On This Day: Remembering Judy

Pictured: My dad carrying Judy as I look on.

On the historic date of October 17th, Doris Humphrey, choreographer, dancer, and writer was born (October 17, 1895); American film star, actress, and dancer, Rita Hayworth, the legendary Hollywood beauty, was born (October 17, 1918); Physicist and renowned genius, Albert Einstein, arrived in the United States as a refugee from Nazi Germany (October 17, 1933); Evel Knievel, motorcycle daredevil, was born (October 17, 1838); Jimmy Seals, singer, songwriter, and one half of the successful soft rock band “Seals and Croft” was born (October 17, 1941); and the famous actress, Ava Gardner, and jazz composer and bandleader, Artie Shaw, were married (October 17, 1945). More recently, Mother Teresa, of India, was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for her work on behalf of the destitute in Calcutta (October 17, 1979).

However, on October 17, 1945, a historic event occurred in my family of origin when my older sister, Judy, was born. She was a dancer, actress, singer, acrobat novas, comic, teacher, treasured friend, loving mother and beloved wife. I called her “sister.”

Judy had carrot red hair and a personality to match! She was a petite 4’ 10” and I was a tall 5’ 7”, a virtual giant in my mind, standing next to her. I loved being with her. She made things happen and she pushed me to do more . . . to be more.

My sister Judy was five years older than me. Our parents spaced their children rather far apart. There was a three-year space following the birth of my older sister, Vicki, before Judy was born. Five years later I arrived, five more years brought my younger brother, Devro, and then finally seven years later, my little sister, Loni, completed our family.

Judy was full of energy! She loved people and she was always busy with lots of activity. She loved to dance. Judy had Perthes disease when she was young, a disorder of the hip in young children. Many theories have been proposed as to the cause of the disease, including inflammation, infection, trauma, and even “hip problems” noted at birth. Whatever the cause, my parents were told Judy would always walk with a limp. However, Judy didn’t let the disease stop her. She wore her crutches to school and let the other kids try them out while she hopped around. She claimed they even made her popular! However it was dancing lessons that eventually created magic in her life and a miracle in her body. Her bones fused in such a way that she could walk and dance with grace. When the doctors examined the x-rays of her hip, they couldn’t understand why she didn’t walk with a limp.

I was shocked the day our Judy died. Even though she had a serious form of Leukemia, I had not expected her death. No one in our family did. We rationalized that something that unthinkable couldn’t happen again in our family, remembering the toxemia related death of my sister-in-law Gayle and her baby, Skyler. Besides Judy’s husband, Neal, was so spiritual – the bishop in their ward. He had promised she’d be all right and I believed him. We all wanted to believe him. We were not prepared to lose a sibling, a daughter, a friend, wife and mother. I was angry with Neal for a long time following her death because he didn’t seem to display any guilt for the decision he’d helped her make to have the bone marrow transplant. I couldn’t feel his pain, only my own. However, we all felt guilt, each in his or her own way . . . for bone marrow not good enough, for time not spent together, and for silly arguments of long ago. We felt guilt that we didn’t know there wouldn’t be time for all the things we’d planned to do and say. I will never forget the shock on her children’s faces when they were brought to the hospital to view their mother. She had passed away earlier in the day and appeared to be sleeping peacefully, as the midday sun shown through her hospital window. Her five children were young, ranging in ages 4-15 and as I watched them gather around her lifeless body, I realized they were as unprepared as I was.

On September 10, 1986, twenty-three years ago, at the age of 40, my sister, Judy moved on to her heavenly home after her valiant battle. I was in her hospital room as she passed from this life into the next one. Only Neal, our mother, a nurse, and I, watched helplessly as she quietly slipped away. I’d arrived at the hospital only minutes before. I remember frantically trying to put on the protective clothing required by the hospital before entering the sanitary environment. My mother motioned to me to abandon the task, to come quickly. With tears blurring my eyes, I entered her room and reached for her tiny petite hand. Her eyes were closed and the only sound in the room was from the quiet hum of the machine she was hooked up to. As I took her small hand, I gently whispered, “It’s Linda, Judy, I’m here.” I felt the slightest squeeze of my hand, and then she was gone. I remember that moment as clearly as if it was yesterday. It was the first time in my life I had complete confirmation of life after death. I felt the spirit in the room and knew others were there to guide her home. Tears still well up in my eyes when I write or think about that day.

I have been told that earlier in that day, Judy opened her eyes and complained about the noise in her room, asking her husband to please tell everyone to be quiet. He was confused, as the room was silent with only the soft hum of the hospital machine. He assured her that there was no one in the room talking. That day, as she lay dying, the spirit testified to me of our life before this one. My family is noisy and when we get together we all talk at once, excited to share our news. I wonder if the talking, noisy people she referred to were all of our noisy ancestors, excited and preparing for her return, just as we anticipate and enthusiastically prepare for a new baby.

Last Saturday, October 17, 2009, Judy would have been 64 years old. I had a dream about Judy last week. It seemed so real, like I was really with her. She came to see me and Neal was with her, his arms around her shoulders. He was grinning from ear to ear and he was so happy. I was surprised to see her and couldn't believe she was real. I threw my arms around her hugging her tightly and she felt as real to my touch as anyone on earth! Perhaps that's what the resurrection will feel like.

Someone once told me, “We can’t heal our pain until we can find gratitude for the trial or experience that gave us the sadness.” I used to think, “I’ll be grateful when this trial is finally over!” Who knew that losing my sister would be the beginning of understanding the gift of gratitude and unconditional love? The Savior taught us to love one another unconditionally. It seems like a simple gospel principle. Now I know it is an essential principle and the one that will guide us safely home.

In Loving Memory of Judy: October 17, 1945 – September 10, 1986

Healing Our Family History

I have gradually been reading a book titled, “Healing Your Family History: 5 Steps to Break Free of Destructive Patterns,” by Rebecca Linder Hintz, and slowly contemplating it’s message content. The forward of this book is written by Stephen R. Covey, author of the best selling book, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. “Healing Your Family History” comes highly recommended by Stephen Covey along with music celebrity, Marie Osmond and renowned MD, Christiane Northrup. I’m a fan of this book as well, having discovered some interesting patterns within my own family history.

I read a lot of different kinds of books during this particular season of my life, something I rarely did while raising my children. Back then I generally read ‘self help’ and ‘parenting’ books. However, thanks to the newly invented Kindle Reader (for more information click here), I have rediscovered reading for pleasure again, like I did during my teenage years. The books I enjoy reading usually fall into two basic categories: candy and chocolate. Some books are like sugary candy, a sweet treat that you must keep eating until it is consumed. While others are like decadent dark chocolate, something that must be savored over time. The book “Healing Your Family History” is like dark chocolate. It needs to be studied, pondered, and actively participated in to reap it’s full benefits. There are even worksheets included within its thought-provoking pages.



I have been reading this book along with writing my own history, a work still in progress. I have also been dabbling in researching and recording some of the histories of my ancestors. I’m especially drawn to the incredibly strong women I have descended from. I’ve discovered the truths in the following quote for myself, in being able to understand ‘who we are’ by understanding them:

“Something deep within us wants to connect with those who went before us: our parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and other family members. When we know who they are—their life stories, their triumphs and failures, their strengths and weaknesses—we gain a better sense of who we are. In a sense, their stories become our stories. We not only learn from them, we feel strengthened and inspired by their lives and experiences. We may even find ourselves thinking, ‘If they could do difficult things, so can I.’ With just a little effort, we can come to know and love those whose lives flow directly into ours.” ~ Lloyd D. Newell, Music and the Spoken Word

One of the many fascinating discoveries I’ve realized from pondering this book, is an interesting attitude that seems to have been passed down through the generations. This discovery about my female ancestors is only my opinion, but one that I find intriguing!

Since I wrote my little “Run-a-way Bride” blog on my anniversary (click here for blog entry), I've had some interesting discussions and thoughts that have brought about my recent revelation. I thought I was the only run-a-way bride in the family with fear of commitment. Then I discovered an aunt that also had a run-a-way bride story, and after a discussion with my younger sister I realized that all my siblings had fears of commitment as well. The fears go back to my mother, my grandmother and even way back to my great, great grandmother, who was probably the most reluctant bride of all! 



I've grown to love this great, great grandmother named, Emma, who made impetuous choices that she later regretted. There are so many lessons of life consequences, strength, and courage within her story. She was told it wasn’t proper to be running around the way she did, that she needed to marry the man who loved her or become one of the polygamous wife's of Wilford Woodruff, causing her to reluctantly choose the former. She gave birth to her first child just two months after her marriage date, obviously pregnant before marriage, an occurrence quite scandalous in the days before Hollywood made it appear acceptable. Of course things of that delicate nature were never discussed in that era. [I just finished reading Little Women again. There is no mention of Meg’s pending pregnancy until the twin babies are born, as “one does not speak of such things!”]

It is interesting to me how our fears get passed down through generations of DNA. That must be why it's so important to do our family history . . . so we can heal our hearts and theirs! What a glorious reunion that will be in heaven when we all understand one another in love without judgement!

I think my husband, Dale, understands that my run-a-way bride story had nothing to do with not loving him . . . just a fear of losing myself and my own dreams! He can't resist teasing me about it though. Recently I discovered a 40s song called, "Linda," that is so cute. When Dale heard it he said, "Hey that's me. That could have been my theme song in high school!" Here are some of the words he was referring to:

When I go to sleep, 


I never count sheep, 


I count all the charms about Linda. 


And lately it seems, 


In all of my dreams, 


I walk with my arms about Linda. 


But what good does it do me? 


For Linda doesn’t know that I exist. 


Can't help feeling gloomy, 


Think of all the lovin' I've missed!

I was truly afraid if I got married I would just have children, never graduating from college or being able to teach and travel. I wanted to travel and see far away places. However, my fears were needless. I married and still graduated from BYU, and that education has been such a blessing in my life. My six children were planned by choice and I have been able to travel with my husband, Dale, to some exciting places that have given me wonderful memories. My Dale is a fun traveling companion. I’ve taught preschool and taught in the church “because" of marriage, not in spite of it.

I come from a legacy of strong willed women who are stubborn and get what they want! Thats a great legacy of Family History!



“There's a story behind everything . . . How a picture got on a wall, how a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story because hers is where yours begins.” ~ Mitch Albom, For One More Day

“To heal our world, we must heal our families!” ~ Stephen Covey

“Healing our family’s history is key to getting better ourselves.”

~ Rebecca Linder Hintze, Healing Your Family History

“Every woman who heals herself helps heal all the women who came before her and all those who will come after her!” ~ Dr. Christiana Northrup, MD

Bugs Love Me!

We all want to love and to be loved, an innate instinct most of us are born with. Love is one of mankind’s strongest desires. Humans search for it longingly, end up in therapy when it is denied, and even murder one another for it, as is evident on the evening news. Love and hate are powerful words and are often used simultaneously, referencing the same object of affection. However all love is not requited. Sometimes those we love do not love us in return and those who seek our attention go unnoticed and rejected.

In my case, bugs love me! This is disturbing on so many levels, given my Lyme disease carrying tick bite that went unnoticed and was never formerly requested. I have had a long unreciprocated love affair with bugs. I hate bugs, but unfortunately they have always loved me.

One might ask why this affection? It is a mystery to me. Long before my tick incident, mosquitoes loved me. Is it my pale white, transparent Norwegian skin that makes me an easy target, as these blood sucking long legged flies penetrate my skin? Perhaps it is my particular brand of blood, sweeter than most and tantalizing to their insect taste-buds. As an example, if my husband, Dale, and I were driving in a car with three mosquito passengers, I would return home with three mosquito bites, more than likely excessively swelled and itching intensely. Dale would return unscathed, as if riding with butterflies.

Bugs love me! And now, much to my dismay, household flies, probably mosquito cousins having been sent in search of me, love me too. They don’t just fly around my nose and ears searching for entry. They have adopted me as their pet, sitting defiantly on my hands and wrists as I type, refusing to leave or be swatted away. They seem to know I can’t chase them down in my condition and they seek refuge and solitude with me. When Dale enters the room intent on their demise, they disappear like ghosts in the night, leaving me as the only testimony of their existence. Lately, while I am alone with my torturous flies, I have taken to yelling at them in a stern voice of authority, letting them know I am serious about wanting them to depart. I say, “Go away! Leave me alone! I hate you . . . you miserable excuse for an insect!” They don’t listen. They are not like houseplants that wither and die when unkind words are continuously projected towards them. My flies just sit and bask in the love-hate relationship we have developed. I have unkind thoughts towards them and do not mourn their deaths. I know there is a purpose for everything, but could somebody tell me, why flies? Why bugs? Bugs love me! Their love is unreturned.

“God in His wisdom made the fly, and then forgot to tell us why!”

~ Ogden Nash, “The Fly”

“We hope that, when the insects take over the world, they will remember with gratitude how we took them along on all our picnics. ~ Richard Vaughan

“Some days you're a bug, some days you're a windshield.”

~ Price Cobb

The Bear Necessities of Life!

“In a world where everyone seems to be larger and louder than yourself, it is very comforting to have a small, quiet companion.” ~ Peter Gray

I used to run a preschool in my home named, “The Teddy Bear Preschool,” addressing the “Bear Necessities of Life,” a subtitle created from the music of the movie, Jungle Book. I’m not sure when my obsession with teddy bears began, but somehow over the years it grew into a full blown addiction! Maybe it began when I was a young mother with my two year old son, Cordale, sitting beside me on the couch nursing his beloved teddy bear, “Hank,” while I nursed his new baby sister, Aleesha. Perhaps it began much earlier, as a young child, tucking in my assorted stuffed animals in bed with me at night, hoping to hide my favorite long-haired, yellow kitty from my roommate, a teenage sister with a cat paranoia! Maybe I transferred her nightmare fear of cats into a cuddly teddy bear love.

I recall taking a VERY large Teddy Bear named, “HB” (abbreviation for “Huggy Bear”) with me to college, a hand-me-down from my sister, Judy, engaged to be married and ridding herself of old boyfriend memorabilia. HB became a symbol of love and a secretly murmured humorous nickname for one of my clueless college roommate’s boyfriends, when she’d mysteriously disappear for hours every weekend on their dates to make-out mountain!

College HB led to an even bigger adult bear obsession, when as a mother I shopped for special teddy bears at Christmas time, excited when I qualified for “four” store bear give-a-ways one year, enough for all my little girls! To be fair, my husband, Dale, was an enabler, indulging me with gifts of stuffed bears for Christmas and other holidays. On one particular Christmas my daughter, Ashley, and I received “twin” bear gifts, mine from Dale, hers gifted from her brother, Cord. A year later, Ashley sat hugging her well loved, dingy white teddy bear, looking up at my still sparkling white, clean teddy bear, safely out of reach adorning my upper bookshelf, and exclaimed with sadness in her voice, “I feel sorry for your teddy bear. It never gets loved or played with.”

One of the books that I used to read to my children was called, “Ted E. Bear Finds Christmas,” by Diane Mayfield. I liked the clever title and named my Teddy Bear Preschool “bear puppet” the name as well. Ted E. Bear taught the preschoolers their alphabet letter of the week, with an appropriate rhyming song. He was a clever, intelligent bear indeed!

My preschool fulfilled all my bear needs for a while, with bear alphabet and number decorations, bear calendar and weather bear, bear coat hooks, bear name tags, bear snack crackers, bear bingo markers, Teddy Bear Newsletter, worksheet bear stamps, and the teddy bear book bags, professionally stenciled and crafted on my home serger. Each year my little bear preschool began with a teddy bear open house with bear “dot to dot” take homes and homemade teddy bear suckers. I decorated a teddy bear Christmas tree for the preschool holiday bear program. In the spring we had a teddy bear picnic with teddy bear shaped Rice Krispie treats. The year always ended with teddy bear graduation, featuring my preschooler bear singers and a bear diploma. Finally, as all good things eventually come to an end, the Teddy Bear Preschool doors closed when I decided to have one more baby and build the preschool area of my basement into another bedroom. However, my farewell to bears and the storing away of my preschool bear paraphernalia opened up the door to a whole new bear obsession.

“Beanie Babies,” specifically bears, made by Ty from the original beanie babies collection, made their debut into my life when my daughter, Elizabeth, went to college and brought home my very first beanie bear. It appeared to be a fun, harmless collectable, only $5.00. My heart warming inexpensive treasure was a snow white colored bear with black eyes, brown nose, little bear ears and tail, with a red “heart” embroidered on his chest. He was adorned with a scarlet ribbon around his neck, romantically named, “Valentino,” appropriately dated with the birth of February 14, 1994. I DO love clever names and marketing ploys for adorable inanimate objects. I was hooked! More than a century later I have an overwhelming amount of beanie bears for every holiday and special occasion imaginable. Finally I have taken the pledge, joining “Bears Anonymous,” a club that exists only in my mind. I have vowed a “no bears for me” policy. For once you have run out of room on the collectable shelf of life, having hideous amounts of other bears stored in boxes, with no more room for display, it is time to openly recognize you have an addiction and quit! Of course I can’t guarantee there won’t be an occasional emotional relapse with a chewy gummy bear, or my favorite, a delicious chocolate cinnamon bear! And yes, if you’re wondering, I DO have a “build-a-bear,” (two) with clothing and accessories. Because some things really are the “Bear Necessities of Life!”

“Everything in life I share, except of course my teddy bear!”

~ Unknown

“Bears are just about the only toy that can lose just about everything and still maintain their dignity and worth.” ~ Samantha Armstrong

“When everyone else has let you down, there's always Ted.”

~ Clara Ortega

“Teddy bears don't need hearts as they are already stuffed with love!” ~ Author Unknown

Pollyanna and the Grinch

“The most important thing a father can do for his children is to

love their mother!” ~ Theodore Hesburgh

My parents are a combination of the fictional character, “Pollyanna,” from the famous Disney movie, Pollyanna, and the cartoon character, “Grinch,” from Dr. Seuss’s The Grinch Who Stole Christmas! When I was growing up my mother, Shirley, had dark, almost black hair, not yet grayed from age. I thought she was beautiful like my sister, Vicki. Mom was a gifted, and talented seamstress. She could look at a dress in a magazine and recreate the design using various pattern pieces. My mother must have “sang and shouted for joy” when she knew she was coming to earth to receive a body, as she could literally sing and mesmerize audiences with her vocal performances. Everything about my mother is cultured and refined. She loves theater, art, and literature. Having been unable to go to college, my mother sought education through local college education classes and through books. As a young mother, her bishop told her that she was raising five, very special spirits and she should strive to obtain more knowledge.

My mother taught her children truths and values by writing, relating stories about her life and others she’d known. She used her storytelling skills to write road-shows and plays for local youth performances and later she wrote romantic novels. When my parents built the house I grew up in, mom helped design and decorate it. She was the mother everyone else wanted and I was the envied daughter who actually thought she was cool! She’d often tuck me in bed with her late at night after my father left for work, and we’d watch old black and white movies. My mother loved good movies, especially the ones with well written stories, noble characters, and a moral message. I loved all the honorable, virtuous, classical old movies of her generation. To this day I am transformed by a good story with principled heros and heroines.

My mother is a perpetual optimist. She is Pollyanna and the “glad game,” the author of positive thinking. She has always given me hope and continuously lifted me to greater heights with her never-ending belief in an eventual happily ever after ending!

Humorously, for everything my mother represented while I was growing up, my father, Milton, appeared to be the polar opposite! How they came to have five children with him working hard at night and into the late afternoons, and her staying up late into the wee hours of the morning working on projects, is a mystery, if not a miracle! In his youth, my father, Milt, was a shy, fair haired, blond with wavy hair. However, by the time I met him, the curls had thinned and all but vanished. I thought he was extraordinarily handsome. Best of all, his dry sense of humor kept his children laughing and my mother often apologizing, when his tall tales and seemingly harmless chauvinistic jokes embarrassed her.

High priority on my father’s list of talents was his lifetime love of fishing. Fishing, and his great love for the sport, soared foremost above all of my father’s other passions and interests. He and his father and two brothers more than likely fished every fishing hole from Utah to Wyoming. Our monetary purchases were measured by the dozens of donuts he’d need to make in his chosen bakery profession, but our life values were analogized in humorous quotes about fish. Dad had a fishing joke for every occasion. My father truly was an amazing fisherman and he kept us supplied with an impressive “catch of the day,” although we were mostly unappreciative having usually witnessed the final demise as he gutted, cleaned, and prepared the slimy vertebrate. It was not until I began reading my mother’s history later in life that I realized how often my father went fishing. His long, continuous days of hard work were peppered with his needed and much deserved, fishing stress releaser. However in the days before cell phone and easy phone access, I’m sure my mother spent many desperate, if not lonely hours, handling life’s crises, unable to reach my father.

To my hardworking father, his work was his play, and he was an excellent provider in the days where men were expected to “bring home the bacon” to their stay at home wives who would “fry it up in a pan.” So why did I think of him as the Grinch to my mother’s Pollyanna? Not only were my parents complete opposites in their cultural likes and dislikes, they had contrasting senses of humor! Dad loved to tease my mother and give her the exact opposite reaction than she was looking for. This generous, loving man, who denied us nothing, loved to be the pretend “ba humbug” in my mother’s Christmas, much to my delight and the laughter of my siblings! Now retired and plagued with dementia, my father’s former life has changed. However, his sense of humor is still there, evident by the way he rolls his eyes and by the funny comments mumbled beneath his breath.

When I was a child, I admired my parents and wanted to be just like them. As I grew to maturity, I wanted to be different, better somehow. I would certainly never give the tired old speeches I’d grown up with! Then one day I caught myself saying something to one of my adult children that my mother would have said, realizing at the same time that I’d turned into my mother. Suddenly, it wasn’t such a bad thing after all!

Dedicated to my 87 year old parents for their 68th Wedding Anniversary (September 17, 1941).

Understanding a Woman

A man walking along a California beach was deep in prayer. Suddenly the sky clouded above his head and in a booming voice the Lord said, “Because you have tried to be faithful to me in all ways, I will grant you one wish.”

Excitedly, the man said, “Build a bridge to Hawaii so I can drive over anytime I want.” 


Disappointed, the Lord said, “Your request is very materialistic. Think of the enormous challenges for that kind of undertaking. Consider the supports required to reach the bottom of the Pacific and the concrete and steel it would take! It will nearly exhaust several natural resources. I can do it, but it is hard for me to justify your desire for worldly things. Why don’t you take a little more time and think of something that would honor and glorify me?”

The man sincerely thought about it for a long time. Finally he said, “Lord, I wish that I could understand my wife! I want to know how she feels inside, what she's thinking when she gives me the silent treatment, why she cries, what she means when she says, 'nothings wrong' and how I can make a woman truly happy.”

The Lord replied, “You want two lanes or four on that bridge?”

Definitions of Nine Words Women Use:


1. FINE: This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to stop talking.


2. FIVE MINUTES: If she is getting dressed, this means half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch the game before helping around the house.


3. NOTHING: This is the ‘calm’ before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in fine.


4. GO AHEAD: This is a dare, not permission. Don't Do It!


5. LOUD SIGH: This is not actually a word, but a nonverbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an idiot and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about nothing. (Refer back to #3 for the meaning of nothing.)


6. THAT’S OKAY: This is one of the most dangerous statements a women can make to a man. That's okay means she wants to think long and hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.


7. THANKS: A woman is thanking you, do not question, or faint. Just say, “You're welcome.” (I want to add in a clause here. This is true, unless she says, “Thanks a lot,” which is PURE sarcasm and she is NOT thanking you at all. DO NOT say, “You're welcome,” as that will bring on a “whatever”).


8. WHATEVER: This is a subtle way a woman has of saying GO TO XXXX!!!


9. DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT, I GOT IT: Another dangerous statement, meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking, “What's wrong?” For the woman's response refer to #3.


“Women are meant to be loved . . . not to be understood!” ~ Oscar Wilde

The History of Medicine

Recently I was searching the Internet for a specific Lyme protocol using my favorite new doTERRA essential oils. Instead, I was gifted with a current Lyme protocol and study using my recently discovered Nature’s Sunshine products. Along with the discovery I came across this humorous treasure, “The History of Medicine.” To all those with difficult health issues, navigating the challenging road to wellness . . . Enjoy!

The History of Medicine

• 2000 BC: “Here, eat this root.”
• 1000 AD: “That root is heathen. Here, say this prayer.”
• 1850 AD: “That prayer is superstition. Here, drink this potion.”
• 1940 AD: “That potion is snake oil. Here, swallow this pill.”
• 1985 AD: “That pill is ineffective. Here, take this antibiotic.”
• 2009 AD: “That antibiotic is artificial and does not work anymore. Here, eat this root!”
~ Dr Richard Horowitz, Hyde Park, NY