went everywhere.

I picked up his sunglasses when then landed on my foot. But the real help came from an older man in the chair next to him. The older vet did it with a grin and the comment, “Shit, kid. Been there, done that. Let me lend you a hook.” He had one hand that looked about the same as the younger man’s and his other hand had been replaced with the old-fashioned two-prong hook. He picked up the water bottle with his hand and used his hook to pick up the pen that had rolled away. The kid was obviously embarrassed as he thanked us and tried to get his things sorted out. He told the older man that he was still getting used to not having enough grip, but he wasn’t about to wear some damn bag to carry everything. The older man suggested that he wear pants with cargo pockets and never button them. He also told the young vet not to sweat the small stuff; in another couple months, he’ll have figured out how to do everything he really wants to do.

The older vet was wearing a ball cap that stated he was a veteran of the Korean War. Apparently, the divisional information on the hat meant something to the younger man and the two began comparing unit information and talking about how little the Army has changed in some things. While their wars are more than fifty years apart, Korea and Afghanistan appear to have a lot in common these days.

I don’t like war. I don’t want war. I don’t want young people to die and I sure as hell don’t want to see kids that aren’t old enough to have a beer sitting in my VA hospital. Nevertheless, this is the world that I live in. The acceptance of these truths on my part is a result of a life spent among men and women who chose to be professional Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines. It takes courage to do the job that my friends choose to do. I like to believe that we all support the choices of the men and women that serve. And, I absolutely believe that every one of us who prays does pray for a day when there are no more warriors returned home in flag draped boxes.

The bottom line is that I am anti-war, but I’ll never be anti-warrior.

“A Shared Fear”

“A Shared Fear” is available NOW for the Kindle via Amazon.com, and will be available soon for the Nook at BN.com.