Karen Loftis Rankowitz

I am shocked, enraged, saddened beyond my ability to express, and unable to make sense of this despicable act. Any answers to the question, “why?” will never suffice and this depressing, dark reality makes me cry. I watch the faces of the children, as the news unfolds in a rush of chaos, and wonder if that little one knows her friend, or sibling, or teacher will not be with her tomorrow, or ever again. I cry for her and the finality of what took only moments for a madman to decide then execute. I see her tears and I weep too…for her life that has been detoured. I pray her journey to heal will be a short one with few scars and a heart that still feels like a little girl’s should. Tears sting the edges of my eyes and I try to hold them back. For whose sake, I don’t know, maybe for my own children’s. But then, they flow anyway for the boy who wanted to be a fireman, or a policeman when he grew up, but now will never be. Forever the age he was. I cry for this boy’s mother who will

My Dearest St. Nicholas,               As I get older, Santa, I have figured out that I want less of what costs the most.  I want less worry as that would dwindle away my well being. I want less stress so I don’t have to pay with my health. I want less anger so payment isn’t the cost of my loved ones’ peace. I want fewer arguments so feelings are spared the price of hurting. Santa, you don’t have to give me what is not possible. What I ask for instead are the tools to build a safe place somewhere in my mind and in my heart. Here is where I want you to give me freedom to choose between what is right and good and that, which is not. Give me hope and provide for me the strength to hold on to what is precious and a bit of courage to release what I know will tear me down. I like sunshine and warmth; not stormy weather. But when the clouds roll in on chilled, damp air, showing me where to find shelter would be kind, but letting me learn to build my own would probably be the b

Writers, we all have a certain style. We also have a method, a process by which words clatter, swirl, and chatter (some incessantly) around in our writer brains, then by some miraculous event (similar to my kids eating spinach without vomiting or better yet, The Big Bang Theory) they appear on paper. Some of the greatest have shared the methods in which they produce works that don’t stink. It’s been said that a lot Erma Bombeck’s ideas came to her as she was washing dishes. Dave Barry, I believe, has a stare-down contest with his monitor. He usually wins, and in a big way. As any great writer ‘wanna be’, I devour anything my favorite writers have produced. From novels, to essays, even thank you notes and grocery lists. Reading, they say, will surely improve one’s writing. So, in my quest to be the next great I will attempt to emulate my personal favorites. I know Erma has passed but often times that’s what I emulate the best, but for argument’s sake I have tried to follow her ways

Being a mother of two boys, Christian is 15 and Noah is 12, is, as it always has been, filled with surprise, wonder, a wayward hippo proposal, and a lot of laughter. They both are rambunctious, energetic, and the absolute, truest loves of my life (but I confess, Vin Diesel ranks up there too). 20 years ago when I met and fell, or rather face-planted, smack down in love with their father I thought our love trumped all. And it did, until I had my boys. I have done many things in my time here on Mother Earth but there is nothing I am more proud of than being their mom. Ok, maybe I am more proud of them than I am in myself, or my mothering abilities. After all, they’ve made it all possible. And I think they’re pretty cool, too – and I concede, they may have gotten that from their father, or perhaps it was Vin Diesel. I gush when I see the fine young men they are growing up to be. They have and will continue to be (if I’m doing this right) the toughest undertaking I have ever come up

It’s my birthday and time, which is always persistent, is pushing me forward, faster to that half-century mark. Not quite there yet, and I’ve never felt more comfortable with where I’m at in my life. So, for my birthday, instead of giving me presents wrapped in pretty paper and fancy bows, I’ve made a few suggestions about what I want this year. Please feel free to share these ideas with my family, specifically my children, as I rarely get them to read anything I write. I believe they fear there may be a hidden message – like, “clean your room” or “stop whacking your brother with the plunger. Do you have any idea where that’s been?” or “If you don’t like living here, I’ll help you pack your bag.” or simply, “The answer is, ‘no’.” However, I never hide things; I’m pretty blunt with taping ‘mom’s little notes’ – in five words or less - all over the place, on anything they look at or touch – like the TV, a gaming controller, and the cell phones - to get my point across. Here is what

Helping a child with the loss of a pet is tough. We lost our beta fish yesterday. He was with us for almost a year and a half. He was purple; Noah’s favorite color. His name was Betals. My husband scooped him out of the bowl with my kitchen tongs. Placed him on a paper towel and asked Noah, who is 12, if he wanted to say a few words. Noah let a few tears trickle down his cheeks, looked at the fish, and at that moment, chose his words carefully. “I don’t know.” He replied. Our family clustered into the bathroom to bid our beta buddy goodbye. My mate, ever sentimental after I convinced him we shouldn’t bury him in the garden, played ‘Taps’ through his pursed lips. I hid my laughter behind the bathroom door, but wiped the tear from my eye as I watched Noah fight back his own. Christian, my teenager, stood looking at all of us, his expression of absolute embarrassment – perhaps thinking that he couldn’t possibly be related to any of us. Noah, startled out of his mournful trance by t

I recently was asked by my painter/writer friend, Carrie Jacobson , “What inspires you?” My simple answer to that is, “Change.” It could be of the best change, or a small thing, or perhaps a devastating circumstance that knocked me down and consumed me much like a lioness preys upon a gazelle. There was a time in my life where I was stuck, afraid to make changes, willing to accept the day to day routine even though it was of no benefit to my well being. Rather than come in from the blizzard and change my outfit to better weather the raging elements, I stood still, in that frozen landscape, and questioned why it was snowing. As if I had any input on that. I’m not sure if it was a lack of courage, perhaps afraid to live with anything that would be different or if it simply became comfortable – even in its destructive ways. So, when my mate would give me that "don't you know enough to come in out of the cold?" look, I know now to seek shelter. Some days, however, I make

Yesterday was the 6th grade field trip to New York City. Noah, my youngest, went with my husband who was a designated chaperone. Who watched whom? I’m not sure I want to know, but I probably already do. The group visited many places - the United Nations building, Ground Zero, Ellis Island, and Liberty Island to name a few. Noah is a collector of things and while being the diligent tourist he purchased his souvenirs. Two of these treasures were for me. One was a pen from Ellis Island because he knows a writer needs her tools to fulfill her mission. I, wanting to live up to my ‘calling’, recently penned an essay entitled “ I Pray for Peace ” written the day prior to the NYC excursion. In it, I wrote of the recent passing of three remarkable, children from my community. Noah had not read this piece yet. As a matter of fact, my family rarely peruses the writing I labor over unless it is force fed to them. So, when he presented me with his thoughtful gifts I was quite surprised by th

As a writer, I am often overflowing with words. I have stories to tell and thoughts stir within my mind until I have just enough of the right words put together. Like a strand of pearls or a neatly crocheted blanket, I craft my tale and then move these hand picked phrases from beginning to end until they explode onto the page through my #2, black, Ticonderoga pencil. Today I feel as though my words have stalled, my thoughts are tired, and my heart is aching. My heart breaks not for the imprisoned story, which has befallen me, but for what has happened in my small community in which I live. Lisbon, CT is a small town; just fewer than 4,100 people reside here. We have one school that educates our children from pre-K through the eighth grade. Teachers are different from when I went to school; they are now my friends. Friends whom you trust to take your child and love them through good grades, poor choices, and gym class (without deodorant). Neighbor helps neighbor and we have settled

Holidays are great for spending time with family. Yesterday was Easter and my day began early. I prepared a dish to bring to my Mother-in-law’s house for dinner. I woke my children early – not the other way around. Gone are the days when they were too excited to go to sleep and then got up before the Easter Bunny had a chance to finish her work. My husband took me out for a ride on his Harley; a little chilly...but it's a "biker thing". I ate, and then ate some more, and of course devoured enough candy to induce a diabetic coma fit for an elephant. I also went for a walk with some of my family. A detour led us up a rocky hill to the train tracks. The hill topped, maybe, 15 – 20 feet. About half way up, I got stuck. Not because the rocks were loose or the air was thin at that altitude. I froze because I am terrified of heights. Put me on the back of a big, bad motorcycle and I think I’m a badass. Ask me to scale the side of a rocky, fifteen-foot incline and I’m reduce

Some of you may know that my favorite book happens to be the dictionary. I’m a writer; words are my thing. Yesterday I had an occasion to require the use of the dictionary. The word “balderdash” came up while I was talking and my 12-year-old, who rarely tunes into my voice, took notice. Basically, the gist of the conversation began with, “Every word that comes out of your mouth is complete balderdash!” “Mom, does that mean they’re yelling really fast?” My inquisitive child asked. “No, he wasn’t yelling, he just wasn’t making any sense.” “Then why is it bolder?” This, of course, prompted me to write this piece in terms of how children, who are raised with such languages as “text-speak” and “Hooked on Phonics”, process and then define the words they hear, see, and use. I’ve come up with a few definitions to words, both in the English language and that which is foreign to me. Avoidable – Actually a Spanish word, meaning “Running of the Bulls” Brothel – Wearing one cup-s

Winter weather here in Connecticut is giving up its hold on the cold and with warmer temperatures revving up, motorcycle enthusiasts are taking it to the streets. Now that the highways and back roads are busy with bikes and BMW’s, trucks and tractor-trailers learning to travel together sensibly is a positive step in ensuring the safety of all. Generally, motorists know to look for other cars on the roads, not motorcycles. To share the road safely drivers need to be watchful of motorcyclists. Research has shown that 75% of motorcycle fatalities have involved a passenger vehicle, and two out of every three of these fatalities were the fault of the driver in the other vehicle not that of the motorcyclist. What can you do to avoid being part of these statistics? Give the motorcyclist a full lane to ride in and allow the same room when passing as you would a car. Pay attention when making a left turn, at intersections and when changing lanes. Most crashes, about 42%, occur when th