An Easter Memory

Easter 2000. Oscar was in the first stages of his fight against the cancer that would take his life 10 months later at the age of 24. Patricia and her two sons were visiting, Daniel was 10 and Michael was almost 8. Dianna was at home still, 20 years old.

Friends invited the family to go to Easter services at a large Baptist church in Bristol and all of them but Ann went. They rode in the Villager van, and the six of them really enjoyed the service. Oscar had some discomfort, his leg was bothering him. The cancer was causing extreme pain and he limped noticeably. There was a soft tissue tumor in his left hip about the size of a softball.

Roger is a very consistent person, one of regular habit. He always assures he has the vehicle keys before locking the doors. Except for this day.

When church services were over they mingled with fellow worshipers for a while then headed to the van. That was when they realized the keys were in the van, and the spare set was in Abingdon. The family friend went to retrieve the keys from Ann in Abingdon.

The weather was beautiful. A picture perfect Spring Sunday. Warm, sunny, blue skies, trees leafing out and flowers in bloom. There was a play area adjacent to the parking lot with playground equipment, swings, seesaws, a merry-go-round. The two children of the friends, Michael, Daniel, Dianna and Oscar made their way over to play on this beautiful Spring afternoon. Oscar was limping, obviously in pain, but for those moments he was fully engaged in the joy and laughter of childhood once more. Playing on the merry-go-round, pushing the younger ones on the swings. Playing, laughing, the joyful happy soul he had always been fully present in the moment.

Patricia was always prepared as most mothers are and had water and snacks with her. They had an impromptu picnic in the park, and it was a day for precious memories to be stored. It ended up being over an hour before they were able to get into the van and head home for the Easter feast awaiting them.

What some may have seen as a coincidence, an irritation, an inconvenience Roger sees as divine intervention. Because of the one time in his memory that he locked the keys in his vehicle and did not have a spare in his wallet, he has in his memory this incredible time Oscar, the nephew he helped raise, being able to really laugh and play one last time. 

In Need

One never knows the twists and turns life journey will take, one never knows which decision, which choice will be the right one, which will be the wrong one.

I am not sure what people see when they look at me, at my life. I try to be a kind, compassionate, caring person. I know I can be harsh, impatient, callous. Human nature is comprised of a conglomeration of traits - virtues, flaws, defects, an idiosyncratic.mixture that is constantly re-configuring itself.

I know I am stubborn, and proud. I know I like to laugh, and  tend towards obsessively over think situations. I am insecure in a lot of ways, and am prone to rash decisions. If people were separated into 2 groups, one being those who burn the bridges as they cross the rivers from one phase of life to the next and the other being those who maintain a smooth continuity of connections and relationships I would fall into the burner category more often than not.

I have learned these things about myself. I do the best I can, and I suppose in the end that is all any of us can do.

We as a culture judge. We look at others lives and make assumptions and judgments based on what we see. None of us know what circumstances, experiences, influences have brought a person to the particular point in the life we are privy to.

I have been out of work since October of 2010. I have a husband who is on Social Security disability. We have a house payment and monthly expenses that have not been treated kindly by the current economy. I have applied for so many jobs I have lost count.

We have had kindnesses extended, gifts from friends and relatives that have been there to provide when I could not see how provision would come. They know who they are, and they know the depth of my gratitude for their generosity.

I cannot ask for a personal loan from anyone because I do not know if or when I would be able to repay a loan. I list and list and list handmade items for sale on eBay and nothing sells. Our savings are gone. I fear our electricity may be disconnected soon.

I am in need, and I am making an open plea for charity.

This is so embarrassing for me to write. I just do not know what else to do. Any suggestions?

Decisions Cannot Be Undecided

Yes, I know - we all know this.

But there are times, at least for me, when I forget, have forgotten, this truth - time may move slowly, or at the speed of months in a day, but it always moves forward.

Words cannot be unspoken, decisions cannot be undecided. Burnt bridges leave a gulf that cannot be breached.

I cannot live in the past, I know this. I cannot rewind and get a do-over. Hell, if I am honest I would probably make all the same decisions again, Because a rewind would more than likely erase the knowledge gained from the pain and regret, so all of the same impulses and rashness of moment would still be in place.

I have been in rough spots before, but right now I really am in the roughest yet. Materially, financially. Hard lessons learned.

It almost seems as if the more successful I am at being real with who I am at core, the more I strive to be kind and sincere, the more difficult things are. 

Years ago, 20 years or more, I had a situation arise where I chose to be true to my beliefs and standards and ended up being income free. I opted not to compromise my principles and had a rough couple of years as a result. 

It seems as though this is a continuation of that time. 20 years has put a lot of mileage on me. Not sure how this one is going to pan out.

I am hoping for a miracle.

On Being Half of a Person

To come from a different perspective: I was a step-mother and then a step-grandmother. I divorced my husband because - well, lots of reasons. I lost two little girls with the divorce who had always known me as the "cool" grandmother that was until that point the only stability they knew - because my stepson and their mother divorced then she dropped them off at his house one weekend and never came back. A mother and not a mother, a grandmother and not a grandmother. a hard thing for a heart to bear.

The above is a comment I made regarding a blog post I read about how difficult it is to be a stepmother when the children live on an opposite coast and the mother is not cooperative in accepting the remarriage of her former husband.

It made me think, and not a few old feelings came back I had thought were done and over. 

I loved those little girls, who are little no longer. One was born in 1984, the other in 1989. So they are 29 and 24 now. Grown women. I have no idea where they live, what they grew up to be. I do not know if their father's second marriage survived or how they processed and reconciled the loss of their grandfather. 

I tried as hard as I knew how when I was a part of their lives to be a stable influence, and offer a safe haven to process the confusion and rejection they felt when their parents divorced. I talked about the good things I knew about their mother with them because they would hear so much bad from others. 

We made pancakes and cookies together and I was with them when they experienced the miracle of watching a goat give birth. I laughed hysterically when the younger one wanted to put the afterbirth in a paper bag and take it to kindergarten for show and tell. I laughed even harder when her father and grandfather lost their breakfasts when she tried to pick the afterbirth up with a stick. 

But in the end I was only half of a person in their lives.

I hope it was a good half.

Happy Birthday to my daughter

I love you.

When I realized I was pregnant, I felt a weight of immense responsibility.

I was not nearly as mature as prepared for motherhood as I should have been.

I was wise enough to know I could not give you the life you deserved, so I made the decision to entrust you to a loving, caring family.

They did not disappoint.

I never, ever stopped thinking about you. The day my telephone rang and I heard your adult voice the first time was a day I rank second only to the day I met you in person. All else fades to insignificance.

I gave birth to you but you have given me so much more these past years.

My darkest days have a hope now, because I know you are there. Thank you.

Life With The Air Leaking Out

This is my second attempt to write this post on my blog. Blogger, the platform I use, totally crapped out on me earlier. At the moment I am extremely frustrated, because all of the words are gone, out in the ether somewhere. Perhaps the gods will take pity and let someone else grasp them in the ethereal mists of the universe and make of them more truth, more beauty than I could imbue. In the meantime, the cats have awakened and Roger is back in from his outdoor labors and my moment of reflection and solitude has been ripped away like a partially formed scab that got caught on the adhesive of a bandage.

I shall attempt to recreate, if not the words the emotion of what I was trying to share earlier.

February has always been a difficult month for me, for as long as I can remember. I know there are good things about February this also ran of days on the Julian calendar. There are holidays, commemorations, celebrations, birthdays (I love you Johnna!), and anniversaries (how many years now, Steve and Kathy?)

The big final push into a new year is over, we have once again survived the darkest of days and daylight hours are now reaching to six in the evening and beyond. Life seems to be expelling a long drawn out breath, and February is the final wisps of air escaping. At the same time, nature is gathering her forces and preparing a new explosion of life.

Perhaps I suffer from SAD. Perhaps I have cabin fever. Perhaps the healing of my spirit and soul that has been such a long process over the past years has reached a point that requires a more real interaction with life. I find myself wanting to be out in life, not watching it through my window on the world. I yearn for warm breezes, dirt from planting herbs, flowers and vegetables on my hands, the smell of rich loamy soil, and the sheen of sweat on my face.

The inside cats are spending more time at the living room window these days, keeping their vigil as the birds are more frequently visiting the grape arbor and the porch eaves. Every once in a while I hear a “meep” and a paw swipes in a high pitched squeak at the window pane.

We had rain, lots of rain, and wind over the past days and Roger has been outside surveying damage and picking up twigs and branches.  He saw a salamander down by the creek and has already been seeing mosquitoes.

So much about life seems to be uncertain in 2013. Socially, ecologically, politically, financially. I know each era feels these pangs. One need only read history to see the same concerns in decades and centuries gone by. Each generation faces their own crucible. The current ones have not been and shall not be spared. For us the concerns feel more imperative because we are the ones riding the turmoil. There is a vast difference in watching someone make bread or reading how to make bread and getting your own hands into that gooey sticky mess.

I am ready to get my hands into the gooey sticky uncertainty of life again.

I leave you with a picture of a cat sitting at the window, looking out.

A Personal Encounter With Violence

I have seen things in life, up close and personal, that left me with memories I can call up with just the wisp of a thought. I have heard and smelled and tasted and felt (in my abnormally large for a woman hands) life at its best and humanity at its worst. I suppose many of us can say the same thing. So here I am going to share a story with you, a true story. The event occurred in the mid 1980's.

I was working as a cashier in a convenience store in Fort Pierce, Florida, a busy little store. We were across the road from the local community college (IRCC - Indian River Community College) and there were quite a few homes in a small community to the west and north of our location. I was working a morning shift and my relief was due to arrive at about 2 PM. A young lady, perhaps 21. I was not yet 30. 

We were at a quiet time of the day - between class times at the college, local secondary schools had not dismissed for the day, the deliveries of beer, soda, chips and bread had all been made for the store. I was just biding my time, waiting to clock out and head to the house to relax for an hour or two then cook the evening meal. 

I saw the maroon car belonging to my co-worker turn into the parking lot. There was another car right behind her, a black Toyota. Both vehicles came to an abrupt halt and the driver of the second car and my co-worker both jumped out of their cars and ran into the store. They left doors ajar and engines idling. 

They were no sooner in the store than they were engaged in a no holds barred cat-fight. A hair pulling, nail scratching, groin kicking fight. There were not many words, just grunts and squeals. I was behind the counter, backing slowly towards the telephone.

Suddenly there was a glimmer of silver as the girl I had worked with for several weeks suddenly held a switchblade in her hand and thrust it in a quick upward motion into the rib cage of the other girl. The second girl turned and ran out the door, jumped into the black car and sped out of the parking lot.

As she was leaving, my co-worker looked at the blade of the knife, wiped the blood on the leg of her jeans, and smiled in the oddest way. Turning to me, she said, "Call the cops, bitch, and you are next." With that she ran out the door, got in her car, and left.

I called the cops. They were there fairly quick, two cars. One took off in pursuit of the two girls as the officers in the second car took a statement from me after I provided the address of the girl who worked with me. When that was all over and done, I called my supervisor and arranged for another person to relieve me after explaining what had just happened. 

I worked over about 90 minutes that day. I left work with two bottles of wine, went home and drank all of one bottle and most of the other before my not yet husband came home. I may have been pregnant then with my daughter, I am not really sure. My timeline memory of 1984-1986 is not real reliable. I worked at that particular location both before and after she was born. 

I do recall how scared I was that I would be the target of violence because I called the police after witnessing the fight. The young woman did lose her job, but I do not believe either was formally charged following the altercation because I never had to go to court in relation to the incident.

I did acquire a small handgun afterwards, one that would fit in my purse. I was taught to use it properly. I never had to fire that handgun, but felt safer for having the option. 

I no longer have that handgun, I lost it in the divorce you could say - I did not bring it with me when my first husband and I separated. My current husband was in the military, and he owns legally purchased firearms. I have no problem with people owning guns. Violence will occur with or without guns. People are prone to anger. I know that is a simplistic statement, but I know no other way to put it. I will close by sharing a status I posted on Facebook earlier today.

Gun Control? Too late for that. If someone really wants to do harm, they will find a way. Taking away the right to own firearms for defense of life, family or property or for sport/food will not remove the impetus some feel to do harm to others. The issues lie beyond guns. Mental health issues, medications that affect judgement and personality, bullying, the desensitization of the populace through video and audio ... very complex issues need to be addressed. My take on gun control. Everyone else is voicing their opinion, this is mine.