What A Dream May Come

I had been riding for a long time, days I think, but I wasn't tired. I had fueled 160 miles back, but my gauge said three quarters full, which is unusual because I only have a six gallon tank and the most I have ever wrung out of it has been 200 miles. So I kept on. No reason to stop. Made sense to me at the time. The house wasn't that far.

I passed other riders who had pulled over and were seeking shelter because of the rain, but I was completely dry, as was the road in front of me. Then it was almost as if it was slow motion, riding by, a biker's wave, a wink, that special salute.

The road up to the house became twisty, turny, a spaghetti sort of route that all I could do was look ahead and follow. The kind of road that is sweet to ride, but not for the faint of heart. Leaning into a curve, hearing the scrape of the floorboard on the asphalt in a deep turn. When you ride, as in life, you look to where you want to go, not to where you are, not to where you have been, or you'll drive off course. All of a sudden, when my back tire left the road, it rose up behind it to push it forward, like it was urging me to a haven, even though I didn't feel like I needed sanctuary.

The house. I was there. There were valets parking other bikes, cute little guys wearing chaps, but little else. Nice eye candy, but I drove to the back. No one rides my motorcycle but me. As I dismounted and locked up, I looked around and just felt off, like I didn't belong at my own family reunion.

There were groups of people milling about, going in and out of a tent that was erected on the lawn. The tent had a neon sign hanging from an awing that blinked "GET YOUR HIGH ON IN HERE". Humming "Stairway To Heaven", I grabbed a beer out of my saddlebag and walked to the house.

The house had many levels and many rooms connected by manicured lawns and pools, some for swimming, some for reflection. It was a magnificent spread, but every where I walked, every room I entered, every inhabitant was either drunk, high, or both. I don't mind a good party, but it's not fun when you're the only one sober.

I walked, sometimes trudged, though the house, up and over walls. In and out of pathways and corridors. Around orange traffic cones that were set up like pyramids. It was a maze, like those Indiana corn farm mazes that you have to carry a ten foot pole with a flag at the top just to be seen by the judges, by those who will rescue you when you will always get lost.

I was looking for something, searching. It's here somewhere. But I didn't know what.

I stepped into a hallway and saw my Aunt T. She was so drunk, she could barely sit. Son of a bitch, she never drank, certainly never did drugs, and looked down on those of us who did. But when I saw her, she was trying to hike herself up on a cinder block fence that lined one of the yards. There were men sitting on the fence smoking pot and she was wanting them to share. They were teasing her with the joint and kept calling her old lady.

I walked into one of those retro rooms from the fifties; dropped living room floor about six inches below the foundation and tumbled in, fell to my face. The floor was covered in plastic, with a thick coating of oil. There were bodies everywhere, writhing, undulating like a thick carpet of snakes. I slide around, trying to find my footing, wanting to escape the hands that were reaching out for me. Groping, orgy hands grabbing my ankles, my knees, my feet, trying to pull me down again.

I kicked out, and felt a crunch at the end of my foot.

"Fuck you! You are a Andes!" Someone drunkenly slurred at me.

"First of all, it's you are AN Andes. And secondly, the Andes is not a type of people. It is a mountain range in western South America, you cretin!"

I woke up.

Gone

My mother has been gone eighteen years. "Gone." It makes it sound as if she went down to the store to get cigarettes and just didn't come back. She is dead. She died, this night, eighteen years ago, at 9:55 PM.

I miss her. For the longest time, when her passing was so new, so fresh, I would automatically reach for the phone to call her, to tell her about my day. It broke my heart every time when I would realize what I was doing, that she would not answer the phone, that my Dad was the only one at home to hear the ringing.

But what makes me more sad than me missing her, is knowing what she has missed and the things she will miss.

She has missed the maturity and growth into womanhood of her two granddaughters. Both of them have traveled extensively and she would have loved to have heard, first hand, of their adventures. She would be so proud of their respective accomplishments in their careers. They each have wonderful friends whom she would have loved as well.

She missed her eldest granddaughter finding the love of her life. She missed their wedding. She will miss the birth of her first great grandson.

And we miss her. RIP C.C.Pill

That's all I want to say for now.

Maybe This Christmas

The Tree

I'm shopping for a Christmas tree this weekend. I haven't had one since 1996, the year my Mother died. No, to be more precise, I haven't had a tree since 1997, July 2, 1997. My mother died December 28, 1996. I couldn't take the tree down. I wouldn't take my tree down. My mourning overtook my housekeeping. In hindsight, it was nuts. At the time, it made perfect sense. The last thing my Mother and I had together, the last common thread we had, was my Christmas tree.

In March, I moved the tree, still wearing it's adornments, into the spare bedroom, fully intact, but I closed the door. I thought, maybe, out of sight, out of mind. But I realized, after four months, I did not like closed doors in my home. So, I did a self healing thing. I invited some friends over for July 4th, and I knew red and green clashed with red, white, and blue. I garbaged-bagged the tree and all hanging appendages thereon, and dumped it into the dumpster. I cried, and wept, and cried some more.  It was July 2, 1997.

Unfortunately, Christmas now takes a back seat in the caravan of holidays to Thanksgiving, Memorial Day, Labor Day, and hell, I even like Halloween better than Christmas. Poor old Thanksgiving has been the victim of identity theft in the holiday community. In the middle of October this year, I was in Sears shopping for a new washer/dryer. They already had their Christmas wares on display and for sale. Nothing says Feliz Navidad like a blowup Darth Vadar wearing a Santa Hat holding the Death Star.

My Grandmommie and Grandaddy were born in 1900 and 1901, respectively, but they were the most I-want-to-spend-time-with-you-because-you're-the-most-fun- people people I knew. My maternal grandparents loved Christmas so much that the one dimensional reindeer pulling Santa in his sleigh would rise from their roof no later than the third day after Thanksgiving. The colored aluminum foiled wrapped cardboard boxes would be placed under the pine trees in their front yard, rebar strategically placed into each one to prevent these Jolly Green Giant-sized gifts from blowing into Albuquerque by the howling west Texas winds.

My GMom made it her mission each Xmas to get the most outrageous, but totally cool gifts possible for my Uncle Sparky, trying to outdo his gift from the previous year. One year my Uncle gave her a side saddle. The next, she gifted him a full skeleton, complete with top hat and red and green light bulbs for eyes. And, yes, I do have the pictures for authentication.

And, my favorite decoration ever in the history of Christmas decorations, the one that graced my grandparent's den, my Parents' living room, and my Aunt's dining area, was a seven and one-half foot aluminum tree, red glass balls hanging from every branch, with a red, blue, yellow, green color wheel turning, illuminating every gorgeous, silver needle. Perfection!

I do believe that I have just now decided on my Christmas tree for this year, my healing tree. I do so love some silver.

the Lair

Kayla woke with a start. It was almost as if she heard the blast of a gun, but she knew that she had no more heard one now than she did eight months ago when Mark was shot and killed. You never hear the sound of a sniper's shot. You only feel it. You only die from it.

She had had the dream again. It had been coming to her less frequently, but each time she dreamt it, it became more vivid. Atlanta had fallen quickly. Everyone, all the medical professionals, the news media, those in the know, said that the virus had been contained. The talking heads all agreed, there was no cause for alarm or even worry. The CDC assured the populace that the odds of anyone in the United States contracting the virus were slim to none. It was not an air borne disease. Unless one submerged oneself in an infected individual's bodily fluids, you were safe. So everyone thought that since the government assured us that we were safe, we were safe.

The infected patient had been brought to Emory under cover of darkness. It was reported that he had walked into the hospital on his own strength. Therein was the problem. Security was lax because he was a doctor. A strong doctor with the Ebola virus, a non-airborne virus, was not a threat they assured the public.

What was not reported was the hospital had allowed his partner unsupervised visitation. A one time visit was all it took for the virus to escape the confines of the quarantine. What was also not reported until it was too late was that the virus had mutated, as viruses often do. And now, it was airborne. And it spread. And it spread quickly until those same officials who had earlier reassured the people that all was safe, were walking up and down the streets, wearing hazmat suits, yelling, "bring out your dead. Bring us your dead." The dead would be collected, wrapped in a medical-like Saran Wrap, almost like last night's leftovers, and burned on the pyre that had been built in the middle of the square.

There had been rumors that the CDC had an antidote to the original Ebola Virus. Conspiracy theorists believed that the government had vaccinated it's own employees against possible germ warfare as long ago as 1973, which included its military personnel.

Mark Thomas, his wife Kayla, and their two year old son, Jaxson Raye, were a very few of the lucky ones who did not contract the virus and had survived. Mark had been in the Army since he graduated high school, and Kayla was his high school sweetheart. Mark had been deployed to Iraq for 13 months and still had sand in his teeth when he was brought back to the states to be part of the police action, and to help take care of the growing insurrection. The thing was, dying people don't insurrect for long. It was his decision to go AWOL and flee the City when it seemed the end was coming. He and Kayla had gathered weapons, freeze dried food, gathered water, and headed South toward Quitman. They had hoped that a remote area would be their hideaway and safety.

You never know how stranded and alone you are until there is no one else who is stranded and alone. Mark and Kayla were stranded and alone. But they walked, hid, fed their son, fed themselves when they could. The travel was slow going and exhausting and, as it was the middle of August, also exceedingly hot and humid, so they tried to only travel in the coolness of the morning or early evening.

Mark was beginning to feel the fatigue of this day's travel and was about to suggest they find shade to rest under until dusk when he turned a bend and saw the farmhouse up ahead.

Excitedly he said, "Kayla, I think this is the place we have been lo

Mark dropped like a stone and was dead on the spot.

Kayla threw her body over Jax and buried her face deep in the dirt.

Earlier in the day, David had positioned himself in the attic as before; camp chair, loaded Springfield, strap wrapped around his left arm for stability, barrel pointing ever so slightly through the attic vents that he had enlarged giving him a better vantage point. He panned his rifle to the left and back to the right, searching for any movement through the scope. He would not take any risks. He would not allow his camp to be contaminated.

He saw the man first, and as he sat with his finger on the trigger, he saw he was sweating. This is a dead man walking, David thought to himself. But, hey ho, who is this lovely along side? This was an easy decision for him to make. He could use the woman for his own needs, the man would be a liability, but this child would give him control. David squeezed the trigger.

"Hello? Hay! Walk toward my voice. You and your boy! You are safe here. My name is David."


She lay there in her own sweat soaked sheets cursing the fact that the dream had come back after three months. But she knew why it had. She rolled over and saw that David had already gotten up. She knew that he would be taking care of Jaxson until she went downstairs.

Jaxson. My boy, Jax, she thought. Kayla had been hanging the laundry out the day before when Jax came running up. "Mama, wuk wha I fund! I gots a new toy!" "Jax, baby boy, let me see." In his three year old hand was a 30-06 cartridge. She knew what it was. She and Mark had reloaded those many times.

"Baby Boy, honey. Where did you find this? Where did you get your new toy?"

"Iss mine, Mommy."

"I know, sugar. Show me and we'll get another."

Jax, knowing a fun game had started, ran back toward the house. "Catch me, Mommy!"
"I will, buddy. Let's go get your new toy!"

Jaxson, little chubby feet running as fast as they would go, headed toward the house. Kayla followed silently. Up the stairs. Into the crawl space that lead to the attic.

"Mommy! Here,"

Kayla followed her boy up into the attic.

"Mommy! Here. Me sees more toys!"

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness as she walked up the attic stair. When she reached the top rung of the attic ladder, Kayla saw a light to her right. Sun rays streaming through an enlarged vent window, light from the morning sun. Strange shapes shrouded in sheets covered in dust. Her son's new foot prints mingled with the older ones he had obviously left before on his first trip up into the attic. But also larger, booted prints. Brass objects lay scattered helter skelter on the floor.

"Jaxson, come here to Mommy. It's naptime."

As she led her son back down the attic steps, and she looked over her shoulder and saw the sniper's lair, she knew what had happened. She also knew what she had to do, now.

photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/zakh/365573975/">Austin & Zak via http://photopin.com">photopin http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc

Guilty Until Proven Innocent

What do you do when you feel guilty about something you've done or not done, said or not said? Do you confess? Do you ask for forgiveness? Or do you keep the guilt inside and hope, through time, it will be diluted like iced tea on a hot summer day, that it will float away like smoke in a breeze?

What do you do if the person you feel the need to confess to is dead? Do you go to a gravesite where there is nothing but a marble headstone, get down on your knees, and ask for forgiveness? Or do you sit, alone with your thoughts, and hope that somehow the person you feel you have wronged knew you meant no malice?

My childhood was normal, uneventful by my way of thinking. Both sets of grandparents lived close by, I was raised with my cousins as my playmates, my parents were married to each other until the day my Mother died.

My Mother and I had a typical mother daughter relationship. Before I started school, I wanted to be her. As a teenager, I didn't want to have anything to do with her. As a young woman, I sometimes sought her advice. When I was older, I understood her suffering, but was impatient with her.

My Mother had osteoarthritis, which is a chronic breakdown of cartilage in the joints. Her spine had compressed so much, her vertebrae were bone on bone. She was in constant pain. Her list of pain meds was long, but at the same time, she would always say that she didn't want to get hooked on them. "Mother, you're 70 years old. Who gives a shit if you're addicted to painkillers or not."

Honestly I cannot imagine the type of pain she was in. She was in the path of pain where there is no end in sight. The grip of It where she would have done almost anything to escape, anything. Pain that made her not think of anything else but her pain, her misery, her suffering. And that kind of pain makes one lash out at those whom you love most, because they are the closest to you and they should understand, but they don't.

And because of her overwhelming depression, she was prescribed Prozac, Valium, Xanax. She would take them as prescribed, until she thought she felt better. Then she would quit. Then she would turn.

Every day I would call the house to check on them, but really to check on my Dad, because he was my Mother's caregiver. Often, I would hear a crack in his voice. I would not say a word. I would just listen to what he would tell me they did that day. Then I would try to steer the conversation away from Mother and onto him. "Daddy, did you get to go to DQ this morning? Did you drive out to the golf course? Who all did you see today, Daddy? Oh, you didn't? Dad, you need to get out of the house more and take care of you." Then it would happen. My Daddy would do the one thing that would tear my soul out. The one thing that would crush my heart. He would cry. No, that's not right. He would sob. He would open the gates of his sorrow and let it flood over us both. And he would tell me that my Mother, his wife of over 50 years, whom he had to bathe now, and dress now, and do everything else for her now that she could not do it on her own, would yell at him, scream at him, be so ugly to him that he didn't think he could go another day.

No child should ever hear her parent express such anguish. No daughter ever needs hear her daddy cry, but every daughter needs to hear her daddy cry. Every daughter needs to know that her Daddy loves her enough to let down the Father armor.

After this episode, I jumped in my car, and drove the 20 miles to my parents' house, my childhood, happy home. I walked in, kissed my Daddy hello, and marched to the back of the house where my Mother was laying in bed in their bedroom. I leaned down, kissed her on her cheek, and said, "You may think that you do not need your antidepressants, but if you do not start taking them again, I will drive up here every day and force feed them to you. You will not be ugly to my Daddy again."

So, who do I say I'm sorry to?

Can I See You Now?

I had my first eye surgery at age two. The second was two years later and the third was at age seven. My eye was crossed, just one. I think they call that lazy eye now. They say it's more politically correct. Someone told me that little kids don't think the word "crossed" is positive. I personally don't think the word "lazy" is such a good substitute, but then again they didn't ask me. I also think political correctness has gotten out of hand, but that's a separate blog post. I do remember words they used to explain why I didn't have proper vision in the eye: false fusion. You look that phrase up on the internet and you read words like dichoptic and stimuli and monocular. All I know, and I still cannot fully explain what I see and how I see, is that I am legally blind in that eye.

The first two operations were on my left eye, the one that was slothful. Since by age four I had not read the medical literature for those type of surgeries, I am clueless as to the reasons. The third surgery was on the "good" right eye. I remember everyone, my parents, my doctors, the nurses, their assistants, referring to my right eye as "the good one". I also remember thinking, at the tender age of seven, if this eye was so good, why did it have to have an operation? They told me that there are muscles behind each eye that move the eye and that the one on the right was stronger than the left and was pulling it inward. They were going to cut the muscle, thus weakening it.

Post-surgery, lazy eye was no longer lazy. It was industrious, lively, straight as an arrow, and looked perfect. Problem? Still could not see a whit. Not even the big E. But this is when life for me really got amazing, got really fun and interesting. This is when I learned that the unknown could be exciting. This is when my parents and my doctors put their heads together and decided to send me away, to send me away to rehab. They believed, through therapy, that my left eye could be trained to see and the best place to do this was Methodist Hospital in Houston, Texas, 550 miles away.

I. Am. Seven. Seven years old. It's 1962 and I am about to fly on a plane for the first time in my life. Traveling to a city where, during the week, I will be living in a hospital environment, training an eye that has never seen like everyone else sees to see, and on the weekends living with a family that I only know through their relatives in my hometown. Can things get anymore fun? Seriously.

My Mother and I arrive in Houston, meet my home away from home family, and go check in the hospital. My rehab begins the next day and, Mother, being a farmers wife, must go back home after a few days. I will see my real family again in three weeks, the end of my rehab stint.

I don't know how vision therapy is practiced today, but in the early sixties it involved three-D movie watching, three-D reading, and torture. Torture to my way of thinking. The therapists would patch my good, right eye, sit with me, and "force" me to watch and read aloud with my bad, left eye. There is no possible way for me to accurately describe to the normal-sighted how horrible, how scary this is. The closest description is like being trapped in a tiny, dark room with only a small pen light showing you there's a monster sitting just to your left. To this day, I detest "Alice in Wonderland" because that was the book of choice of the therapist.

I had to figure someway out of this, someway to please the therapists and doctors to get them to stop this suffering. I knew when any progress was made, praise was heaped upon the patient. I knew that, in order for me to receive that praise, I had to read with my left eye. Or, it had to appear that I was reading with my left eye. So, I started reading with my left eye, or so it seemed. The therapists were thrilled. The doctors were amazed. My vision had improved 100%. After three weeks of therapy, I was going to be able to leave to continue this treatment at home.

What they did not know, what they never suspected, was that seven year old little me had fooled them all. I had loosened ever so slightly the inside corner of my eye patch and was able to read aloud about Alice falling down that damn rabbit hole with my good one, my loyal one, my right eye.

My secret did not get discovered until I had returned home and returned to my second grade classroom. My beloved teacher, Mrs. Bray, also had a "bad" eye, but she was completely blind in it. My Mother was still patching my right eye as prescribed by my Houston doctors and, as a result, I was struggling in class. My angel teacher finally had a meeting with my parents and told them I was going to need a psychiatrist if they continued this "therapy". I was questioned about how I had had the miraculous recovery in Houston, but had seemingly now reversed back to the original condition.

I confessed. And that confession garnered me another three weeks in Houston. Ultimately, according to the doctors, the therapy failed. To me, though, despite the patched right eye reading sessions, it was six weeks of fun and adventure. My eyesight is the same as I have always had and I know no difference. Better to see you with, my dear.

watch out

Dear Mr. Road Construction Worker Man: You have been working the same stretch of road that I take on my way to work every day for the past five months. Every time I drive by, I try to be extremely careful, courteous, and cautious in order to protect you and your fellow workers. I had always hoped that you would extend me the same courtesy. I knew when you pulled out in front of me, driving a big, white super cab truck pulling a 25 foot trailer carrying a one ton piece of construction machinery the odds were not in my favor. Especially when I'm driving my motorcycle. I am thankful that I have good reflexes, but even more thankful that I have good brakes. I am thanking YOU now in hopes that my universally known finger greeting to you will stay in your memory and will remind you to be more watchful.

dumped

 
I am an uncomplicated woman. I like easy relationships. You give a little, you take a little. You tell the truth and you expect honesty in return. No muss, no fuss. 

Which is why I don't have lots of close friends. I can count the number of close friends on one hand, intimate friends on fingers.  As outgoing and gregarious as I seem to the outside world, I could also be the old woman on the hill and be by myself. Which is why something that happened last week has left me sad, blue, but more importantly confused as to why I feel lonely.

I have been dumped by my best friend. And if that wasn't bad enough, she did it with a text message. It was one of those, "it's me, not you. I love you like a sister, love you forever, but we need to cool our friendship for awhile, hope you understand." 

I did not understand. I still do not understand. I did not respond. 

+friend

+best friend

+lonely

I'm Not Old

I know a woman. I don't consider her to be my friend because I don't confide in her. I don't tell her when I have a problem. I don't talk to her about personal things. We don't spend time together.  But she's more than an acquaintance. We've attended social occasions together. We've been with the same group on motorcycle trips. I know the circle of people she associates with. She is older than me. In cat years, she is forty years older, and the first number of her age is higher by one than mine, so I do consider her to be my senior, something I won't be able to do in three months. What I'm trying to say is, I don't want to be her. She is old. I am not.

 I found out today she had a heart attack two days ago. To add insult to injury, after she was in the hospital, she had a stroke. From the outside looking in, she was a healthy woman. She doesn't drink, I do. She doesn't smoke, I did. I don't know her activity level, but my motorcycle clutch and throttle hands are very strong, and so am I.

For some reason, this woman acquaintance's health situation has affected me. I'm not her, but I could be. She is old. I am not. I am not her.

An Open Letter to Janay Rice

Dear Janay, I hope you don't mind that I call you Janay. After all, we are together in a sisterhood, a sorority. We should feel comfortable calling each other by our first names. Yet, I hope and pray that no other woman pledge to our sorority, I BVSTA JAW. 

I'm sorry to say, though, it's not very exclusive. It breaks my heart to know that more and more women, young and old, are joining our club, and not of their own free will. We don't have secret handshakes or passwords, but you will recognize your sisters. We merely show our bruises, cuts, and broken noses from our initiations. We have the downcast eyes, the cowered shoulders, the flinches from fear of an angry word. You have to be on the receiving end of a forward thrown fist, a push into a plate glass window, a foot caught on a trip into a brick wall to be in this community. Oh, one other thing we have in common is we all feel that we are a member of a community of one, we are alone.

Admittedly, initiation can be pretty brutal, as you have found. Or maybe you already knew. Most of us keep it secret because we don't want our other loved ones knowing. We don't want our peers knowing. We don't want anyone knowing that we were weak and we stayed. We don't want others knowing that we said, "really sir, please don't arrest him because it was my fault. If I had just done something differently, my left eye wouldn't be swollen shut. If that man in line ahead of us hadn't looked at me, I wouldn't have a split lip. I should have said yes, after all, it was just sex. I started it. I hit him first." We all have that script. 

Janay, most of us don't have our beating on film for prosperity. I will never understand what you are going through by having the world see your fiancé throw his closed fist into your face and knock you the hell out. We all saw him drag your limp body out of the elevator, just like yesterday's garbage. Maybe even some of your own family, now that they, too have seen the footage, will tell you you started it. Your sisters know better. Your sisters know who is at fault. 

You know it's hard to leave him. We all know it's hard to leave him. You love him. He's probably down on his knees, begging, pleading. "Baby, I am so sorry. That's not me. I'll never do it again. I love you." Your sisters have heard it all. We've heard over and over. Some of us have heard it multiple times. We all have heard that script, too, and we hope and pray you learn from us and run far, far away. You know, in your heart, that he is a liar.

You blame the media, the folks who are trying to take you and your husband down. "To take something away from the man that I love that he has worked his ass off for all his life just to gain ratings is a horrific [sic]. THIS IS OUR LIFE. 'What don't you all get," you asked, "If your intentions were to hurt us, embarrass us make us feel alone, take all happiness away, you've succeeded on so many levels." 

No, we do not want to hurt you. We do not want to embarrass you, and believe me, you are not alone. We just do not want to attend your funeral.

Doing What We Love

Every morning when we awake and get out of bed, there's a chance that we will not return when it's time for another sleep. When we walk out our door to go about our day, we may not return upon day's end. Life is fleeting and uncertain. That old adage, "Live every day as if it was your last" is cliche to some, but every day that little cliche means more and more to me.

 Lately, I have read so many Facebook posts and blog essays that describe the feelings of dread people experience after they have read or heard of a motorcycle fatality. In some cases, that dread clouds that person's instincts and makes them afraid. In the last two weeks, there have been two motorcycle accidents that resulted in two deaths not one mile from my home. I am sad for them, both the deceased and those whom have escaped death that day, but I refuse to live in fear of that death.

 I don't ride my motorcycle every day, but when I do, I back it out of my driveway, point it down the street, and drive away from my house with the knowledge that I'm going to have a good day riding. I know there's a chance that I will not come back home, but that does not prevent me from doing something that I love, something that I am passionate about.

 Last Sunday morning, a young, beautiful, vibrant 34 year old woman backed her motorcycle out of her driveway, pointed it down her street, and drove away from her house with the knowledge that she was going to have a good day riding. She did not return. She died doing what she loved.

Happy

I never had children of my own, never really wanted them, but I do have two beautiful, wonderful nieces whom I adore. One is so much like me that you would think she is my clone. You look at her, then at a picture of my mother, and a picture of me, you know we belong. If you knew me growing up, there was a certain amount, oh hell what am I saying, there was a lot of wild child there. Same with my sweet K. I had an older mentor who helped me get out of a few jams and guide me along the way. My K had me.

Then there is M. My MJP.  She has my initials. She has my blood. She has always had my heart. Yet, she looks nothing like me. She acts nothing like me and never has. No, that's not true. She is fun loving like me. She is kind like me. She is compassionate like me. One thing she is not like me, she has always wanted children.

Fast forward to 2009, my M meets the love of her life. They live. They love. They travel. They want to spend the rest of their lives together. Oops, one problem, love of the life has been married before. No, that's not the problem. Love of the life has two kids. Nope, that's not the problem either. Love of her life has had a vasectomy. My MJP tells LOHL that the only way she will marry him is if he will reverse the vasectomy and try to have a child.

Their wedding was beautiful.

I've been told by M not to blow this up right now on Facebook. So, I will write this little ditty on my blog so my two and one half followers will read of my excitement.

I'm going to be a great aunt. And, yes, I will be Great Aunt.

Panther, Bird Whisperer

I have an affinity for black cats. I read all the time that black kitties, and black doggies for that matter, are the last to be adopted. I don't get it. You point me toward black, black/white, or fifty shades of gray, and I'm in. Other than ferals and strays, and a cool yellow Tabby guy named Moose that I had when I was a kid, I have only had kitties of the darker persuasion. It would be so easy for me to be a black kitty hoarder, but thank cat, I know my limits.

This little girl kitty started out in life with not the most perfect of conditions. I don't know how many litter mates she had because by the time I had met her, there was only her and her mother. Then, there was only her. Her mother was killed by a Doberman, but not before she had protected the last of her babies. I swear to the havens, that Mama cat fought to her last dying breath for the protection of that baby. I almost didn't say the breed of dog that killed her, but it's part of Panther's story, so there it is.  I'm not condemning Dobermans, but I'm not championing this particular one right now. All I know is that I rescued a teeny black kitten that day, and named her Panther.

At the time, I had a lot of guy friends. Guy friends who thought they knew better than me how to train and play with kitties. Guy friends who thought it was cute when they patted a leg and encouraged a tiny, one pound kitten to run up a denim clad leg. Guy friends who didn't see the future when said kitten would grow to be five pounds, with needle sharp claws, and still wanting to climb up legs, denim clad or not. It took me a lot of time to untrain that particular trick, both in the kitty and the guys.

Panther, being an outdoor cat, did things that most outdoor cats do. I apologize to my avian loving friends, but she was the bird hunter, the bird charmer. She would lay in the grass, minding her own kitty business, and a Blue Jay or Mockingbird would land on the fence in front of her. She would just chill, and wait, because she knew what was going to happen next. The bird, perhaps having a nest nearby to be protected, or in the case of a Mocker, just being an asshole, didn't know what was going to happen next, and would begin to dive bomb her, again, and again. She would not move, luring them closer with her feigned pacificity, making them more brave and thus flying lower with each swoop. And when they would least expect it, because they never did, she would somehow pogo herself up, stretch out her full length of felineness, reach out a deadly paw, and catch him in mid air. I hate to say it, but she was a thing of beauty, a furry killer ballerina.

I came home from work two weeks ago and found her stretched out on that same lawn, only this time in terrible distress. I picked her up and her body was a noodle. Her breath was coming in short pants and I knew this wasn't good. When I got to the clinic and during Panther's examination, the Vet looked at me with such sadness in her eyes. It was then I realized I had to let her go.  As the drug was being administered, I laid my head down next to Panther's, looking at her and blinking my eyes slowly, my left hand on her neck, my right on her side, telling her how much I loved her.

I buried her next to Boobie, my twenty year old cat that has been dead for ten years. May they rest in peace together.

 I have had a few people, most of whom have never had animals, ask if it's worth it. Is it worth it to watch a pet grow old? To turn grey and become feeble? To get a disease with no cure or to have no means by which to pay for that cure? Is it worth it having to make a heart breaking decision to put a pet down? As I sit here writing this, with one cat on my left showing me her fat tummy, another on my right, purring on the arm of the chair, and a third laying on the floor in front of me looking completely arrogant, I can say, without reservation, yes, it is.

Panther

 

She lay calmly, quietly in the grass. Tail flicking ever so slightly.

Silently.

Calmly, eyes looking up, then slowly closing,

blinking.

Calmly.

Waiting, watching.

Her tongue flicking out to taste the air,

 savoring.

Calmly waiting.

Calmly.

Come closer,

 

little bird.

Fields of Gold

Fields of Gold, by Sting


You'll remember me when the west wind moves

Upon the fields of barley

You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky

As we walk in the fields of gold

So she took her love

For to gaze awhile

Upon the fields of barley

In his arms she fell as her hair came down

Among the fields of gold

Will you stay with me, will you be my love

Among the fields of barley

We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky

As we lie in the fields of gold

See the west wind move like a lover so

Upon the fields of barley

Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth

Among the fields of gold

I never made promises lightly

And there have been some that I've broken

But I swear in the days still left

We'll walk in the fields of gold

We'll walk in the fields of gold

Many years have passed since those summer days

Among the fields of barley

See the children run as the sun goes down

Among the fields of gold

You'll remember me when the west wind moves

Upon the fields of barley

You can tell the sun in his jealous sky

When we walked in the fields of gold

When we walked in the fields of gold

When we walked in the fields of gold

Good Night, Sweet Princess

I brought another one home tonight, against my will, and I would have done nothing else. But this was not giving one a new life. This was laying one to rest. This was when they say until death do us part. She left my life tonight. My sweet Panther. She will forever rest close to Boobie, and together, they will rest in peace. My heart is broken

A Kitty Chronicle

I don't know that I would be considered a bona fide Cat Lady. In fact, growing up, I had more dogs than house cats. Living on a farm, we always had barn cats who were usually the descendants of cats that the townspeople would bring out to the country and dump. I got my first pet cat when I was three and I don't remember how he came to be. He was named Moose and I don't know how that name came to be, either. But he was such a laid back yellow Tabby guy. He would let me dress him in doll clothes and I would push him around in a baby carriage. I remember one day my Daddy telling me that Moose went to heaven. I still, to this day, remember in my mind's eye Moose walking away from me, crossing the field, turning his head to look at me over his shoulder. Then turning back and gone forever. 

When I lived in Los Angeles in the late 70s, my cousin and I adopted a three legged cat named Michael. He had been hit by a car and had to have his left arm amputated at the shoulder. He didn't know that he was different. In fact, he thought he still had all four limbs. So, because of that, when he would use his litter box, Pam or I would have to come up behind him, take the litter scoop, and cover his pee or poop or he would have sat in his box until it was covered, which would have been never. Not only would we cover his business, we would do it in rhythm with his nub movement so he thought he was doing it himself.

I wasn't really ready to go back to Texas, but I thought my parents needed me, even though they were in their late sixties, early seventies and still relatively healthy.  My brother lived in Saudi with his family. I was alone. They were alone. We should be together. I should have thought about it more. I should have thought about it a lot more. But, in any case, my Mother flew out to LA, after I had packed up my stuff, I might add, to accompany me back to Texas. As we drove east, she always talked about the fog that followed us, over hills, through valleys, across the desert. She always said that California didn't want me to leave and it had sent feelers to try to keep me there, to bring me back. I believed her. I wish I had heeded the call, but that's another story. 

So back in Texas, I needed a new furry companion. Pam had kept Michael in LA because that had been his home all his life. A friend of mine had two cats who were both pregnant. I remember asking her if she had ever had "the talk" with the two girlies to let them know where babies came from. Mama #1 had her kittens first, four roly-poly little black fur balls.  So, I adopted my third kitty in 1984. I named him Bobby after my favorite brother (I only have one). When I took him to the vet for his first set of shots, I was informed in no uncertain terms that Bobby was indeed Bobbie, as he was a she. I didn't like a girl named Bobbie in third grade, so I renamed my jet black friend Boobie. I always enjoyed folks' reactions when they heard me calling her "my old Boobie". She was my best friend for 20 years.

I had to put her down on a nice February morning and, while it wasn't hard to end her misery from bladder cancer, it was very hard severing that tie that had bound us for almost a quarter of a century. She had been my companion for so long, had been with me through moves, through broken relationships, through the death of loved ones. I know some think that cats are so impersonal and independent. Some are, it's true, but some aren't. My old Boobie was gone and I wasn't ready for a new relationship.

Enter, stage right, Fencie. She was a cat hardly older than the kittens she was soon to deliver. She lived under a crawl space of a restaurant separated only by a fence from my friend's nail salon. She would pop her head out from under the fence, hence the name, when De came to work every morning. De and her Mom, Gyn eventually coaxed little Fencie into their salon with food, sweet words and kindness. There, in a box fashioned into a kitten nursery, Fencie had her four babies in safety.

Born on a nice February afternoon were four mostly black kittens. I get the phone call, "Come see the kitties."
"No."
"But they are so cute."
"No."
"Melly, come on over. Mom and I just want to see you. You won't see the kitties unless you want to."
"OK."

Ten minutes into my visit, I was in love. After two weeks, I had decided that a special little boy kitty would be coming home with me. Five minutes after that, I decided that his sister, the only girl in the group, would also be coming home with me. So, for four more weeks, after work and on weekends, I would go to De's shop and spend time with my new babies, Moby and Shamu. Shamu is named for the famous black and white whale because she is black with a white chin. Moby is named for the artist Moby, whose music I like, and I thought the names fit well together.

These two siblings were a hand full and I loved every moment getting to know them. I knew this was it, my family was complete. Really, this is it. I promise. I was determined, NO more kitties. I thought I was determined. But I couldn't leave well enough alone, or rather my friends couldn't leave well enough alone. I get another cat call.


I had a horse friend named Lucy who lived in a really nice barn/stable setup west of town. Her owner was calling me to say the resident barn cat just had six babies. Thinking that my resolve was steeled, I decided to see the little ones.

When I got to the barn, I set my eyes on one of the sweetest little boy kitties I had ever met. There was just something about him that stole my heart the moment I picked him up and he gave me the first of what would turn out to be millions of head bonks. The property owner was going to keep the kittens and have them follow in the footsteps of their mother and be barn cats and mousers. Now, don't get me wrong. Being a barn cat is a very noble and useful profession. But, I knew that this little sweet grey tabby was way too sensitive to go into that field. So, despite my earlier determination which had instantly fallen, after six weeks, I brought home Bosco. 

Boz is my constant companion when I'm home, he rarely leaves my side. He is the epitome of a scardy cat. He is even afraid of his own tail sometimes. Maybe that's why he stays so close to me; he knows I would never let anything bad happen to him.


The three are ten and eight now, respectively. That used to be considered senior aged in the kitty world.  The older I get, I believe that to be middle aged.  They are not as active as they once were, but we have a lot of time left together. When that time does end, I will do right by them as I did for my old Boobie.

There have been many ferals and strays along the way, too. All have been named, fed, watered and sheltered. Most have been spayed or neutered. Some have been euthanized. All have been loved. Maybe I am a bona fide Cat Lady, after all.

Would you come home

150

Look at me, look at me!

One hundred fifty days

smoke free!!

Will You Be My Friend?

I have been on Facebook actively for only a couple of years. I have picked and chosen the "friends" I interact with, not caring to amass a huge group. Only caring that, besides a few relatives and really close, known friends, I "friend" people that I have things in common, things that I'm interested in, and things that turn me on. I send "friend" requests to those whom, even though I may not know them personally, something they have posted, written, or shared has piqued my interest and I would like to find out more about them because they are interesting and intriguing to me.

A couple of weeks ago, I had drinks with people whom I went to school with. Some I have known since we were in dance class together at age three. Several, we started friendships beginning in Elementary school.  A couple, nothing in common except we went to the same school and we may have had a class together. But, one in particular I shared a history with. We made a kick ass 16mm movie when we were in Junior High that was better than some big budget movies made today. We won First Place in the UIL One Act Play contest when we were seventeen. We shared an acting award when we were Seniors. He is a fascinating man. I want to know more about him and his family as a grownup.  He was the only one from that night that I sent a Facebook "Friend" request to.

Unfortunately, and I don't know why I didn't think about this because I am an intelligent woman, I started getting "friend" requests from people from High School. They were his Facebook "friends". I do know who they are and it's not as if I don't like them.  I just do not know them as adults, but I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings if I don't "Confirm" the "friendship". I really don't think, after forty years they think that I am interesting or intriguing.  Maybe, probably, most defiantly it wouldn't matter an iota if I replied or not, but this is what I want to say:

You want to be my friend because a friend of yours who you went to school with a friend of his who went to church with a friend of theirs who went to their wedding with a friend of mine who sang a duet at his funeral with a friend of . . . You don't know me.

A Sleep

Their heads share the same pillow; the warmth and soft touch of the linen caresses their cheeks. The white noise of the fan on the bedside table lulls them in their idyllic state. The world is far away and not intruding. They are safe and sound, asleep.

I Win!

Ok, so I know trying to better one's health should not be a contest. But, damnit, sometimes that is what it takes. I've not smoked in 100+ days and, as those who have smoked know, or those who have broken unhealthy habits know, that's a huge accomplishment. And the counting has been the big deal with me. The counting of days, hours, minutes. The counting of my achievement! My friend, K, quit four days before I did. That's a good thing, right? She should be at 100++ days ahead of me in the health department. When we're together and the subject of smoking comes up, she is the first to say how many days she has been smoke free. But I promise, and I'm not exaggerating here, she has smoked more cigarettes since she "quit" than she did the first five days before she decided to quit. She has asked me why I don't have a smoke every now and again, as she does. I say, I will not put myself through another 100+ days of pure hell, but you, my friend, have to start over with your count. I do not. And I win.

Observation of a Couple

He looked at her,

She looked away.

He reached for her,

She looked away.

He touched her hand,

She looked away.

Are you here, he asked?

She looked away.

Please come to me.

She looked away, she looked away.

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/34827444@N08/3232292673/">Amydeanne</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/">cc</a>

Happy Gotcha Day Bosco

Some of the blogs I read follow a tradition they call "Throwback Thursday".  This Throwback Thursday is twofold for me and one of my kids. Today is Bosco's birthday/gotcha day. I know Gotcha Days are supposed to be the day one officially adopts a pet. I knew he was my Gotcha from Day One.

I first met little Boz on the day he was born and knew, especially after his Mama's owner later told me she was going to keep the kittens as mousers at her horse barn, that when the time came, he was coming home with me.  Now don't get me wrong, being a mouser at a horse barn for some kitties is a fun and admirable profession. But there was something I sensed in Bosco and it did not scream "MOUSER!" He seemed a little more sensitive than a professional pest control officer. And when I brought him home at six weeks, I knew I was right.

He has been my shadow for the past eight years, my bedfellow, my sweet guy, my little gay boy. He has the sweetest little voice and he loves to talk, but he only talks to me. He's afraid of the sound of  the doorbell, but he loves to sit in front of the open glass door when the sun is shining through. He never lets me be alone in my bathroom, which is probably too much information, but it's always nice to get out of the shower and see him on the counter waiting for me, talking in his sweet, small voice.

Happy Birthday/Gotcha day, my sweet Bosco.

Dream A Little Dream

For the past three nights, I have had three different, but similar dreams. Each dream was in a different place, but had the same theme. In the first dream, I was in a large mansion, almost like a castle. The second dream was set in a huge meadow, with barns and sheds set about. The third was in a Las Vegas, almost circus, like setting. I was with large groups of people, they all partying and having fun in the large settings, all milling about amid chaos. In each dream, I had no money, had lost my phone and if I held an iPad, it was someone else's. I knew no one. And I was terrified, almost hysterical in my search for my things and a way out of the bedlam. The people in the dream would try to distract me from my fear with varying degrees of success.

There were odd activities happening all around. At one time, there were three people sailing up in a boat wanting me to go with them, even though there was no water. There were also the flyers, which in a normal situation I would have been fascinated with as it is something I've always wanted to do, but these flyers were more swoopers, more raptor like. All I wanted was to get away, away from what I did not know, away from these people. In each dream, I would run through a labyrinth, terrified and knowing that I would not find the exit.

I would suddenly wake up, my body dripping with sweat, my breathing rapid and shallow. I would search around my always dark bedroom for any sign of unfamiliar light. I would put my hands out around me to feel for the warmth of my cats. Feeling comfortable that I had awoken and all was well, I would relax back into the pillows. Then the worst part would happen. I would fall back asleep and the dreams would begin as they had left off.

~MfT

Significance of Fifty

In Humans: the "petals" of the 7 main chakras total 50.

Prime Factors of 50=2x5x5.

50 can be Partitioned 26 times with each term no larger than 2.

50 can be Partitioned 234 times with each term no larger than 3.

50 can be Partitioned 1154 times with each term no larger than 4.

Sum of the squares of the Pythagorean 3-4- triangle= 9 + 16 + 25 = 50

50 is a Hexagonal Pyramidal Number. Sum of the 1st three abundant numbers 12 + 18 + 20 = 50

50 is the smallest number that can be written as the sum of of 2 squares in 2 ways.

The moon is fifty times smaller than the Earth.

The Chemical Element Tin has an atomic number of 50.

The 50 sticks, all the same length, which are handled in the consultation of the Yi King.

The 50 Gates of Understanding in the Kabbalistic tradition correspond with 50 levels of consciousness from unconscious rock through to an enlightened being. They represent the first (counting upwards from 10 to 4) 7 sephiroth on the tree of life (with each of the 7 containing every other of the 7 sephirth) + Binna the Gate of Understanding: 49+1=50.

The 50 letters in the sacred Sanskrit alphabet.

The 50 grains of the rosary Aksha-Mala of Indians.

Film: 50 First Dates.

(Source: virtuescience.com)

50 DAYS SMOKE FREE!!!!

(Source: Melinda's Lungs)