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I must say, I am tempted

I must say, I am tempted. Yes, folks, I definitely am intrigued at the thought. See, folks, I’ve received a few emails over the past year from some loyal readers – not many mind you – but a quantitative handful – who have expressed some interest in hearing more about what I have to say on other subjects other than Israel.

I must admit that I don’t think that anything I have to say on other topics other than Israel or the upcoming election would be of any interest to readers. I have hardly carved out a tiny niche (albeit a Flappy Bird niche, according to TruthLaidBear) on this pro-Israel blog and this site is already one year old. However, I am open-minded and have been known to break under pressure when someone waves a Hostess chocolate cupcake and a huge glass of milk in front of me.

So, having been waved at, I have decided that every now and then I will write a bit here and there about me, my passions, my irks, my desires. I will always remain anonymous, because I have family, and to my closest friends (DRG and Havdala), I would even enjoy trading first names, but – I can not. See, I receive more hate mail than tell-us-more-about-yourself mail, and I would rather that readers and surfers find the truth about the legitimacy of Israel, moreso than that I have asthma. Which I do. Which I never had before until I was recently diagnosed. As recently as this week.

Other readers know that I have a father who is in a nursing home, suffering horribly with Alzheimers. My dad is 80. He was – is – a great man. A loving father, devoted, hard-working, who loved to laugh and make others laugh. Now a disease makes him cry. Or wince. He winces and cries all the time. In the for-profit-only stinkhouse of a “nursing” home that he lives in now, he is dumbed-down with anti-psychotic drugs because he has gotten aggressive. Now my dearest father lays in a stupor – hallucinating in and out and between crying jags. When I saw him last, he saw me, recognized me and cried. I gasped and wept. I didn’t stop crying for the three hours I was with him. I cry even now writing this.

The day that my mother, brother and I admitted my dad to the nursing home was one of the saddest days of my life. I equate that painful event with the same regret, sadness, and heartache as I ever felt whenever I had to put down my beloved dogs when they became sick and cancered. Leaving my dad unto the care of strangers whose only loyalty was to their union card was traumatic for me.

When I was little, my dad was the one who made me my school lunch. For five years he painted jelly and cream cheese sandwiches onto Wonder Bread and threw in a two-pack of Yodels and a Thermos of milk. And he did it with love and dedication. And when I had a school closing, I would go with my dad into his office in the city, where he was a salesman. A Willy Loman. He even arranged to take me into his office which overlooked Macy’s and there we saw the Thanksgiving Parade from his 5th floor office and I could almost touch the balloons. And when Santa arrived on his sled as the last parade event? I was in heaven. I mean, here I was with my Dad, my hero, at his office watching the Parade live and loud and real and Santa up close and red and white and bearded. It was a wonderful day, a wonderful time.

I hope my Dad forgives me.

I hope my Dad knows how much I love him.

I hope you will all donate to Alzheimer’s research.

And to my readers, I remain true, loyal and dedicated and I want to thank each of you for urging me along.

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