The men represented in the numerous New England Civil War monuments died more than a hundred years before my post World War II baby-boomer generation was born. Often the names on the plaques don't sound familiar to me as there aren't streets or buildings in their honor. Although the importance of the war is still taught in American History classes, it seems the destruction and personal consequences have all but been forgotten.

The names on the Spanish-American War, World War I, II, Korea and Vietnam monuments match some of the surnames we hear every day, but sadly, their significance too fades with each passing generation. And even though the importance of these wars are also being taught, the direct connection and resulting loss will follow the others and be forgotten.

Last week, as the Costen and Lengenfelder families planted the red, white and blue flowers in the Webster Court of Honor, I once again looked at the faces of the statues and questioned if their sacrifice was worth the price they paid. I wondered if any of the hundreds or thousands of people who pass by this monument every day really care that once this sailor or soldier had a family - a life  - and he voluntarily gave it so that millions of African-Americans could live a life free of slavery.

I wondered too if those same people driving by look at the Court of Honor or any of the other  New England monuments and think about the men and women who gave their lives so that we as Americans could live in a country that holds the freedom of speech to be one of the most important rights a citizen can depend upon from their government.

Do those people think about what our country would be like today if Hitler and the Nazi Party had won WWII? What rights would we have now if the Communist Party had spread across America? Where will life in this country be like in another hundred years if our sons and daughters weren't fighting right now against terrorists and those who would like nothing better than to destroy the very country that was built on the foundation of religious freedom and the right to pursue happiness.

As I sat on the bench next to the Gold Star Mother monument Friday evening watering the 360 bright yellow marigolds donated by Webster Nursery, I wondered if anyone driving or walking by knew the significance of the gold star.

"Does anyone know that while the people behind the statues and the names on the plaques may have lost their lives, a Gold Star Mother loses her heart and has to continue on living as though nothing changed," I cried to my husband Mike. "Does anyone know that this simple yellow star represents a special group that no other mother on earth wants to join?"

Wiping my tears, I took one last look at the statues in the Court of Honor. "Do they know we remember?" I asked Mike. "I think they do," he replied. "But more importantly, as long as there are people who visit the Court of Honor, or any of the other monuments, they'll be remembered. As long as there are parades and people who stop and think about Memorial Day as the day to remember those who gave their life so we could live in a country that holds personal freedom as the most important right any human being can have, they'll not be forgotten," he added.

Still not convinced, I awoke on Monday morning making plans for the family to attend the parade. "I don't know why you want to get there so early, people don't care and there won't be anyone to watch the parade," I said.

The chairs were covering the sidewalks from Cranston corner at Thompson Ave. and East Main Street to Town Hall. Families, children and grandparents - the post World War II baby boomer generation waved at the bands, fire trucks and youth groups walked by. American flags waved from porches, street poles and buildings as the parade moved toward Town Hall and the Court of Honor.

"I guess they're not forgotten," I said as we placed a simple "Thank You" flag in the Court of Honor. "I just wish everyone thought of Memorial Day for the reason it was invented... to honor those who gave their life to defend our country and not the first official cook-out of summer."

"So do I," Mike said as we drove by the packed parking lot at Price Chopper.

Not everyone who is overweight is worried or upset about their size. There are many confident, happy and totally content people who are overweight just as there are even more thin and/or average size people who are insecure, unhappy and miserable.

I've been both and for the first time in my life I want to be the healthy, confident, happy, content and comfortable woman that likes living in her own skin. Please note that I didn't say "normal" because if I've learned anything in the past thirty-one years, it's that "normal" is only a setting on the washing machine.

Shedding pounds is more of a matter of self-discovery than weight loss.

To people who aren't overweight or who don't understand, being overweight can seem like a simple problem. "You're eating too much and not exercising enough." "It's all so simple - calories in and calories out." "So just eat less and exercise more." There isn't a worn out cliché that I haven't heard.

Seriously...if losing weight were that simple, no one would be fat in the first place.

Although there are varying opinions in the medical field as to the actual percentage of morbidly obese people who have been sexually abused, they all agree, however, that the number is more than fifty percent. So what is the connection between sexual abuse and developing an eating disorder? The answer is guilt, shame, anesthesia, self-punishment, soothing, comfort, protection and rage.

However, it's important that I set the record straight because this is my story - this is my journey. I'm not saying or implying that every plump, full-figured, fat, obese, morbidly obese or super obese person has been sexually, physically or mentally abused. They have not. It's not a "one size fits all" answer.

As shocking as it may be to the rest of the "normal" world, there are people of size that flat out enjoy being large and in charge.  They enjoy food. They enjoy smelling, exploring, cooking, tasting, eating and eating and eating food.

There are also people who can eat anything and everything they want and never gain a pound. I know, I am married to one of the best. Michael Costen consumes an entire package of Nutter Butter cream cookies - yes the entire package - every night. Yep, every night. And that's only because the doctor told him that eating an entire one pound package of dark chocolate Hershey Kisses was not helping his cholesterol levels.

But do you know what really fries my eggs? He doesn't and hasn't gained a single pound. We've been married for 12 years and he weighs the same today as the day I met him - I do not.

How does he do it, you ask? Because he's crafty and has learned how to transfer calories by osmosis. No, I'm serious. It's a trick that all skinny people have mastered. That's why they're s-k-i-n-n-y. They're a diabolical group who somehow figured out how to push their calories onto someone else.

Have you ever seen a calorie? No, of course you haven't - they're invisible. Just like we can't see grams of fat, fiber or protein but we know they exist.

This group would like to have the rest of us believe they've mastered the "calories in and calories out" thing. But what they've really mastered is the ability to reflect the calories to someone else. Need proof?

You're sitting outside enjoying one of the late spring evenings we've been having the past couple of nights. Suddenly something bites you but there's nothing on your arm. You know you've been bit because it stings but there isn't a bug to be found. That's because it was one of our own New England "can't see 'um" bugs.

Well, I think that skinny people have somehow learned the skill of invisibly transferring their calories to us fat ones. They've figured out how to make the calories leave their food - without compromising flavor of course - and fly right over to us and POOF! the pounds are there. We didn't see the calories moving through the air nor did we see them land on our body until suddenly we've gained another pound.

Hmmm, on second thought... maybe they are the aliens. Maybe they're from another galaxy and they're fattening us up like cattle before they're slaughtered. Maybe they're not really humans but creatures from outer space who were sent to Earth thousands of years ago. Maybe they took the dinosaurs first and then the Mayans next. Maybe on December 21, 2012 they'll be coming back to harvest the 44 overweight percent of the world's population.

Wait a minute! I seem to remember a t-shirt that my husband thought was clever when we were shopping at a store in Old Orchard Beach a couple of years ago. Hmmm, what was on the front of the shirt? Oh yes. "Don't worry, we're safe. When the aliens return they'll eat the fat ones first... they taste better."

Well, I may be fat - but you're ugly and I'm on a diet!

What do you call a line of rabbits walking backward?

As a writer I think it's important to be responsive to your readers. So I'm dedicating this week's column to a fan who took the time the other day to let me know that he needs my humorous and satirical side to bubble back up to the surface.

So put the tissues away Mike Horan… this one’s for you.

Mark Twain called humor mankind’s greatest blessing. Even our third president and noted scholar, Thomas Jefferson (not someone you typically associate with comedy) said, “Good humor is one of the preservatives of our peace and tranquility.”

What is the greatest reward of being alive? Is it chocolate, sex, ice cream, tropical vacations, hugs from children, a perfect night’s sleep, or the satisfaction of a job well done? A thousand people, a thousand different answers. But one supreme pleasure that spans all people and all generations is laughter.

Little can compare to the feeling of a deep, complete, heartfelt laughing spell. No matter your age, wealth, race, or living situation, life is good when laughter is frequent.

Research has also found that humor can help you cope better with pain, enhance your immune system, reduce stress, even help you live longer. Laughter, doctors and psychologists agree, is an essential component of a healthy, happy life.

Thanks to Reader's Digest here are a few ideas that will help energize your sense of humor:

First, regain your smile. A smile and a laugh aren’t the same thing, but they do live in the same neighborhood. Remember to smile at simple pleasures — the sight of kids playing, a loved one or friend approaching, the successful completion of a task, the witnessing of something amazing or humorous.

Recall several of the most embarrassing moments in your life. Then find the humor in them. Now practice telling stories describing them in a humorous way. It might take a little exaggeration or dramatization, but that’s what good storytelling is all about. By revealing your vulnerable moments and being self-deprecating, you open yourself up much more to the humorous aspects of life.

Anytime something annoying and frustrating occurs — like at a Webster Town Meeting — turn it on its head and find the humor. Sure, you can have the normal response and get angry but it doesn’t accomplish anything other than to put you in a bad mood. Better to find a way to laugh at life’s little annoyances. One way to do that: Think about it as if it happened to someone else, someone you like — or better yet, someone you don’t. Laugh at him, then laugh at yourself!

Read the comics every day and cut out the ones that remind you of your life. Post them on a bulletin board or the refrigerator or anywhere else you can see them frequently. Here's one of my favorites:

Every night at dinner, ask family members to share one funny or even embarrassing moment of their day.

When someone offends you or makes you angry, respond with humor rather than hostility. Life is too short to turn every personal affront into a battle. However, if you are constantly offended by someone in particular, yes, take it seriously and take appropriate action. But for occasional troubles, or if nothing you do can change the person or situation, take the humor response.

Add something humorous to your daily to-do list and don’t mark it off until you do it, suggests Jeanne Robertson, a humor expert and author of several books on the topic. When you run into friends or coworkers, ask them to tell you one funny thing that has happened to them in the past couple of weeks. Become known as a person who wants to hear humorous true stories as opposed to an individual who prefers to hear gossip, suggests Robertson.

Find a humor buddy. This is someone you can call just to tell him something funny; someone who will also call you with funny stories of things he’s seen or experienced, says Robertson.

Exaggerate and overstate problems. Making the situation bigger than life can help us to regain a humorous perspective, says Patty Wooten, R.N., an award-winning humorist and author of Compassionate Laughter: Jest for the Health of It. Cartoon caricatures, slapstick comedy, and clowning articles are all based on exaggeration, she notes.

Create a humor environment. Have a ha-ha bulletin board where you only post funny sayings or signs, suggests Allen Klein, an award-winning professional speaker and author of The Healing Power of Humor. His favorite funny sign: “Never wrestle with a pig. You both get dirty, and the pig likes it.”

Experiment with jokes. Learn one simple joke each week and spread it around. One of Klein’s favorites relates to his baldness: What do you call a line of rabbits walking backward? A receding hare line. Focus humor on yourself. “Because of my lack of hair,” Klein says, “I tell people that I’m an expert on how to fix a bad hair day.”

And if those ideas don't work, take two aspirins and call Mike Horan.

It all sounded so simple when our editor Barbara Van Reed called last week asking me to write about the Cranston Print Works building demolition. "Ginger would you talk with some of the former employees to get their reactions and tell their stories," she said.

However, having watched the range of emotions that my husband - and third generation CPW employee - has experienced over the past four years, I should’ve known this wasn’t going to be an easy task.

Since the last of the employee parking lots was once again a bustle of activity as people gathered to watch the different buildings come down, I started with the obvious and began knocking on the windows of the parked cars.

Noting that one particular vehicle had been there almost every day since the demolition had begun, I thought they’d be the best place to start. "Excuse me," I said tapping on the driver’s window. "I’m writing a story about Cranston Print Works and was wondering if you used to work here?"

No, but my brother and father did," the person replied.

"Would it be possible to ask you a few questions?" I continued.

"No, I can’t," he responded. "They’re both gone and watching these buildings coming down is too hard for me to talk about." The anger in his voice was almost palpable.

I could respect that and apologized for intruding on what was certainly a difficult moment.

Going on to another vehicle that I’d seen in the parking lot several times in the past couple of weeks, I once again asked if they’d worked at CPW.

"No, but my husband did," she said. Noticing the bundle of used facial tissues on the seat beside her, I quickly assessed that this was probably not the best time for me to ask if she’d like to share her memories.

Once again apologizing for the intrusion, I headed to another car and asked a third person if they’d worked at Cranston Print Works.

"Yes I did," she said. But after listening to my reasoning for asking, she explained that she’d also been a third generation employee and her feelings were too raw right now to talk with anyone.

There were twenty cars in the parking lot. That was the most I’d seen in two years. There had to be someone that would talk with me.

Approaching one more vehicle I asked what was rapidly becoming a dreaded question. "Did you work at Cranston Print?" I said.

"My grandparents met while working at CPW and my father, brothers and uncles all worked there," she said. "I’m here because I am the only one left in our family."

Suddenly feeling like the obnoxious television reporter who asks the grieving widow how it feels to have lost her husband, I realized this wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d thought. "Mike, no one wants to talk with me about Cranston Print," I said returning home.

Later that afternoon we saw Norma Mailloux who used to work in the CPW Human Resources department, as she was leaving the Webster Post Office and heading back to work with her new employer, Christopher Heights.

"Norma, no one wanted to talk with me," I said describing what had happened.

"Ginger, it’s like every one of those bricks holds the memory of a person that used to work there," she said. "For more than two hundred years that building has been a way of life for this community and watching those bricks come down is like watching all of those memories disappear as though the people and their memories never happened."

Sitting here writing this column I am surrounded by those memories as I look at the photo I have of my husband sitting at his desk in the lab. His 20-year watch sits on his desk as does the heavy copper lamp he received when he joined the 25-year club.

The lampshade is made from CPW fabric and on the front is an engraving of the Roller Print Machine patented in 1783 by Thomas Bell. Beside that is the symbol for ‘Proudly Made in America.’

The machine has left CPW and now awaits its new home somewhere in a museum. The fabric for the lampshade is now printed in Pakistan, China or India and awaits distribution back to America.

Part I of this column appears below.

....

Mr. Sean, never stood-up for a date before, Connery had not only been stood up but had been stood up by a fat chick. And if that weren't bad enough, the YMCA sponsored dance was "Bring an Ugly Girl to a Dance." There were prizes given for the ugliest girl and special consideration for the guy who had the ugliest date. He thought he had the prizes in the bag.

Now before you tell me you don't believe the YMCA would ever do such a thing, remember this was 1967 and their poorly conceived idea was born from the genuine concern that even ugly girls deserved to have dates. They didn't try to hurt anyone and actually thought they were doing something nice for... you got it - the unwanted and ugly fat girls.

It wasn't until I heard a comedian talk about his date for the "Bring an Ugly Girl Dance" at a show in 1986 that I realized this bright idea wasn't the brain child of our YMCA in Reno, Nevada. The comedian was doing a show at the Miss Wheelchair America pageant in Cincinnati, Ohio. My mother was there as Miss Wheelchair Nevada and the comedian was the entertainment for the pageant finale.

Now before you get the tissues, let me further share how funny life can be.

In 1986 I was volunteering/working for the American Red Cross in Reno. I was the Work Place Coordinator for the Health and Safety Department. Which converted to English meant that I provided First Aid and CPR training for companies in Northern, Nevada. I had just started teaching all of the staff for the Reno area Job Corp located at the closed Stead Air Force Base about ten miles north of Reno.

It had been almost five years since my first weight loss surgery and I was down to 164 pounds. I was exercising regularly and had to say I looked the best I'd ever been... as a teenager or an adult.

I had about ten staff members in my class and started as always by introducing myself and asked the students to do the same. One student looked very familiar but wasn't sure where or why I felt as though I knew him. You can only imagine how I felt when I realized it was Sean Connery and he didn't recognize me.

I was single and he was recently divorced so I enjoyed the moment and let him think he was seriously impressing his teacher. The class lasted for eight hours and it didn't take him half the day before he was asking me for a date. Oh, how sweet the moment. I let him go on for another couple of hours before I finally said;

"You don't have any idea who I am?" I said.

"No, but I'd like to spend the night finding out," he laughed and flashed that most popular boy of the 1967 senior class smile.

"Well," I continued. "We went to high school together."

"You do look familiar," he said. "But I know I would've remembered someone as cute and sexy as you."

"Hmmm, let's see," I said.

The rest of the class had stopped what they were doing and Sean loved being the center of attention especially since his ego had gained every pound I'd lost during the twenty years since I'd missed our big date.

Finally, after feeling as though I had settled the score for every "ugly" girl who had been invited to that dance, I said.

"Do you remember the name Ginger Sprague?"

His face turned a lighter shade of pale.

"Do you remember inviting her to a "Bring an Ugly Girl to a Dance" at the YMCA?" I added.

His face grew even whiter.

"Well, Sean, I was supposed to be your date but when you sent a cab instead of picking me up, I couldn't go," I added.

"WOW, you look great," he said jumping up to hug me.

Stepping back I answered, "Thanks. That's what the rest of the class said when I went to our reunion last month. In fact the Captain of the Football team told me after our third dance that it was a good thing I didn't look like this in high school because neither one of us would've graduated."

I guess Sean must have thought he'd also been voted most likely to succeed because he was right back to his first request. "I think we should have that date even if it's 20 years later," he replied.

"Oh Sean, I'm sorry," I replied. "As soon as class is over I'm heading to Treasure Island Naval Base. I'm dating the Admiral that's in charge of the base and I'm his date for the formal ball they have during Pacific Fleet Week. There's nothing like a Navy officer all dressed up in his chocker whites," I smiled.

Update: I've been in the program since last September and have completed all the steps required before I can finally meet the surgeon and get his approval for the Bariatric surgery. I've lost more than 50 pounds and have finally slipped back under 300 pounds.

I don't know what's more difficult... remembering the past or trying to eat enough food to forget about it.

The decision to share my weight loss journey with our readers was a combined effort of both the editor, Barbara Van Reed, and myself. I knew it wasn't going to be easy; however, I hope it hasn't been a waste of paper and ink. More importantly; it hasn't been a waste of my time so I sincerely hope it wasn't a waste of our readers’.

I don't know what happened last summer to make my dream of being healthy and at peace with food such a passionate goal for me. The first time I had the surgery I had just turned 30 years-old; I'm now 62. So that wasn't the driving force. It wasn't because I had a specific event such as a wedding or reunion coming up in 2012. That too has already happened.

My school years were much like the quote from the movie Forrest Gump "Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."

It was 1967 and like most of the female student body, I had a crush on the senior boy voted most popular. He was such a fine combination of sexy and handsome that it had to be nothing less than Divine intervention for Mr. Sean Connery to live just down the street from our house. (No that's not his real name but this is my story and I can dream, can't I?)

There'd been a flu epidemic spreading across the country and I had the misfortune to be one of those statistics that ended up in the hospital for five days with dehydration. Being the eternal optimist, I couldn't have been more grateful for the entire experience because, you guessed it, I'd lost 40 pounds and felt like it was worth every minute I spent in the bathroom.

My newly found self-confidence and weight loss was making for a more outgoing and happier member of the junior class. So you can imagine my excitement when Mr. Sean Connery called me and asked me to be his date for a special dance that was being held in two weeks at the YMCA. I know it's hard to believe that there was a moment in my life when I could be at a loss for words, but it took every brain cell I had just to get the word "yes" past my lips and into the phone.

For the next two weeks I was the envy of the other members of the female race at Earl Wooster Senior High. Sean would walk me to my classes and would sit with me at lunch. We'd talk about the dance and how excited he was to have me be his date. We passed notes in the hallway as he gave me the details of our date. He said he'd pick me up around 6 p.m. and asked what color I'd like to have my corsage. Suddenly, life was good even for the fat chick.

Friday night came and I was ready and waiting by 5 p.m. The phone rang at 6 and he explained that something had come up but he was sending a cab and we'd meet at the YMCA. That didn't set well with my mother and the cab was turned away when the driver arrived. I was sure life as I knew it had no further importance and would have gladly run away if Sean had just called me when he found out I wasn't going to be there. He didn't of course.

He didn't call on Friday nor did he call or come over to my house at any time during the weekend. On Monday I faded back in with the other invisible girls. By lunch time the rumors and comments were adding up like calories and fat grams at the Dairy Queen. Sean was so angry that I could have been choking on a cheeseburger and all he would've done was hand me a bottle of ketchup.

Mr. Sean, never stood-up for a date before, Connery had not only been stood up but had been stood up by a fat chick. And if that weren't bad enough, the YMCA sponsored dance was "Bring an Ugly Girl to a Dance." There were prizes given for the ugliest girl and special consideration for the guy who had the ugliest date. He thought he had the prizes in the bag.

Continued next week.

I'm a late bloomer... not in gardening terms, but in Internet exploration.

I went into this electronic age kicking and screaming, all the while mumbling something about the obvious chaos that would certainly ensue by becoming a paperless society.

The very thought of this old-school business person trying to maneuver through the dangerous pitfalls of the corporate jungle without a paper trail brought images of the 1960s television show, "Lost In Space."

In the series, Guy Williams and June Lockhart play the heads of the Robinson family who'd  set out on a five-year mission to explore a distant planet. After an evil doctor sabotages the space ship and inadvertently winds up going along for the ride, the family finds themselves hopelessly lost in space.

"It's far too risky for me to use a computer," I bemoaned to my dumbfounded boss.  "What if I accidentally access Pentagon information? I'll be whisked away by the FBI or CIA and never be heard from again."

Okay, I know that was a bit extreme but don't forget you're talking with a fiction writer here.

"Please don't make me do this," I begged. "If super-brained teenagers can do it intentionally, I knew I could do it accidentally." After all, I only needed to look out the window into the Nevada desert to prove my theory.

"If I can unknowingly stumble onto a bomb testing site in the mysterious Area 51 in the Nevada desert, I can do the same with a computer," I nervously declared, searching her eyes for the slightest flicker of understanding.

"It seems like only yesterday," I began. The day was ripe with exploration opportunity as my little family headed out on our Sunday excursion. True to our western pioneer heritage, we packed a picnic lunch and pointed our covered wagon (it was a 1975 Chevy wagon) toward the open Nevada desert.

After following a seemingly endless and rugged dirt road far up into the once booming (no pun intended) Tonopah mountain range, the kids were beginning to grow weary of their mother's adventurous spirit.

"Just think kids, we're following a path that silently holds the memories of thousands of old miners who either died a lonely and forgotten death looking for gold or lived the life of opulence when they found the Mother Lode!", I said getting carried away with my creative skills.

Then just as we thought our journey had been pointless, we turned a dusty corner to find what        for all intents and purposes seemed to be an abandoned ghost town.

The dry gray weather-worn buildings stood as centurions guarding their precious treasurers.  Boarding houses, small homes, stores, jail and saloons all seemed to say their occupants or owners had just stepped out for a minute and would be right back.

Dishes sat on the tables with eating utensils close by. Tattered curtains waved at us through open windows that were still filled with the solid glass panes.  Old chairs, beds and cabinets patiently waited for their owners to return.

Then when this moment seemed all too perfect we came upon a sign.  Not a ghostly vision, but a horrendous nightmare. The large sign that was permanently attached to the side of an old boarding house read: "WARNING! You are trespassing in a United States government bombing test site. This is an active site and you are in immediate danger.  Leave immediately! Bombs are routinely detonated with no notice."

Okay, so they got my attention. We left and never returned. So you can see why I had a good reason  to fear an even easier form of exploration opportunities.

Obviously I learned how to use the word processor and timidly waxed my surfboard before heading out to surf the net. I quickly learned how to maneuver my way around a web site and even came somewhat proficient in safely accessing a plethora of valuable information.

It wasn't until 2004 that this pioneer discovered eBay. Ah, the very word sent shivers up both my husband's spine and our checkbook.

Did you know that at any given time there are more than 300 billion items for sale on eBay? It's like one enormous electronic flea market or the world's largest garage sale. And talk about the dream of every "A" type personality - there's endless opportunities to compete and win.  It's the thrill of the hunt and the victorious satisfaction in placing the winning bid.

Seriously, when was the last time the clerk at Target said, "Congratulations! You've won everything in your shopping cart.  That'll be $24.79 and you need to pay me within 10 days.

No, I haven't either. So see, it's a shopper's heaven.  Plus, you save on gas and clothing for you don't need to leave the house or even change your clothes. Always wanted to buy Canada? It's on eBay. The rights to someone's life? Yep, $4 million on eBay. From a penny to a fortune, it's all there on eBay.

However, you better watch out for the pitfalls along the road of the electronic flea market jungle. That seemingly cheap item just cost you twice the highest price at K-Mart, Target or even Wal-Mart.

"WOW! You got a 93-piece set of Pfaltzgraff china for $20?" But wait. Is that a bombing test site sign?

Well, you could call it that. Unfortunately the sign on the side of the eBay building isn't nearly as big as the one in Nevada. It's that small sign in the middle of the page that's called "shipping and handling."

Sure, you can still get bargains and some great collectible items online.  You just need to look for the signs so you don't hear that Air Force jet ramping up to make a bomb drop. Excuse me a minute... it's time to check my bids.

Since starting to seriously pursue my dream of being a writer, I've become increasingly aware of words and how other people weave them together to convey a message or idea. Conversely, I've also noticed just how complex or bewildering some statements are written.

Here are some concepts that have me pondering the complexities of the English language:

If  you eat pasta and antipasta together will you still be hungry? If you try to fail and succeed, does that mean you've actually failed? Why is the alphabet in that order? Is it because of the song? Where are we going if we're not going to Hell in a hand basket? And what exactly is a hand basket and why do we need it to go to Hell? Why do we park on the drive way and drive on the parkway? One more? If clothes make the man, how come we can't judge a book by its cover?

If quitters never win, and winners never quit, what fool came up with, "Quit while you're ahead"? How can we have a Secret Service when everyone in the world knows they exist? If actions speak louder than words, how can the pen be mightier than the sword? If knowledge is power, how can ignorance be bliss? If a silent man is a wise one, then why is a man without words considered to be a man without thoughts? If a bus station is where a bus stops and a train station is where a train stops, why do I have a work station at my desk?

I've also noticed a complete lack of faith in my mental capacity by the manufacturing/business community. Recently I bought a new hair dryer and found the following instructions printed on the warning label: Do not use while sleeping. Ya think? What if that's the only time I have to work on my hair?

On a bag of Doritos I read: You could be a winner! No purchase necessary. Details inside. Is there a "shoplifter special" or do I open the bag in the store to see if I won and then put it back on the shelf?

The following directions were printed on the package of Dial soap: Use like regular soap. Hmmm... and that would be how? A statement on the package of a hotel shower cap reads: Fits one head. Really? Printed on the bottom of a Mrs. Smith's Chocolate Cream Pie: Do not turn upside down. (Oh... now you tell me!) On the box of frozen bread pudding: Caution! Product will be hot after heating. Isn't that the purpose?

The warning label on my new Black and Decker iron states: Do not iron clothes while on body. But wouldn't that save me some time? The warning label on a string of Christmas lights reads: For indoor or outdoor use only. As opposed to use in outer space? A Japanese food processor reads: Not to be used for other use. Now I'm curious.

A bottle of Vick's children's cough syrup warns: Do not drive car or operate machinery. We could make a significant reduction in the number of motor vehicle and workplace accidents if we didn't let five year-olds drive after taking cough medicine. A bottle of Nytol sleep aid reads: Warning: may cause drowsiness. Isn't that why I bought it?

A Swedish Husqvarna chainsaw warning label states: Do not attempt to stop chain with your hands or genitals. Is this a home castration kit?   My grandson's Superman pajamas warn: Wearing this garment does not enable you to fly. One more childhood fantasy destroyed.

Get my point? How about those deeply philosophical bumper stickers?

Tell me what you need and I'll tell you how to get along without it

I don't have an attitude problem; you have a perception problem.

Your reality check bounced.

On the keyboard of life, always keep one finger on the escape key.

I don't suffer from stress - I'm a carrier.

Never argue with an idiot. They'll drag you down to their level then beat you with experience.

I may be fat, but you're ugly and I'm on a diet!

Think we're perfect when it come to writing headlines?

Kids make nutritious snacks

Milk drinkers are turning to powder

Drunk gets nine months in violin case

Two sisters reunited after 18 years at checkout counter

Grandmother of eight makes hole in one

What will be will be, because life is what you make it.

These past three weeks have been the most difficult since I made the decision to join the Reliant (formerly Fallon) Bariatric program and once again have weight loss surgery. But I guess it actually all began with a dream that started in 1984.

It was summer time and three years since my original stomach stapling surgery. I'd gone from 410 pounds to 175 pounds. I'd been on television and in the newspapers. The idea of losing weight by surgically closing off 85 percent of one's stomach was a new concept and since I'd lost the equivalent of two full grown adults, a small kindergarten class and a partridge in a pear tree... I was once again anything but normal.

By day, I enjoyed the attention and proudly carried my before photo in my wallet to prove that yes, once upon a time I was probably the fattest person in Northern Nevada. By night, my dreams told a much different story.

Although the nightmare didn't happen every night or every week, it did happen the very same way. So it was much like watching a rerun without leaving the television on long enough to see how the story ends. It was during one of the many hospitalizations that I'd had for dehydration, that I mentioned the dream to the therapist who was trying to convince me that eating only 12 sunflower seeds a day was not what the doctors had in mind for reducing my caloric intake.

In the dream I'm aimlessly wandering around the rooms in a big, old, abandoned two-story house. The wall paper, paint and floor design look familiar to me but I can't remember ever living in this house. I can hear a child crying and as I move from room to room, the crying is getting louder and closer. Finally, as I open the door to the last room upstairs I see a little girl sitting in the corner of the room by a window. Her back is to me and she doesn't notice that someone has walked into the room.

She's about six or seven years old and has blond curly hair. The bright warm sunlight shows toys scattered around the floor as though she'd been happily lost is a world of make believe. But now the bitter pain she feels has her frozen and lost in the corner shadows of the room. I move closer to her and as I reach out to touch her, I awaken.

Each night the dream ends the same way. I do not see her face nor do I know her name. I just know that she is scared and in pain. I also know that with every pound I lose, the dream is getting stronger and more alive.

It's now fall and I'm down to 156 pounds. It was the lowest I'd ever weighed as an adult and the same as I'd weighed in the first grade. With the nightmare happening almost every night, the therapist felt it was time to make the dream play out all the way to the end. Since I wasn't successful with other hypnotic attempts with other weight loss programs, the doctor prescribed a mild sedative that would make me sleepy but not unconscious.

Within minutes I was dreaming and walking around in the old house and although I'd had the dream before, each time was as though I were watching it for the first time. I could feel the heat from the hot summer breeze blowing in through the windows. I could smell the musty odor from the rotting wooden attic beams above me. Wandering from room to room, I'd think about the people and families that had lived there before. Then I heard the sound of a child sobbing and followed the noise upstairs.

I once again open the door and listen to her crying as I move towards the corner. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the darkness but I begin to see her image. My doctor tells me to go closer and reach out to the little girl but as I do the pain becomes so intense that I draw my hand back as though I were about to touch an open flame.

Gathering all the strength I can pull together, I reach out one more time and gently touch her shoulder just as I notice the blood on the floor and on her clothes.

It took less than a heartbeat for me to realize that I was the little girl and the pain I had felt was my own rape. The blood on the floor and on my clothes was my own. I was seven years old and the man that raped me held my round little face in his dirty hands as the smell of his drunken breath whispered, "If you tell anyone, I'll kill your family."

I didn't tell. I stayed in that room too afraid to go home. I lied and told my mother I hadn't made it home in time to use the bathroom and messed in my clothes. She told me to take them off and put them in the dirty wash tub. I hid them in the bottom of the barrel where my father burned the trash. She didn't say a word when the clothes seemed to disappear.

I didn't tell but three months later my father was dead. The California Highway Patrolman told us that he'd been killed by a drunk driver. Although I'd kept the pain a secret and never returned to the old abandoned house, I knew deep inside my mind that it was my fault and I had killed my father. Somehow, that man thought I'd told someone.

As the weight came off in 1984 and got closer to the weight I'd been when he raped me, the secret came back up to the surface. It came back in a dream about a little girl.

So for the past three weeks I've been busy writing about the dream and trying to assure the little girl that we didn't need the wall of fat to protect us then nor do we need it now.

Next challenge? When you take away one obsession, the true addict will replace it with another. Learning to live life without addictions. Does anyone smell chocolate or is it just me?

It's after midnight and as I do on most Monday evenings, I'm writing my column while the rest of the family and/or New England is sleeping. I love this time of night when I can sit quietly at the computer and write about this crazy world, from my little corner in Webster, Massachusetts.

In a couple of hours our commonwealth will be joining the rest of the 12 Super Tuesday States and nominate three presidential candidates. Then we'll spend the next eight months anxiously waiting for the political nonsense, attack ads and debates to become a fading memory. I'm willing to bet that by June even a television commercial for Bob's Discount Furniture Stores will be a welcomed break from the insanity.

As my mind settles in on the topic for this column, I find it rather perplexing how much tomorrow's election has in common with my current involvement in the Bariatric Surgery program.

Giving up old habits is difficult at best and tomorrow Webster voters will learn just how hard our Town Clerk, Bob Craver, has been working to make sure our precincts reflect the new federal population redistricting mandates. Additionally, he has also been busy making sure our voter registration list is up to date.

Confused?  It's really rather simple. All precincts must have an equal amount of the represented population. Therefore, with precincts four and five having the largest number of registered voters, they needed to trim back on the number of voters they have and move them into precincts two and three.

For those of you who can't remember whether you're in four or five, you might have to factor in precincts two and three for consideration.

Plus, if you haven't voted in some time and never bothered to complete the federal or state census forms, you may have a few extra steps to take when you find you need to reactivate your voting status as well. Knowing how difficult it can be to change an established habit, tomorrow's changes might be just as difficult to remember as the ones I'm learning about in the weight loss program.

As I mentioned in my February 15 column, in 1981 all I had to do was raise my hand and say, "I want my stomach stapled so I can lose weight." Surprisingly, that was the easy part. Changing a lifetime of eating habits has been by far the most difficult, if not impossible, step.

Obviously I wasn't born this size, but it didn't take long to get a firm hold onto the path of obesity. With our mothers and grandmothers being taught that a fat baby was a healthy baby, our size was established before we could even walk.

Also, being a "Baby Boomer," we were taught to respect and appreciate our hard working parents by not wasting food and eating everything on our plates. If that didn't work, the guilt card was dealt with horror stories about poor starving children. If only my mother had boxed up all the food I had to eat to keep those kids from starving in China or Africa.

For the life of me, I couldn't understand how my eating everything on my plate kept a hungry child somewhere in another country from starving. I must have kept thousands of children alive over the years because to this day, I have a real problem not finishing everything on my plate.

I'm from the generation that learned there isn't any event or emotion that can't be enhanced, numbed, forgotten or remembered better with food. Fall off your bicycle? Here, have a cookie. Bump your head? Have two cookies. Get a raise? Let's go out and celebrate. Someone die in the family? Bring in the food. There wasn't an emotion, event, or celebration that food wasn't right there.

Happy? Have something to eat. Sad? Fix yourself another plate. Bored, angry, hurt, afraid... yep there's food for that. Tired? Can't think? Need energy? Yep, you got it! Food is the answer. No cigarettes, alcohol or drugs. Well that's not true. I had my fair share of diet pills.

So if eating isn't the answer; what is? What did I do when I suddenly had no coping skills?

Well, it was easy. If eating was the problem... just stop eating. And for weeks and months; that's just what I did - or didn't do. Day after day, I'd eat 12 sunflower seeds a day. That's it. No more, no less. The fear of dying didn't mean half as much as the fear of being fat again.

So why do I want to go down this path again? Because of what we've learned that works for this program.

Now, before you can see a surgeon and discuss the surgery, there are group classes, individual therapy, exercise boot camp, more group therapy. There are nutrition classes and individual goals and skill sessions. I guess someone realized that to make the surgery work, they too need to look at all the body's precincts and redistribute the overall importance of the population.

Losing weight isn't the problem; it's finding it back again that needs to be fixed.

So tomorrow, or actually in three hours the polls will be open and I'll be up on stage with my fellow Webster Board of Registrars ready to handle any and all problems as they come our way. By the end of the evening we'll be exhausted, but gratified that we're there helping to make sure that every registered Webster voter gets to have their voice heard.

As the secretary, I'll be at my lap top writing everything down to be sure there's documentation that we did everything the right way - the way we've learned over the years that it should be done... just like in the Bariatric program. Oh, and I've lost 45 pounds and I'm almost ready for surgery.