Rushing's Ramblings

Patrick was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder (ASD) over a year ago.  He was three years old, rarely talked, and had frequent meltdowns.  His parents immediately enrolled him in speech and behavioral therapy. Patrick is now in his second year of a preschool program, which provides individualized treatment while integrating children into regular classrooms. Patrick has made significant progress in the past 18 months. While the tests by therapists at school last year revealed that he had mild autism, a comprehensive evaluation by a specialist in Houston a year ago confirmed it.  A recent report by the educators revealed that he is now performing tasks at his age level and will be in regular kindergarten next year.  The educators are no longer confident that Patrick is autistic. We all want the same for those we dearly love.  We wish perfect lives for them with happy endings.  We understand that life doesn't always work that way when we've lived a few decades.  Learnin

This past Labor Day brought back memories of living in a “company town,” where all our fathers were employed at the Phillips Petroleum plant in Phillips, Texas. Most of our fathers were union members. My classmates reminisced on the Phillips Blackhawks Facebook page about their experiences when the union members struck.    Many talked about the store created by the union officials to help feed families during the strike. Some of my former classmates shared stories of worried conversations between their parents. They would whisper about the men who crossed the picket lines to work in defiance of the union and the managers taking the striker’s places at the worksite. A cloud hung over our households during those times. We often wondered if our food would last until the strike was over. My father would temporarily move to my grandmother’s home over a hundred miles away to load bales of cotton at the cotton gin factory in Memphis, Texas. Stacking 500-pound bales of cotton is backbr

As a young woman, I never would have predicted that another woman would stalk me in the autumn years of my life. The legal definition of stalking or harassment involves a threat, yet "emotional stress" falls into the harassment category. I've yet to feel threatened, but one never knows what's coming. The stalker (I'll use the pseudonym "Stella") contacted me shortly after Jack, an ex-boyfriend, died in early 2017. Jack and I were a couple for several years, beginning in 2010. I was the only woman besides his wife with whom he lived. Our whirlwind romance included traveling worldwide as we enjoyed every minute of our time together. I was his first girlfriend in almost 50 years. Jack's grown children (ages 40+) began interfering in our relationship because they feared losing their much-anticipated large inheritance. I also understood losing their mother and seeing their father with another woman so quickly was tough on them. Their unrelenting drama

August 18 marked the 99th anniversary of ratifying the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, giving women the right to vote. The bill had narrowly passed both houses of Congress before being sent to the states to be ratified. Most Southern states did not support women's right to vote, but Texas was the first Southern state to ratify the Amendment on June 28, 1920. The 19th Amendment states, "The right of the citizens of the United States to vote shall not be abridged by the United States or any state on account of sex." Thirty-six states had to approve it before the constitutional change became law. By the late summer of 1920, thirty-five states had ratified the Amendment. Tennessee started debating the Amendment in August of 1920. Thousands of suffragettes and protestors descended on Nashville. It had passed effortlessly in the state Senate but stalled in the state House of Representatives. Opponents wore red roses, while proponents wore yellow roses. One o

Sometimes heroes are right before us, and we don't know how extraordinary they are until they answer our probing questions. I discovered this reluctance when, toward the end of his life, my father only began sharing stories about his role in the South Pacific during WWII. Once he started talking about the war, it was as if he got stuck in the 1940s and kept repeating himself. Oh, to hear him again!  Another friend shared his experience as a fighting Marine on Iwo Jima during WWII for the first time when he was in his 70s. He began having nightmares that continued until his death two years later. The biggest heroes are often the quietest because they don't consider themselves particularly brave. Steve, the owner of a small construction company in Horseshoe Bay, is one of those quiet heroes. He was in the Air Force during Operation Desert Storm in 1991 and was part of an elite team who were dropped behind enemy lines. Steve didn't want his last name used for this story

Many of us know what it's like to live in small communities with Homeowner's Associations. Most of the time, everything works fine, and everyone gets along for the greater good. I serve on the board of the Horseshoe Bay POA, which encompasses 7,700 property owners. Our board is composed of fine folks to make life better for everyone living in Horseshoe Bay. As I age, stubbornness and impatience are frequent companions. Sometimes in the smaller HOAs, though, people with a bit of newly acquired power get carried away.  And, if the person "in charge" overreacts and dislikes any feedback that isn't supportive, it can be hell on earth for the person(s) criticizing.  I admit that I can be very outspoken. I am compelled to express my opinion when I've had enough unwise decisions that hit my pocketbook. I live in a tiny community of 30 townhomes.  I bought my townhouse with plans to live in Horseshoe Bay during the winter, as Seattle's rainy, sunless