DEAR EDITOR:
Every month, my husband and I pay close to $400 for our medical insurance which doesn’t cover any medical expenses unless we get over $10,000 for the year. It seems like a lot for nothing but it is nothing compared to what most small businesses pay.
This being the case, National Health Care would seems like a blessing. That could only be true if National Heath Care was about care but it’s about controlling our care. It’s about controlling what the doctors can and can not do. It’s about controlling what operations or surgeries the hospitals can and can not perform. It’s about our government having more control over us then they already do.
It would be nice not to pay insurance every month. We could save the money for our kids or grandkids, travel or even retire with a bit more comfort but I’d rather be free — free to control my own health care.
Just a concerned U.S. citizen,
Annette Brown

There are many reasons why I participate in the Relay for Life. The first and most important is because I truly believe that research is the way to beat cancer. I know there are many people who could use help with medical bills, gas, food and lodging when a family is struck by this disease. The money raised at the Relay each year would hardly touch those medical bills for one person.

I came across this column while doing research for another story. After I read it, I realized there was just no better way to say how I feel about the upcoming holiday.

Happy Father’s Day to you all. I hope you  dads enjoy your day in the spotlight.

My father has been gone now for 14 years. There still isn’t a week that passes that I don’t think about him and wish I could share my hopes, joys and sorrows with him.

One of the things that has stuck in my mind is my father’s hands.

They were very capable and strong. The nails  had grease under them from his long days working under the hood of a car. There must be a point when it just doesn’t come off anymore. The knuckles were often knicked from a slipped wrench or screwdriver and the palms were calloused.

Those hands held my mother’s when they were married and then my brother and sister when they were born. Those hands held me when I came along.

Those hands built our garage, added on the mud room and renovated our attic when I came along so my sister and I could have our own bedrooms.

Those hands put fish worms on my hook because I was too squeamish to do it myself. Then they took off the fish I caught and at times filleted them for us to eat.

Those hands built our cottage in Michigan that provided us with a vacation destination most weekends in the summer for nearly 20 years.

Those hands clapped for me during band and choir concerts, after half-time shows during football season and during my high school graduation.

Those hands then tentatively held my son when he was born. He said he was afraid because Cameron was so small. They also held him for the first two years of his life as he rocked him to sleep while I worked second or third shift.

Those hands were on my son’s back as he learned to ride his first two-wheel bicycle. I can still hear him shout encouragement as Cameron careened down the sidewalk, wobbling from side to side and squealing with delight.

Those hands rested on my shoulders when he knew I needed to talk.

Those hands shook my fiancé’s when they met for the first time so many years ago.

At the end, those hands trembled with fatigue from the many chemotherapy and radiation treatments to fight the tumors that were growing in his brain. They were held, rubbed and patted to let him know we were by his side like he had been for us so many times.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I miss you.

DEAR EDITOR:
With the sudden death of Ms. Dorothy Tate, the community has lost a lady that touched the lives of many young people in the city of Delphos over the past 40-plus years. She was a professional educator in very way. She was an even better person and she cared deeply about her students.
In July of 2002, we needed to hire a Spanish teacher and I had no idea of where I should look. I decided to call Bruce Sommers, who was the superintendent of Delphos City Schools. He told me about Ms. Tate and that she had retired after 30 years with the Delphos City Schools. He told me what an excellent teacher she had been. He said she was presently selling calendars in the Lima Mall and might in interested in teaching again. I will be forever grateful to Mr. Sommers.
I called Ms. Tate and she was more than willing to talk to me. Over the next 10 years, she didn’t work for me, she worked with me. She was that special teacher that worked hard in the classroom and was respected and loved by her students and colleagues alike. She always kept me informed of everything going on in her classroom and was not afraid to voice her opinion or tell me when she disagreed with something I did or said.
It was about this time last year she told me this would be her final year of teaching. I tried to talk her out of retiring and kept asking her, “if she had changed her mind.” She told me, “after 40 years, it was time to retire.” I know she looked forward to a new chapter in her life.
She will be missed by her many special friends and everyone she came into contact with over the years. I know I will never forget her. Rest in peace, Ms. Tate, and thank you for all you’ve done.
Sincerely,
Don Huysman, principal
St. John’s High School

Cameron and I often have very spirited phone conversations. At lunchtime on Friday, he called and was very excited.

This past week, he had met a woman on the bus he takes to Owens Community College. She was surrounded by bookbags. He isn’t one to sit quietly and ride, so he struck up a conversation by saying, “Gees, I’d hate to see your book bill.”
She turned to him and said, “No, these aren’t my books. This is everything I own. I live in the women’s shelter and if I leave this stuff there, someone will steal it.”

Cameron has been through a lot and at the tender age of 26, he understands more than many will after a lifetime of experiences. He immediately said that if she was willing to share, he wanted to know how she ended up in the shelter.

She had finally told her father she was a lesbian and she had been in the shelter with her bags of worldly goods ever since. She left for school before the shelter served breakfast and often returned after dinner was long gone. She sometimes didn’t eat for days.
She went on to say that several months ago she had lost her student ID and could no longer ride the bus for free so she had walked from downtown Toledo to the campus with her possessions in tow. Someone had directed her to Catholic Charities, which funded her replacement ID so she could ride the bus.

Cameron was impressed with her resolve and tenacity. She truly wanted to succeed and was doing it any way possible. Instead of going to class and worrying about what he needed or wanted, he immediately went to the student union and transferred money from his account to one in her name. It wasn’t much but he knew he would never be able to get her off his mind if he didn’t help in some way. He wanted to make a difference in her life, if just temporary, and the chance encounter definitely made a difference in his.

This is a touching story even if it had ended there — but it didn’t. When Cameron got home that day, he wrote a letter explaining his bus companion’s situation and the next morning, he emailed it to a dozen college deans in Ohio and Michigan. In just a short couple of hours, he received hundreds of reply emails. Apparently the deans had read it and passed it on and all these people emailed Cameron wanting to know how he thought they could help students like this; students who are committed to bettering themselves enough to overcome obstacles that might seem insurmountable to many.

Cameron made my pride-filled heart nearly burst from my chest. How awesome it is to have a child who cares so deeply for others; who wants to make a difference; who will not sit by and let something they feel is unjust or unfair go on.

How good it makes me feel my kid is concerned about humankind — not his kind or your kind or my kind.