In praise of Large Print books: "Seeing is Believing"

Wichita, 1962. I read Tom Swift and Hardy Boys books in bed with my Boy Scout flashlight. It was after the parents’ call for “lights out” and a brighter light might have awakened my brother who would want to talk about trains. He spent many hours with his model trains, vowing that one day he would pilot locomotives across the prairie. Instead, he learned the air traffic controller trade in the USAF and spent his career assisting pilots through the crowded skies.

I am about to turn 75 and I need more than a Boy Scout flashlight to read at night or any other time. Kindle, you might say, with its lit screen and adjustable type. Done and done. I love my Kindle. I’ve read some smashing books on it. Big ones, too. In 2022, I read “The Dark Forest” by Cixun Liu, the second book in the “Three-Body Problem” series. A long one at 528 pages. It was a slog sometimes, but the highs outnumbered the lows. Made me watch the first part of the Netflix series and make sense of it. Part Two coming up! 

I always miss holding an actual book. Something magical about sliding a book from a library shelf and opening it to that first page. The feel of it, the smell, the look. Lately I’ve been exploring the Large Print section at the Ormond Beach Public Library. It features lobby racks of new LP books in a section dedicated to donors. In the stacks, the library features aisle after aisle of LP books and CD books for the audible (and Audible) oriented. LP can stand for large print and also LP as in Long-Playing records. LP, record, or album – all terms we used for our 1970s purchases from Peaches. We played those Zeppelin disks long and often and appreciated their albums of songs which live in our bones. We annoyed our children by singing them badly and loudly on car trips. For them, LP might mean Loud Pops.

During my many decades at libraries, I paid little attention to the Large Print sections. They’ve grown as Americans age, especially our large cohort of Baby Boomers. Us. Me.

In the Ormond Beach Public Library’s “Miscellaneous Large Print” section, I saw a red trade paperback that outshone the others and plucked it out. It was “These Precious Days,” a collection of essays by Ann Patchett. I recently read (on Kindle) my first Patchett novel, “The Dutch House” and loved it. Beautiful writing, compelling characters, and a story I wasn’t sure about sometimes. But by the end, I was impressed with the tale of the Conroy family and their creaky old house outside Philadelphia. The writer made me pay attention to the characters as the story unwound and that takes skill. I will read more.

I just did. I checked out Patchett’s essays and read them. With an essay collection, the reader can pick and choose.  “A Talk to the Association of Graduate School Deans in the Humanities” was not my first choice. A bit dry, perhaps, nothing like “The Paris Tattoo” or “Eudora Welty: An Introduction,” Welty one of my favorite writers.

When I got to it, her talk to the humanities deans grabbed me. She wrote about her days as a grad student at the Iowa Writers Workshop. It was around the same time I went to the grad school MFA program at Colorado State University in the last half of the 1980s. There was a generational difference (she 22, me 37) and a gender one. But our experiences were similar in several ways. She had some great teachers and mentors but also some not-so-good ones. She scrambled to make ends meet and so did I. Her fellow students could be annoying but you put a bunch of creatives in cramped quarters and you get conflict. She sums it up: “My MFA showed me the importance of community.” That was my reason to do it and I did find community.

Patchett’s essays are marvelous, as marvelous as her novels (see my comments on “The Dutch House”). I was impressed by the cover art, a painting of the author’s dog Sparky by artist Sooki Raphael. The title essay is about Patchett’s friendship with the artist. It’s long, as essays go (88 pages), but it’s the heart of the book. Feel free to cry.

I was pleased to see that Patchett’s essay collection was issued by Harper Large Print, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Harper Large Print had a farewell message for me and other LP readers:

“Light and easy to read, Harper Large Print paperbacks are for the book lovers who want to see what they are reading without strain. For a full listing of titles and new releases to come, please visit our website: www.hc.com.”

This final thought in all caps: “SEEING IS BELIEVING!”

Remember all those great songs about getting a letter, or not getting one?

The Letter

Wait a Minute Mr. Postman 

Return to Sender 

P.S. I Love You

Take a Letter, Maria

A Dear John Letter

Just a few of the pop songs about the good and bad of mail. Youthful memories, from a time when getting a letter meant getting A LETTER. Might be good news such as a letter from an old friend, birthday card from grandpa, or fan mail from some flounder, or not-so-good, say a missive from Selective Service, the IRS, a fed-up girlfriend. 

And yes, this is grousing from a Baby Boomer. Mail has lost its cachet. But mail still gets delivered, or not, depending on who's doing the delivery. Our postal delivery in Ormond Station has been dismal. Mail sent to us in June that was supposed to be forwarded to our new address was never forwarded. I got a call from my former employer in Wyoming that asked for my new address. She said mail sent to our address on Ocean Shore Drive was not forwarded to Melogold Drive but just returned to sender, as in the song. Somehow it missed a step. We put in a forwarding request before we moved. I dialed in my new address to address change sites for credit cards, car payments, payees like Dell and Lowes, and often it responded that there is no address. It was odd, since I was living in this new address and as far as I knew, it existed as did my wife and I. Now, houses in our Groveside neighborhood were still getting their finishing touches and some had yet to sell, but it seems like the P.O., a very large and respected organization, would have the Internet, GPS, drones, even printed maps at its disposal, the combined knowledge of thousands of postpersons, and they could figure this out. But they did not.

I have great memories of the mailman, as that person was known in my youth. They walked routes in those days. They had tales of ferocious dogs and snarling customers. They told of days cold enough to freeze your keisters and hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. 

Our woman delivery person in Cheyenne was the friendliest person I know, always with a greeting and mail that might mean something or might mean nothing. She wore arctic gear in January and plowed through snow-packed roads in those funny little vehicles. My brother Tim delivered the mail in Daytona Beach until a brain tumor took hold. I shared cardiac rehab with a woman younger than me that sometimes arrived at rehab in her uniform. One day, both of us on treadmills, chatting, she had a follow-up heart attack and quick response by rehab nurses brought her back. 

The U.S. Mail meant something. Lots of great songs. The Beatles, of course, and Elvis. 

I was 16 when "The Letter" by the Box Tops climbed the charts to number one. I viewed it on YouTube and I would post a link here but I never know if it will work down the line. Go watch it. The band members look high. A flashback to 1967. Vocalist was the great Alex Chilton. Joe Cocker had a big hit with it too. 

"A Dear John Letter" was a hit in 1953 by Ferlin Husky and Jean Shepard. In it, a young woman writes to her boyfriend under fire in Korea that she is dumping him for his brother. I'd like to think the song spawned the term we use now, but I've heard World War 2 soldiers talk about Dear John letters. Maybe it goes back even farther than that. What say, history buffs?

"Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Books" brings comic relief to the book-banning hubbub

In several Wyoming communities, including Casper, Gillette, Lander and Sheridan, some members of the public have turned typically staid school board meetings into chaos by clamoring to have all LGBTQ-themed or sex-related books -- even textbooks -- pulled from shelves.--Kerry Drake, WyoFile, May 21, 2024

Add Cheyenne to the list.

Author Kirsten Miller's new novel takes its cue from the recent book-banning tide by Moms for Liberty and other right-wing groups. While whiney complainers go ballistic over books in schools and libraries that feature minority and LBGTQ characters, Miller's book provides us with some welcome comic relief.

“Lula Dean’s Little Library of Banned Books” is a rollicking novel about this most timely of subjects. I cared for the characters – even the bad guys -- and I ploughed ahead to find out what happens to book banner Lula Dean and Little Library saboteur whose name I won’t reveal here because it was so nice to shout “Ah ha!” when that character is revealed. One of the pleasures of reading is anticipating what happens on the next page. Our protagonist finds a way to use Lula Dean’s library to get banned books into the hands of everyday people in the town.

If you have ever come across a Little Library in your neighborhood, it’s like finding a treasure. A Little Library is as quirky as the people who install these distinctive structures in their front yard and stock it with books. It might feature one topic, say astronomy or gardening or children’s literature. A little librarian who is a fiction fan might stock mysteries or cowboy romances or just a hodgepodge of novels set in 18^th century France, Mars of the future, or modern-day Manhattan.

In a county library, books are arranged just so by trained librarians. You want “Beloved” by Toni Morrison, you stroll to the fiction section and find it under M. If confused, you can look up the location on the library’s bank of computers. And, this may seem quaint and outdated, but you also can ask a librarian. They are very helpful.

In Lula Dean’s case, she is so outraged by some of the “filth” foisted on unsuspecting teen readers. ] Lula Dean stocks her library with hardcover books on wholesome subjects. Titles include “The Art of Crochet,” “Contract with America,” “Manhood: The Masculine Virtues America Needs,” and “Buffy Halliday Goes to Europe.” It won’t be long before a bored teen turns into a dedicated saboteur who will muck up Lula Dean’s efforts to invoke the tenets spelled out in Project 2025.

Crystal Moore is a textbook housewife until she sees her husband cheating on her with a cashier at the local Piggly Wiggly. Desperate, she goes to Lula’s library to find a way to win back her husband. She picks “The Rules: Time-tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right.” Once she starts reading she discovers the book is “All Women are Witches: Find Your Power and Put it to Use.” The preacher’s daughter is shocked, at first, but starts reading and finds some helpful advice that might “keep Janelle Hopkins’ giant boobs away from my husband.” 

Well, first she wanders into the woods to pick up items for a love potion from the "Witches" book. She gets lost in the woods and unleashes a string of obscenities that might not win her Mother of the Year honors. She finds a pond, strips, and goes swimming. She dries off by the pond and is absorbed by nature. She’s still there when the sun sets and the moon rises. Next thing she knows, it’s morning and a search party is calling out her name. She returns home but life is never going to be the same for her husband and family or the town of Troy. Its residents find secret texts in Lula’s library and put them to good use.

The author, who grew up in North Carolina, sets the novel in a small community in  Georgia. Why not some little town in the Carolinas or possibly even Wyoming? Why not, indeed (see the intro quote). Georgia has featured heavily in the Christian Right’s effort to take away books from our kids and eventually (we know it’s coming) from adult readers and even crotchety old guy readers such as myself. Georgia is not all MAGA hats and smoke-belching pickups. It’s also home to liberal Atlanta with its thousands of curious readers as well as Tyler Perry’s groundbreaking movie studio. Georgia is also home to Athens which enlivened the independent music scene with R.E.M., the B-52s, and Widespread Panic. Georgia-based Jimmy Carter and Habitat for Humanity practice the “woke” Bible with good deeds for communities across the globe.

We are reminded daily that not every burg wants to ban books. But there are too many that are. Ignoramuses with Bible in hand and a seething resentment they can’t explain serve on too many local school boards in every Wyoming county.  

This hubbub may eventually die down and readers decades from now may wonder what the fuss was about. I’m reminded of Carl Hiaasen’s book “Squeeze Me” and its predatory humans and Burmese pythons. The book’s only four years old and man what a fun ride it was. We had hoped that by this time the book’s main character, a certain human predator in South Florida, would be gone from the political stage. But he’s not. Someone should write a book about it.

Miller was inspired, finished the book in record time, and Harper Collins wasted little time in getting it into our hands. The publishing process is agonizingly slow so credit goes to Miller, her agent, proofreaders, and HC.

The big question: Do satires ever do any good? “Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb” is now 60 years old and me and everyone else in Wyoming’s Capital City are surrounded by nuclear missiles that could wipe out humankind at the punch of a button. Know-it-alls who want to tell the rest of us what to do and what to read have always been with us. The pungent film “Idiocracy” is now seen as a documentary. The brilliant “Catch-22” and “Slaughterhouse Five” did little to stop warfare. What’s the point?

The point is that fine books such as “Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl,” “Fahrenheit 451,” and “The Handmaid’s Tale” have something important to tell us. People who read are more informed and more engaged citizens. Maybe that’s what Lula Dean and her crowd are afraid of.

That’s exactly what they are afraid of.

 

 

Poets give voice to the voiceless gunned down in their schools

 

Reposted from a friend's Facebook page. Introduced me to a U.S. poet with Front Range connections whose work I didn't know. It brilliantly says what I am finding so hard to put into words. Thanks to Matt Hohner who has an MFA from Naropa University in Boulder. A friendly nod to Sam Hamill who published so much wonderful work at Copper Canyon Press during his time on the planet. He also initiated Poets Against the War to protest the 2003 Iraq War. 

Book banning in Gillette: A Wyoming story

The American Library Association wrapped up Banned Books Week and now there are no banned books in the land.

Wishful thinking. Know Nothings keep intruding into our book-reading lives. The most recent and newsworthy attempt comes from Gillette in Campbell County. The first salvo came when a few crackpots decided that the library should disinvite an LGBTQ author slated to give a children's workshop. The library received threats. The author received threats. For safety's sake, the author cancelled her appearance and the library moved on to other things. That included fielding challenges for various books, most with LGBTQ subject matter. As staff sorted through the complaints from a cabal of Christian Nationalist zealots, they celebrated Banned Books Week. The county commission held a hearing in which the following exchange occurred (as noted in an Oct. 4 Casper Star-Trib article):

On Sept. 27, during a meeting between the library board and commissioners, Commissioner Del Shelstad suggested cutting the library’s funding.

He said the library shouldn’t come asking the county for more money because in his opinion, “we shouldn’t fund you at all.”

Commissioner D.G. Reardon, who had called into the meeting, asked if he’d heard Shelstad correctly, and if Shelstad meant he wanted to close down the library.

Shelstad said he wanted to cut funding to the library, and ”if that means closing it, then we close it.”

Shelstad received a salvo of complaints and a few days later he back-tracked, sort of:

“I didn’t mean 100% of their funding,” he said. “I said cut their funding. That comes in a lot of shapes and sizes.”

A threat is a threat. He obviously supports and/or is threatened by the naysayers in the county. We know who those people are. Trumpsters. People who go to extremes to “own the libs.” The see any diversity initiative as a threat to their ignorance, which it is. There is a voting bloc of these people and their influence is felt every day at the library, in the media, county commission meetings, and at the polls.

Gillette parent Matt Heath, who spoke up for the library at the commission meeting, summed it up: "hypocrites and bullies need to be stood up against."

Amen, brother. These dogged bullies have always been with us. Trump unleashed them. It is too much to hope they go back into their hidey-holes. We must out-vote and out-talk them. Support your local library. Read a banned book today. And vote, as our complacency as people who value democratic principles have allowed this to happen. Far-right politicians and legislative bodies continue to suppress voting rights and gerrymander the hell out of our states. Misinformation spreads freely.

So get out there, go do that voodoo that you do so well. 

Remembering my mother on another birthday we can't celebrate with her

My mother's birthday is today. Anna Marie Shay would have been 95 had she lived. She died in 1986 at 59, 11 years younger than I am now. Ovarian cancer was the culprit and it was discovered too late to give her much hope. She was a fighter. I was able to get my family to Daytona to see her in February of that year, less than two months before she died. She got to meet my one-year-old son, Kevin. I'll always treasure the photos I have of the two of them together. She's looking out for him which is a good thing as he's needed a lot of looking-after. My daughter, Annie Marie, is named for her and her other grandma who also was born Anna Marie. 

Anne, Ann, and Anna are all English derivations of the Hebrew name, Hannah. It means favor or grace. English, French and Russian queens have been named Anne. One Anne (Boleyn) met a gruesome end at the hands of Henry VIII. Anne of Green Gables is a wonderful literary character. Novels feature many Annes. The name is featured in three Shakespeare plays: Henry VIII, Richard III, and The Merry Wives of Windsor. Almost as popular as Elizabeth, Margaret and Valentine. Valentine?

My mother was a nurse. She mothered her hospital staff by day and her nine kids at night and weekends and in her sleep. I was 35 when she went to the hospital for the last time. That's half-a-life ago. My youngest sibling, Mary, was 20. It was hard on all of us but maybe most on Mary as she was still a kid. 

Mom's birthday always fell around Mother's Day, sometimes on Mother's Day. Chris and I were married on the Saturday after her 52nd birthday which we celebrated with a birthday party and rehearsal party in my parents' backyard. Coincidentally, Mom's2021 birthday is on a Friday just as it was in 1982, our anniversary is on a Saturday, followed by Sunday's Mother's Day. 

The years pass. Memories remain and many are painful. I retired five years ago and vibrant memories are part of every day. I am a writer so I invite those memories but as I write, they appear more real than the event itself. I remember moments with my grandparents, my parents, brothers and sisters, old friends. It's as if they were whispering in my ear. Mike, do you remember this? Your first dog, a surly Chihuahua named Pancho. Your first bicycle, a surprise from your grandparents. Firecracker wars in the neighborhood, the day you blew up all of your Mom's clothespins because Black Cats go so much farther when weight is added. All those great times with your cousins, back when everyone lived in Denver. The long winter drive from Denver to Washington state when Dad was transferred. I'll never forget the view of Wyoming's lonely wastes through the fogged-up window of a Ford Falcon station wagon. My first kiss. My first lonely day at college. My wedding. And now our 39th anniversary.

I remember Mama.

Part II: The Way Mike Worked -- The Paperboy and the Bully

The Smithsonian exhibit, "The Way We Worked," arrives in Cheyenne later this month. I thought about my jobs during 55 years, from neighborhood newspaper delivery to arts administration. That history tells me a lot about myself and about the changing workplace.

I didn't have a paid job until I was in sixth grade. I helped my buddy Bill deliver the afternoon Wichita paper. Not sure how much I made. Some of it went toward buying Boy Scout uniforms. I probably spent the rest frivolously. Bill did most of the collecting, the most odious part of the job. I sometimes accompanied him on his rounds.

Let's harken back to the days of two-newspaper towns. Remember those? It's not ancient history. Denver was home to the Post and the Rocky Mountain News. When I moved from Florida to Denver in 1978, the tabloid News was the morning paper and the Post was delivered in the afternoon. They both went to morning delivery in the 1980s. The News no longer exists. The Post is held captive by a hedge-fund group and is rapidly shedding its editorial staff in favor of fat profits.

I am old enough to remember the golden age of newspapers, an era that ended with the Internet although its death knells could be heard with the advent of network TV news and, later, the dawn of the personal computer.

Newspapers were big employers in every city. Reporters gathered the news, photogs shot the pictures, and editors edited. In newsrooms of 1978, you could call for a copy boy or copy girl to come get your typed (in triplicate) story and take it to the editors' desk. Hot copy was set by typesetters who wore boxy paper hats. Route Men delivered papers and paperboys (and a few girls) threw them on porches. Each paper had a physical clip morgue and a staff to do research. Advertising fielded a big staff to keep subscribers happy. There were ad designers and artists. The Post building was located where the convention center hotel is now. Hundreds of people worked there. All those hungry people patronized area restaurants. You wouldn't be surprised to learn that local saloons did a booming business. The same was true at the News with offices on Colfax.

In 1962 Wichita, Kan., the early risers delivered the Eagle in the morning and my friend Bill and I delivered the Beacon in the afternoons after school. Trucks delivered the papers to Bill's house and I came over to fold and deliver. On most days, the papers were not huge. Most days, Bill and I folded the newspapers without using rubber bands. You would think that the package would be become undone as we tossed them to anxious customers. But they didn't. At least, that's how I remember it. I remember Bill and I sailed them like mini-Frisbees onto porches in the tree-lined College Hill neighborhood. It was a given that papers must land on every customer's porch. Sometimes, the elderly asked us to put it inside their front door or in the milk box that sat under the mail box. That was a wooden box that held the milk delivered by the milkman at about the same time early-rising paperboys were delivering the Eagle. Milkmen finished their rounds by the time the sun rose. They often had a friendly relationship with the woman of the house. This gave rise to a joke about some kids looking more like the milkman than their daddy. Sixth-graders liked these type of teasing jokes, put-downs if you will, throwing shade as the kids say now, or they did last week, anyway. Sometimes it was the mailman, and it was always a man back then. Sometimes it was the handyman or the furnace man or the repair man. The women were at home. The men were there to take care of the home's various needs. Sounds quaint, now, doesn't it? A well-ordered universe, one that conservatives dream about. If only it were that simple.

Lots of paperboys delivered by Schwinn. We walked our paper route. The bungalow-style homes were built at the turn of the last century and were closely spaced. Often, they were perched at the top of a six-foot rise. It was easier for us to walk the route, taking shortcuts along the way. Out in the suburbs, developers were building ranch homes with breathing room which caused many a paperboy to deliver via bicycle. And porches? There might be one, but usually it was a concrete slab that led up to the front door. Most family activity was moving to the big fenced-in backyard.

We sometimes delivered papers to porches where the occupants were out front, maybe watering the flowers or catching a breeze on a hot day or just waiting for the news of the world or, at least, Wichita. We were obligated to hand deliver then. Old folks, then and now, were anxious to chat as they might be alone all day and anxious for human contact. We had to make it quick, as papers had to be delivered on time. The old folks who wanted to chat were usually those who complained if the paper was late. As a 12-year-old, I only had a vague idea of the lives of the elderly. I was a kid. These people were born in the last century, before airplanes and TV and Elvis. What could I learn from them?

I had one challenge. A bully circulated in our neighborhood. His name was Jack Weird. I didn't make that up -- that's how I remember the name. Maybe my memory has clouded, he may have had the nickname Weird Jack which is entirely possible. But Jack was gunning for me and I never knew why. I would be walking don the street, papers stuffed in my canvas Beacon bag, and around the corner came Jack. Sometimes he was with a bully friend. Other times he was alone. I knew what was coming but just kept on making my rounds. Bill was on the other side of the street or the next block. That was a shame because Bill had a rep as a fighter and Jack Weird never bothered him. Jack closed on me and I could see his evil leer. When he got even with me, he shoved aside my bag, punched me in the stomach, and kept walking. Now, I have to admire his economy of movement. No time wasted on verbal abuse or actually pounding me into the ground, which would take time and effort. Just one punch -- Bam! -- and on he went. Until the next time he saw me walking down the street, on the way to school or a Scout meeting. But only if I was alone. If I was with anybody, he walked on by. If he was with someone, he punched me and kept on walking. Odd what you remember. I often wonder what happened to Jack Weird.

I served a year as an assistant paperboy. Our family moved that summer, 1963, to the suburbs, closer to the air force base where my father was a civilian employee. I had no paper route. I transferred to a Catholic school, St. Francis. I had a crush on a neighbor girl. I began playing basketball because, for the first time, a coach asked me to go out for the team. I knew so little about the game. One blustery winter day I wore my long johns to a game. I rolled them up so they would be invisible under my shorts. As I jogged down the court, one of the long john leggings unraveled, much to the delight of the other team. I made a quick repair but my teammates teased me about it the rest of the season. I put up with it, I suppose, because that's what teammates did. You could be bullied, teased, cajoled, punched. That's the way it was. It's a different world now.

My only job in the 'burbs was to take care of my brothers and sisters. My mom had delivered twins in June and was more than busy with them. I made my siblings sandwiches. Took them outside to play. Fixed their cuts and scrapes. My brother Dan helped with the first aid. We were both Scouts and proud of our lifesaving skills. We could rescue a careless swimmer. We could make splints and tourniquets. We knew what to do in case of rattlesnake bite. The Shay kids were the safest kids on the block.

JFK was murdered in November 1963. In the new year, Dad was transferred back to Denver. We lived in a motel while waiting for renters to move out of the house we left in 1960 when Dad hauled us off to Washington state and then Kansas. Again, my job was watching my siblings. I was going to get a job, maybe a paper route, but fate intervened when my dad was laid off by his aerospace conglomerate. He found a job with GE in Florida. Florida? Jeez, we were moving all over the damn place. Snakes and alligators! Hurricanes! But, we were mostly excited to live by the ocean. Mostly.

Next: Teen jobs in Florida.

Trumpcare is a huge issue as we prepare for Children's Mental Health Awareness Week in May

Republicans are trying to sell us Trumpcare or, if you prefer, Wealthcare -- I also like Tryancare.

Everyone deserves quality, affordable mental health care. The system we have now is not so much a system as a scattershot approach that includes mental health professionals, emergency rooms, state hospitals, and treatment centers. Obamacare has helped insure millions and parity laws passed under both Democratic and Republican administrations have helped put mental illness treatment on par with other illnesses. Some mentally ill have found coverage with Medicaid Expansion (we didn't get it in Wyoming, thanks to the troglodytes in the legislature) or through disability clauses under SSI and SSDI. Negotiating the maze of local, state and federal coverage options can be a nightmare for someone who understands bureaucracy as I do. For a schizophrenic or bipolar person -- not so easy.

This announcement comes from the National Federation of Families for Children's Mental Health:

As national events continue to illuminate the critical need for mental health care reform in this country, we must increase our efforts to educate the nation about the importance of prevention and early identification of mental health challenges. We must also highlight the fact that children are an integral part of a family unit and create an understanding amongst policy leaders and practitioners that healthy families are better equipped to support resilient children. Legislation, policies, and practices must fully endorse the undisputed importance of full family engagement and participation in the care and treatment of their children. Further, we must advocate for a holistic approach to children's mental health that includes the provision of supports that strengthen the family as they nurture resiliency. 

Please join us as we create a national dialogue about the importance of finding help, finding hope.  FFCMH is tracking events for Children's Mental Health Week, May 1-7. 

Send them your activities. Here's more info:

What are you doing for Children's Mental Health Awareness Week?  Please share the activities that your organization or group is planning for National Children's Mental Health Awareness Week with us. We would also like to see any photos of your event after the week has concluded. Please fill in the event submission form with information about the events and activities you will be holding in your community for Children's Mental Health Awareness Week.

I don't know of any events in Cheyenne planned for May 1-7. If I find one, I will post here.

Name an issue and the Know Nothings are against it

A letter writer to the local paper this week used the tired old trope "love it or leave it" in regards to Cheyenne newcomers advocating for change.

Downtown redevelopment. Bike lanes. Legal protections for the LGBT community. The arts and education.

Name an issue and they'll be again' it, dammit. Cheyenne's fine just as it is. You darn California and Colorado liberals go back to where you came from.

The issues are many. Young people such as my daughter cannot find competent mental health care. Hundreds of K-12 students would go hungry over weekends so get shipped home on Fridays with sack lunches. UW graduates cannot find good-paying jobs in their hometown. When they do find one with, say, the state, the pay is 13 percent below private sector wages and Republican lawmakers call you bums. Our downtown has a big hole in its midst and dozens of unoccupied buildings. Gays and lesbians go to public meetings to voice their opinions and abuse is heaped upon them by ranks of grouchy Know Nothings.

Everything's just peachy in Chey-town.

My family and I have lived in Cheyenne since 1991. I'm still a newcomer in some eyes. Because I'm a liberal, me and my views are always in the minority. I have a good job and own a house and my kids attended public schools. I have great friends. As I've said before, if I counted on only having liberals for friends in Wyoming, I'd be lonely.

Americans are migrating to silos. I don't mean the missile variety -- we have plenty of those and people even live in decommissioned ones out on the prairie. People are finding other like-minded people to dwell with. If you're a liberal, you live in a city. If you're conservative, you live in the country or small town. Depending on your location, the suburbs are a mix of outlooks but tend to be conservative.

For much of its existence, Cheyenne has been pretty good about avoiding progress. But during its "Hell on Wheels" days, it was the fastest-growing city on the high prairie. We were supposed to be Denver, you see, but the sharpies down south lured the railroad and developers and boosters and before long its largest daily newspapers was promoting itself as "The Voice of the Rocky Mountain Empire." Wow. Didn't take long for this dusty two-bit cowtown at the confluence of the South Platte River and Cherry Creek to become the capital of an empire.

And Cheyenne got left in the dust.

One in six Wyomingites live in our county tucked into the southeast corner of this big square state. Who are they? Older than the national average, and overwhelmingly white. Lots of retired government workers live here, including many military. Working cowboys are outnumbered by railroad retirees and those who managed to survive the oil patch. We do have a lot of cowboy fans -- that's University of Wyoming Cowpokes fans not the ones who cheer for Tony Romo on Sundays.

So I'm surrounded by old white guys like me. They tend to be the watchers of FOX News and members of the Tea Party. I can relate to their gripes. But I just don't see how blaming Latinos and gays and our black president helps the future. Their kids and grandkids in Omaha and SLC pick up their smartphones and see a bunch of angry old guys making a scene at a Cheyenne city council meeting. This is not their idea of a good time -- or of a dynamic place to live.

Advice to my Boomer peers -- tone down the hateful rhetoric or this place has the same life expectancy as a roomful of Medicare recipients.

History is not a game

We live in the age of miracles and innovations. I walk around with a device that helps my heart correct arrhythmia -- I got rhythm! I just watched an online tutorial (complete with code) by a young man explaining how to hack a drone and take it over for your own purposes. Amazon, beware! 

At work, I supervise print and online communications. I typed my first book manuscript on a portable non-electric typewriter. My younger colleagues have never seen such a device. 

The year I was born, 1950, was closer to the bombing of Pearl Harbor (Dec. 7, 1941) by propeller-driven aircraft than to the 1969 launch of the Atlas rocket that carried the astronauts to the moon.

1950 was closer to the Russian Revolution (1917) than it was to the fall of the Berlin Wall (1989) and the end of the global Cold War (1991). 

My birth year was closer to the first 1951 airing of "Duck and Cover," a film by the U.S. Civil Defense Administration, than to the dawn of the atomic age (1945). 

My birth year was closer to the founding of Hewlett-Packard in 1939 than it was to the 1976 launch of the Apple-1, a single-board computer for hobbyists, designed by Steve Wozniak, and the founding of Apple Computer by Wozniak and Steve Jobs. 

We are approaching the 100th anniversary of the beginning of World War I. 1914 was a very big year. An archduke was assassinated in Sarajevo, the machines of war were set in motion, and four years later, millions were dead, the world map was changed and the seeds were planted for the next world war. 

One hundred years ago (1913), members of the United Mine Workers of America at Ludlow, Colorado, went on strike. At Christmas, it's possible that a little girl in the miners' tent colony received the gift of a bisque doll that was made in Germany and purchased from a Sears and Roebucks catalog. The remains of that doll were recovered in the exhumation of the tent colony. Also recovered were the remains of somewhere between 19 and 25 men, women and children slaughtered by Colorado National Guard troops and goons from John D. Rockefeller's Colorado Coal, Fuel and Iron Works on April 20, 1914. Most of them were immigrants, trying to make a living in their adopted country.

The remains of that doll is now part of the collection held by the UMWA. It also is a significant Colorado historical artifact, according to the Center for Colorado and the West at the Auraria Library in Denver. 

How this artifact relates to Colorado history: 

At the turn of the century coal mining was a large part of the labor force in Colorado, and the working conditions were poor, which prompted the miners with the help of UMWA to go on strike. This artifact reflects the families that were directly involved in the violence and turmoil during that time. This coal strike affected Colorado as well as the nation. On April 20, 1914, the death of the women and children at the Ludlow Massacre shocked the nation. This watershed moment spurred stricter labor laws to be enforced, and is considered the breaking point for American labor relations.

The doll's head is chilling to behold, its sightless eyes staring out at us a century later.

You can vote for Colorado’s most significant artifacts by Dec. 31 at https://collectioncare.auraria.edu/content/vote-colorados-most-significant-artifacts

I voted. My duty as a Colorado native and a union member. 

The object also has a connection to Wyoming history. Rockefeller moved much of his iron-ore mining operations to Platte County, Wyoming, in the wake of the bad press he received after Ludlow. Sunrise was a company town, far away (Rockefeller hoped) from trouble-making unions.  

Now Sunrise is a fenced-off ghost town, much like the Ludlow town site. By 1928, the Sunrise mine employed 547 and featured brick housing, modern utilities, a hospital, parks, playgrounds and the state's first YMCA. It closed in 1980. Both Ludlow and Sunrise are National Historic Sites.

Rockefeller learned some lessons from Ludlow. 

A beat-up doll's head helps us remember Ludlow. 

UPLIFT Wyoming has vision

UPLIFT's vision is

Hope, health and well-being for all Wyoming children and families. 

You must have 20/20 vision for a statement like that. An abundance of hope.

The statistics are bleak. Alabama-bleak. Wyoming leads the nation is teen suicides. Not a single child psychiatrist lives and works within its 97,000 square miles. In 2012, Wyoming's overall health ranking dropped from 21st to 23rd. More than 23 percent of the population smokes.

OK, so maybe we rank better than Alabama by most measures. But we have problems. Most residents have to drive hours to reach mental health care. Youth are regularly sent out of state for mental health and substance abuse treatment. I know. My kids did just that. Broke the bank and almost broke the will. Only late in the process did we discover the state's children's mental health waiver, which paid for much of our daughter's care, both in-state and out.

Time will tell whether the Affordable Care Act (a.k.a. Obamacare) will make a difference with accessibility to quality mental health treatment. We do know that insurers no longer can disqualify you for pre-existing conditions. And caps have been removed on quantity of treatment sessions. And we can keep our daughter covered until she's 26 (our son has aged out). Most students with disabilities take longer to matriculate than others. It's not unusual for them to take six or seven years to graduate. It's not unusual for them to be a boomerang kid, landing in your basement after graduation, Daft Punk tunes wafting up through the heater vents.

I just returned from a two-day board and staff retreat for UPLIFT. I've been a board member since 1999 and am just about ready to retire. It's a volunteer position. Most of us on the board have had personal experiences with challenging children.Our son Kevin was diagnosed at 5 with ADHD and, later, struggled with drugs and alcohol. Our daughter faced mental health challenges, first diagnosed as bipolar and then with borderline personality disorder. As often happens, she did some self-medicating.

It is tough on children to have these challenges. It is also tough on parents.

UPLIFT comes to the rescue. When it can. The statewide organization has its own challenges. Its budget was cut by a third when the state decided to re-channel its funding. It lost three offices across the state and 11 staffers. This is why you have retreats that address strategic planning and tries to come up with some big ideas for the future.

Funding cuts and priority shifts have caused the 23-year-old organization to look at itself anew. Wish us luck. And donate at the web site. Better yet, make a pledge to donate a certain amount every month. Go here. You never know when you may need expertise at your I.E.P. meeting or tips on applying for the Medicaid waiver or just a kindly person to listen to your dilemma. 

Tell them Mike sent you.

Smoking remains high at 23.0 percent of the adult population, with 100,000 adults who smoke in Wyoming.

The infant mortality rate declined in the past year from 7.2 to 6.5 deaths per 1,000 live births.

- See more at: http://www.americashealthrankings.org/WY#sthash.h6kmkDfZ.dpuf

Smoking remains high at 23.0 percent of the adult population, with 100,000 adults who smoke in Wyoming. - See more at: http://www.americashealthrankings.org/WY#sthash.h6kmkDfZ.dpuf

Superman goes to kindergarten

Parents are told: "No more Superhero play!"

Geekosystem carried a story about a Philadelphia preschool that recently sent a letter home to parents about a ban on "Superhero Play." The kids at the school were acting out their favorite superheroes and as quick as you can say "Biff! Bam! Zowie!" kids were getting hurt.

Superheroes have been around for a long time. They are, after all, SUPERHEROES and are timeless. Back in the 1950s, my father instituted a ban on comic books. He insisted that they were trash and substituted our Superman and Batman comics with Illustrated Classics versions of "Treasure Island" and "The Tale of Two Cities." You know, the books he read as a lad. Nevermind that the former was about bloodthirsty pirates who raped and pillaged their way across the bounding main. And that the latter featured a bloody execution device that I never encountered in a Man of Steel adventure. So I read the classics and grew up to be a writer of obscure literary works instead of a well-paid teller-of-illustrated-tales at Marvel or DC Comics.

To ban something is to say to children: "I dare you to outfox my aging brain that rests inside this graying old head." Exactly -- the kids will find a way. Not sure what the kids are doing at this unnamed PA preschool, but I know they will find a way to engage in surreptitious superhero play.

My son Kevin is 28 now. When he was five and attending kindergarten in Fort Collins, Colo., he decided that he would attend school as Superman. He had a nifty Superman Halloween costume. He wore it to school for the Halloween party and then that evening for our traditional night of trick-or-treating in the snow. We have photos of him sitting on our picnic table surrounded by snow drifts and jack-o-lanterns. He clutches a big bag of candy. Chocolate smears his happy face.

The next morning, he came downstairs dressed as Superman.

I told him that Halloween was over. His mother told him to go upstairs and change.

Kevin insisted on remaining a superhero.

We both shrugged and sent him off to school as Superman.

The school called an hour later. "Your son is dressed as Superman," the school said.

Good Grief! Is that my son going to school dressed as Superman again?

Chris replied that she knew.

"He can't be Superman," the school said. "Halloween is over."

"Can't he just be Superman for one more day?"

The school pondered this. "Just for today."

The next morning, Kevin came downstairs dressed as Superman.

"You can't be Superman today," Chris said.

"I'm Superman," Kevin said.

"He says he's Superman," I said.

Chris explained to Kevin that Halloween was over and he could be Superman next year. He could even be Superman after school and on weekends.

"I'm Superman," he said.

We shrugged and sent him off to school. The school called an hour later. Nobody was home. Kevin came home with a note. The note read: "Your son cannot come to school dressed as Superman. It's against the dress code."

"What dress code?" I asked Chris. This was a public school kindergarten. Kids wore shorts. Kids wore ratty jeans. Kids wore Superman and Ghostbusters and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirts.

I knew all about dress codes because I went to Catholic school. Most of us were keen to observe the dress codes lest we be paddled or smacked with a ruler.

When we inquired about the dress code, we were told only that no costumes were allowed.

"No costumes are allowed," we told Kevin.

"I'm Superman," he said.

"He's Superman," I replied.

"He's Superman," Chris answered.

You have to understand that Kevin was diagnosed with ADHD before kindergarten started. He was taking Ritalin to help control his hyperactivity and impulsivity. It was working, to a certain extent. He still got in trouble on the playground for pushing kids on the swings and down the slide who didn't want to be pushed. He treated every sport as a contact sport. Maybe taking on the guise of Superman will help him in other ways?

It didn't hurt. That's how we approached it with his teacher, a very nice woman we'll call Lois Lane.

"The other kids will want to dress up," Lois said.

"What's wrong with that?" I asked.

Lois shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. But parents might complain."

"Have they?" I asked.

"No," said Lois.

Since there was no hue and cry over children's costuming, the issue eventually settled down. At Thanksgiving, Kevin appeared in the pilgrim drama as a pilgrim who underneath really was Superman. Imagine Superman at Plymouth Rock. He might have zoomed over to Europe and delivered foodstuffs to the pilgrims and the Indians. He might have prevented the eventual slaughter of the Indians. As Clark Kent, he might have worked for the New World's first newspaper, answering to an irascible Perry White. "Kent! Where's that story about the first Thanksgiving?"

"Miss Lane said she was going to do it."

"Great Caesar's ghost, Kent. Don't you know that pilgrim women can be burned at the stake for taking a job as a reporter. Now get me that story."

"Sure thing, Chief."

"And don't call me Chief!"

Thanksgiving moved into Christmas. Kevin/Superman appeared on stage with the rest of the class. They sang their hearts out with "Jingle Bells" and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." He was the only one dressed as Superman. I wished that he could use his super powers to make the ordeal go faster, but he was content to sing. I considered the fact that Christmas had a superhero in Jesus and another one in Santa Claus. Jesus rose from the dead and Santa popped down a million chimneys in a single night delivering multitudes of dolls and action figures. He always stopped to eat cookies and drink milk. That was some feat. And his reindeer could fly!

Winter melted into spring and the Superman outfit was unraveling. Chris managed to sew a few holes but one day, the outfit came apart at the seams.

"There's nothing I can do," Chris said.

Kevin shrugged and went to school in a Ghostbusters T-shirt and jeans with a hole in the knee. In his heart, he was still Superman.

If I had any advice for that uptight Pennsylvania preschool, it would be this: Don't sweat it. The kids will be all right.

NPR Health Blog: Childhood ADHD can lead to adulthood obesity

The title of this blog comes from a quote by hypertext inventor Ted Nelson who once told Wired Magazine that having Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) was like having a "hummingbird mind." I wrote an essay for the late lamented Northern Lights magazine about rock climbing with my son who has ADHD. I used Nelson's quote in the article and the editor used it for the headline. So, in 2005. I decided to use it for the name of the blog as my initial idea was to blog about ADHD, as blogging and hyperactivity seemed to go together. I was sidetracked by politics and various other topics so my blog is a lot more wide-ranging than anticipated.

That brings me to today's post about ADHD. I came across it via a Facebook post from renowned ADHD expert Dr. Edward "Ned" Hallowell. The good doctor wrote the intro to an anthology that featured some of my writing, Easy to Love but Hard to Raise: Real Parents, Challenging Kids, True Stories. He writes on his site today about the fact that childhood ADHD can lead to adult obesity. He quoted an article about a recent study featured on the NPR Health blog. Overeating releases dopamine which is what human nervous systems crave. A pint of Ben & Jerry's at midnight is just what the impulsive person ordered. But not the cardiologist. Read more here.

On St. Patrick's Day weekend, I ponder the possibility of a Pope Howdy Doody I

As a kid, I bore a startling resemblance to TV's Howdy Doody.

Each St. Patrick’s Day, I ponder what it means to be an Irish-American. This year, as a new pope takes the reins of Mother Church, I’m also pondering about what it means to be Irish Catholic.

I just had a flashback. I get those occasionally. I wonder if it’s my damaged heart playing tricks on my brain.

Back in those black-and-white days of the 1950s, my younger brother Dan and I found ourselves in the same ward at Denver Mercy Hospital. We had double pneumonia, which is twice as troublesome as single pneumonia. It sound worse, too, doesn’t it? Our mother was a nurse at Mercy, a graduate of the hospital’s nurses’ training program at the tail end of World War II. 

The Mercy nuns were in charge. They wore full habits back then, which lent them an air of authority and mystery seasoned with a dollop of menace. They were neither the horror of the nuns portrayed in some books or plays written by lapsed Catholics. Nor were they the sweethearts portrayed in “Sister Act” or “The Sound of Music.” They were tough yet fair. They seemed to treat Dan and I a bit better than the others. This was probably due to our mother.

One day, Dan seemed to have a brainstorm. He waited until one of the nuns was in the ward, and he sat up and said, “I want to be a priest.”

The nun scurried over. “A priest, is it?” The Mercy nuns all spoke with an Irish brogue, yet another import from that benighted isle. 

“Yes, sister.” Dan beamed angelically. 

“That’s a good boy,” said the good sister, patting Dan on the arm. “And how would you like some ice cream, Daniel boy?”

“Thank you, sister.” More of the beaming. My brother had black hair and blue eyes, Black Irish like my mother. I had bright orange hair and was covered with freckles from head to toe. The kids at school called me Howdy Doody, who was a red-haired, freckle-faced TV puppet. He was an agreeable sort but dopey looking. I didn’t like him.

The nun returned with Dan’s ice cream. None for us. After all, we didn’t want to be priests. This was the highest calling a kid could attain. Parish priests ruled the Catholic roost. We know now that some of them were less than saintly. But back in those patriarchal days, they could do no wrong.

The next time a nun entered the room, Tommy piped up: “I want to be a priest.” The nun came over, patted Tommy on the head and said he was getting some ice cream too. So half of the kids in the ward now had ice cream and I had none. Before the fourth kid, the one in the bed by the wall, could speak up, I also said: “I want to be a priest.”

The nun walked over, put her hands on her hips sand said, “I suppose you want to be a priest so you can have some ice cream.”

“No sister.” I was no dummy, although I looked like one. “I had a dream. In it, I was a priest.” 

This got her attention.  “A dream?”

I nodded. “Yes sister.”

“And in this dream were you eating ice cream?”

“No sister. I was dressed like a priest and was saying mass.”

“You’re a fine lad, saying mass in a dream.  You almost could call that a vision.”

“Yes, sister.” 

She looked down at me. “We’re out of ice cream. I’ll get you a popsicle.” She frowned and walked out.

“Copycat,” said Dan.

“Not,” I said.

“Popsicle.” Tommy snickered. He bit into his ice cream bar.

I got a cherry popsicle. The nun broke it in two so the kid in the far bed could have some. 

As I ate the popsicle and stared at the two ice cream eaters, I vowed that next time I would be quicker on the draw and fake my priestly calling with much more alacrity than I had earlier. Perhaps I should be a bishop? Or pope? Too grandiose, perhaps. But imagine the world’s surprise when Howdy Doody the First donned the papal garments and those bitchin’ red shoes.

President Obama: “We are going to need to work on making access to mental health care as easy as access to a gun”

This is but a small part of President Obama's Plan to Protect our Children & Communities, which was announced this morning. I'm including it because mental health is one of my blog's key issues. And tackling the many gun parts of the document is too much to bear. Read more here.  

IMPROVING MENTAL HEALTH SERVICES 
Though the vast majority of Americans with a mental illness are not violent, we need to do more to identify mental health issues early and help individuals get the treatment they need before dangerous situations develop. As President Obama has said, “We are going to need to work on making access to mental health care as easy as access to a gun.” 
• MAKE SURE STUDENTS AND YOUNG ADULTS GET TREATMENT FOR MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES: Three quarters of mental illnesses appear by the age of 24, yet less than half of children with diagnosable mental health problems receive treatment. To increase access to mental health services for young people, we should: o Provide “Mental Health First Aid” training to help teachers and staff recognize signs of mental illness in young people and refer them to treatment. o Support young adults ages 16 to 25, who have the highest rates of mental illness but are the least likely to seek help, by giving incentives to help states develop innovative approaches. o Help break the cycle of violence in schools facing pervasive violence with a new, targeted initiative to provide their students with needed services like counseling. o Train 5,000 more social workers, counselors, and psychologists, with a focus on those serving students and young adults. 
• ENSURE COVERAGE OF MENTAL HEALTH TREATMENT: The Affordable Care Act is the largest step to increase access to mental health services in a generation, providing health coverage for 30 million Americans, including 6 to 10 million people with mental illness. The Administration will take executive actions to ensure that millions of newly covered Americans, and millions more who already have health insurance, get quality mental health coverage by: o Finalizing regulations to require insurance plans to cover mental health benefits like medical and surgical benefits. o Ensuring Medicaid is meeting its obligation to cover mental health equally.

Call for entries (kids only!): International Peace Poster Contest

"Children Know Peace," 2011-2012 grand prize winner

I know Lions Clubs best for its sight programs. Club members collect old eyeglasses and provide glasses for people who need them but can't afford them. The club also sponsors an eye bank and vision screening. But the Lions apparently have other visions for us all:

Each year, Lions clubs around the world proudly sponsor the Lions International Peace Poster Contest in local schools and youth groups. This art contest for kids encourages young people worldwide to express their visions of peace. For 25 years, more than four million children from nearly 100 countries have participated in the contest.

The theme of the 2012-13 Peace Poster Contest is "Imagine Peace." Students, ages 11, 12 or 13 on November 15, are eligible to participate.

Each year's art contest for kids consists of an original theme incorporating peace. Participants use a variety of mediums, including charcoal, crayon, pencil and paint, to express the theme. The works created are unique and express the young artists' life experiences and culture.

Twenty-four international finalists are selected each year, representing the work of more than 350,000 young participants worldwide. Posters are shared globally via the Internet, the media and exhibits around the world.

To learn more about the Lions International Peace Poster Contest, please view our brochure, contest rules and deadlines, call 630-203-3812 or contact the Lions Clubs International Public Relations Department.

Summer is the time to relish good books

When I was a kid, books were my constant companions. I also lived in a house filled with other constant companions -- my family -- which included two parents, four brothers, four sisters, and and an assortment of dogs, cats, lizards and gerbils. That was one crowded house.

I mentioned books first. They weren't more important than Mom and Dad and Molly and Tim and Shannon the dog and Polonius the cat. But books did enable me to escape the sometimes frantic pace of daily life. They also helped me understand some odd human behavior. My brother Tommy, for instance, liked to sit down to a bowl of sweet pickle relish for breakfast. While the rest of us munched on Cheerios, Tommy relished his relish. In the beginning, we gave him a hard time, as siblings do. But after awhile, we just had to accept this quirky behavior as you might if coming across something similar in a Dickens' novel.

Summer reading was especially important. We had chores to do and we played baseball and went swimming and spent as much time outdoors as humanly possible. But at some point during the day, I needed time with books. I don't remember official summer reading programs. But Mom took us to the library as often as we needed to recharge the book supply. In elementary school, I read my way through the Hardy Boys series and had a special fondness for dog books ("Lad a Dog," etc.). In junior high, sci-fi was king. I started with the classics -- Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, the Tom Swift series -- and then moved on to the harder stuff. Nothing like spending a lazy summer afternoon sprawled under a cottonwood tree while I traveled to exotic worlds with Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke or Ray Bradbury.     

We moved a lot, so I got to know a libraries in a dozen different places. Just entering a library gave me a feeling of belonging in a strange new town. Whether it was Denver's big main library or the tiny one in Moses Lake, Washington, the books were all arranged in the same order and the card catalogs (remember those?) all looked the same. The librarians, too, all had that schoolmarmish look, or that's how this 11-year-old boy saw them, anyway. 

I was in our local Cheyenne library on Tuesday evening. I selected two novels from the "new books" shelf, and then my laptop and I spent several hours on the third floor revising a short story. The third floor at the Laramie County Public Library is the quiet floor. Back in the day, every floor of a library was quiet (or else!). But libraries are a bit more freewheeling these days, more interactive, and a bit more hectic. So I was working on a story, the gentle tapping of my laptop keys the only sound. A storm blew in and I watched from the big window as lightning snaked across the sky. Below, a mom and her kids clasped their summer books and made a mad dash for the car. At closing time, I checked out my books and realized I hadn't signed up for the summer reading program. I sign up every year, buy a T-shirt, fill in the scorecard to earn ice cream cones and various discounts at local businesses. There wasn't time to do that on this library trip (the guy on the P.A. system was telling me to check out my books as the library was closing), but I knew I would return soon. I always come back to the library.

By the way, if you haven't yet signed up for "Dream Big," LCLS's summer reading celebration, you can by going here. 

Big turnout at Governor's Offfice for signing of Children's Mental Health Awareness Week proclamation

Top photo: Big turnout Wednesday morning for Governor Matt Mead's signing of the proclamation for Children's Mental Health Awareness Week. A large group of concerned parents and children joined with UPLIFT staffers and board members, representatives from the Mental Health and Substance Abuse Services Division, and Sen. Floyd Esquibel. Everyone received a "Children's Mental Health Matters" ribbon and balloon, even the Governor. Bottom photo: UPLIFT’s Kim Conner asked me, as an UPLIFT board member, to share some national stats on children's mental health with Gov. Matt Mead at Wednesday’s proclamation signing.

Early intervention and prevention crucial for children's mental health

Here are some points to ponder about children’s mental health. As a parent of children with mental health challenges, and as an adult who's dealt with recurring bouts of depression, I ponder these things often and not only during the upcoming week devoted to education and awareness. Governor Matt Mead will sign a proclamation on Wednesday, May 9, 10 a.m., designating May 6-12 as Mental Health Awareness Week. The following stats come from the Federation of Families for Children’s Mental Health. 

• One in five young people have one or more mental, emotional, or behavioral challenges.  One in ten youth have challenges that are severe enough to impair how they function at home, school, or in the community.
• One-half of all lifetime cases of psychological challenges begin by age 14, and three-quarters begin by age 24.  In addition, 80% of people who experience multiple issues with mental health and substance abuse report onset before the age of 20.
• Suicide is the third leading cause of death in adolescents and young adults. Children experiencing symptoms of psychological challenges, particularly depression, are at a higher risk for suicide.  An estimated 90% of children who commit suicide have a diagnosable mental illness.
• Despite high rates of mental illness in children, 4 out of 5 children ages 6 to 17 who have experience symptoms do not receive any help.  The majority of those who do not receive needed mental health services are minority children.  For example, 88% of Latino children have unmet mental health needs.  In addition, Latino children are less likely than others to be identified by a primary care physician as having a mental disorder.
• Unmet mental health needs may complicate daily activities and education for youth.  Almost 25% of adolescents who required mental health assistance reported having problems at school.  Over 50% of students who experience psychological challenges, ages 14 and older, drop out of high school—the highest dropout rate of any disability group.
• Early detection and intervention strategies for mental health issues improve children’s resilience and ability to succeed in life.  According to a study by the National Institute of Mental Health, preschoolers at high risk for mental health problems showed less oppositional behavior, less aggressive behavior, and were less likely to require special education services 3 years after enrolling in a comprehensive, school-based mental health program.

What can you do?

Create awareness surrounding positive mental health practices and supports.  Work to reduce stigma!

Contact your local, state and federal legislators to request funding for early intervention and prevention programs. 

Encourage culturally and linguistically competent supports and services.

UPLIFT has a terrific list of resources for Wyoming families at http://www.upliftwy.org/resources.html. I am on the UPLIFT board and admit to a certain bias. But it is a terrific list.