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deb roush

Stories about life, family, dogs, anxiety and whatnot.

  • Rock Hill South Carolina: A Fork in my Road

    Thinking back, yes, that was it. The proverbial fork in the road.
     
    Did I know it was a fork at the time? No. Heck, I didn’t even realize I was on a road. It felt more like wandering a remote hiking trail, stumbling over rocks and bushwhacking tree limbs.

    I was 21 years old and working for South Carolina’s Rock Hill Herald newspaper as a copy editor. A recent college graduate from Ohio’s Bowling Green State University, I had earned the highest-paying job among my fresh-out-of-school journalism classmates and should have considered myself lucky to be spending my night editing the words on the computer screen in front of me that would be the big news in tomorrow’s morning edition.

    Only I didn’t. 

    Before leaving Ohio just five months prior, a friend had suggested my move south might be a mistake. “They’re still fighting the Civil down there,” he warned, suggesting that white men would rule the small town I was headed to with an iron fist. And I laughed, confidently replying that it was 1989 and those days were long past. But in Rock Hill, just across the border from Charlotte, North Carolina, I witnessed enough to prove him right. More importantly, I felt it.

    First, it was the heavy-set, uniformed patrol officer who pulled me over for no reason as I navigated the narrow streets home in the wee hours of the morning after work. “What’s a fine lady like yourself doing out this late at night?” he inquired, scribbling a nonsensical infraction in his ticket book as I sat frozen with my hands in the 10 and 2 position – his blue lights ablaze behind my tiny black Ford Escort. When I shared the experience with a coworker the following day, he wasn’t a bit surprised. “You still have Yankee plates on your car, right? They’ll do that here,” he said, knowingly. 

    It wouldn’t be the only time I would disparagingly be named a Yankee. In fact, I was called “Damn Yankee bitch.” It hadn’t occurred to me not to choose my favorite sweatshirt for the informal party I was attending on one of my rare days off. It was a white sweatshirt emblazoned with “I love New York”– the bright red heart front and center, bartered for on a corner one day when visiting my dad, who worked in New York City for a stretch of his career. “You love New York?” they laughed, then began quarreling about “The War of Northern Aggression,” “The problem with Northerners” and that “Yankees should go back home.” I left the party early after arguing fruitlessly, the sole proponent on the right side of history.

    Shortly afterward, it was time to go to court for the “traffic violation.” I was set to plead my case – new to town, young and hardworking, following the speed limit, no other violations … please just send me off to traffic school and allow me a discount on the fine. I never got to say a word. “Women in this judge’s court don’t show up in pants,” he drawled, dismissing me in front of the crowd.

    The fork was growing a tong.

    It would get another when I was given a photo assignment for the paper. An amateur photographer, I was asked to ride with the lead shooter to a rally to see if one my shots might be good enough to accompany a story we were planning to bury in the back. It turned out, my photo was selected out of the hundreds that were viewed by the editor. See, I had gotten up close to the subject – the Grand Wizard from Alabama’s Ku Klux Klan, who was leading a membership drive on the town’s courtyard steps. Upset with his presence and all that he stood for, I challenged the blue eyes like mine cowardly hidden behind his pointed hood and the man himself clad in shiny, emerald satin. I hoped my photo captured the evil he represented.

    It was time to pick up the fork.

    I walked into the bustling newsroom late that afternoon and punched my manilla time card ready for my regular work shift. But as the latest news scrolled ticker-tape-like along the top of my screen and my fellow copy editors bellowed their best headline ideas across our desks, an idea formed. I didn’t have to tolerate Rock Hill. I could leave.

    I picked up the receiver on the clunky, black desk phone at my side. And I dialed 411, requesting the number for the newspaper in the most progressive city I could imagine – The Ann Arbor News in Michigan.  

  • A free lunch isn’t enough: Get your damn Covid shot

    They say a free lunch is never free.

    That has never been truer than for my daughter Rene today, whose free chicken sandwich came with a price tag that made me cry myself to sleep.

    Rene at work

    Rene and I were FaceTiming late last night, and I asked her who had passed away in a friend’s family – I had seen a post on social media. She told me who it was and that she texted her friend, but said she didn’t ask how the relative had died. “Death happens every day. I guess I’m immune to it,” she said simply.

    Rene is 24 and immune to death? How?

    The answer fills me with sadness and rage. Covid has reared its ugly head again, and Rene is finishing graduate school in an occupational therapy program, completing a practicum in a small, rural hospital. She treats patients on the acute care floor. Because the hospital is small, she works with those who have had a stroke, are just out of surgery for a knee replacement, perhaps, and victims of car accidents.

    She has also witnessed countless deaths from Covid. “You should see the X-ray of the lungs with Covid. They have little white spots all over them,” she explained. “The man who died today was on a vent and didn’t make it. He was in his 50s.”

    Vent. It’s an ugly word she references daily.

    Nearly all of the patients who have died weren’t vaccinated. They came from small towns in the area and just didn’t think they would be affected. Because of the influx of Covid patients, the small hospital is bursting at the seams. There isn’t enough staff to treat all of the patients, and those working are exhausted. The hospital has attempted to transfer patients to a larger city nearby, but they don’t have room either. People remain in the Emergency Room for days. So, the hospital is providing free lunches to the staff to help raise morale.

    But it’s not enough.

    We need to end the pandemic, and that’s going to take all of us. Educate yourself by reading something more than social media and political media pundits. Stop this selfishness. If you are eligible, go get a damn vaccine. My daughter, her vaccinated coworkers and those who can’t be vaccinated (like children under 12) deserve more than a free lunch.

  • I Stand

    Yesterday, a friend of mine showed me a terrific photograph he had taken of a field of yellow flowers. “I’m taking a ‘photo of the day’ each day,” he shared. He is not doing it for social media, in fact, he doesn’t have a Facebook or Instagram page. The photo, he says, must be something that encourages him to stop, slow down and reflect. It’s simply for him to personally enjoy a moment during his day – to help him pause and respect something beautiful.

    I’m going to copy him, except I might blog my photo once in awhile. I have wanted to add my opinion to the controversy surrounding the NFL players taking a knee during the national anthem, and particularly my beloved Steelers remaining, unfortunately, in the locker room a few weeks ago while it played.

    I usually like my words and use a lot of them – sometimes too many – when writing. This time I’m just going to say two – “I stand” – and allow my “photo of the day” of a new flag in my little town of Maumelle, Ark., on a gloomy Sunday, to speak for itself.

  • Be who you want to be …

    I think – and believe most dog lovers would agree – that our pups teach us so many lessons. This blog, however, isn’t about loyalty, forgiveness, patience or unconditional love. This is about how a dog is teaching me how to be who I want to be.

    I struggle with perfection. I’m too much of a people-pleaser. And, to top it off, I have a “touch” of an anxiety disorder. These are issues I work on to consistently to make myself more tolerable to, well, myself, as well as those around me.

    Last year, I made the impulsive decision to adopt a dog. Another dog. And at the very worst time. Our Maltese-Yorkie mix had surgery and had to stay at the veterinarian’s office for weeks because she wasn’t mending like she should; my workload was at an all-time high; my husband, Terry, was out-of-town; and my dad was recovering from a hip replacement.

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    Violet sets the standard: Live happy and stress free.

    Because of the latter, my sister, Jennifer, was visiting Little Rock from North Carolina to help Mom and me. She was introduced to the homeless  puppy I had chosen, the one who had been rescued and somehow lived through emaciation, mange and being the runt of 27 puppies “who might not make it” after being kept in an outdoor “pen.” And she reinforced my thought that the small, plain black dog with brown eyes would be a perfect fit. The dog had lived at our vet’s office for months while she recovered, and that’s where we met her.

    Violet. My sister suggested the name, and it stuck.

    Terry and I had been thinking about another dog – a big dog – one similar to Alex, the Bullmastiff we owned early in our marriage. Or Jake, the 75-pound Catahoula who had passed away the previous year. Perhaps a Golden Retriever who could easily join me on hikes or enjoy time on our boat on the lake.

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    Violet: Perfect in every way.
    Violet is none of those. My sister called her “long dog” when we brought her home. Laura, my favorite person at our vet’s office, said she “might” get to 40 pounds. Because of her length and short legs, riding home in the car with her Jennifer jokingly said she was probably a Dachadore – a weenie dog-Labrador mix. We laughed, but inside I was seriously nervous that Violet would not be able to join me on hikes up my favorite and nearby Pinnacle Mountain or fit our lifestyle in general.

    Our Morkie came home, Dad recovered and Violet grew to 38 pounds. I sent photos to Jen who then said she was a “Boxador” – the lab in her was obvious and she was taking on a more square, Boxer-like face. And then her legs lengthened, her tail became fluffy and, well, without genetic testing it would be impossible to identify what she really is. That’s when I decided she would simply be “mine.” So I call her a “Schippador,” a Schipperke-Labrador mix. Schipperkes are Belgian dogs, and my mom is a native Belgian and we’re proud of our heritage. I brag at the dog park that she is a designer dog.

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    On a hike, and Violet would rather go than stop for a photo!
    Violet came to us just more than a year ago, and in that time she has become the ideal companion on my long hikes. She loves swimming and our boat. But the best thing is she has helped me with some of life’s struggles. She didn’t have to be a purebred Bullmastiff or Golden Retriever to be wonderful. I can’t own Violet and a perfect home. Her muddy paws and shedding hair prevent that. But I’m in love with Violet, and am learning – slowly – to let go of perfection.

    And she doesn’t have to be a people-pleaser. In fact, she is far from it. Violet is  friendly, but clearly prefers Terry and me.  She even growls or barks at those who pass by our front door. So I am beginning to remember – like her – to spend more time with my favorite people, and that there are some out there I probably shouldn’t snarl at, but they would be best avoided or allowed to walk on by – people-pleasing be damned.

    puddle
    Violet can make anything fun. No lake? A puddle will do.
    And that anxiety part, well that’s where Violet helps most. She’s always up for a good walk, hike up a mountain or swim in any lake – or puddle – for that matter. After time doing any one of those with her, I can’t help but feeling more relaxed.

    Violet is a exactly who  she wants to be – a fun, stick-loving, friendly, non-perfect, anxiety-free, non-people-pleasing Schippador. She is teaching me to be the person I want to be, too.

    And that’s more like my dog.

  • On Dogs, Hiking and Marriage – My Happy Anniversary Note

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    Favorite photo! Terry and I recently at the wedding of our son Kyle to Felicia.

    Tuesday Terry and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary, and I’m proud of us. Maintaining a marriage isn’t easy, especially a happy one, which I consider ours. Are we perfect?  Heck no. But traveling through life, day-by-day, with a partner you love, respect and genuinely have fun with is, well, amazing. I have been reflecting quite a bit lately on the last 25 years, and a few weeks ago I came to a unique conclusion. My life with Terry is much like – and bear with me here – the the hikes I take with my dog Violet.When this wise analogy hit me, my black lab-mix and I were trekking through the trails at Burns Park in North Little Rock, hoping to complete a 7.2-mile trail. That didn’t happen. Even though I have an app on my phone that marks our progress and tells me where we are, we still managed to get ourselves lost.

    So basically, at the end of the day, we didn’t end up where we intended. And neither have Terry and I. In fact, if you had asked me 25 years ago, as a newlywed enjoying friends and life in Toledo, Ohio, if I would ever live in Little Rock, Ark., the answer would be a resounding NO! Yet we have not only lived here, we have thrived – raising two remarkable children and embracing the Natural State. We have camped, boated, hiked, biked and run. We don’t know where we will go next – or even if we will stay here or move. I do know this – we will do it together.

    While Violet and I were on that recent hike, I noted a few other things that reminded me of my marriage. First, sometimes Violet – who is off-leash – is the leader. Other times she lags behind. That’s true with Terry and me. There have been occasions when I have accomplished something impressive with Terry’s encouragement – running a marathon while he cheered me on, or earning my yellow belt in Krav Maga, a mixed-martial art. Other times I follow Terry. That was the case when he took important job promotions and I trailed him to new city – South Bend, Ind., Las Vegas and Little Rock, Ark.

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    See Violet up there … the tiny, black speck? This would be one of the times she took the lead and got too far ahead.

    One of the things Violet does that I appreciate is that when she gets too far ahead on the trail, she comes to a quick stop, then peers quizzically back to ensure I’m safe. In our marriage, we do that, too. When one person – and usually it’s me – gets too far ahead with a plan or idea (or even heads out on a solo run in a remote area, maybe), Terry is there to keep me in check or to check on me to make certain I’m safe.And then there are the times Violet or I might stray off the trail. A squirrel will rustle the leaves, and Violet darts after it, only to return a few minutes later to her spot on the trail. I may wander off, too, especially if it I have my camera and there is a beautiful flower or tree to photograph, while Violet patiently waits. Similarly, I have strayed off life’s trail. I endured a major anxiety attack and subsequent depression a couple of years ago that literally and figuratively took me off course. Terry waited patiently, making me smoothies when I couldn’t eat and telling me over and over that I would be OK. And I was.

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    Here’s where she freezes, gives the look-back and waits for me to catch up. There’s that pink tongue I talk about!

    When hiking, Violet and I really never know what to expect. Sometimes, the trail is arduous, I have had a difficult week, and the uphills are tough. She waits on me. Other times, her pink tongue hanging out and her head flopping low, I pause until she is ready. I have water we share (no worries, I pour hers in a plastic bowl I carry in my backpack) and we move on together when we’re both recovered.I’ll be honest. Violet has been impatient when I have taken too long of a break and vice versa. I’m fairly sure that’s true of Terry and me. There have been adventures in life Terry has been more ready for – moving to Little Rock for example. There have been other things I have embraced more readily – like buying a boat or taking on a second dog. In the end, like Violet and I, we encourage each other, wait for the other to be ready and move forward together.

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    This is an oldie but goodie and a photo I love.

    I’m glad to have a hiking partner in Violet. She makes me feel safe and protected when we’re out on the trails. I’m even more grateful for Terry, who protects me from real fears and imaginary worries. And I thank God for two partners who love me unconditionally. Whether or not I deserve to be blessed with either one of them is for another blog – maybe in another 25 years. I love you Terry. Happy anniversary.– Deb

  • Help from Jesus and a Team of Six

    Last night, at the week-long educaiton communications industry conference where I’m nestled in Nashville to study the trade secrets of all things public relations, I was blessed. Yes, I know the Marriott Renaissance Convention Center does not sound like a trip to the Holy Land, but for someone with a severe anxiety disorder who can worry incessantly about almost everything — doing the right thing, her family, working hard enough, etc. — it was.

    FullSizeRender (5)
    Here is my team of worry dolls. I took one out so you could see how intricate and tiny they are … especially to have such power.

    Because I earned worry dolls! 

    My team is here partly to claim beautiful awards earned for hard work in branding and other achievements from a national organization that judges the best of the best. But frankly, I’m convinced my new worry dolls might be better than any plaque I could receive.

    See, the speaker in one of the seminars I attended rewarded participants for asking a question, and, for perhaps the first time ever, I received a prize for opening my big mouth. I don’t remember my question. I do recall the speaker, a funny, articulate, intelligent communications professional now living in Guatemala, tossing me a little box as a “gift.”

    And a gift it was. The bright yellow box held very tiny, handmade, worry dolls, and, to be honest, if I don’t learn one darn thing at this conference, the trip will have been worth it just to be rewarded with these little guys. Here’s what the tiny piece of paper in the wee box reads: GUATEMALA WORRY DOLL — There is a legend amongst the Highland Indian villages of Guatemala. “If you have a problem, then share it with a  worry doll. Before going to bed, tell one worry to each doll, then place them beneath your pillow, whilst you sleep, the dolls will take your worries away.”

    That’s not how the speaker and my gift-giver explained it, and I’m going with her version. She said that all you have to do is put the box on your nightstand and pop it open. The dolls will sense your worries and tackle them overnight. Done.

    Here’s why I think her explanation works just fine. Not only because there are only six little guys in the box, and I typically have many more worries than that, but also because I am a Christian. I believe in Jesus Christ, and that He answers my prayers. But last night, alone in my hotel room, I felt inordinately overwhelmed. So instead of praying silently like I am typically prone to do, I prayed out loud, just for fun so the dolls could hear. I prayed for Jesus to watch over my daughter, Rene, working insanely hard this week at mission camp in hot and humid Northern Arkansas (and using a CIRCULAR SAW to help build a wheelchair ramp for a paralyzed woman in need), and for my husband, Terry, who was undertaking a giant job repurposing our deck while tackling other home improvement projects and Kyle, my overachieving son who is studying at college in Texas for the GRE while working on multiple research projects and doesn’t have time to breathe. 

    If this wouldn't give you reason to worry -- but to also to be incredibly proud -- what would?
    If this wouldn’t give you reason to worry — but to also to be incredibly proud — what would?

    This morning, I woke up feeling refreshed, and didn’t jump for my wireless phone for any word of possible tragedy from my home team like I might be predisposed to do. I believe Jesus heard me talking to this posse of six. My new gift prompted prayer, and I spoke to them. But He got the message — loud, actually really loud — and clear. Furthermore, I’ll even say I believe He was the one who ensured I got tossed the pretty, handmade, hopeful dolls crafted by loving people who want to diminish worries in the first place. Because I needed them. They helped me to pray outwardly. Those prayers brought me peace. My peace led to sleep. Content, I rested well and awoke to a hopeful, new day.

    And Jesus, who must have an extraordinary sense of humor to deal with culprits like me, probably got a good laugh thinking I was not only talking to Him, but hoping six tiny guys in a box just might be present for an assist. I’m going on record saying He deserved the laugh, and I deserved the sleep. Win-win.

    Guatemalans may credit worry dolls, and I’m going to give them a shout-out, too. However, my real thanks goes to Jesus, who has watched over me on this road trip, who continues to bless my family and who is keeping my panic disorder and worry at an arm’s length, for now. 

    The six are going home with me and will find a special place on my nightstand. I mean, it can’t hurt. And I earned them, after all.

  • A “Gold”en Lesson

    Remember before reading: I don’t envision these essays to be great works of writing. The words are not intended to inspire amazing change in the world or cause anyone to take deliberate pause. They are merely a way for me to share stories of my life and thoughts, or day, mostly with Kyle and Rene – my two kids. I want to leave something behind so they know who I was, the ideas that streamed through my mind and what was what. In my own words.

    I say that so when I write about the goldfish in my pond it won’t seem completely ridiculous.

    Most people who know me remember that Rene, my BFF Dan and I built a pond in my backyard years ago, and it is truly one of my life’s greatest delights. I enjoy growing gorgeous lilies and have experimented with other water gardening. The birds in my (National. Wildlife. Certified. Backyard. Yes. I. Am. Totally. Bragging.) relish refreshing baths and drinks in the hot Arkansas summers.

    FullSizeRender (4) My pond … see the waterfall on the right? You can even spot a couple of the orange fish!

    So this evening I was in the yard watering plants and replenishing the pond with fresh water. At this point I should also add that most people who know me well also know I have a serious anxiety disorder and suffer from panic attacks. I regularly see an amazing “life coach” – Dr. Rose Smith. (OK, she’s a psychologist, but doesn’t life coach make me sound so much more like I’m a movie star or that I have have my act together?) I met with Rose yesterday, and we practiced mindfulness, which is when you experience just being in a moment rather than constantly having to do something. I have a problem with always having to “do” when I need to just “be.” Mindfulness is an activity that reduces stress. So I thought, as I was standing there with the hose and my glass of wine, I’ll just practice some mindfulness. I decided to focus on the fish, to just enjoy their vibrant colors while observing them swimming through the water, witnessing their beauty and how they like being together frolicking in the cool water I was spraying.

    But my mind wandered.

    And where it went was to one of my handful of goldfish – the ordinary ole’ fantail that was someone’s “rehomed” pet years ago – who had developed large, grotesque, bumps all over its body recently. I focused on that fish and those excitedly dancing around it in the water pouring in. I noticed, as I had in the past, that the fantail was just one of the half-dozen fish that travel together in a school of sorts. And here’s the thing: The gorgeous white fish, the large, leader-of-the pack vibrant orange fish and the rest of the players in the pond didn’t really care that the fantail is ugly. They just swam together. They like each other equally. Their different colors, their disfigurements, well, they just didn’t matter.

    IMG_8813 Here’s the pack! The little guy on the bottom is the one with the growths … but nobody seems to notice.

    I wish we could all live in my pond.

    In my experience, particularly where I live now in Little Rock, Arkansas, the color of your fish scales matters. You are treated differently for it. And that’s not all. In the real world, if you are dissimilar in any way – say, you are a six-foot-tall woman – someone has to point that out. Daily. I expect that is the same if you are a burn victim, have scars, are overweight, have adult acne, are short or bald, sport a prosthetic, are wheelchair bound, wear funny glasses or are diverse in any way.

    You’re not allowed to really swim with the other fish.

    Basically, today’s mindfulness exercise failed. I didn’t maintiain focus on the beauty of the moment and experience it without a nomadic mind. But, as Rose says, that’s OK. I may not have benefitted from a relaxation exercise, but I certainly appreciated the opportunity to reflect, for a moment, on the absolute truth. And to stretch my mind to think that it is not only OK, but perhaps even great, to be different.

    I’m going to try harder to be like the fish in my pond. When I come across that one with growths all over its body, I’m going to ignore the deformities. I’m going to be excited that I’m in the moment, and attempt to be mindful and enjoy that someone is spraying cool water on us on a ridiculously hot day. I will relish those who are unique and swim with them. Without judgement.

    Equally important, when some fish don’t want to swim with me, which they often don’t, I’m going to be alright. Or at least I’m going to try.

    That, I admit, may even be harder.

  • Having the Ears to Move on

    Rene Lee Roush is absolutely ready to leave small town Maumelle, Ark., this fall to head out-of-state to Ole Miss and begin her college life, and life in general, without us. How do I know she’s got this? Well, for starters, her ears are big enough. Whether I’m ready to let her go is a different story, but I think I am getting closer. Let me be clear: She’s my baby, and it is not going to be easy.

    But back to the ears. I’m talking about bunny ears, so let me clarify.

    We moved to Maumelle in the fall of 1998, and that Easter, Rene was a toddling one-year-old. My sister, Jennifer, and her husband, Ron, visited us, and we rose early for the annual city Easter egg hunt. My recollection of that morning is this: They sounded the horn that started the madness. There were vibrant colored, plastic eggs “hidden” everywhere at the popular park, Lake Willastein. Rene found her first egg, opened it, eyed that it had candy in it, plopped herself down to tear into the candy and had no interest in going anywhere else. After prompting, pulling, and pointing out that there were more candy-filled eggs, she moved on, ending up (with the help of her overly competitive, adult family members) with a full basket of eggs.

    Rene and Kyle with Aunt Jenny and Uncle Ron in 1999
    Rene and Kyle with Aunt Jenny and Uncle Ron in 1999

    When Kyle, her older brother, and Rene were young, the Easter egg hunt was not to be missed if we were in town. Eggs were filled not only with candy, but also with pieces of paper with a “prize” written on them that you could redeem for a stuffed animal or cash. And of course, the Easter Bunny was there. Rene was terrified of the Easter Bunny in her early years. In fact, I could take the opportunity to post many photos of Rene with bunnies and Santas with her screaming in fear, but that would just embarrass her. And me for forcing her to endure them.

    Rene. With her one egg.
    Rene. With her one egg.

    I never paid attention to how those amazing Easter egg hunts, bringing together the city’s families, were coordinated. I just enjoyed them. Now I know. It’s because of a dedicated group of high school students who are part of the Maumelle Youth Council – the kids with a top grade point average, leadership skills and a willingness to help others. Rene is one of them. They represent the city’s youth at the city council meetings, learn about civics and most importantly, give back to the community. They rake leaves at the local cemetery, for example. And they are the ones buying and stuffing thousands of eggs, then rising at the crack of dawn to scatter them for the little ones to hunt.

    Also, they choose an Easter Bunny to visit with and take photos with the kids. This year, the bunny was Rene. She was perfect for the job, which, frankly, in my opinion, made her more important today, 2015’s Easter egg hunt, than the mayor. She is smart, having worked diligently at her education throughout the years. She is spirited, after dedicating herself to being not only a cheerleader, but a member of Belle Raisers, her school’s spirit club that encourages other students. And she loves helping people, whether it is painting the fingernails for the elderly ladies at an adult daycare center, working to build handicapped ramps every summer through Ozark Mission Project, or yes, serving as the Easter Bunny.

    So when Rene left the house this morning very, very early, I was teary. I remembered that day so long ago when my little, blonde cutie hunted her own egg(s). I was filled with pride that she was willing to give up a Saturday morning to skip sleeping in and instead go hide the eggs for another one-year-old who would be so excited about her first egg she would plop herself down to enjoy it.

    Even better was the fact that, like 16 years ago when Jen and Ron supported Rene, our family was there for her again today. I got an unexpected text from my mom with a photo of my dad and the Easter Bunny. Grandma and Grandpa went to the Easter egg hunt to encourage their bunny.

    These last few months have been preparing us for Rene leaving. She committed to the University of Mississippi to study pediatric occupational therapy. She cheered at her last ballgames. Her graduation dress arrived. But it was this morning, when I saw her in the photo in her bunny suit with those long, white ears, that I realized they were a symbol illustrating how far she has come.

    There she was, still in the town she grew up in, cheered on by family who loves her, in a crazy outfit to make others happy. I might not be completely ready yet for Rene to go out and conquer the world, but she is.

    She wore the ears today to prove it.

    Grandpa with his bunny today
    Grandpa with his bunny today

  • Two Former Journalists: Deb Roush and Brian Williams

    I have let myself cool off for a week after reading countless social media posts in defense of NBC journalist and anchor Brian Williams, who falsely claimed to be hit by gunfire while riding in a helicopter when covering the Iraq war. Though many of the posts I read called Mr. Williams out for what he is – a fraud – countless others defended him. The news “won’t be the same without him.” It’s “not that big of a deal.” He “didn’t lie any worse than members of Congress” and “But he’s my favorite, and I can’t wait until he’s back,” they said. “I forgive him.”

    Here’s why that bugs me so much.

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    My senior year in high school when I was hating math and deciding what to do with my life. Top row, obviously.
    In high school, I wasn’t a top student. Algebra mystified me. Science eluded me. History bored me. I had no talent for music or the arts. I didn’t enjoy grammar necessarily – but I loved to read and write. When it came time to head to college, I chose a journalism program. It wasn’t because I believed I had great skill; it was more as a default. At Bowling Green State University in Ohio, which was ranked as one of the top journalism schools in the nation at the time, I discovered my passion. Through the years of coursework and working at the daily paper, The BG News, eventually as its managing editor, I learned to skillfully craft stories through the art of news-editorial journalism. That is not writing essays like this one. It is not penning opinion columns. It is researching and interviewing subjects and accurately putting their stories together to tell a larger tale. To reveal a truth. You rarely use fancy adjectives. Instead, you carefully weave the exact words of those involved in the subject matter to detail what and how and why to the reader.

    There is an element of journalism that is critical, and that is ethics. Professor Dennis Hale, my Journalism Law and Ethics professor, was very serious about it. All good journalists are. Put simply, it means journalists don’t twist the truth. They don’t add words someone did not say to make their story more interesting, and they certainly don’t lie – whether it’s in print or in person – about a story or a source.

    My career in journalism was short. I worked as a reporter and then a copy editor before I “joined the dark side,” as my journalism friends said. I became a public relations professional. Yes, I still write. But I also promote. I invent quotes in press releases, and my job is to make my clients look their best – always. That means I no longer tell people’s stories word for word. I’m not the one who reveals truths and works to ensure accountability in government. I don’t inform the public of important happenings. I don’t expose corruption.

    busphoto
    Me today in my current role in public relations for the Pulaski County Special School District.
    So I have to call myself a “former” journalist. And I hate that. Journalism was a place I excelled. No, I didn’t work for The Boston Globe or The Chicago Tribune. Or NBC News. I won a few awards for my contributions to local publications that I’m still so proud of they hang in my home office. More importantly, being a journalist was who I was. As a former journalist, I held true to what it meant to be one. I didn’t embellish, lie or make myself – or someone else – look better in print.

    While the nightly NBC newscast won’t be the same without him, and members of Congress lie too, and he was a favorite so I will forgive him, Brian Williams needs to be a former journalist. Because, like me, he just doesn’t qualify for the job anymore.

    It may be sad. But that, at least, is the truth.

  • My Front-Side Life

    We have a mountain not too far from our home — Pinnacle Mountain — and when Terry is golfing on weekends, that’s the place you can often find me. When I climb alone, my thoughts wander, and on one recent expedition my mind traveled to how similar climbing a mountain is to life. Of course, I’m not the first one to make this revealing comparison. Heck, even Miley Cyrus figured it out in her song The Climb:

    “Keep on movin’
    Keep climbin’
    Keep the faith baby
    It’s all about, it’s all about the climb
    Keep the faith, keep your faith …”

    But Pinnacle Mountain can literally stand as a symbol of my life, and here’s how: There are multiple ways to summit Pinnacle. You can climb the “back side,” which, laden with tumbled boulders, is an arduous workout, or the “front side,” which begins with a path and is significantly less daunting. Both have trail markers to follow to direct you to the top, but it is easier to wander off course on the twists and turns of the back side. Either way, you sweat getting to the top, and it’s going to take some time. I’m blessed to have a front-side life. I was raised by two loving parents who live down the road. They paid for my college education that led to a rewarding career that allows me to write — my passion. I have a patient, supportive husband I have loved for half my life, and our two children, both who attended private schools and one who is a junior at Texas Christian University, have led front-side lives, too. I am proud to have contributed to that. More and more, I meet people — friends — who have back-side lives, and I am overwhelmed with respect for them. There are those who paid for their own college educations while working full time or been a success without one at all. Some have lost parents at a young age. Others have experienced tremendous personal loss or tragedies or forged the trail alone. Yet they made it to the top, with a full view of the beauty of the river and the valley below.

    Pinnacle Mountain also has a base trail. If you can’t climb up, you can hike around the fairly flat terrain of the lower mountain. Admittedly, there have been times in my life I just could not go up. I was on my front-side climb when I was knocked off course, and circles around the base trail were as much as I could do. That was the case when my mom was diagnosed with cancer several years ago. It happened last year, when I suffered a major anxiety attack that led to depression. It was the worst time in my life. For months, I lost my zest for living, my love for anything that had been meaningful in the past and a desire not only to quit climbing, but even to walk. Mental illness runs in our family. Generalized anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder, panic disorder — you name it, and we have it on my father’s side of the family. For me, my depression led to several months on the base trail, but I’m climbing up again now.

    That leads me to how you can start climbing again — whether it is the front or back — after you have been relegated to the base trail for a stint. I think it’s simple. It is the people climbing with you through life who choose to come back down, extend their hand and pull you up to the next trail marker. You might climb awhile on your own, and if you stumble, they come back down for you again and point the way. Soon enough, you’re climbing independently. Let me tell you from experience, it’s not always the people you would expect who take the time to turn around for you. It may not be your best friend. It may not even be your family. Sometimes it is not those people because we do not let them know we need help. Or the person we most want to lean on might be on the base trail themselves at the time. (Continued below)

    p2
    You can see how important the trail markers are on the climb up the back side of Pinnacle Mountain.

    P3
    These photos were taken on a day I had my Nikon with me when I was hiking alone. It turned into a half-day climb, and I captured every trail marker from multiple angles.

    P1
    Thank you to those who have turned around to help me find life’s trail markers.

    I chose not to climb Pinnacle Mountain today. Terry is golfing. The weather is great. I had planned on it. Instead, I wanted to get this essay out of my mind and into words. Not only for me — but for those who came back down from their front- or back-side climbs when I needed them. You know who you are. I love the people with whom I’m climbing through life. I appreciate you all, and I’m thankful for front-side living. The one thing my depression, and my hiking of Pinnacle has taught me, is a willingness to turn around and look back from where I am. The view is breathtaking on the way to the top, and sometimes you see someone who needs a trail marker pointed out, or even a hand to grab.

    P.S. For the record, when I climb Pinnacle, I head up the back side, down the front and back to my car traversing the base trail. I like a challenge. 🙂

About Me

I’m Deb. I write for a living but not enough for fun, so that’s why I’m here. I want to share my stories and read yours here on Wordpress. Click on one of my recent posts below and let me know what you think. xoxo

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