Damn the Torpedo Grass! Pull Weeds Ahead!

I stopped mowing my own grass years ago because I got tired of pulling my back out on a near-weekly basis. I am not fond of yard work, anyway. I perform some yard work because I hate a messy yard worse than I hate doing yard work. But I don’t do the major upkeep myself. Instead, I hire a lawn service. They will, I discovered, cheerfully pull their equipment-laden trailer to your house and mow, edge, and blow off your driveway. Paying a lawn company and avoiding the doctor’s office is about a wash, in my estimation.

    Having a lawn is a responsibility. If you own a house with a lawn, you should take care of it out of respect for the people living around you. You shouldn’t let debris pile up and become a critter-haven. You shouldn’t let your shrubs get out of hand, or trash trees sprout and take root just anywhere. And you should never let your weeds take over your lawn, because, in a neighborhood, what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine when it comes to weeds.

     The best defense against weeds in a lawn is a healthy carpet of grass. So when I made the decision years ago to put down grass sod, I also signed up with a lawn treatment service. The company has kept my lawn looking lush every since. They also keep an eye out for disease threats like fungus and pests like grubs. Armadillos really like grubs, and they will walk all the way from Texas to dig up your entire lawn looking for them. So Chad, my lawn treatment man, has regularly treated my Meyer’s zoysia lawn for fungus and grubs.  He also treats other insidious problems like nutgrass and torpedo grass. I think nutgrass is called nutgrass because trying to get rid of it will drive you nuts. Torpedo grass, however, is in a class all by itself.

    First of all, torpedo grass is devious. It is broad-bladed and at first examination, it looks a whole lot like centipede or St. Augustine grass. It’s easy enough to see in a fine-bladed grass lawn like zoysia. You look at it and think, “Hmmm...that looks like centipede. Well, it’s not zoysia, but at least it’s green grass.”  And you forget about it for a while. Then you notice the stuff is showing up everywhere in your lawn, because it’s also very invasive. I know this because Chad told me, “Lynn, this stuff is called torpedo grass, and it’s very invasive.” He also said, “You need to stay on top of it, or it’ll take over your lawn and it’s very hard to get rid of it.  Sometimes the only thing you can do is to cut out the infected sod and replace it.”  Yikes! Well, that put me on red alert. I was on torpedo grass patrol from that day on.

    I keep a bottle of Roundup on hand for spot control of weeds. You have to be very careful with Roundup because it will kill anything it comes in contact with. If your neighbor’s lawn looks like the sand trap area of a golf course, it’s probably because he got carried away with the Roundup. At any rate, I got pretty good at spot-treating a torpedo grass outbreak with RoundUp before it could establish  a beach head. If I lost a little zoysia temporarily, I just counted it as an acceptable casualty in the war on torpedo grass.

    I recently sold the house with the Meyer’s zoysia lawn and moved. I now own another house with an emerald zoysia lawn. While walking the property with some family members one afternoon, I noticed a big patch of a broad-bladed grass that was obviously not zoysia.  My uncle said, “That looks a lot like centipede.” Uh-oh.

    I made a mental note to have Chad investigate this suspicious patch, since I had already arranged for him to evaluate my newly acquired lawn. The day of the appointment arrived. He pulled up a sprig of the mystery grass and studied it. He furrowed his brow. He finally said, “Tell you what - I’ll treat this area with a product called Drive. If it turns a sickly yellow, we’ll know it’s torpedo grass.”  He treated the patch, and in a few days the grass did indeed start turning the tell-tale sickly yellow hue. So it isn’t centipede, or St. Augustine, or any desirable southern grass. IT’S THE DREADED TORPEDO GRASS! ARGGHHH!!  And there’s a whole bunch of it making a run for the neighbor’s bermuda lawn next to mine.

    I don’t know who named this devilish weed “torpedo grass,”  except they probably had to resort to firing a torpedo to get rid of the dang stuff. Well, I whipped it once, I believe I can do it again. To sort of quote Admiral David Farragut, “Damn the torpedo grass! Pull weeds ahead!”

A Moving Experience

I recently sold the house that had been my home for the last nineteen years. I won’t go into the litany of reasons, it was just time to move on. My house was clean, mostly updated, and well-maintained - a realtor’s dream. I figured it would probably sell itself. Still, there’s a lot to do in getting a house ready for the real estate market. I de-cluttered rooms and listened to my realtor-brother’s suggestions as I prepared the house to be shown. I even listened to my friends who kept saying things like, “Are you sure you want to move? This house is perfect for you!” Or “But you just got through remodeling this one!”  They were questions I kept asking myself as well, as I prayerfully considered this move. I certainly wasn’t going to give the house away, but I was committed to seeing the process through.

    I spent most of February and March preparing to put the house on the market. “Spent” is exactly the right word, as my pile of paint and hardware receipts will attest.  My house listed in early April and was shown a dozen times in the first week and a half. I soon had a contract with a buyer, and immediately commenced to packing up in time for a mid-May closing and consequent move.  Thankfully, the same friends who questioned my sanity also brought me tons of great boxes to pack my things in.

    “There’s no business like show business,” goes the popular song. And there’s no trauma like moving trauma, either. It’s such a royal pain to move that no one’s bothered to set the sentiment to music, as far as I know. Think about it - everything you own has to be wrapped, stuffed, bagged, boxed, padded, taped shut or otherwise secured, labeled in way you can actually find anything again, and finally carted out of your house and into a large truck by professional movers. At my age you hire professional movers because your friends are too decrepit to haul armoires and couches in and out of buildings. Besides, I’d rather be upset with the movers than my friends, should something go awry. I did all the packing myself - my preference -  but I did get help from friends wrapping up cumbersome items with that extra-wide plastic wrap. It only clings to itself, which is great, but it is still no small feat to wrap couch cushions with a hand-held roll of plastic film, let me tell you. Imagine three people playing Twister with Glad Wrap and you get the idea.

    I closed on two houses - the one I sold and the one I purchased - on a Wednesday, and moved on Thursday. At eight-fifteen in the morning, the movers arrived and got right to work. There were three young men - one linebacker-sized and two lean and wiry ones. After an hour’s work, my three-man hourly rate dropped to the two-man hourly rate because Linebacker suffered a nasty gash on his forearm when a bungee cord popped back on him. “Ma’am, do you have a band-aid or something?”  Apparently, professional movers do not keep first aid supplies in their truck. “Uh...here, rinse that off in the sink, I’ll look.”  Band-aids, band-aids....I have packed all my band-aids, naturally. Aha! I remembered the emergency first aid kit in the car, complete with sterile wipes, gauze, and tape. Narrow tape, however, so I wrapped his beefy arm again with blue painter’s tape. “Do you think I need stitches?” he asked me. “I don’t know, but you should definitely get it looked at. And here’s four Ibuprofen.” That was the last I saw of Linebacker, so I guess he took my advice. Wirey Men continued working.

    After everything was in the truck, Wirey Men announced they were going to lunch and would meet me at the new address. “Ok. See you in a little while.”  I looked around the empty house wistfully, taking a moment to appreciate the years of enjoyment it had given me. I ran my hands along the granite counters in the kitchen, admiring the way my remodeling plans had turned out. I surveyed the stone backsplash, the stainless steel appliances, th....DANG! The movers forgot to take the refrigerator! How did I overlook the refrigerator, for pete’s sake! I realized I had no cell phone number for Wirey Men, but I knew they were going to Firehouse Subs for lunch. So I off I rushed to find them before they were already in route to the new house.

    No worries. Wirey Men were still parked, sitting in the cab, and having a post-lunch smoke. “Uh, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you forgot the refrigerator. I figured you’d want to come back and get it before you got all the way to the other house.” Wirey Men studied me quietly for a brief moment and replied, “Yes ma’am.”  I don’t want to know what they were thinking.
   
    Moving other people’s stuff is about a thankless a task as there is, even if you are being paid for it. Wirey Men put in an honest day’s work, to be sure. I asked one of them, “So, do you see a chiropractor?” “No, ma’am,“ he said, “I just take Goody’s Powder and Monster drinks.” Right.  At least Wirey Men didn’t have to reassemble beds and tables inside the house that afternoon. All my worldly goods went straight into the garage for storage at the new address, and I moved in temporarily with a good friend while some renovations are being done at my house.

    Moving is about as much fun as having a root canal; it’s just exhausting in every way. There’s simply nothing enjoyable about moving except the part when you’re finally done with it all, and I’m not quite done with it all.  In a few weeks the movers will be back to haul most of my stuff again - out of the garage and into the house. I can hardly wait.

The Demon Brew

    Has anyone besides me noticed that American Christians are growing increasingly lax in arriving at worship services on time? I’ve been part of local church life in one place or another long enough to notice this trend toward habitual tardiness. Now there have always been those few who would be late to their own funerals, but I’m not talking about those folks. I’m talking about what is more and more becoming the majority of people who consider themselves church members.

    The demise of traditional Sunday school classes may have something to do with it. Families would come to church early enough to attend the pre-service Bible classes and then move on into the sanctuary during the break.  Pretty much everybody was in their seats by the time the organist finished playing the prelude and the choir members filed in. Choir and organ music or not, every church body I’ve ever been a part of began Sunday services with some kind of call to worship. Styles and music certainly change with the years, but the basics remain more or less the same. Tardiness, however, is definitely a contemporary development.

    I have given this matter considerable thought and I think I know the reason behind American Christianity’s downward spiral toward careless indifference about arriving to worship services on time. The secret lurks in almost every church without respect to sect, style, or denomination affiliation. Whereas my Sunday school theory may offer a partial explanation, I think the real culprit behind the growing pattern of “lateness as lifestyle” is of a much darker nature. How dark you ask? Very dark - as in breakfast blend, French roast or even Sumatran. Ladies and gentlemen, possibly the greatest hindrance to worship services starting on time with the congregation bodily present is that perennial favorite beverage of Americans, the cup of hot coffee.

    Scoff if you must, but think about it for a moment. What is the one obstacle between you and the pew on any Sunday morning? It is not the the gleaming coffee urn with its tantalizing aroma? How about the siren call of brightly labeled specialty creamers with exotic names like French vanilla, creme brulee, or caramel machiatto? Perhaps it’s the skurrrkkkk of the k-cup machine that woos and then deludes you into thinking, “This won’t take but a minute and I haven’t heard the musicians start up yet anyway.” You look at the clock in the lobby and realize the service is about to begin, and yet there you stand at the coffee station, styrofoam cup in hand to collect the steaming brown elixir. You pump some creamer into your coffee and rifle the stir sticks. A quick whirl of a stick, a toss to the trash can, and back to the carry-out lids for one to top your hot beverage lest you should scald yourself or soak the upholstery. You manage to find your seat at last, somewhere in the middle of the second song. And so it goes. You were almost on time, but then you stopped for a cup of the demon brew!
   
    I jest, of course. If a church really didn’t want you to have coffee prior to a worship service (and even during it, in some places) they wouldn’t serve it to you in the first place. I know that my own church started offering coffee and a bit of food before services a few years ago because refreshments can really help people connect with one another face to face, even if it’s just for a few moments in front of the French vanilla creamer.  Besides, most preachers I know would rather minister to people abuzz with a bit of caffeine then they would to a roomful of folks who can’t seem to keep their eyes open.

    While I am kidding around about coffee being a tool of the devil, my observations about churches, coffee and the worship service do have some merit. I happen to lead the early worship service at my church. There’s a fifteen minute break at the conclusion of this service before the next one begins. During that time, I make my way out into the lobby, pour myself some coffee (hopefully there’s some left) and visit with friends. The vantage point from the cafe table that I normally retreat to gives me perspective on certain aspects of human behavior. I can tell you with all certainty that as long as the coffee is flowing, most church people these days will almost always choose to drink coffee and talk to their friends in the lobby over getting into the worship service on time. I have often seen people arrive very late and still choose to sit and drink coffee before going into the sanctuary, if it’s available. At our church the practice got so bad that we finally had to start clearing the coffee service by a certain time just to discourage it.

    As a coffee drinker myself, I understand the attraction. What is more comforting and endorphin-producing that a fresh cup of Joe? As a worship leader, however, I am annoyed. The message to me is that what I’m doing, or at least a attempting to do - draw people into the presence of God -  is not nearly as compelling as hot coffee. I fight the temptation to be annoyed about this constantly. I see visions of myself cleansing the lobby of coffee makers with my guitar strap, like Jesus took on the money changers: “This service shall be called a worship service, not a coffee bar!” It’s ridiculous, I know.

    You may be thinking, “So I’m late to the service because I stop for coffee. What’s the big deal?”  Addressing that would be another blog entry entirely. However, if you ever have to lead worship for a congregation that adds new participants every ninety seconds for fifteen minutes, you’ll know firsthand what the frigging big deal is! Uh, sorry for the outburst.... I think I need a cup of coffee.

Timing is Everything, or Has Anybody Seen the Bass Player?

    There are any number of qualifications that the individual members of a local church praise team must have in order for them to function well together.  In addition to all the spiritual requirements that may come to mind, there are also the natural ones. You know, like singers should be able to carry a tune, and I don’t mean in a bucket. Anyone who plays an instrument should demonstrate a certain level of skill before they’re allowed to join the band.  And in my book, the one attribute that all singers and musicians on a church worship team must have is a good sense of timing. Especially the drummer. Let’s face it, drums rule. If the drummer can’t keep good time, that’s a pretty tough challenge to work through because, in music, timing is everything.

    There’s another timing issue among musicians that concerns me on many a Sunday morning, and it has nothing to do with keeping the beat.  It has to do with actually being bodily present for the the start of the worship service. You would be amazed at the disappearing act that sometimes goes on at my church right before a service is supposed to begin. One minute our keyboard player (and main worship leader/ audiophile) is on the platform ready to play, and seconds later he is up in the balcony, hanging like a monkey and tweaking some audio connection.  Certain instruments I can start without, but the keyboard is not one of them. How does he move that fast, anyway?

    I should tell you that our pre-service prep and rehearsal only runs an hour, and I must allow everyone time for a break before the service begins. People do what they gotta do in that brief time, and this seems to include breakfasting on coffee and a pastry for some of the non-singers. I’m pretty sure they find it on the premises, but it takes them so long to make it back that sometimes I wonder. Ever see that Family Circle cartoon of little Billy after being instructed by his mom to “come straight home?”  If you can envision the rabbit trails that Billy takes between where he is and home, then you have a pretty good idea of what happens to some of our folks between 8:50 and 9:00 on a typical Sunday morning.

    This past Sunday was not typical, however. It was Easter. Naturally, we planned some special music and programming for the celebration of our Lord’s resurrection. The allotted time for praise and worship would be abbreviated, however, to allow for everything on the schedule. Aware of the extra time constraints, I had stressed the need to our team for starting on time, “with or without the congregation!” (Our nine o’clock folks can be a little slow to find their seats).  Our normally tight schedule was actually running pretty smoothly. Everything and everyone was prepared by service time, and all systems were “go.”   Until, that is, someone noticed that our bass player was missing.  Well, it just went all Keystone Cops from there.

    “Where’s Jacob?” “He’s getting coffee.”  “Wow, it’s nine o’clock - I’ll go find him!”  And before I can engage my brain quickly enough to say, “Don’t leave! We’ll start without him,” off dashes the keyboard player.  While Jonathan is off to parts unknown looking for Jacob, in walks Jacob. Only he’s not really walking. Walking would look like a sprint compared to the stroll he’s doing.  But at least he is back and getting ready to play. It’s now five minutes after nine, and no keyboard player. I look beyond the open doors of the rear of the sanctuary to see Jonathan quickly circle the foyer and head out again, not realizing that Jacob has returned.  Seven after nine and counting. I’m now having visions of Second Service people impatiently waiting as First Service runs late and my pastor gives me the evil eye (he wouldn’t, by the way). Slight panic. Visitors are looking at me funny. At least I think they are - I may still be having visions. I apologize to our visitors for the housekeeping and try humorously explaining the disappearing musicians phenomenon that sometimes afflicts us.  At last, I see Jonathan sprinting across the foyer and back into the sanctuary. He bounds up the platform steps to his station and we begin the opening song.

    I wasn’t about to start our Resurrection Day celebration service without a keyboard player. That would be like eating a ham sandwich without the ham. Besides, the guy wears a lot of hats on Sunday mornings, so he deserves some slack. As a general rule, I don’t like starting any worship service without the entire team being in place. But if I have to, I’ll start without a disappearing bass player in a New York minute. You can count on it!


Lynn DeShazo

   

"Son of God" the Movie - My Review

    Yesterday I watched the newly released and much-touted movie, “Son of God.” I watched it along with a crowd of folks from my church; we booked almost an entire theater for the Sunday afternoon matinee. The last time we did that was for Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ,” which came out about ten years ago. That film, of course, raised the bar considerably for faith-themed movies.  I was glad to see this newest addition to gospel genre films, but it was certainly nothing like the caliber of Gibson’s work. It seemed to me much more like a “made for TV” movie escaped to the big screen. Some of the early footage was, in fact, taken right out of the “The Bible” miniseries which was specifically produced for television. That said, I enjoyed the film for the most part, and I am truly appreciative of the effort taken by Roma Downey and Mark Burnett to tell yet again what is truly the greatest story every told.

    If you’re looking for a movie that portrays every action of Jesus exactly as the Scriptures describe it, you’ll be disappointed (the only movie that does that successfully is the “Jesus” film, released in 1979 and still the all-time best evangelism tool ever produced).  Bible purists will no doubt be troubled by some of the depictions. Familiar events are featured but perhaps not in the way you’d expect to see them presented, and some of them are combined in odd ways. For example, when Jesus declares to his disciples that not one stone of the temple in Jerusalem would be left upon another, he does it in a playful way with a small child. “Jesus loves the little children” meets “Jesus the prophet.” I honestly found that a little disturbing, given the gravity of what Jesus was referring to, but I guess I fall in the “purist” category. When Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, the film shows him actually entering the tomb, definitely not how the Gospels record the event. Amazingly, Jesus is the only one not gagging from the stench. But Lazarus is raised, which is the point, and what we all love about the story.  In the crucifixion scene, Jesus’ garment is torn from him by the Roman soldiers.  The Gospels specifically tell us that whereas his outer garments where divided among four soldiers, the Lord’s seamless inner garment was not torn.  Overall, scenes from the ministry of Jesus were not stretched beyond credibility, however.  One of my favorite scenes was the calling of Matthew the tax collector to become Jesus’ disciple. I can’t say that it actually happened that way, but I can envision it happening that way; it sure seemed in keeping with the character of the biblical Jesus.  The near-stoning of the woman caught in adultery was also very compelling. I won’t spoil those scenes for you, in case you want to see the movie for yourself.

    To me, “Son of God” is sort of like what a child’s story Bible is to the King James Version. You can rely on it for the basic account, but not all the actual details or even the words of Jesus as the Bible records them are provided. Creative liberties were definitely taken by the film’s directors. But then they never intended for this movie to be a strictly by-the-book portrayal of the Gospel accounts, seeking instead to capture the spirit of Jesus’ life and ministry as they put his story to film.  I’d say they accomplished their intentions. Honestly, I have yet to see a major studio movie on the life of Christ that was ever done to my complete satisfaction.

    I genuinely liked several aspects about “Son of God.”  For starters, someone finally cast an actor in the role of Jesus who looks like they could have grown up near the Mediterranean Sea instead of the Thames. The character of Jesus practically leaked compassion. The other principal roles seemed well cast, to me, and the actors’ performances were strong and believable. One of the better things accomplished in this film was the backdrop of the political tension of the times created by the Roman occupation of Israel and Jerusalem. I therefore understood Caiaphas, though I still despised him. I also thought the portrayal of Jesus’ arrest, beating, and crucifixion was sensitively done. The difficult scenes were realistic without trying to compete with “The Passion of the Christ,” which went way over the top in its depiction of Jesus’ suffering (I swear, I never in my life wanted a movie character to hurry up and die so badly as I did while watching “The Passion!”).  I never enjoy this part of any film on the life of Christ, but I thought “Son of God” handled it well. I was moved afresh when the suffering and death of Jesus were recalled to me through this film. I also found the framing of the film’s beginning and end through the aging Apostle John both unexpected and refreshing.

    “Son of God” is not the best film on the life of Jesus I’ve ever seen, but the good news still shines through, a testimony to the power of the Cross. The story of Jesus is still the greatest story ever told and manages to overcome the short-comings of this new film presentation.


Lynn DeShazo



   
   

   

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up On Aspartame

     Every now and then I’ll see a testimonial on the dangers of aspartame that has been re-posted on Facebook, usually with an impassioned plea to “please share this!”  An unsuspecting consumer of aspartame-laced food products begins to develop terrible symptoms of illnesses ranging from splitting headaches to MS-like neurological symptoms. No doctor seems to be able to help them in any significant way. The poor soul is bewildered, distressed, and absolutely at a loss to explain their health crisis until, finally, they stumble on some information about aspartame poisoning. “Eureka!” they cry. Understandably, they immediately cut out all aspartame from their diet and, wonder of wonders, miraculously begin to recover.  End of story?  No. They then begin a crusade to get all their friends and loved ones off the cursed stuff by posting aspartame poisoning stories on Facebook and other social media. Their friends, naturally, are all deeply appreciative. Or greatly annoyed.

    I avoid aspartame for the most part, along with other artificial sweeteners. I’ve had the occasional swig of a diet drink if it was handy, but very little of the stuff has crossed my lips over the past twenty or so years. I’ve never been convinced that aspartame is perfectly safe for human consumption, but maybe you are.  Perhaps you’re thinking, “Look, the FDA approved aspartame years ago. Just leave me and my diet cola alone, ok?”

     Honest to God, I wish I could, but this subject intrigues me.  Is aspartame really a poison or not? Is everybody susceptible to aspartame toxicity, or just certain people?  Is there anyone out there who can settle this issue for us with any certainty?  Good news, people! Yes, there is.

    Due to my keen interest in the subject, I recently purchased a copy of an audio lecture by Dr. Russell Blaylock, MD entitled, “The Truth About Aspartame.”

Click here to go to Dr. Blaylock's web site

I listened carefully and tell you now with great conviction that the best ten bucks you will spend all year is for a copy of Dr. Blaylock’s carefully researched presentation.  As Dr. Blaylock states it, you will learn about “the deceit, the lies, and the flagrant abandonment of you and your family’s safety.”  Among the many facts about aspartame you will discover are:

• the history of aspartame as developed by the G. D. Searle company.
• how poorly Searle’s lab experiments and testing for aspartame were conceived and carried out; Searle lab technicians were themselves poorly trained and supervised.
• that the FDA approved aspartame for use in dry foods in 1974, but then quickly withdrew their approval because of the high incidence of tumor formation found in their very extensive investigation of the G.D. Searle studies.
• that the FDA, under the direction of a new commissioner, later inexplicably approved aspartame for consumer use (in 1981 for dry foods, 1983 for beverages) based on the same flawed testing and over the objections of the neuroscientists and pathologists who sat on the public board of inquiry. Their chief objection was the high number of brain tumors found in animals exposed to aspartame.
• that FDA commissioner Authur Hull Hayes, left the FDA two months after he initiated aspartame approval to become the senior medical advisor to G. D. Searle’s public relations firm.
• that all three components of aspartame - the amino acids phenylalanine and aspartic acid, and methanol, a toxic alcohol - are toxic to the brain, especially the developing brain of a fetus, infant, or a young child. 
• that aspartame in high enough doses can cause seizures in adults and exacerbate the symptoms of MS. 
• how the methanol component of aspartame metabolizes in the body as formaldehyde (the chemical used to embalm corpses), a powerful toxin which then accumulates in the body because it is difficult to remove from cells.
• how formaldehyde damages human DNA, leading to cancer and other degenerative brain diseases, especially in females.
• that methanol (aka wood alcohol), which is highly toxic to humans, tends to accumulate in fat tissue; the brain is 60% fat.
• that phenylalanine, though naturally occurring, becomes a dangerous brain toxin at high levels.
• that a pregnant woman should NEVER ingest aspartame. Her inability to normally metabolize phenylalanine puts her unborn child at risk for mental retardation, seizures, and behavioral problems due to the interference with proper brain development. If she is also a carrier of the PKU gene, ingesting aspartame puts her baby at enormous risk for these problems as well as life-long immune system deficiencies related to aspartame toxicity in a developing thymus gland.
• how one in fifty people in the U.S. carry the gene for phenylketonuria, whether they show signs of the disorder or not. Ingesting aspartame will cause their blood phenylalanine levels to rise at least twice as high as a normal person’s and often many times more.  These 20 million PKU gene carriers are therefore highly susceptible to the effects of aspartame toxicity and even death, because they lack the critical enzyme needed to metabolize phenylalanine.
• that by 1987 the food industry was adding 8,000 tons of aspartame to food products.
• that the segment of our population most at risk for aspartame toxicity is the part that consumes the most of it:  women, young children, babies and the unborn, through the mother’s consumption.
• how to de-toxify your body from aspartame after you stop consuming it. Dr. Blaylock provides specific recommendations.

    The above-listed points should be enough to convince anyone that aspartame is indeed a deadly poison and should be avoided at all costs. But if you are still not persuaded, then please do yourself and your family a huge favor and spend the ten bucks for a copy of Dr. Blaylock’s lecture. He elaborates quite a bit more on the science of it all.  I urge you to educate yourself and the people you love on the dangers of this widely used food additive.   
 
 Order Dr. Blaylock's lecture here.
Click on the Audio & Video tab; cd or mp3 download via iTunes.


Article © 2014 by Lynn DeShazo. Please copy and share as often as you like!

Repairing Santa

    Anyone who knows me well can tell you that I am a notorious non-decorator at Christmas time. Almost all the neighbors around me put up respectable house decorations each year. I, however, usually contribute nothing to the outdoor Christmas-themed decor; it’s just not my thing. I keep promising myself to at least find a decent holiday wreath for the front door, but the Christmases come and go and still no wreathe. Until this year, that is. 

    I found a couple of small Santa Claus wreathes at a clearance sale last year, along with the usual gift-wrapping supplies I pick up. So when I found the wreathes again last week, I realized, “HEY! I can put one of these on the front door!” My neighbors will finally believe that I’m not a total Scrooge when it comes to celebrating the Christmas holidays.”  My reputation was saved!

    Last night, however, I opened my front door to a disturbing sight. Lying at the threshold were two tiny arms and an assortment of tiny pine cones. Even that ball of fluff thingy from the end of Santa’s cap was lying among the carnage. “Oh, no!” I gasped. “A wild critter has attacked my Santa Claus wreathe!”  I thought about that scenario for a minute, and realized that a marauding raccoon or a squirrel was probably not the reason my wreathe-Santa was now armless. I have a glass storm door in place, so the wreathe had plenty of protection from wildlife. Not from the sun, however.  The exposure of my house assures plenty of afternoon sun bearing down on the front door. Even in December, the door handle can heat up hot enough to force you to turn it gingerly. Apparently, it can also melt the glue holding on fabric Santa arms and decorative pine cones to a wreathe.

    I left the armless Santa wreathe on the door overnight, but brought him in this morning for repairs; he graced my door for two whole days.  Both Santa and my Scrooge reputation are in desperate need of a glue gun!