Religious Head Coverings Oppress Women

As a young Catholic girl I had to cover my head in church; the boys didn’t have to. They had to remove their head coverings upon entering church.

The boys were allowed on the altar; the girls weren’t. Even though girls would collect and take home their surplices to wash, starch and iron for the next Sunday mass, we had to enter through the back door.

The boys could assist in the mass; the girls could not. How could you assist in mass if you weren’t allowed on the altar? Only boys could be altar boys. Fair enough, but there was not a category for altar girls. A trick I thought as a young girl learning early what a backseat was.

Of course you’re special, you’re just different. No, it doesn’t mean the boys are better, it’s just the way it is. You think too much. Stop dwelling. I’m only asking a question, not dwelling. Boys and girls are different. Your job is as important as theirs.

But they do all the fun things. Why can’t they collect, wash, starch, iron and return the surplices and I assist at mass, I thought to myself.

Catholic families learn early in life through the doctrines of the church the value of their own children through the eye of the church, the Pope’s eye and in the eyes of God, even in the eye of Jesus. It wasn’t till decades later, on a trip to Montreal to attend a doctor’s symposium on dystonia, that I made my first walk on an altar.

I drove myself from Cleveland. Brought a bunch of Vox Dei Newspapers I published (similar to the word warrior content I publish online now, only in print form) and dropped them off Johnny Appleseed-style all along the way. I was also visiting by car (a visual tour) the birthplace of my maternal grandfather in Inverness, Quebec, a Scottish community, whom I never met, since he died early of pneumonia.

One of the stops along the way was a church (not planned, just me coming up on places or people and stopping to handout or drop off papers). I stopped, found the side door hallway, left a bunch of papers at the top of the steps, then went inside the church. I sat about in the middle and as I looked toward the altar saw a used baby diaper in the middle of the aisle – blue. I thought that’s strange. How could somebody drop a used diaper in the middle of the aisle of a church and keep walking?

I moved a little closer to the altar and took a seat near the aisle. I looked around to see nobody present. Catholic churches are much the same no matter where they stand. I scan the stations of the cross and recall doing them many times during the run up to Catholic holidays. I look at the altar with regrets for all the time spent during my childhood being a Catholic second class citizen. Why was I born a girl? Other religions are the same though – I’ve studied at least the basics of most of them.

My thoughts turn to the head coverings. First it was a hat, not carried, but actually on our heads that we needed to enter the church. God was in the church. That’s all we needed to know. Cover your head. I learned that men were made in the image of God, women were not, so they bared their heads and we covered ours. God is a he not a she.

What they really meant, in my view, was that men wanted to be seen by God alone, wanted to negotiate with God, wanted to be accepted by God. Women would steal the show, so cover them up, so God can’t see them. Always secret deals going on with God and men. Men wanted God to themselves. Men didn’t want to compete with women for God’s favor. Men were self-designated go-betweens. Men designated themselves as the Gods for women.

Men wrote the bible, not women. God – Men – Women. God tells the man what to do, then the man tells the woman what to do. The man is the filter through which the woman sees what the man allows her to see. These were man-made, church-made, not woman-made laws of religion.

Jesus was a man. Gay or not it doesn’t matter. He did the same thing. You have to go through him to get to God. He was one of those Jews who likes to fulfill prophecies. It got him killed. Jews aren’t the only ones who like to fulfill prophecies for personal gain. I’ve seen members of congress do the same thing.

So here I am – alone in a church somewhere in Quebec. Dare I do the deed? Maybe I should have pre-thought an excuse for being on the altar should a priest walk in, or some big local church official or an altar boy. Or a mother who knows I don’t belong there. But I didn’t.

Next thing you know I’m siting in the papal chair looking out over the throngs of worshippers.

Eventually the Catholic church did away with demanding head coverings for women in church. It was a gradual process – hats were no longer required, but a small piece of lace secured with a bobby pin was the next and last step to head freedom. Now God could see everybody. I was glad about that.

Whenever I see a Muslim child or woman with a head covering and a man with none to me it’s a sign of oppression and I personally find it offensive. The oppression I experienced very early in life, that marred perceptions of my worthiness, is why I eventually turned away from all religions.

Muslim women forcing non-Muslim women in America to look at that symbol of oppression wherever they roam in public is the same for me as a black person being forced to look at, communicate with, do business with and work with white people who wear nooses loosely around their necks, or a Jew being forced to look at, communicate with, do business with and work with Germans, Austrians and Poles who wear Swastika arm bands.

Oh no, no, no, it doesn’t mean that. No, no…

Yes, it does mean that to me. It will always mean that to me. To watch Muslim women enjoy being oppressed makes it all the more grotesque, thus obscene. Wear it at home or in the places where you worship your oppressive Gods. This is not a religious country. It’s a multi-ethnic country that allows you the freedom to go to church, mosque, temple or wherever you gather with like-minded individuals to worship without persecution.

It’s not a symbol of oppression. No it’s not. Look at me, I’m a congresswoman.

A congressperson who thinks her hair has magical powers that will make every man except those in her family, want to rape her if she exposes it.

So here we’ve got a congressperson who wants to look like a prostitute to remind people she isn’t one (Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez), and another congressperson who wants to wear a symbol of oppression against women to prove that she isn’t oppressed (Ilhan Omar).

Both women are signaling solidarity to women in their own ethnic and religious groups, rather than to all women and all men, whom they were elected to represent while members of a federal congress. They are executing preferential prejudice by gender, ethnicity and religion as well as discrimination toward every person not in those stylized groups.

Most of all, using oppressive symbols to gain popularity among select groups is offensive and manipulative. It hurts people; it doesn’t help people

Once you’re in the USA federal rather than the USA state congress, your votes effect all people in the nation, not just your constituency, or gender-specific or religion-specific or ethnic-specific bases.

Their message: Push down the women who already fought and created their freedom by making them feel sick by association with oppressive symbolism they’re forced to view in public places, while simultaneously raising up those still oppressed by showing them they can succeed while being oppressed.

Look at us; we’re congresswomen.


Ask Ilhan Omar if she supports segregation.

Ask Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez if she supports federally funded abortion for Spanish speaking prostitutes.



‘I Don’t Eat Animals With Faces’


I don’t eat animals period. That’s where I am in life and that’s where I choose to stay.

To begin, let me tell you that my only reason for not eating animals is to preserve the life of the animal. I believe that all animals, including the human animal, once born onto this planet have a right to live their life unencumbered by prejudice, discrimination, enslavement, torture and slaughter, and that no being has a right to take that life, unless in a situation of immediate personal threat. I would not personally kill an animal to eat, and I don’t expect anyone else to do it for me. By not eating animals I preserve the lives of those living and discourage the procreation of those destined for slaughter.

However, I wasn’t always a vegetarian. I was born into a family who ate animals and accepted it not only as a necessary part of survival, but as a delicacy as well – to be enjoyed. I recall many festive scenes surrounding the carving of a turkey or ham on holidays. And in my younger days was elated when Dad, knowing that ham was my favorite, would pile an extra helping onto my plate – without me even asking.

But there came a time when I started asking myself questions about the inconsistencies I observed around me. Why did hearing that a deer got shot saddened my mother, but stewing a chicken didn’t? And my grandmother who impressed me the most, telling me stories of living on the farm – loving the animals as her friends – running off into the woods during slaughter time, to chop down trees till exhausted, madder than a wet hen she’s say, while right in front of her on her plate sat two hot dogs (dogs as she called them) on buttered bread waiting to be devoured. Although young at the time, I remember noting the incongruity between her beliefs and consequent actions. Why if she loved the animals so much did she eat them?

Sometime thereafter an incident occurred that must have left its mark, because as I go over my life looking for clues as to what influenced me to care for the animals, this stands out startlingly clear. One bright, sunny Sunday morning, the air crisp, clear and sweet smelling, the whole family set out for the country to attend an all day picnic at friends of my parents. They had a big swimming pool and huge, expansive garden with every flower and vegetable. Fruit trees too.

Upon arriving we unpacked the car, then strolled across the long yard into a scene that I will never forget. The husband standing in khaki shorts, black leather shoes and black socks; blood splattered all over his bare chest and legs, cigar stub in mouth, hatchet in hand. Chickens  – some running, some squawking, others barely moving. And he, laughing through a mucous-filled throat, “I’ll get you little sons-of-bitches”. Wife talking to Mom about defeathering and gardening as they walked back toward the house. And hearing faintly as they walked further away, “You know Peg, he hates to do that”. I was stunned. Those poor defenseless chickens. It wasn’t right. And why did he do it, if he hated to do it? But, he was a nice guy and so was everybody. And he didn’t kill any in front of us. I was glad of that. So, just like everybody else, I went on to enjoy the day swimming and playing, and eating my fair share of hot dogs and hamburgers.

I suppose experiences such as these as well as others along the way sit on a back burner for a while, waiting to emerge at some later time to influence your life, because it wasn’t till many years later that I actually did stop eating animals. But when I did, it happened suddenly.

Asleep one night I dreamed I was at a barbecue house in Florida. I recall sitting on a long bench attached to a long table with meat paper stretched over the top of it. In fact, there were many of these tables in a large barn-like structure with a concrete floor. The serving area was to the front of the building extending across it. And the kitchen was to the left rear with swinging doors with windows in them.

Sitting there I began to feel a little uncomfortable, but didn’t know why. I noticed a few people milling around, then became vaguely aware that no one was talking. I assumed they were waiting for an order, as I guessed I was, but I didn’t remember ordering anything.

Well, in a second what I saw carried out from that kitchen on a barbecue spit five feet long was a charcoal – broiled – to a golden brown – whole person, all shriveled up. Well, I didn’t wait around to see who ordered it – I knew I didn’t. I got the hell out of that dream in a hurry! To keep a short story short, it was that scene in that dream that convinced me to stop eating animals.

The next morning when I talked it over with my husband we both agreed that if it wasn’t right to slaughter a human for barbecue, then it wasn’t right to slaughter any other animal for barbecue; they were one and the same. So, that’s how my animal-free adventure began. As swift as that with not much deliberation, we stopped eating animals…and knew we were right in doing so.

For the next few years going meatless became an ever-present challenge – three meals a day, whether cooked at home or eaten out had to be dealt with. Since eating out offered limited taste and variety I decided to cook. I spent hour after hour scouring magazines and cookbooks for ideas, but couldn’t find much. It seemed that vegetarians back in the ’70s were primarily into taste bud punishment. So, I began experimenting on my own. I cooked day and night discovering new ways to please my palate, my husband’s palate, and anyone else’s who ate at our house. I was determined to make this work, and would prove to everyone that I could prepare meals without meat that were every bit as tasty as meals with meat. And I did just that. Proved it again and again.

But somewhere along the way our commitment started to break down. Whether it was the lack of support – and in many cases outright scorn and rejection from family, friends, associates, co-workers, wait staff in restaurants etc. – or simply a desire to do what everybody else was doing – whatever the reason (and it’s never difficult to find a reason for doing something that’s already socially acceptable) – we started eating meat again. And we did it with rebellious abandon, convincing ourselves that if everyone else did it, then it must be right. We packed our refrigerator full of meat. Bought in bulk at the warehouse, where we could pick out large cuts at wholesale prices. We had steak every night.

Then, just before Christmas one year we stopped at a farm in Amherst, Massachusetts that advertised quail for sale. We thought for something different we’d cook up a couple for Christmas dinner. We walked into a shed where a farmer was tending his birds whom he sold mainly to the University of Massachusetts for experimental purposes. He raised them. Many of them. Of exotic variety. They were everywhere. All in cages. And we moved very carefully so as not to disturb any of them.

We told the farmer what we wanted. But before filling our order he talked about the birds, pointing each one out as he told of each one’s uniqueness. He started to walk toward what looked like a refrigerator, but stopped midstream to open a cage. He removed a bird. And instead of showing it to us as I thought he was going to do, he held it securely in his left hand while forcing the mouth open by squeezing it’s jowls, then with his right hand, swiftly and dispassionately thrust a bade into the opened beak and up through the brain. He did this with a second bird, then asked, “That’s all you wanted was two, right?” I choked out a “yes”, but thought not this way! But how did I expect to get a quail? Prepackaged, defeathered, ready to cook – already dead?

Well, this meat-eating spree didn’t last for long, since once again I became subject to my own curious questioning, while at the same time being quietly nagged by a thought I had recently stumbled across – that the majority is not always right.

For the next several years I seesawed back and forth between eating animals and not eating animals. This indecision helped to further exacerbate the already present conflict in me which had been brewing for years. I knew it was wrong to kill animals to eat or for any other reason, but wanted proof of its wrongness. I went over and over the arguments I heard in defense of killing animals: We slaughter animals because we raise them for slaughter; we’re at the top of the food chain; they don’t contribute to society; God gave us permission; they taste good; we’ve always done it; everyone else does it; we developed large arm muscles with which to hunt; we developed large canine teeth with which to tear flesh; animals kill each other; it’s a matter of survival; we’re superior; plants scream when pulled from the ground; they’re dumb; they can’t feel pain or fright; they would otherwise suffer by the hands of nature from overpopulation and starvation. And some even said that there’s no such thing as good and bad, right or wrong, and if we accepted the world without judgment, then what’s one more dead cow?

I could not find in any of these arguments, or any others, a foundation of truth which could be in any way logically construed to justify the raising and killing of animals for consumption or any other reason. It just didn’t make sense to force these animals into violent, wretched, premature deaths to satisfy our own appetites.

If you raise a child for slaughter, that child is still a child. The billions of children and adults we kill on a continual basis in the animal kingdom of which we are part can only be given a name as harsh, cruel and gruesome as holocaust. It is our arrogance which prevents us from understanding and acknowledging this truth. We fear that our acknowledgement will put other needy humans (ourselves included) at risk; that we will lose the preferential treatment that we’ve been so accustomed to throughout the ages. We live under the false assumption that in order to help one group, we must neglect another group. This is just not so. The more you love, the more love you have to give. The more you care for and respect your co-inhabitants on this earth, the more caring and respectful you become of everybody’s rights. There is a bottomless well of caring in each of us. All we have to do is loosen the grip of our own arrogance on our own thoughts and actions. You will not love your own group or yourself less; you’ll love them and yourself more. We simply do not have to neglect one part of nature to care for another part.

Continuing to grow inside of me was an unrest regarding this issue that once again fulminated in a dream…in this dream I  was the chicken. And scared shit I was to die by the swing of that hatchet. My heart beat so fast I thought it would stop. I awoke in a pool of sweat. I may have even urinated. But at that precise moment I knew right from wrong – judgment or not. When it was my head there was no question. The conflict melted away. Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. It was so simple.

That night as I laid my head safely back to the pillow, I remembered hearing a long, long time ago a mother telling her child as she pointed to the dog, “See, he has eyes just like yours…and a nose…and ears…and a mouth”…as she outlined the dog’s face with her fingers. And that’s where I am today – ‘I don’t eat animals with faces’.

As far as the inconsistencies and incongruities I observed then and continue to observe now, I attribute them to ignorance in some cases; an inability to acknowledge the fact that we’ve been committing wrongful acts for most of our lives; a resistance to change and growth (many times the result of family’s, our friend’s and societal disapproval of our choices); and in still other cases, a simple lack of commitment. In my own case, I have finally bridged the gap between my beliefs and consequent actions, and I have my grandmother to thank for that.




No Prejudice, Discrimination, Enslavement, Torture And Slaughter against any/all being(s)


Dislike of an individual or group based on their characteristics or attributes.


Preferential treatment of an individual or group over the lack of equal treatment of an individual or group.


Taking away the free-will of an individual or group.


Imposing physical, psychological, economic or spiritual discomfort and harm onto an individual or group.


The taking of life, of an individual or group through sinister, and/or self-serving, group-serving or nation–serving reasons.

If you can discover a more precise or meaningful definition of prejudice, discrimination, enslavement, torture and slaughter, by all non-prejudicial means do so. This is all about the evolution of thoughts, actions, and yes, how we define those thoughts and actions.

Challenge prejudice, discrimination, enslavement, torture and slaughter with truth, respect, action and persistence.

I don’t talk much about patience. Too often people equate patience with inactivity, which leads to a lack of will to change, hoping that things will simply work out on their own. In doing that, you unintentionally give away your power as an individual.

I don’t talk much about love either. Love is such a personal matter, that for me to impose my personal views on what love is or isn’t or should or shouldn’t be would be over-reaching on my part. Just as there’s a fine line between a flaw and a principle, there’s often a fine line between love and hate. Nobody has to love anybody, but if you say that you love someone as you send them to slaughter, I will on behalf of the one being slaughtered intervene with an opinion.


when we say YES to prejudice, discrimination, enslavement, torture and slaughter.

Prejudice leads to discrimination, discrimination leads to enslavement, enslavement leads to torture, torture leads to slaughter if left unchecked.

Prejudice, discrimination, enslavement, torture and slaughter are five flaws that promote destruction and dying, by blocking a being’s freedom to exist and thrive, thus creating a worse life.

No prejudice, discrimination, enslavement, torture and slaughter are five principles that promote building and living, by facilitating a being’s freedom to exist and thrive, thus creating a better life.

~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight



What does animal-free cooking have to do with politics outside the realm of Big Agriculture or plant-based issues?


Everything we do in life in every category has a dead or a living animal attached to it: politics, religion, economics, sociology, psychology, technology, arts, mechanics, engineering, business, architecture, experimentation, entertainment, travel, media, space exploration, agriculture, medicine, transportation, Madison Avenue, Wall Street and on and on. How about urban and rural development? Why only focus on urban development? I’m still waiting on the Animal-Free Malls.

The more I create in the kitchen, the more I create outside the kitchen. One doesn’t need to engineer their own recipes to expand their world view, but if you’re involved in an engineering endeavor it augments every other process.

The Animal-Free Chef encompasses the entire universe and everything in it. Quite a lot of stuff for three words to cover. But that’s me. That’s who I am, what I am and how I drive.

I am the Universe.

You can take the chef out of the kitchen, but you can’t take the kitchen out of the chef.

We consume, we create, we process, in no particular order.

My categories are separate, but they all stem from My Animal-Free Kitchen.

I have 8 active websites to prove it:

# AFC GLOBAL – a library of 900 original animal-free recipes engineered by Chef Davies-Tight

# AFC SOUS-CHEF – animal-free food prep for home and restaurant chefs

# AFC TEST KITCHEN – testing animal-free products

# SCALES & MIRRORS – experimenting with weight loss methods, reduced fat and fat free recipes plus motivational insights

# HELLO IT’S ME – Word Warrior Davies-Tight, a different slant on the news, a different slant on life, a different slant on the world as we once knew it, as we currently know it, and as we will come to know it


# STRATEGIC – the journey begins and ends with an answer

# BIRTH OF A SEED – RAW POWER – the Davies-Tight online art gallery

I am an animal who is an animal-free chef. I don’t eat animals because I am one.

I am involved in all facets of living, creating, dying and expanding.  I trouble-shoot, strategize and problem-solve. The wider the view, the more solutions emerge. I do this as a chef.

I wear one hat for all seasons and reasons: The Animal-Free Chef hat.

I am almost 70 years old. I have the long-game experience behind me. I’m gearing up for my best years yet.

Don’t believe me?

I am an animal rights activist (including human) and a counter terrorism activist.

I spent nearly 70 years programming myself. No matter what door I open, it will be the right door.

I was born to be exactly the animal I am.


Thank you for your time.



“If we don’t need the gory details to tell a story about gore, then maybe we don’t need to accept war as inevitable.” ~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight

“LEAVE WITHOUT A TRACE” A war story-movie about the sacrifices a family makes in real time on the ground, when one is called or decides to serve their country. Based on a novel by Mindy Mejia, the film explores such sacrifice and how it impacts initially and alters forever the family dynamic.

A slow-mover that mesmerizes the viewer, forcing one to sit still the mind as it opens wide the harsh reality of physical and psychological isolation.

Mindy Mejia uses nuance to tell a story of how war leaves an indelible influence on the making of each veteran and how through each person’s uniqueness, that indelible influence unfolds differently.

Trying to heal what can’t be told, the family stumbles, succumbs and rises to a different understatement of who they are, and how to survive the changes that war brought upon them.

Rather than being left with images, facts, and figures from the theatre of the aftermath of war, the viewer takes with them a part of the collective soul of all veterans – the only part common to all – that they will ever allow you to see. Everything else is uniquely private to each individual veteran-family.

Happy Veteran’s Day to all my Veteran-family members!

I am a family-veteran. I became one when I was born into a family who served and became one again each time another family member put on that uniform.

I know what isolation looks and feels like. Over time that place brought me comfort knowing I was surviving something somebody else experienced, which I had no control over.

I believe war is NOT inevitable. Absent war and absent the intentional infliction of harm is a world I aspire to help engineer. Using my own free will and self-control opens the doors that need opening and closes those that need closing.

This is a story about accepting where we are now and working from there to achieve tomorrow.

I know that story.

~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight


‘Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.’

Interpretation of art operates in the same way.

“It’s not for the artist to interpret the art for those who view it.

When the artist guides the interpretation for the viewer, it corrupts the art.”

~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight


“When one work of art is interpreted in the same way by everyone who views it, it’s a lesson in oppression.”

~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight

snapshotsofwar- 2



Working It Out With The Main Brain (controlling the fat)


If my brain gets that I’m unpredictable in my food consumption choices within the category of animal-free, then that’s what it will expect as being okay with me.

I’ll stay in the unpredictable category and my brain will rest easy with that, since there’s a lot going on there to focus on without needless worry about getting stuck in one place.


General category I = animal-free

General category II = unpredictable

Sub categories = all over the animal-free board

Sharon’s board.

Yeah, she gets bored easy.

No she doesn’t. She likes moving around.

Most like staying in one place till the universe makes them move.

She moves the universe.




WHERE Are you?

With you Mum.


Black Fathers

Nobody talks about the Black fathers who raise their kids alone with the help of volunteers from the church. My mother was one of those volunteers. She was white.


Follow Her Recipe

My mother knew how to follow a recipe. She also knew how to create her own. On one visit to the Homeland – Arthur Street in Springfield, Massachusetts – she made my minestrone soup from the cookbook I sent her. She put it in front of me at the table and watched while I ate. It looked and tasted exactly like mine. I couldn’t believe it. Perfect replication. I was thrilled.

My Dad, who never commented on my mother’s cooking, or anyone’s for that matter, said, “too many mushrooms” as he finished up the soup except for two mushroom slices left in the bowl. He’s the engineer. I could tell by Mom’s face that she liked that Dad said that. I liked it too – that he did that for her.

Another time, Carole made one of my appetizer relishes – only she used California olives instead of Kalamata olives. She told me in advance of me tasting it in front of the whole family. Of course the Kalamata olive was the star contributor to the success of the dish. I asked why did you use the other olive? She said she couldn’t find the Kalamata olives and didn’t even know how to say it. So why in Springfield, Massachusetts can’t you find Kalamata olives in mainstream grocery stores? Maybe because you have to go to a Greek store? Or an Italian store?

I taste.


Then the crunch of the cracker.

I could hear the collective holding of the Davies breath for about 5 seconds. My sister’s face I still see up close in front of me wondering what my response would be to altering the recipe. Her eyes dance. Her smile coaxes me. She doesn’t know. At that moment nobody knew.

“YOU LIVE”, I said.

The collective Davies held breath ended in a sigh followed by a huge instantaneous, simultaneous laugh by everybody.

It was still good with the bland California olive. But…next time ask the grocer for the olives. And next time I see her I’m going to bring some of that relish with me, so she can see the difference. Hey, if she likes liver, which she does, then she’ll like Greek olives. Kalamata olives are the biggest blood fruit on the planet. That’s what the Greeks are supposed to eat, instead of the actual lamb.

To get back to Mom, she was always clipping recipes from all the women’s magazines she subscribed to. She read a lot, not just about women stuff. I remember her complaining about the fancy calorie-laden desserts they all had on the covers, then inside they were telling women how much they should weigh and how to diet. It didn’t make any sense to her. Then give us some diet recipes instead of all these high calorie ones.

Anyway, when she tried somebody else’s recipe and it didn’t come out as she trusted it would, then there was a flaw in the recipe, not in my mother’s execution of it. She proved that to me my making my minestrone soup when I went home for a family visit. Maybe someone did what Giada De Laurentiis did with her first cookbook – she and her family sat around the table pulling old recipes from their minds while guessing at the actual measurements of the dishes they made, because they didn’t measure back then. They eyeballed.

You know everybody says lose weight (nobody ever said that to Peg Davies, except her), but then all these magazines have pictures of high calorie desserts on the covers. Yeah, and they still do Mom, after all these years.

My mother passed on 14 October 2016, three days before her 90th birthday. Although she was a person short on compliments to her immediate family, she did always say when I called her long distance, “yes, yes, I remember that now. Sharon, you always remember the happy stories for me.” She was right, I did that for her – every single time I called. I wrote happy stories too – just for her.

Now here’s another happy memory Mom. This time I’m sharing it with others, instead of telling a happy story just to you.

Perfect timing. It’s all about the timing – in cooking anything.


And thank you too.

And measuring accurately my engineer father pipes in.

Well, I always measured accurately my mother reminds him with a little indignation.

I know you did. I’m reminding her.

On earth as it is in heaven. Mom and Dad still arguing. I love it and love you two.

Go to bed everything’s good. Just follow her recipe.






SALTY AFRICAN MOOSE ICE-CREAM coming up soon. (Usually when I say something like this, the coming soon never happens.)

It’s already been made. Just gotta type it.

Be On The LookOut. It’s A Dessert.

And it’s number 3. The second recipe did not result in any views on WordPress or Facebook, so I go to #3, not to #1.

Just so you know, I don’t go past #3 for any group.

When you wait for #1 without supporting #2 and #3, then I know you to be just like the Jews who exploited you in the USA during the time of ‘pick a slave any slave because everybody else is doing it’.

And they are still doing it, by allowing you to sell drugs in their establishments, while they pay you probably what you’re worth. I mean how many people get that privilege?

It’s all so strange.


You definitely will be held responsible for this beautiful creature.


# 1 is unknown




The order in which I actually present them does not matter. Does it.

No question mark after “Does it” sounds like Japanese to me.

But it is in the voice as well as the reading of the voice that matters. The inflection. The Japanese do not like inflection at the end of anything.

They do not like question marks after negotiations. Period. Do not raise your voice in question. Raise your voice in agreement.

Number 2 before number 1. Number 4 before number 3. What does it all mean.

It is all too confusing. That’s what you say. That is not what I say nor the reality.

Try to trick me and I will… well…

That just means you’re not prepared to work.

The way you acted today proves that you were surviving the night before (whatever happened there with whomever) and you were not wanting to deal with the reality of what you signed up for.

You need to act like a doctor in the morning if you are a doctor.

They recruited you because you were easy to manipulate.

You proved that to me today.

Your handlers manipulated you – not with as much ease as they would have liked, however, as you presented yourself to me – herky jerky – like somebody had just threatened to shoot you or hang or torture you, I saw you as a person who wanted to be free from the oppressors who were telling you to oppress me.

Still, they did make you do to me something that a doctor doing no harm should never do.

For that reason I do not want you on my team.


I Wrote To My Brother Every Day That He Was In Viet Nam


I Wrote To My Brother Every Day That He Was In Viet Nam

POSTED 5 Oct 2017

Chef Sharon Davies-Tight

This is what Jew writers and all other writers concur with, ‘you can never start a sentence with an “I”.

I can break the rules set by others if those rules are meaningless.

I wrote to my brother every single day that he was in Viet Nam.

I was anti-war. I did not demonstrate.

I wrote to him every day so he would not forget that he had a home.

I sat for the playing of the National Anthem at a hockey game in Massachusetts, that Jim Davies, me (his sister) and my husband (Steve) attended. I thought as I sat, how dare you, how dare you do that to my brother, such a sweet person, smart person, good person, get along with everybody person, make him into a killer.

I regretted immediately my decision to sit as I saw my brother whole but fractured stand and salute the flag of the United States of America.

I wrote a book called A Plan For The Planet – about all things big and small – 5 principles to a better life – or maybe it was in a newsletter, I expressed for the entire world to see, my regret. My regret that I will always carry as a burden, that I did not stand with my brother on that particular day, alongside of him. With him. When he had just gotten home from Viet Nam – found his way all the way back home he did.

It hurt me to see his whole but fractured body, mind and soul. It hurt me to my core.

My brother eventually read what I wrote. He said it helped him.

I stand now.

Thank you for your service. Thank you for your suffering.

Thank you will never be enough. Standing, bowing of heads will never be enough.

I am still your sister. I am still anti-war.

But what you did for all life on this planet cannot be described in words.

I love you forever.




I’ve been a busy beaver today.

Building dams everywhere.


Thanks Mom…and Dad

My mother is making me stronger the longer I take to not grieve her passing.

She passed in such a graceful, let me go type of way, on her terms, and only when she knew as the mother to all of us that we would all be okay without her.

I know she’s not lost. She just had a bunch of stuff to do and people to see and help before she got to me. I always said take care of them first, I’m okay, now she’s holding me to it.

Frankly I was looking for some time to get stuff together. I was hoping for a ‘Mom’s on vacation away from all of us and her lifelong responsibility to all of us’ type of vacation – for her.

Don’t worry, she took it. She deserved it. Dad did too. We all do – at that point when our life becomes nothing to the world or anything on or in it. It’s a private passing, once gone from the tender thoughts of those whispering them, or the thoughts we whisper to ourselves as we hug ourselves to death’s door, when there really isn’t anybody else doing it for us.

I wanted to get my apartment looking really good – even though a lot of it is dumpster, second hand stuff – before she arrived via the spirit machine – to view it from a new dimension.

She once told me, “Don’t you ever be ashamed of that, Sharon”.  I said, “I’m not.” My mother knew I could pick the best from the worst.

My mother-in-law knowing I didn’t have much in the way of clothes said more than once to me, “You would look good in a potato sack”. I believed her.

Although both my mothers loved to hate me for all the right and wrong reasons, I always loved them – because they were mothers. Because I knew their suffering as women. And because they made the best of the time they lived in, that didn’t accept them as whole human beings. They accepted themselves differently than the world, governments, religions assigned them to be.

Guess they hated me – a part of them hated me – because I wasn’t a mother. And they both wanted that. My mom always saw me as a mother – even as a kid – because of the way I cared about everybody. My mom-in law wanted to see what little Steve’s and Sharon’s would look like. Just like our dogs probably and a couple of cats and gold fish and turtles and birds. Pick an animal any animal.

Finally my mother when she saw that I was not going to go for that glamorous job she pictured me in, said in resignation but also a recognition of truth, ‘the animals need you Sharon’. She read me. I sent her all of what I wrote. My father was more worried for me, that the path I took as activist would hurt me, so did what he could do to block me – nothing. He got it. He knew me as an engineer. My mother knew me as a mother. They both saw themselves in me.

That right there is the greatest compliment that my Mom and Dad ever gave to me – that they saw themselves in me.

Of course they feared for me, taking risks like I did, but they read my essays, yes my father too, and they knew I was right.

They also knew how they raised me and how I raised them and together even if apart we all would do the right thing for all of us and the individual of us and somehow it would all work out as a family growing into something better, still remembering the gentle and rough times equally.

~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight


Speed Trap

“The law’s the law in Dinwiddie County Virginia, boy.”

Said the mayor of some city/town in the county where my husband was pleading for the mayor to accept his check and release me from jail for speeding in a reduced speed limit construction zone.

Speed traps they called them back in the early 1970’s, set up in southern states to trap unsuspecting northerners who didn’t know the roads. We were traveling from my parents’ house in Massachusetts to his parents’ house in Florida.

They’d arrest them, throw them in jail, then demand cash for their release – and tell the incarcerated one horrible stories about what happened to people who did not comply with the cash or Western Union demand.

The woman jailor who would have to stay overnight because I was the only female in the jail eventually cashed Steve’s check so she could go to the Roller Derby that night.

The Roller Derby saved me.

This story and all that happened will continue at a later date.

The Senate Health Care Bill is a Speed Trap.

Both, all, parties will support a speed trap.


Christening By Parachute – Korea

My Uncle Mike (really named James) served in the Korean War – my father’s only brother. (My father’s name is Tom Davies who served as a Merchant Marine during World War II).

He (my Uncle Mike) brought home from the war to his mother who sewed all her own clothes and the clothes of others, a silk parachute.

When I was born, she made from that silk parachute a christening gown with two roses on the neck/top/separate part of the upper bodice.

My mother gave that dress to me years later in memory of Grandma Davies after she died.

Years after that when I relocated where I couldn’t take a lot of stuff with me, a Jew offered me 100$ for all that I owned, the remains of me, everything of me, and I accepted.

I was on my way out of somewhere to nowhere. I was young and scared and that’s how the government wants people of interest to feel. Still, it was all for me. An adventure.

After I went to the Soviet Union in 1975 or something like that, all hell broke loose in my life.

As I was leaving this beautiful gown to a man who didn’t deserve to own it, I held it, smelled it, touched it, drew my fingers over every stitch and fold.

He never saw me do it. I wonder what he eventually did with it.

But for me my birth was long over and I knew I would remember exactly as Grandma Davies sewed it, so I didn’t have to save it forever. I had it forever in the place that mattered.

You see, Grandma’s middle name was Rose. And she made out of the silk fabric the gown and then two roses on either side of me planted gently, firmly on my chest so nobody would ever forget, and she was imagining me lowering my head then raising it (as sewers do), till all was right with the roses and her.  I can experience her now – the toughness and gentle part of all she did. Prominent but not overstated was her style – the style she designed, my Grandma Davies, for me.

Thank you Grandma Davies for inviting me to your thoughts.

I already knew them anyway. I’m yours, you know that.

~ Sharon


Of course now that I understand the enslavement of silk worms, and why the world would want to enslave a beautiful being, I need, want and must say that slavery, no matter the beauty of the slaves and what they produce, is wrong.

For me and for Grandma and Uncle Mike it was the parachute that saved lives made into a christening gown that brought beauty and innocence where there once was a war.

And the two roses that Grandma sewed were one for her and me, and one for her and own mother.

She wove it all.

She wove it, sewed it, felt it all. She wanted one day for me to feel it and I did, and now again I’m revisiting with a new appreciation.

Grandma wasn’t baptized till she was ten years old. A little old for a christening gown. It was done in the middle of a winter night after traversing ten miles with Grandma on her Auntie’s back through the back woods of somewhere in Lithuania. Her Auntie had her baptized so she could be transferred to America for a better life. There was no record of Grandma’s birth and she needed papers in order to be accepted in America.

Grandma never knew when her real birthday was. The date Auntie gave was something she made up. ‘Close enough’ Grandma always thought to say each year that we went to Grandma’s house to celebrate her birthday. Grandma would always throw her head back and laugh that knowing, accepting kind of laugh as she squeezed her moist eyes shut.

When she died, her daughter who was with her said she cried for her Mama as she passed.


My Answer


There is not a human on earth who doesn’t understand the concept of the cog.

Cog defined by somebody else: The definition of a cog is any of the teeth on a wheel or gear that fits into an opposite notch to cause motion of the wheel, or a person who is important but not critical in the structure of an organization.

My Answer: All teeth and all notches are critical to the smooth motion of a wheel, or the smooth operation of an organization – at all levels of that organization.

Inspire or separate.





Today Is Tomorrow.

Tomorrow Is Today.

Either way works.

No more putting off.

Can’t do it anymore.

Don’t like it anymore.

The purpose it served is gone.

Enjoyed it, mostly.

Now it’s tomorrow today.

I’m here.

Don’t worry I never left – only stood down, surveyed my ground, explored yours.

I’m ready to rumble without you.



A black man 

who lives in my building got on the elevator a few weeks ago and said to me as he looked down on Lilly Belle Pi, whom I was holding on a leash, “that’s a valuable dog you have there”.

I thought how would he know.

As he was getting off the elevator I said, “no, no, she’s not valuable; she’s a rescue dog, she’s a rescue dog”, as I tried with words to show him, tell him, that she’s not valuable.

I knew the way he said it, that he was sizing her up – for sale.


Long before that, a black woman who lives in the building, whom I consider a friend, told me that she knew Lilly Belle Pi was “all God”. I acknowledged that, while she and I both agreed that nobody should ever know because, as she said, “somebody will try to steal her”.

Lilly Belle Pi loves black people. Maybe the people who abused her were black and she loves them anyway.

Lilly Belle Pi loves all people – of all races, ethnicities and genders – and all other animals too  –  and has brought joy into the lives of others, just by being who she is.

Many a night when a black man would leave the building with his angry face on and as we approached from the outside coming home after a late night final walk, that anger turned to a smile, then relief, as Lilly did her dance for him. Then I’d get a smile too. I knew that night (and any night thereafter) that the angry man would be okay.

I cannot begin to tell you the wrath I feel thinking that somebody would want to do the most horrific thing by separating her from the family who adopted her bringing her from darkness into light.

I share Lilly Belle Pi with the world. Lilly Belle shares herself. But at the end of the day she comes home to a secure, loving place. Everybody should be happy for that, and confident in knowing that they will see their Lilly Belle again. She knows who you are. She goes looking for you once the two of you have met.

You are not my friend Mr. black man on the elevator.

There is no price tag on my daughter.

P.S. The first dog Steve and I had as a couple, named Phoebe, was kidnapped during our first year of marriage from the home we house-sat in Florida, never to be seen again.

We kept her in an enclosed patio with a door that led to a fenced in yard per orders of the landlord, Ron Turcotte  (a retired Canadian thoroughbred race horse jockey best known as the rider of Secretariat, winner of the U.S. Triple Crown in 1973), as a condition for house-sitting his home. Steve and I both worked at the track where his father was track physician, I worked as one of the nurses, and Steve worked in the mutuel department.

The pain of that loss never left us – till Lilly Belle came into our lives . Even though we had dogs most of our married life, and endured many painful good-byes (as all dog caretakers experience), with Lilly it was like we got Phoebe back.

I don’t think I need to say any more on this.

~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight


When the democrats reacted with venom, violence and vengeance to the news of Donald Trump’s victory over Hillary Clinton, I knew how Chris Darden felt after the O.J. Simpson verdict was handed down to a cheering Black America community that could be heard and seen throughout the USA. I thought we were better than that.

Chris Darden and I share something in common. We both woke up to a cold, scary truth: We believed our people to be kinder, better, fairer, more decent than they are.

~ Sharon lee Davies-Tight



Popsicle sticks writing in hot, sticky tar, on hot streets, on hot summer days.

Sitting on the curb with tanned shoulders bending to the ground by the weight of the sun.

Spider webs sparkling in the morning dew.

Cool, summer streams filling the air with rushing sounds of clear running water.

My dog licking the moisture from my eyes with her sand paper tongue.

Mesmerized by rainbows in water hoses.

Sweet white corn and summer tomatoes.

Skipping to the song of my shoes against the sidewalk.

Sailing through the sky, soaring as if with wings, swinging to the freedom ring of my heart.

Lilacs smelling so sweetly in my room. Lilacs dying with sweet fragrance that I’ll never forget.

Raindrops pounding on the old metal awning in the night.

The smell of broken leaves as I walk.

Embracing cool, crisp, autumn days.

Crickets in the twilight.

The smell of sautéed celery on Thanksgiving morning.

Pictures, paintings and old photos.

The sound of crackling ice beneath my feet.

Sparkling lights dancing off the cold, shimmering ice dripping from the trees.

The smell of fresh pitch seeping from fresh cut Christmas trees.

Christmas tree lights. Sparkle days. “Oh come all ye faithful”.

A soft wind and fragrant, balmy air. Night blooming jasmine.

The fragrance of a Florida grapefruit in Florida.

The first glimpse, the first sound–of the ocean.

A million butterflies hovering over my body flapping their wings.

A light, gentle wind flickering, playfully against my cheek.

Pink neon.

The smell of new plastic.

Soft green oceans and purple morning skies in Mexico.

Blue skies in other lands look different.

Black Russian bread, in winter, in Russia.

White paper clouds hanging from Toronto skies.

Fireworks in Waikiki on New Year’s Eve.

The pitter patter sound of dogs walking on linoleum.

Serious talks and drunken dances…Thunder storms in the night.

Till the beat of my heart and the path that I walk become one.

The rose still blooms; even when it’s fallen, it blooms from there.

Prejudice in Cleveland.

Magical walks down ancient tree-lined streets at dawn and dusk.

The making of an angel.

Sweet, sweet success–exhilarating success.

Reaching the top.

Walking in a rainbow.


~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight


Joseph’s Present

joseph’s present. I crossed a bridge in the early morning hours of the night. Don’t know how it happened, but knew it did, by my own long gaze, while walking backwards, away from that which I was leaving behind.  Hearing the sound of my slow steps with ever-widening gait, I walked, no marched–forward, onward, with one last over the shoulder glance, walking more swiftly now, till reaching the bridges end, when I thought not to look back again.

Full circle I had come, standing tall, glad for the journey; not knowing why; more glad that I was back–to where I truly wanted to be. Turning once more, as if to defy my own instructions, I murmured with odd surprise, “I’m going to miss you”, as the tentacles of that which humans pursue kept pursuing me. I made it. I’m here. I’m not quite sure how or why. But I’m where I most want to be: with my God and my family. I knew I could count on you, Joseph. You were right where I needed you the most, and there when I thought I needed no one.

Without me even asking, you swooped down and lifted this shattered heart, stinging still, as I falteringly moved at God’s instruction.  We are one again, after a long, painful journey. What a glorious feeling on this my happiest awakening in the early morning hours of the night. Together we fought the temptations of the desert, overcoming the desire for a better, softer, kinder life. We are that life. We carry that life in our hearts; and our souls will be forever replenished by that which you gave to me and that which I do in your name.

No need to look for false Gods and prophets. The truth stays in the family. Guess you knew I had to cross back over the same bridge God had urged me to travel. You knew I had to confront the evil everyone else follows; to learn it, be with it and let it become me without me becoming it. You took a risk. I could have burned that bridge behind me–and been lost in limbo forever, becoming so accustomed to the way we’re told to live, that I’d fail to find my way back.

It could have consumed me, as I see it do to so many others. But somehow I knew you wouldn’t let that happen, that you wouldn’t let me burn that bridge–and per chance, somebody burned it for me, you knew with equal confidence that I would find another route back home. I recall now God telling me that I would come face to face, engage and walk a while with that which others walk. Now that it’s over, and I’m no longer in the throes of its pull, enthralled by its allure, I guess I can say that you all and me chewed it up and spit it out–our way.

No telling beforehand, though, what I was going to do. It approached without warning, even though God told me it was necessary to work more effectively. I didn’t have to take a step, didn’t have to move. It came to me. It never touched me, but sucked me in like a vacuum does a piece of dust. No hard sell–never is when evil’s playing the joke. My life became likened to a whirlwind of sand and smoke. All sight was lost, except for the endless splints and fractures of mirrors from which each of your faces brightly shined amidst the dark holes of dying dreams.

How I forged through it, stumbling, falling, begging to be free of the false images of reality all the world accepts, only my God and my family now know, and at this or any other future point could care less to reveal.

Who would understand it anyway? Miraculously, I escaped unscathed; a  little battered, a little bruised and choking a bit–but I emerged intact, and forever changed, one again with my God and my family.

A metaphorical sky, no, not a metaphorical sky, a real sky, opened up for me in the early morning night on Joseph’s day. I thought my work had ended after nine years in the desert, now I know it has just begun. I’m in the home of the brave now. Thank you for your courage.



I have never known that safe place that gays say they have in certain buildings.

The FBI came into my life when I was in the 5th grade.

I’d see them outside, across the street from Uncle Danny’s and Auntie Ann’s house sitting in the car, at recess everyday as I pretended to have fun as I played, as I walked home from school for lunch and after school, always feeling somehow naked as I walked by the car and they stared at me.

Uncle Danny made for making silencers, Uncle Jake for wiretapping Marilyn Monroe. Ask Anthony Summers, if you don’t believe me.

I learned early what deviant was, and it wasn’t my uncles.

The only place I ever felt safe was in my father’s house – and only when he was home. I never told him that though; I never told anybody. When I left home, as young people do, that safe place was gone forever.

I’ve been tortured by the FBI for so long I don’t know anything else. They think they’re justified.

Judges are the worst – the most deviant. They’ll do anything the FBI tells them to do.

I’m sixty-seven years old – a long way from 5th grade – and it still hasn’t ended.

~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight



My nephew Alex went to boot camp at Parris Island. He joined the Marines. For those who think only disadvantaged kids go, this was not the case with Alex. There are young men and women, no matter their status, who really do want to serve their country – people who want to step up to protect all those they hold dear.

Everybody who knows me, knows that I am anti-war. Yet, when one of my own puts themself into the middle of that war – as my brother Jim did in Viet Nam – I can only be proud. There is no other option. He made a brave decision. And all I can do is support him in that decision.

We all know people who have served. My hope is that presidential candidates as well as other candidates running for public office don’t forget them once they have served – which continues to happen, no matter who the president or the members of congress happen to be in any given year or election cycle.

What did President Obama do for the veterans, except to hide the fact that they were mistreated upon returning home, by not being treated at all? What did President Bush do for the veterans, to make a better life for them? What did President Clinton do, except offer prayers. Veterans don’t need prayers. Prayers are like empty promises – asking some entity that you can’t see nor prove exists to do something that you don’t want to do, or that you don’t have the power or influence to do.

Veterans need action. NOW. Not next election cycle when that empty promise can be used again to get elected or re-elected.

For now, I am like any other family member hoping that our loved one, who puts him/her self into harms way for the rest of us, returns to us as a veteran when his military obligation to Serve and Protect is over.

Thank you Alex – I love you big as the sky that you are – forever.


Wall Street? I’m he-e-r-r-re!

This is what I got from Jim Cramer’s recent book called GET RICH CAREFULLY – a book Steve got me at the library, thinking I might be interested.

You can change the market without having to know anything about the status of the companies you’re betting on. That was the gist of it.

When I grasped that concept I didn’t need to read any further. I found what I didn’t know I was looking for. I was only thirty or so pages into the book. A few days later Steve, going to the library, asks if I want that Cramer book. I said no, I don’t need it anymore. I don’t want it anymore. He writes like he talks – too much detail.

Subsequently, I read a bunch of stuff on the site where I can change the distribution of my total investment. I can pull a percentage or the total amount from one category and add it to an existing investment or find a different one.

I decided to go for it – change the distribution of my investment, rather than let the company do it for me. But what if I didn’t know what I was doing and lost the little money we had? Cramer implied that it didn’t matter.

Well, we had already lost a sizable percentage. So what do I do? Go with my gut? Do a process of elimination absent any knowledge? I don’t even know what these things are. Do I go with what sounds familiar – so that because I understand the word energy I should invest in that?

I obviously need to learn the meaning of the terms used in finance.

I decided not to gamble, but to go by the numbers. If you lost me money, you’re out. I had to nuance the rest, because there were so many of them that lost me money.

I made the correction only once.

In a little more than one month I recouped my losses plus a little bit more. Not bad for my first try ever. Wow.

Now I decide to take Mrs. Jill’s advice to my mother-in-law many, many years ago. Put your money in the market and forget about it. Well, I’ll partially take her advice. I’ll wait a few months – don’t know how many though. I want to ride the ripple effect for a while – see what happens. The effect on my investment will be small. But for others, who invest more, it will be much bigger.

I’m on the board. Beginner’s luck?

I have never, ever experienced beginner’s luck.

I don’t have any luck at all.

When I gamble, I gamble to win, not to keep on gambling.

Most people I know who gamble, gamble to keep on gambling – so they can spread the play over several hours.

That’s not me. I don’t think of a gamble as a game or as entertainment. It’s work. Losing money is not my idea of a good time.

On the rare occasion that Steve and I would go to a casino, we’d both get fifty dollars. He’d lose his within five minutes, then come over to me and stand behind me at a machine. Now Steve is a self-proclaimed ‘cooler’. Do I want a ‘cooler’ standing behind me watching me as I’m working on increasing my investment? No.

So, I’d tell him to wait for me in the car. Fifteen minutes later I’d get into the car with a poker face, make him wonder for about thirty seconds, then give him his fifty dollars back and pocket my remaining two hundred and fifty win – two hundred net. Huge smile from Steve! We’d go out to dinner and I’d pay a bill.

After each instance, he always said the same thing. HOW do you do that??

My response was always the same. I know when to stop.

Oh, and something else: If I don’t think I’m going to win going in, I don’t gamble. I’ve been to the casino downtown Cleveland several times. I haven’t yet placed a bet.




Wasting food in the kitchen is not something that I often do. Guess I get that from my mother.

When I develop a recipe, I have to get it right the first time. If I don’t, then that’s money down the disposal.

When I go into that kitchen, I’m all business. There is no failure option for me. That being said, on the occasion that I do fail, I always make a positive out of it, but I never, ever feel good about it.

That feeling in itself motivates me to have fewer failures, because I don’t like not feeling good – about anything.

I’m the type of person who doesn’t take well to being jolted or prodded by others. It doesn’t feel good.

I take care of jolting and/or prodding myself. It’s called self-correcting behavior.

We all have that capacity as humans, being part of the animal race to which we belong.

Imagine that.

One race includes us all – the animal race.





When I first joined Facebook, being the animal rights activist I am, I saw a lot of slaughter photos/videos, posted by the friends I had on Facebook who were animal rights activists trying to educate the populace to the horrors of enslavement, torture and slaughter.

I wasn’t, however, accustomed to seeing up front and personal the actual physical reality of it, even though I had already written about it from the resource of my mind’s eye – knowing logically what happened through the process of enslavement, torture and slaughter. As it turned out I was accurate in my writing of what I saw – without physically seeing it.

I viewed EARTHLINGS, but when it came to skinning an animal alive, well, I couldn’t go there, yet.

I eventually did, when recently a video on my Facebook news feed. It was a short video, and as I clicked it on I talked to my personal God to help me see it, to help me view what to me was the most horrific torture any being could ever experience. It was not easy, but I knew I had to do it.

My God did that for me – even though It didn’t have to, since I already knew, and It already knew that I knew. Still…my personal God kept me quiet and helped me keep my eyes open as I kept saying ‘help me do this’.

When it was over, it didn’t change anything about me, except that I had the courage to finally view that which before I could not.

What I’ve seen on Facebook recently is a shift from ‘all slaughter photos and videos all the time’, to an insertion of saved animals, happy stories of people with their family animals enjoying life. Videos of animals showing compassion toward other animals. Animals grieving when their babies were ripped from them. Animals loving other species – playing with them with carefree delight.  Funny videos. Sweet videos. Angry animals standing up to their aggressors…and on and on.

“I believe that in many instances other species are more humane than humans, and those videos have shown that to me and to the world.”

I don’t know how that shift happened, that videos/photos on Facebook are now showing the humanity of other species, but I know that it is both appropriate and true.

So, to all those participating in that effort, to show the horror and the humanity – of other animals, I say thank you.

Thank you forever.

~ Sharon Davies-Tight




I’m a Top Shelf Long Island Ice Tea hold the sour, two lemon wedges on the side please, pistol packing double espresso animal-free vegan working for truth machine.

My thoughts are my bullets. My delivery system/gun is my writing.

I like Guiness in whatever beer I’m drinking when I’m drinking beer.

I like soy milk, haute cuisine, sweating when I work, listening to soft hard rock classical country no jazz music. My favorite song is ‘The Rose’–no matter who’s singing it.

My brain requires order. I like color texture and real.

I like power, mine, to have and behold. I don’t have to behold anybody else’s.

I like the God I create a secret. We create God AND God creates us. That’s what makes us equal.

I like fresh air big sky huge waters and gently moving streams forcefully embracing rocks that can’t move. So water and rock CAN live together.

I like the fine in everything. I like the edge of calm and the chaos of discipline. I like to be all over the board but on the board.

I like the sharp part of harmony. I like giant steps, huge movements, gigantic waves and smooth.

I like tear drops falling down window panes in the fog wherever glass exists. I like icicles. I like fog.

I like wild not crazy wild. I like discipline in my work and easy in everything else.

I’m fiercely yet gently loyal to family first.

I like simultaneous. I like the dance in all I do. I like the art of being AND doing. I appreciate the dance of all life and non-life.

I like to dress up and dress down. I like to improvise circumvent and above all else to create my own happiness and all THAT encompasses.

I like the look and sounds of trees. I appreciate the desert’s wide still sands and the little growths forcing the desert to accept them.

I like viewing the stars but care nothing about the names others give the constellations. A fallen shooting star means a life at least lived. All deaths should be so short.

I am me. Pure and simple. I’m not interested in acceptance nor rejection. I find both to be limiting in my never-ending desire to be free.

I like the edge of the wind–the thunder of the soul and the sweetness of balmy air. I like pink skies, bitter-sweet, tender and strong.

Fear cripples then propels. Terror destroys. I love storms in the night. Destruction becomes my middle name, when my ability to be free is compromised. Terrorize my family and your death certificate has already been signed by you.

‘Live learn laugh love’ and you won’t have to worry about my middle name.


UPDATE: My new favorite drinks:

1–Moscow Mule: vodka, ginger beer, fresh mint and sugar muddle, fresh lime wedge garnish and lots of ice

2–ginger beer

3–almond/coconut milk

4–cashew milk



‘Always give yourself a way out’, my father once told me, while sitting in the front seat of the car as a train traveled on the tracks before us. ‘Never box yourself in’.

‘Don’t be like everybody else’, my mother once told me, while I sat beside her watching her sew. ‘Dare to be different’.



I never left the table.

Even when everyone else left, I stayed.

From when I first sat at a table as a toddler, till now at sixty-four years old, I stayed when everyone else left.

It wasn’t and isn’t a conscious thing I do, I just do it. That’s me.

It was always about disagreements. Family would get up and leave, and leave somebody else behind.

I always stayed with the one left behind.

Even when the one left behind left, I stayed,

even as a child, alone in the kitchen, everybody else in bed.

I stayed.

Finally, I’d climb down from the chair at the kitchen table.  I’d look in on the one everyone left.

When I knew everyone was sleeping, I’d go to bed, leaving the kitchen light on.

I’d wake up in the morning and everybody was fine.

Even now in my mind’s eye I saw and see myself always there.

Always at the table.

Though someone could say I was alone, I never felt it, not for one second.

I don’t feel it now. And I still do the same thing.

It’s just me and the way I am.



You can sell a human baby on eBAY for $2,000.00. You can sell a grilled cheese sandwich on eBAY with a char mark that somebody says looks like Jesus (like anyone would know what Jesus looked like) for $25,000.00. Yet eBay put a ceiling price of $5,000.00 on any Paintings By God I wanted to sell on eBay, saying I had to sell a lot of small items first–to gain the trust of the eBay ‘buy and sell’ community and work my way up to higher priced items, which would take about a year or more. That’s why I don’t sell my work on eBay.

eBay is a community of buy and sell addicts, who devalue items so they can keep buying and selling. It’s like a gambling addiction for the masses, the populace, the people with not much money, who nevertheless like the excitement of the gamble, the trade, the risk. It’s for people who can’t afford to trade on Wall Street.

eBay told me that I not only had to sell a lot of small items, but I also had to buy a lot of other people’s small items to gain their trust. We want to get to know you first, so we know you’re not a fraud”, she said. I told her my whole life history, the history of my art, my hopes, my dreams, goals, obstacles… I felt like I was interviewing for a job that she didn’t want me to get. I told her I didn’t have a lot of small items to sell and I didn’t want to buy a lot of other people’s small items.

All the possessions I have I need and use, and I don’t have room for anybody else’s small stuff in my apartment. I wanted only to sell my art. But the rules were the rules–a $5,000.00 cap per painting, but now it became only one painting. I said in a very nice way that eBay was devaluing my art by pricing it for me sight unseen. She said that’s how the ‘buy and sell’ community works.

At many points throughout the conversation I thought I was talking to the CIA and military intelligence combined. She kept repeating the same policy over and over again no matter what I said, her response was always the same. It was like, ‘where’s the next attack going to be? when’s the next attack? give me a date, where? who?

I call that the ebay BLOCK|



Years ago I worked for a short time at a produce company. I responded to an ad in the classifieds, for a salad prep job, thinking it was a restaurant. It turned out to be a produce company, but because there was a recession and I needed work, I didn’t turn it down. Better to have some money than none.

The job was to prep veggies for restaurants. That’s where I learned that carrots had oil in them. Peel a hundred pounds with rubber gloves on and you’ll know it’s true.

We’d sit around peeling in a refrigerated room, talking to ease the boredom of the repetitive work. One day, this black woman was recalling working in a tomato processing plant–on the conveyor belt line, sorting tomatoes, categorizing them for various uses.

You should have heard her talk. Wow. She knew everything there was to know about tomatoes, and talked with laughter, fright and lots of animation. The ones for cans, good. The ones for soup, not too bad. But the ones–the ugly ones–man. “They scared even me”, she’d say. ‘They didn’t throw anything away. You couldn’t throw one tomato into a basket. There were no baskets’. “What was wrong with them?”, I asked. ‘Beards. They had beards. Big beards. I didn’t want to look–or touch. But I had to. It was disgusting. I haven’t drank tomato juice since. That factory cured me. That’s where the bearded ones go–into tomato juice’.

The beards she was talking about is mold. Mold that you wouldn’t eat. You’d throw the tomato away, rather than eat it. I’m not too big on juice knowing the mold goes in with everything else. At least there’s no mold in soft drinks. Maybe we should fortify the soft drinks, instead of pureeing moldy fruits. I imagine grape juice has a lot of mold in it. Who’s at fault for putting moldy fruit into juices? No excuses.



Steve bought me a new large calendar with puppy and kitten pictures on it. The old one was written in gray thin print and I couldn’t see it at a distance. Why hang it on a wall if you have to walk up to it every time you need to confirm the date or day? This one was perfect. I could see it from across the room. For months though I’ve been getting the dates and days wrong. That’s not a good feeling for someone with a damaged brain. I couldn’t figure out what was going on with me.

I think I’m getting tunnel vision, not the type that restricts my thought, but the visual type. Probably from working on the computer all these years, focused on the screen and the keyboard, I don’t look beyond to the sides, or above the computer. The work trains you to focus that way. A good thing for work, but a bad thing for everything else.  In future it will be studied as an occupational hazard. Could affect how you drive a vehicle, visual scanning and even your balance while walking.

At any rate I finally did figure it out, why I kept getting the days and dates wrong. I was in the wrong year. I was in 2013. Steve bought a 2013 calendar probably assuming if it was for sale in this year it would be for this year. And all I did was look at the dates and days and of course the month. My eyes only had to go up a couple of inches and I would have seen 2013 not 2012. Before I ever had a computer I would have noticed that before I even hung it on the wall. Steve would have too.

The dilemma now was that I had already thrown my 2012 calendar away and nobody was selling them anymore. So, for a while I decided to give my brain another training exercise and worked in the year 2013. I kept forgetting though if one year hence meant one day forward or backward. I did get pretty good at it, but Steve and I would disagree and we’d go through a whole process to determine what day it actually was.

I thought I had a great solution to the problem. My checkbook had a calendar. I’d tear that out and keep it handy, but those years are long gone. Wonder how many mistakes I made in my checkbook because the check company gave outdated calendars with the checks I got—free.

Steve eventually solved it. He found one while out and about and surprised me with a bona fide 2012 calendar. The print is gray and thin, so I don’t have the luxury of seeing it from a distance, but at least I’m in the right year, and on the right day and date. It’s Friday 28 September 2012. And the palm tree leaning over an ocean colored with hues of pink and orange as the sun sets in a faraway land is a beautiful sight.

P.S. I saved the puppy and kitten calendar for next year, so now I won’t have to buy another.



I raised my dogs like humans. That’s all I knew how to do.

I didn’t know how to raise a dog like a dog – why would I know that?

If I had been a dog and had human pets, I would have raised my humans like dogs.

Once when my brother came out to Portland, Oregon to visit and met our three dogs, Howdy, Rascal and Pele, and then returned home to Massachusetts, my mother called me.

She said, do you know what your brother said?

I said, no.

He said, “Ma, Sharon’s dogs are like humans”.

My mother responded, “I don’t doubt that”.



My father, mother, my sister, my brothers, my husband and our canine and feline (now deceased) children – That’s my core. That will always be my core.

Where’s God in all of this? God is everything; God is all life and non-life, so God in effect isn’t unique to me.

My family is unique to me.

For those who don’t have a family or don’t know their family, their core becomes defined by them.

My core, as I define it, shaped and continues to shape who I am.

Even those long dead continue to influence my decisions in a positive, forward moving way.

This doesn’t mean that I go the way of the group or any individual within that group.

What it means is that they are the ones who make me what I am, as I work my way through my life, realizing that I am an individual within that group – different, similar, familiar.

Beyond that core is everything – everybody else.

I care about all of it. Yes, even you who reads this at this moment.

My core, because I hold that core so dear, allows me to not only care, but to help in my own way all else on the planet, in the universe and beyond.

That’s who I am. That’s what I am.

It doesn’t matter if I am or if I’m not a part of anybody else’s core in anybody else’s life.

What matters is whom I hold dear – for in the middle of the night, as I lay awake listening for the door to move, it is my core that keeps me brave.





Adhesive Tape



Patton Street


Hand-Sewing Baseballs

Going To Work


Rose is the thread that weaves the fabric that makes the blanket that protects the world.

~ Sharon Lee Davies-Tight


I raised my dogs like humans. That’s all I knew how to do.

I didn’t know how to raise a dog like a dog – why would I know that?

If I had been a dog and had human pets, I would have raised my humans like dogs.

Once when my brother came out to Portland, Oregon to visit and met our three dogs, Howdy, Rascal and Pele, and then returned home to Massachusetts, my mother called me.

She said, do you know what your brother said?

I said, no.

He said, Ma, Sharon’s dogs are like humans.

My mother responded to him, I don’t doubt that.


by SLD-T


….. I don’t know what bothered me the most, that he was a pimp or that he crushed a mouse with his foot ….. in the hallway of the hospital where I stood …..

the end

This is a factual novel.

I’m Dead

I’m dead. I’ve been dead for a very long time.

No amount of life can infuse itself into my heart, soul or brain to change the death of me.

Still…I walk, I talk, work, write, love.

How can that be – a dead person still standing tall?