Waiting for the Bus

On warm mornings like this one, we wait in the garage with the door open, the driveway lit. It's still dark at 5:40. We're quiet. We would be quiet, the two of us, even if the the sun were shining and the neighbors were bustling. A 14-year-old girl doesn't have much to say to a 64-year old woman with a raspy voice. Thank goodness for her phone--her connection to everything that matters. I chatter softly and ineffectively, my efforts rewarded with unintelligible mumbles.

The bus arrives, always within a few minutes of its scheduled time. Occasionally a car or two is inconvenienced, having to stop for the flashing red lights, waiting as she ambles coolly down the driveway. I watch her step up onto the empty bus, wondering how the weight of her backpack doesn't cause her to fall backwards. She is a small girl; the bus is cavernous.

I watch until the driver has closed the door, always making sure her passenger is seated first. With a screech and a groan, the bus pulls away, and I turn to go back into the house. But a piece of my heart is on that bus. The piece I gave to her the day she was born, the piece that will always be hers.

Have a good day, my Sunshine.

Another Voice

Twenty-nine days into my thirty-day blogging non-commitment, and I am tired of the sound of my own voice. Today I'm using someone else's voice.

In 1974, Sy Safransky borrowed fifty dollars to start The Sun. He is still the editor and publisher, but, from the brief bio on the cover of the book, "He still gets up before sunrise to write in his journal, occasionally publishing excerpts in a section of the magazine called "Sy Safransky's Notebook."

Many Alarm Clocks is a collection of those exerpts from the last 15 years. My copy has dog-eared pages in nearly every chapter. I'd like to share a few of them with you...

From "The Day's First Mistake" Self-improvement is my drug of choice, more seductive than marijuana, more addictive than coffee. But the idea that I'll be happier once I become a "better" man is an illusion. When someone I love dies, will it comfort me to remember that I went to the gym three times this week instead of two? When I die, will my daughters be heartened to know I was at my ideal weight?

From "History Sits at the Bar" (post 9/11) Yes, it's true: America isn't the country she used to be; unhealthy habits take their toll. Tonight America sits in her mansion, brooding. Her hair is wild; her robe is soiled; the smell of death clings to her. She knows what they're saying: Britain and Germany--even France, that haggard slut--think they're better than she is. Why? Because they've accepted the fact, or so they insist, that their best days are behind them? "Well, fuck them," she thinks, "and fuck the lessons of history." She stubs out her cigarette, stands unsteadily, then squeezes into an outfit that's been too tight on her since the end of World War II. Soon she'll be walking out the door with that little spring in her step that was once the envy of the world.

From "The Shape of the Barrel"--First, a quote from Joseph Campbell: "Marriage is not a love affair. A love affair has to do with immediate personal satisfaction. Marriage is an ordeal; it means yielding, time and again. That's why it's a sacrament; you give up your personal simplicity to participate in a relationship. And when you're giving, you're not giving to the other person; you're giving to the relationship."

Then...

O God of Drowning Souls, come to our rescue. Norma and I have gone over Niagara Falls in a barrel, and still can't stop blaming each other. What is it this time? The shape of the barrel.

I still haven't finished the book. I'm in no hurry. A few paragraphs a day allows me to savor it.

No One to Blame But Myself

Earlier today I spent an hour writing a post called "Blaming Donald Trump." I left it posted for about an hour, then deleted it.

I remember being told "If you haven't got something nice to say, then don't say anything at all." Saying nothing at all has always been difficult for me, but I could usually get by with saying something else entirely. Lately, however, I have completely ignored that sage advice, saying whatever I felt, whenever I felt like saying it. Well, maybe not in person, but certainly on facebook, and in this blog.

But this morning it wasn't my intention to be nasty. I thought I had written a witty, self-deprecating explanation of why I've wanted to unfriend myself lately. Then, as I was showering, I was "convicted." Not only was my post not very funny, it deprecated a lot of other people besides myself. I realized some people would have already ready read it, but I couldn't wait to get back down here and hit "delete post." Of course once I've hit "publish," that's about as easy as unsaying something you hope no one heard.

Now I would like to give blame where blame is due. I'm taking full responsibility for being a person that I don't like very much. (It was tempting for me to type "for becoming" that person, but I realize that I haven't become anyone that I haven't always been.) I don't want to be that person anymore.

No, I'm not accepting any kind of bullying or discrimination as okay. I will not tolerate it when I see it, and I will do whatever I can to ensure that it doesn't happen. But instead of putting out any more of the kind of negativity that is choking our hearts, I want to make an effort to embrace the beautiful words of Michele Obama--"When they go low, we go high."

A lofty goal, I know, but goals are good to have, right?

Missed Calling

I think I missed my calling. I don't know why this never occurred to me before, but I think I was supposed to be an advice columnist. It became as clear as a bell this morning as My Awesome Husband Greg was reading to me from our local paper...

Dear Annie: My husband and I have been having an ongoing conflict about when to go to bed at night, as he insists we go to bed at the same time...

He insists? Honey, I wish you had written me before the wedding! The man is clearly an ass hat! Where does he get off insisting that you go to bed at a certain time?!

The writer then goes on to explain that she is a night owl, and sometimes wants to stay up until 11, either because she's not tired, or wants to watch something on TV. He, on the other hand, wants both of them to go to bed at 10 because that's the only way they can get enough sleep before the dog wakes them up at 6.

Okay, Sweetie. It's not like you're going clubbing after he goes to bed, right? I mean you're going to be right there in the den, reading or watching Netflix or something? Tell him the amount of sleep you need has nothing to do with him, and he needs to get over that crap right now!

But there's more...

He apparently whines that she wakes him up when she climbs into bed after him, and he can't get back to sleep.

Have you considered separate beds? Separate rooms? Separate houses?

I think this woman had already worked out the answer to her problem on her own. She just needed me to tell her she was right. Let's see how I did. Here's what "Annie" said:

Dear Tired: Don't let your husband treat you like a child. It sounds as if he has a bit of a controlling streak (ya think?) and it will only grow bigger if you take his demands lying down. (Clever--see what she did there--"lying" down?)

So Annie and I were on the same wavelength. She didn't use "ass hat," and she did suggest compromise--like going to bed early a couple of times a week just to appease the ass hat. I guess I could learn to be a little nicer. This was my first day on the job, after all.

The second letter was from someone wanting to know a good way to let visiting guests know they should limit their teeth-flossing activities to the bathroom, and not perform them in the TV room, leaving their used floss on the sofa. I mean. A good way? Annie suggested politely telling them that they should do that in the bathroom. That might work, but I prefer utilizing a "significant emotional event," such as walking into the room and screaming "Oh my God! What in the hell are you doing?! Were you raised by wolves?!" Just different ways of saying the same thing, right?

I definitely think I'm trainable.

Crime Scene

The shapely blond lay face-down on the hardened ground next to the parking lot. Rigor mortis was in and advanced stage. She was wearing clean white underwear--no holes or overstretched elastic--which would indicate that she had come from good breeding. Or at least that she listened to her mother. The only other garment to be found anywhere in the vicinity was a filmy pink something or other. Could have been a skirt or a pair of wings for all I could tell. She had both shoes on, but no stockings or socks. Her hair was clean, but slightly disarranged. Come to think of it, that might have been by design--best not mention that.

Closer examination showed no bruises or abrasions, no sign of blunt-force trauma or strangulation. I was able to pick her up and check her out completely--she was only about four feet tall and weighed just a few pounds--and put her back in the exact same position in which I had found her. (I know I shouldn't have done that, but I just had to see if I could.)

The only indication that she had been mistreated was the lack of warm clothing to ward off the chill night air. But who can tell what goes on behind closed doors? Perhaps there was an argument, and some kid decided to throw her out the window as the family car backed out of its space. Or maybe she jumped, thinking she could make it to the store and find something warm in the toy department.

Of course there's the always the chance that this was all just a tragic accident--that she was on the edge of the seat when the car door was opened, and fell to the ground without anyone noticing...I left her where she lay, hoping that was the case, and that the family would return to the scene in an effort to silence what surely would have been their child's deafening wails.

When I returned this morning, she had vanished.

Case closed. Sort of.

Inside My MRI

Okay, this looks like more like an optical illusion than what I saw from inside my MRI yesterday, so...well, just use your imagination, okay?

I wasn't dreading it, but I didn't expect to actually enjoy it. Of course I wasn't crazy about the two IV's I had to get stuck with first, and I got a little nervous when they told me about the drug that could make my heart race and cause shortness of breath--you know--like a workout with no work. And dye? Surely that couldn't be good. But it was a package deal. I didn't get to pick and choose.

I did, however, get to choose what music I wanted to hear during the procedure. I picked "classical."

I knew what the tube would look like, and that some people panicked when they were inside, but I wasn't anticipating any trouble with that. As soon as I saw the clean white sheets and stacked pillows, I knew I was going to be okay. Oh, yeah. One arranged under my knees, just so. One bunched up a little more under my neck...Yes, very nice. You mean all I have to do is lie perfectly still, with my arms by my sides and listen to beautiful music piped in through these fine headphones? Can do!

I had to take a few practice breaths, then try holding my breath on command, just to see if I could. No problem. Just as I was beginning to wish the whole thing could last longer than an hour, the cameras started whirring. Yes, they whirred. And sounded like air raid sirens. So much for falling asleep. I just let my mind wander.

I looked down at my feet, and the door and window that I could see beyond them. I bet I can draw the view from in here! I told myself. Then I started thinking that even with those noisy cameras, there were worse places I could choose to be. But why would I? Then, suddenly...

Missy! I felt my sister, Melissa, all around me. I sensed her voice inside of me--her calm, beautiful voice--saying "Don't worry, Silly. It's going to be all right." Even though she was my baby sister, she often told me that, and I always believed her. I felt tears coming, but they were happy tears because she was there. I stopped myself, though, because I didn't want to start coughing and blow the test. I knew she was proud of me for doing that. She never was one for crying.

The MRI ended and my day continued with tests and tests and more tests. And at the end of the day, the news I got was less than what I had hoped for. But I'm going to try to remember what Missy said. Because whatever happens, whatever is coming, it's going to be all right. It always is. Thanks, Missy. I love knowing you're still there.

Thanksgiving 2016--A Photo Blog

The house was clean enough. The extra leaf was in the table, and the olives and pickles and nuts were on the counter for snacking. We were ready.

We didn't fix a turkey this year. That, along with all the usual fixings--plus deviled eggs--was provided by Awesome Greg's Awesome Sister Dawn and her Equally Awesome Son Brad. They top my list of "Thankfuls" this year. In the spirit of the season, however, I did pull out this pillow that I made from a child's place mat years ago...

...and this paper bag gobbler made by Jordyn when she was in Kindergarten.

Meagan brought a photo-worthy platter of roasted vegetables, and the much-loved green bean casserole.

When we couldn't eat any more, the table was cleared (Thank you, Awesome Greg!) and the games came out.

Taylor and Jordyn--showed up for dessert. We had two pies, but Taylor brought her homemade cupcakes just in case.

More games and hilarity--i.e., Taylor playing Googly Eyes...

...and Greg acting out "putting out a fire"

and "skydiving"

during a rousing game of Heads Up.

There was face time with Daddy, who was in Tennessee this year, until someone's phone suddenly died. Sorry, Jason.

Oh, and just so you'll believe me when I tell you that I was there, too, I took a picture of myself...

It's been a day for Thanksgiving, and I am thankful indeed. I hope you all made some memories that will keep you smiling until next year, too.

Duke Day

Today was Duke Day--the day My Awesome Husband Greg and I spent at Duke Medical Center so I could have my pulmonary function tested, and some other fun stuff.

We checked in at 7:30 for an 8:30 cardiac MRI. Quite a procedure, especially the getting-ready part. How fortunate that we hadn't needed all the time we'd allowed for potential pre-holiday traffic tie-ups.

From things I'd heard, I was apprehensive about the MRI, but it turned out to be quite enjoyable. And I now know for certain that I am not claustrophobic. I was a little concerned when I heard the part about holding my breath, imagining those obnoxious pulmonary tests where they make you exhale until you have no air, and then yell "Hold your breath!" But instead, I was instructed by a soft voice in my ears, accompanied by classical music, to inhale, exhale and then stop breathing--but only for a few manageable seconds. The obnoxious kind would come later, but this was a fine way to a begin a long day of being stuck and prodded.

Then there was blood work, a chest x-ray and the dreaded breathing tests. The finale was a consultation with Dr. Ali from the Transplant Team, where I received the day's results.

I really don't know the best way to tell you this, so I put it on a shirt...

At first glance, the MRI showed my heart function is normal. The chest x-ray indicated no new scar tissue. As the good doctor pointed out, there is so much scar tissue in both lungs, there simply isn't room for any more, so I no longer have to worry about that. My lung function is still holding at 39 percent. That's also good news. But here's the glitch: My oxygen saturation has dropped a little. Dr. Ali seems to feel like it's time to discuss actually putting me on the transplant list. Not that anything is likely to change within the next few months, but we should start thinking about. I guess he means in some new way, since I've been thinking about it for quite a while now.

I'm not panicking. I to back to see the Pulmonary Team in January. Meanwhile, I feel good, can do almost everything I want, and get out of doing a lot of stuff I don't.

And tomorrow is Thanksgiving! I wish you all a full and joyous Holiday with your families and loved ones! I love you all!

Praying the Blues

Lord, I'm feeling kind of blue...

A couple of days ago, I got annoyed after reading like the tenth complaint on a friend's timeline about how us whiny liberals need to suck it up and move on. (You know, Lord, how I hate self-righteousness, being as how I'm rarely right myself.) Well, in trying to be clever--you know how I do--I posted a status about how I wasn't unfriending people because their words offended me, or because I thought they didn't have a right to say them. Rather, I was unfriending them because they were pissing me off.

On the heels of that, I unfriended the guy. Although I've long admired him for his wit and intelligence, his arrogance was now all I could see.

Feeling powerful, a few minutes later, when I saw yet another post criticizing Obama, another one got the axe. I was rollin', Lord!

Later still, in response to a video I had posted, a friend described liberals as "snarky, self-absorbed, dishonest, hypocritical and utterly intolerant." Pissed me off. Fired him, too.

But here's the thing, Lord...

Fueled by the few "likes" I'd received for posting "Buh-bye" after the guy's hate-filled post, I realized that, since I'd unfriended him, he wouldn't be able to see my clever farewell. Now, you know what a dick I can be, Lord...I switched my privacy settings on that post to "public." Sure enough, he saw it. First he said he was crushed. Then we got to arguing. He tried to say his comments hadn't been personal, but who did he think was reading them? Well, anyway, we argued back and forth a bit. He self-righteously pointed out that I was being immature and that he wasn't.

Now, as you know, I didn't sleep well last night. Shall we say the Holy Spirit convicted me? Wasn't I being just as self-righteous as the people I'd been striking from my friends list? I know I have the right to choose my friends, but was my changing the privacy setting on that one post maybe just a little mean and petty? (Remember how I tried to rationalize it by saying, But I want it "public" so more people can see the video? I knew you wouldn't buy that, Lord.)

Suddenly I remembered why we'd become friends in the first place. I woke up this morning thinking I might have to write him a note asking his forgiveness.

Then I logged on and saw another snarky attack he'd made on someone else I like. Our unfriendship shall stand.

Guess I'm still a work in progress, Lord. But damn, I really don't feel very good about this. Just sayin'.

Amen.

Scattered Blessings

This Thanksgiving, my blessings will be scattered. Meagan will be here, but Charlie and Joe will be in Nebraska with Joe's parents. Dominic and Gigi are going to Charleston to celebrate with Gigi's parents. Although it has occasionally happened that one or two of my siblings could be here for the holiday, not this year. But we will have Greg's sister, Dawn and her son, Brad for which I am truly thankful. The final headcount is not yet in; there may be two or three more. Plenty of blessings to count--including the ones who are now missing and deeply missed--when we gather 'round the table. We'll just have to reach a little farther to count them.

I long for those Michigan Thanksgivings when we were young and the kids were babies--or still just little stars twinkling in our futures. Thanksgiving Day was hectic and exciting then. Sure, there were preparations--I remember one time having to shovel snow from the driveway before we could leave--but most of the work fell on our moms. They were the professionals.

Our day would be split into two parts, the first part usually going to my family. All of us would descend on Mom and Dad simultaneously. We were a big bunch, but there was always enough food for us to begin eating the moment we arrived, continuing to pick at the turkey and pies even while the dishes were being washed. There were barns and cats and ponds and ducks and hills and dirt roads--endless outdoor options for the guys who weren't interested in football. My sisters and I would gather in the kitchen, talking and eating and drinking and--I hope--helping Mom. We laughed a lot. Life was still ahead of us, and it all looked good. We felt like it would always be that way.

As the sun was moving toward its evening setting, we would usually be the first to leave. Next stop: Greg's mom's for more turkey and pie. And conversation and laughter. And love. Plenty of love in both places. You could feel it and see it and hear it making its presence known above all the noise and busyness of the day. You could even smell it--it smelled like turkey.

There will be love at our gathering this year, too. And delicious food and conversation and laughter. There will be wine and football and games around the table after dinner. It's supposed to be 70 degrees here, so no snow will be shoveled. But a Frisbee or Nerf toy may be tossed. Our guest list will most likely include Banjo and George, who will come with Meagan. They're rowdy and messy (like all boys), but they love our yard, so they will be welcome.

At then end of the day, I will be exhausted from counting all my blessings. But I will be happy. I love Thanksgiving, once it finally arrives.

Willy Nilly

On this day last year, 20 days into my (non)commitment to a month of daily blogging, I had nothing to say, so I wrote a "random thoughts" post. Doing it again makes it a tradition, right? (Also, nothing says "I meant to do that" like doing it again, as I always like to say.)

I read instruction manuals, but I never send in warranty cards.

I'm drawn to self-help books, but before I can finish one, I become overwhelmed at the amount of work to be done and put it back on the shelf.

If you want to be "unique," to stand out in the crowd, that's fine. But then you don't get to complain about being misunderstood.

I've always believed that I can do whatever I want. I've just always been lazy.

If you discriminate against one group of people, but not another, I suppose you should be applauded for being discriminating in your discrimination.

I stop and ask directions. Again and again. Until, finally, I write it down.

My extreme dislike of cleaning up has probably kept me from taking part in activities that I might otherwise find enjoyable. Like painting and cooking.

I enjoy watching TV almost as much as I do reading books, but I don't like to admit that.

If you find yourself wondering, Is she trying to be funny? the answer is probably Yes.

I love to draw, so I do. I have been underwhelmed by the praise I've received.

In my mind, I am a great dancer, but only a mediocre singer.

I am inexplicably proud of the fact that I've now posted 25 consecutive blogs, if you count the last five I posted in October. But you probably shouldn't, because the one on the 30th was actually a "guest blog," written by my friend, Sue. Still, 21 in a row!

As I also like to always say, "Tomorrow we get to start all over again!"

Mission Improbable

Good morning, Kate. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to get your house clean and ready for company on Thursday, which as you know, is Thanksgiving Day.

What?! That's impossible, and you know it! I've been threatening to get this house clean for ten years now, and it hasn't happened yet. What makes you think I can get that mission accomplished in five days?!

Look, I didn't come here to argue with you. I'm simply offering you a challenge--accept it or not.

Now you look! I never accept anything without arguing. You must have a reason for coming to me today with this preposterous offer. Convince me.

Convince you? Okay. How's this...You have five days before the official beginning of the Holiday Season. Believe it or not, some people are using today to haul out the Christmas decorations. I'm not asking you to do that. I'm just suggesting that you might want pull up those bootstraps, get out of your chair and wave a dust rag around for a bit. Thanksgiving is happening, and there's nothing you can do about it. But if you choose not to accept my mission, you will have people coming into your house, bringing food and fun and feelings of good will toward wine one another. Do you want them to have to wipe cobwebs off the stove before they can heat up their offerings? To watch them pry dishes from the guck inside your refrigerator to make room for their veggie trays and dessert toppings? And although they'll probably be too polite to say anything, you'll know why they're sneezing and coughing--no one's lungs are equipped to deal with that much dust in one day...How am I doing?

Okay. I'm trying to keep an open mind. Would this mission include cleaning the bathrooms?

I never said you couldn't delegate. Isn't that why you have an Awesome Husband Greg?

Hmmm. Can we say that I accept your mission with conditions--reluctantly? Like I'll try to get some stuff done if Awesome Greg is watching me. And I get to drink enough wine to make me forget how far behind I'm falling on my Netflix shows. How about if I just do the dusting and light moving--like CD's and books and stuff--and Awesome can do anything that involves using soap and water and heavy equipment--like vacuum cleaners?

You mean like Mission Possible, But Not Very Probable?

Yeah, like that.

Okay. I guess I can work with that. But remember...As always, should you or any member of your force be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This tape will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Kate.

Meager

I am the worst. And the worst part of being the worst--the part that makes it the worst--is that I'm afraid that an ugly precedent has now been set...

It came close to happening a few years ago when, instead of getting a full-sized Christmas tree and carting boxes and bins of ornaments down from the attic, we bought a small Norfolk Island Pine, hung a few simple ornaments on its branches and set it in front of a window.

"It's Christmas!" I declared.

"That's bullshit!" answered my kids.

And now, Halloween.

I have two boxes of Halloween decorations--gourds carved like jack-o'-lanterns with little lights inside, witches, candles, a glittery tree adorned with tiny pumpkins--even a Dracula windsock to hang outside. But this year I did not decorate. I brought the boxes downstairs and set them beside the coffee table two weeks before Halloween. Every night for a week, I promised that tomorrow was the day I was going to decorate. Eventually, I stopped promising. The day before Halloween I bought a string of orange lights from the "junk" bin at Target and hung them on a small Christmas tree that hadn't made it back up to the attic last year. I pulled out a few pumpkins--the ones without faces, so they could transition into Thanksgiving decorations--and arranged them on the mantle.

No one said a thing. I don't think they even noticed. But I did. The day after Halloween, I pulled out my twisted paper pilgrim and placed her beside my pumpkins.

"It's Autumn!" I said to myself.

"Big deal!" I answered.

I felt sad. I remember when things were different. A lot more stuff used to get decorated around here!

Oh, well. Christmas is coming. Maybe I can make up for it then!

From Mourning to Morning

In darkness, I went to my bed.
"We'll know by morning," I said.
Sleep came slowly.

In shadows, I slid to the floor.
Softly, I opened the door.
Surely she'd won...

Groggily, I turned on TV.
"Trump Wins." The words bludgeoned me.
We had it wrong!

In mourning for what we had lost,
I glumly considered the cost.
What had we done?

And then...

With the morning, came a faint light,
Even though I still felt the night.
There must be hope.

A phrase started then in my head.
We're stronger together it said.
Words she gave us!

And here's the part that doesn't rhyme...

I tried to convince myself that this would somehow be all right. In the past, I've been an advocate of If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it. It usually works. But not this time. What we can't change are the all of the ugly, venomous words that have spewed out of our president elect's mouth. The hatred in his soul has entered my soul, making my stomach roil and my head hurt. Could I possibly change the way I thought--felt--about those words?

The answer is No!

I honestly tried. I told myself he deserved a chance, a new start. Maybe he could change...

His prospective cabinet choices indicate that he will not change.

He will be our next president, barring the miracle I'm still praying for. We will owe him our support, I suppose. When we can give it. However, we can never support policies that discriminate against any members of our society. Too many have fought and died to make this country great. We have a debt to them, and to those who are now frightened--rightfully--of his bullying tactics. We must stand with and protect our nation and its people--all of its people--in any ways that we can.

We can move on, but we cannot "get over it." We don't want to!

Today's Birthday

From the News & Record, November 16, 2016...

Your life will be impacted by another, to the extent that you're different for knowing this person. You'll find yourself doing things with her (for her?) like donning a nun's habit and raising a glass just because you're both wearing Converse sneakers.

December and February are your best times to invest. Note--that didn't say anything about money. Investing time and love--in your friends and your family--is something that comes as naturally to you as breathing. You do it every day, not just during the months of brotherly love. And while it may not pay dividends that you can take to the bank, you will be rich in our undying love and gratitude.

January is a chance to even an old score. I don't think you have a vindictive bone in your body, but I'll hold your beer if I need to.

The dividends will be exciting in March. Sounds like someone's going to be getting a shipment of wine!

The wedding will be in May. The wedding of Alcohol and Carousel Rides? Fast Food and Fast Friends? Cheese and Crackers? If I don't get invited, I'm crashing!

Those born under Sagittarius adore you. Hell, everyone adores you--especially this Libran!

And in conclusion, I share this photo stolen from one of your friends who posted it last year on your birthday...

Her caption said that you own whatever room you're in. To me it epitomizes you. I love you, Sue! Let's just celebrate every day!

Happy birthday, my beautiful, amazing friend!

Why I Drink

1. Because I'm listing toward a funk.

1. Because there's just too much teenaged angst in the world today.

1. Because there's just too much angst caused by teenagers in the world today.

1. Because everyone is pissed off.

1. Because technology befuddles me.

1. Because it feels like the people who are in charge do not have our best interests at heart.

1. Because it feels like the people in charge might not have hearts.

1. Because I really wanted to not put any more negative energy out into the universe, and now I feel like a failure.

1. Because red wine is beautiful and it tastes good. I also like the way it softens the edges.(White wine and pink wine are beautiful, too.)

2. Because beer comes in so many flavors. I'd like to sample them all.

3. Because although liquor is expensive, it's still cheaper than therapy--and works faster.

Ommmmmm?

Maybe I need a mantra. The concept of meditating appeals to me, but I've never been able to achieve that cross-legged position where you place your feet on your inner thighs and keep your back straight at the same time. Don't you need to be able to do that to open up your chakras or something? I can get my legs crossed with my feet under my calves, but then they fall asleep and I have to stretch them out.

Still, I might like a mantra...

Focus...No, that seems too obvious. Besides, if you say it softly a bunch of times in a row, it sounds like you're saying something else.

One thing...Maybe. But again, it's the multiple repetitions that trip me up. Try it. It kind of makes your lips stumble. Besides, it makes you look like a fish.

I discarded Concentrate right out of the gate because it has too many syllables. And it's sibilant. That makes is distracting for people like me, who lapthe into lithping occasionally. (See what I mean?)

Words like Pickle and Flicker are fun to say. I'll keep those on the list, but I feel like I need something with more depth. What is the purpose of meditating, after all, if it's not about getting deep?

So while I may not be able to assume the position, I have decided that I definitely need a mantra. One that I can say as I move from task to task--something to help me stay "on task." You know, where you finish one thing before you start another. I've heard that there are people who do that. I feel like they must know some secret tactic that I'm not privy to. Perhaps it's the mantra.

Half-hour. Half-hour. Half-hour.

That's it! Two easy, soft-sounding syllables. Half-hour. Do it with me--it's almost like breathing! And a half-hour is the amount of time it took me to write this. I think I'm on to something. I'll let you know how it works.

Limerick This, Haiku That

This post is a collaborative effort. The photos were taken by Jordyn Paige Gottlieb, poetry by Yours Truly...

'Twas obvious the path was less taken;
In fact, it looked downright forsaken.
I was afraid to begin...
Did I dare just step in?
A mistake I feared I was makin'.

I made it in time to the station,
Where the train was patiently waitin'.
But my enormous relief
Turned to stark disbelief...
I had booked the express line to Satan!

Blue plastic cartons
Spilled from the open trailer.
It hardly made sense.

A man by himself in tall weeds
My intense curiosity feeds.
Though I know him quite well,
I really can't tell
The thinking that led to his deeds.

Dry leaves in water
Do not become moisturized.
Skin is like that, too.

The sight resisted describing,
Though she had spent the last hour imbibing.
Still words escaped her,
Eschewing the paper
On which she was furiously scribing.

Orange Cat/Gray Cat

The Big Orange cat is fluffy and voluptuous. She loves to give pleasure as much as she enjoys receiving it. When she walks into a room and singles you out as the recipient of the luxurious gifts she comes bearing, consider yourself blessed. As you bury your hands in her flame-colored fur, she will purr like a well cared for engine, letting you know she is pleased. In most cases, you will have had your fill before she has tired of giving. If she's on your lap, your legs will go to sleep. You'll get hungry or antsy. You'll need to move. She may let you know with a sharp meow that she's not ready for your session to end, but she will forgive you. She'll return another time.

The Little Gray kitty, while as visually appealing as the Big Orange, is an entirely different species. Little Grays are aloof, and not at all interested in being friends with Humans. They seem to realize that Humans are necessary, and so will allow them to open doors and fill their bowls, but they have no desire to be petted and cuddled. How fortunate the Little Gray who finds herself in a home where there at least one Human who is irrationally and unconditionally devoted to cats--Big Oranges, Little Grays, Purple Stripes...it doesn't matter. There are Humans who will place the needs of any species of cat above their own and those of the people he lives with. Lucky indeed is the cavalier Little Gray if her owner is one of these. She may even occasionally allow this devoted Human to pick her up and nuzzle her neck, but never for more than 30 seconds.

Both species are a feast for the eyes and the sense of touch. Both are demanding, but one will amply reward you for your trouble, and one will make you beg by playing hard to get. Both satisfy a need to be needed, and to be entertained.

I base this assessment solely on personal experience. I have conducted no formal studies of the personality traits of cats. Our home is now missing its Big Orange Cinder, who lived here for 18 years. We are still being "blessed" by Little Gray Ella. My Awesome Husband Greg is the World's Most Devoted Cat Lover, and she is one Little Gray who will never want for anything.

Light

Not always, but today there was a procession of thoughts that came before my writing...

On waking, I started to think about how I wanted this day to be. I decided that it was time to let go of the anger I've been feeling about our President Elect. I can be still be sad. The sadness comes in manageable waves, and likely will for a while. But the anger is self-destructive. I want it gone.

I wondered if I was ready to write an honest post about where I hope to go from here. I don't want anything I say to be construed as acceptance of things that Mr. Trump has proudly proclaimed he stands for. He has used his words to viciously attack and strike fear into the hearts of half of the people in this country--people he claims he wants to represent. That is not okay. But can we give him a place to stand so he can start anew? I decided I want to try.

At that point, I logged onto facebook and saw that a friend had forwarded me a picture of hands holding light. She said it was the light of peace, and it was to be shared. I told her I was going to try to use it in my blog today. Alas, my limited grasp of technology will not allow me to post an HTML file here. I did, however find a photo in my archives that I am now calling "The Light of Peace."

So here I am. I am ready to open my heart to light and peace. I want to stop following--and sharing--posts that dwell on the ugliness of this election. While I never supported Donald Trump during his campaign, I am going to support him as President of the United States. I feel like we all need to do that in order to keep America great.

A lot of damage has been done. I am going to keep hope in my heart that if we all work together, some of it can be fixed. We can heal. While we must loudly voice our opposition if he resorts to bullying, we need to support our new President in the good that he will surely do. I am ready to give him a chance.

This Old House

1315 Bowers Road, photographed during our Michigan trip two summers ago. The red brick is still the same, but when we lived there in the '50s, the steps were big blocks of stone. Wide steps with sharp edges, difficult for short legs to maneuver. There was always the threat that one of us would fall and crack our head open. But we spent hours on that porch, embellishing the rough steps with our crayon drawings and playing games that involved skipping up and down them one or two at a time. I recall scraped knees, but no skull fractures.

I was four when we moved into that house. Most of my earliest memories of family live there. However, I do have a few that precede those years...

We had just moved into a house on Pine Street. I see Bev and me eating breakfast in our pajamas, using a large cardboard box as a table. Also on Pine Street, the day Dad brought Mom and baby Karen home from the hospital. Aunt Fran had been staying with Bev and me. This one plays out in black and white for some reason.

We also lived on Meyers Road in a two-storied house for a while. We had the "downstairs," and a couple with no kids lived upstairs. One day Bev, who was young enough to be in diapers, escaped mid-change and wandered upstairs to visit Fred and Barbara. Fred returned her to my mom with his autograph on her butt. (That's not as weird as it sounds. What's weird is that I remember it.) I also vividly remember my mom telling us about a dream she had in that house. The house was on fire. She managed to get us three girls out of the window, and told us to run across the road and tell Mrs. Smith to call the fire department. Then she watched us run out in front of a truck...well, I don't even want to tell you how it ends. But I remember.

And if Mom were still here, she'd argue that this one is not a real memory, but that it's etched in my mind because I liked hearing the story: I was almost a year old when my dad saw me for the first time when he returned from Korea. I see me waking up in my crib to find him standing over me, smiling. Sometimes I remember him in his Army uniform, and other times he's wearing a gray Banlon shirt. Hmmm, maybe Mom was right. (It's okay if you tell her that now.)

I will go to my death defending my memories, but since I want to be honest in this blog, I will admit that many of them are probably kept alive by photographs, rather than amazing feats performed by my steel trap of a mind. My family has always had an affinity for cameras and a propensity toward photo-journalism. So many photographs, so many memories...

This one of baby Missy on the porch pointing at something in (or on) the window is one of my favorites.

Life was simpler then. At least that's the way I remember it.

But Not Today

Maybe tomorrow I'll be ready to jump on the "Okay-it's-over-so-now-let's-just-all-unite-and-support-this-great-country-of-ours" bandwagon. But not today.

Today I'm all like Nope! Not my president! He will never be the boss of me!

Maybe tomorrow I'll be ready to acknowledge that God is in this somewhere, and that maybe, for reasons we can't begin to fathom, we needed this. But not today.

Today I'm all like This system is rigged! I demand a recount!

Maybe tomorrow I'll believe that he was being sincere when he said "I want to be president for all of you...To those of you who were against me--and there are some--I reach out and ask you to tell me what I can do for you." But not today.

Today I'm all like Jackass, please! Spare us any more of your frickin' lies!

Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to put aside my panic and hysteria, and remind myself that there are checks and balances in place--that not even his followers will be as surprised as he is when he realizes that he alone can't fix anything. But not today.

Today I'm all like Just wait until you deplorable idiots realize that you've bought yourselves a passel of empty words and promises, and that your savior is made out of cheddar cheese!

Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to calmly ask "Will you please at least keep the part of Obamacare where insurance companies can't refuse to cover you because of a pre-existing condition?" But not today.

Today I'm all like If you repeal Obamacare, you will have essentially screwed me, so you might as well go ahead and touch me inappropriately! What's that? I'm not your type? Well then call me Lucky!

Maybe tomorrow I will be mature and keep my childish remarks to myself. I know that what this world needs is not more ugliness and insults. Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to "go high." But not today.

Today I'm all like Hey, this is my pity party, and I'm allowed to say whatever the hell I want!

Today. But not tomorrow.

Tomorrow is another day.

All My Brothers, Sisters and Me!

From left to right: Kate, Bev, Karen, Mark, Jason and Melissa at one year. (Mom, aren't you glad we weren't sextuplets?!)

Fact-checking isn't usually a concern for me, because I don't deal in facts. I like to stick with feelings. But this time I'm glad I checked...

I had it in my mind that today would be a good day to write about my "Happy Place." Naturally, my first thought was of my family. Whatever I don't have, I have a family, and the people in it are my favorite things in the the whole world. Even when they are worrying or frustrating or exasperating me, I am happy to have them. I realize how blessed I am.

As I was thinking along those lines, that song by Sister Sledge--We Are Family--popped into my head and wouldn't leave. The words, "all my brothers, sisters and me" kept playing in an endless loop. Eventually, I thought of something else--that even if you used an apostrophe, i.e., "all my brothers' sisters and me," it would still be correct. My brothers' sisters are my sisters! (Of course, if you said "all my brother's sisters and me," then in my case, I would have to add "and my other brother" to make it fit.)

Anyway, by now you're probably thinking, Wait, Kate--those aren't even the words!

I know, I know--I checked. It's actually "I got all my sisters with me!" Don't judge me--it's the exact same number of syllables. My way fit perfectly. My title stays.

The picture is one of my sister Karen's (third from the left) early Photo Shop masterpieces. We didn't have a lot of money for extras, but Mom managed to have professional portraits made of each of us when we were a year old. Karen put them all into one portrait, taking license to switch the birth order just a bit. The last two on the right--Jason and Missy--were switched so Jason wouldn't be left out there at the end, facing in the wrong direction, laughing at something that no one else could see.

In some ways we are alike, and in some ways we are different. I guess that's the way it is in all families. The differences sometimes cause arguments. But the shared history (even though our memories may not be the same), the knowledge that we belong to each other--that we will be there for each other, no matter what...Those are the things that make being nestled among these guys--all my brothers, sisters and me--a very happy place. I am thankful.

Little Girl

Little Girl, in a few days, you will be 14.
You're a teenager now,
But the title is still new to you.
You're practicing.

I see you experimenting, trying things on...
The way you sometimes answer in monosyllables,
Wearing your aloofness like it's SMOD (Standard Mode of Dress).
It is, I suppose, for you and your friends.

You are as self-assured and confident as you have always been.
I hope that will stay with you,
And that you'll keep your eagerness to try new things;
That you'll always have some outlet for your abundant creativity.

As I look at you now and see a beautiful young woman,
I am excited to witness the transformation that I know is underway.
But I also see the little girl who lives forever in my heart.
I hope that she will stay here, too.

Our Father...

Our father,

Hi, God.

Who art in Heaven.

Although we can't see you, we know you're there.

Hallowed be thy name.

We know who you are, and that your name means something--it's holy!

Thy kingdom come,

We want to live in your kingdom

Thy will be done

and do all the stuff you want us to do

On earth as it is in Heaven.

so this place can be the way you wanted it to be.

Give us this day

Today we're asking for something--

Our daily bread,

The food we need, but not just food. We need generous hearts, kind words and good thoughts, too.

And forgive us our trespasses

Please forget about all the stupid stuff we've done, like not paying attention to you except for when we're feeling really down and out and don't know where else to turn--like now,

As we forgive those who trespass against us.

And we'll forget about all the stupid stuff other people have done to us. Bygones.

And lead us not into temptation,

And please help us not to do even more stupid stuff, like saying nasty things to people who disagree with us, politically and otherwise.

But deliver us from evil.

And please just keep Donald Trump the hell away from the White House!

Amen.

Amen.