Poor Lilly

My Aunt Tattie and Uncle Nib were always my favorite aunt and uncle. Aunt Tattie was my mama's second to the littlest sister, right before Aunt Sis.

We all lived really close to each other all our growing up lives, just a couple of ten sections away from one another. Grandmommie and Grandaddy lived to the east of us. Me, mama and daddy lived in the middle. Aunt Tattie and Uncle Nib and their four lived to the west. Their names were Cousin Stub, The Twins, and then there was Poor Lilly. (Poor Lily wasn't ever really right, if you know what I mean.)

After Grandmommie and Grandaddy died, all us grandkids got a little bit of money. Some more than others. Gma and Gpa had to help The Twins and Poor Lily out time and again when we were growing up. You know, some bail money when someone got caught with too much beer. One of them got into a little bit too much trouble and a lot of his inheritance money went to a Senator who got the record cleaned for a few years spent in the Army.  Poor Lily had to spend some time with our cousins in Arkansas for about seven months one summer and they paid for that. Each time something like that happened, Grandmommie and Granddaddy happily took care of it, but they also kept tabs on it. 

Stub and I both got full scholarships to college; I went to UT in Austin and Stub went to Southern Methodist. Since our tuitions were taken care of, Grandmommie and Grandaddy footed the bills for our respective college lives. They always said it cost less to help someone get an education rather than bail somebody out. There were no hard feelings amongst us kids because we all knew that's the way it was. Grandaddy always said "that's the way the cow ate the cabbage". I never saw any cow eat any cabbage, but that old man was pretty damn smart, so I guess that's the way it really was.

After college, I stayed in Austin and went to work in the film industry. Stub moved back home and made a killing in real estate and land management. The Twins moved to California and completely disappeared. That was during the Manson times and I have always wondered if they are both buried under the sand at Spahn Ranch. 

Poor Lilly got on drugs.

Stub bought all of us out of Grandmommie and Grandaddy's old home place, but let Poor Lilly live in the old farmhouse rent free, with the promise she would take care of it. The only problem was, Poor Lilly kept nickel and dimeing her inheritance on nickel and dime bags of pot and coke and kept asking Stub to supplement the upkeep of the farmhouse.

He kept giving it to her, full well knowing she would spend it on booze and drugs until he finally realized that, one of these days, his future would be in jeopardy.

One Sunday, as he was getting ready to go to church where he played the piano for the services, Lily called and wanted money to fix the leaky roof to the house. Stub knew she was only going to blow it up her nose and said "Lilly, I'm done up to my ass giving you money. As far as I care, you can just burn that goddamn house down to the ground and collect on the insurance".

Then he couldnt wait to get to church. He quickly fed the dogs, ran out and fed old Smokey the horse. Then, as he got in his truck, he thought he smelled smoke, like someone was barbecuing.

As he turned down the drive, and was about to pass within a half of mile of Lilly's house, he saw out of the corner of his eye smoke, snakey tendrils of black. He kept on driving. There were more important things to do this day. He had to get to church to play. 

Stub had never played Onward Christian Soldiers with so much energy, verve, and excitement in his life. It seemed the tempo had never been heard that fast, or that loud, in the Hard Shelled, First Baptist church building ever. The choir could hardly keep up. Later, a lot of folks wondered if maybe he'd done it to keep everybody from hearing the sound of sirens. As sweat beaded on his brow, he prayed to the good Lord that Poor Lily had not taken him at his word.

A Turtle In Need Is A Turtle Who's A Pain In The Ass

Leaving work for lunch the other day, I risked life and limb to save the life and limb of a turtle. It's a very busy street, especially at noon time. I knew the guy didn't have a chance if I left him. When I picked him up off the road, the little shit thanked me profusely by profusely peeing on my leg. I didn't have anything to put him in, so I just set him on the back right floorboard of my car on a towel I had. 

I have a friend who has turtles in her backyard. She loves turtles. I call her and convince her she needs a new turtle. Yes, she says, but is it a box turtle or a water turtle? I tell her I don't know from turtles, but I'm coming to her house anyway.  

I pull into my friend's driveway, get out of my car, and retrieve Mr. T.  My friend looks at him and says, oh no, that's a water turtle. His home is water, not a backyard. Well great, I say. But I guess I'm lucky you live by a park that has a pond.  I will just take him there. 

So, I put him back on the floorboard of my car, and, after handling him all this time, go into Helen's house to get a pair of gloves. When I come back, he's not on the floorboard anymore. He has crawled under my passenger seat and has latched onto the carpet for dear life. I don't want to hurt him by forcing him loose, but I am also on my lunch hour. And I don't need a turtle nesting under my passenger seat while I'm at work. It would be to his detriment as well as mine. And to top it off, when I got dressed for work that morning, I was not planning to be a terrapin rescuer. As I am leaning into the backseat compartment to try to get him out, the wind keeps blowing my top over my head, not only impeding my view, but probably causing concern for the neighborhood mothers who have children at home. There was nothing to the imagination. 

I ask Helen to get something bright that perhaps she can wave in the front part of the seat to scare him enough to make him turn legs and back up. She comes back with a bright white tin sign, jiggles it just in front of him, and it does the trick. Mr. Turtle does the moonwalk back into my gloved hand. 

Long story short (Hahahaha!), I put him in a paper bag that Helen gave me, drive to the pond, and release him. 

But there's a loose dog running around, so not knowing turtle and dog interactions, I put him back in the paper bag, and drive to a different spot. And release him.  

Then I see the lawnmower guy. I don't personally know turtle and lawnmower interactions, but I have a really graphic imagination, so I put him (turtle, not lawnmower guy) in the paper bag, and drive to a different spot. And release him. 

This time, turtle nirvana! He does the Turtle Shuffle on the short path of land that he has, but a full Mark Spitz once he hits the water. 

My work there was done. 

Transition

 

 

I am really conflicted about this Caitlyn Jenner situation.

 

* Formerly William Bruce Jenner.

* 1976 Olympic Decathlon Gold Medal Winner.

* Was the Best Athlete in the World

* In the Olympic Hall of Fame

* Photo on the Wheaties Cereal Box

* "Stellar" Acting career

* Nominated for the 1980 Golden Raspberry Award for Worst Actor for his performance in the film Can't Stop the Music (1980).

* Former Patriarch of the First Family of Reality Television - The Kardashians

 

All of these accomplishments (prior to the acting thing ;-) ) . All of these accolades. All of these adoring fans. Man needs to be a woman?

 

Yes! Man needs to be a woman. Man has to be a woman. Man has been a woman in everything but body, until now.

 

Does Caitlyn Jenner coming into her own affect my life? No. Does it affect your life? Only if you feel the same as Caitlyn has felt her entire life and her transition gives you courage to follow a similar path.

 

My conflict, maybe you ask? It's not about Bruce Jenner finally becoming Caitlyn Jenner. No. It's about how some of my friends have reacted to Caitlyn Jenner finally becoming herself. I have always known how some of these people feel about others who do not vote the same way they do. I know how prejudiced, bigoted, and homohated some people I know are. I have heard the most horrendous things spoken about a person that none of us knows personally.

 

My conflict, you ask? It's not about accepting Bruce Jenner finally becoming Caitlyn Jenner, because that does not affect me. It's about Mellie from Texas rejecting her friends, because that does.

Laz

It was a perfect spring afternoon in Houston, upper 70s, low humidity, and an ever so slight breeze. Baby Lucas was napping and my niece and I were enjoying the day, each other's company, and the hummingbirds slurping and flirting at the feeder.

There were many females at the feeder, but only a few males, including one who was a little bit disheveled, perhaps a little long in the beak. Occasionally, a very large male hummer would swoop in, chasing away the other males to keep the nectar, female and liquid, all to himself. It seemed that all the boys deferred to the large chap, with the exception of the older guy, Laz.

I noticed old Laz didn't mind Biggie H when he demanded they leave his honey hole. In fact, Laz preferred the comfort of one spot on the feeder. Second by second, minute by minute, he sipped and sipped, and licked of the nectar. So content he was supping that he hadn't moved in about five minutes. Wait, five minutes? That's just not right. Hummingbirds don't stay in one spot eating for five minutes. Old Laz had apparently croaked. There he was, immobile, perched there with snout firmly inserted into the yellow plastic feeding flower, not a feather quivering.

If birds are capable of having a look of contentment, satisfaction, even satiation, on their faces, old Laz had it. I think it probably was the equivalent of an old man dying just seconds after orgasm after having sex with the most desirable partner of his dreams.

I reached toward him, placed my thumb and forefinger on either side of his tiny, beautiful body, and gently lifted him away from his sugary death tube, but I felt the tiniest bit of resistance from his beak area. Just then, his little body shook, his wings extended to their full four inches, and he hummed happily away.

Old Lazarus wasn't dead, he had just been stuck.

Next week, I'll walk on water.

happy Birthday

I haven't seen my mother in, oh shit, four years. I remember I had gotten up early that morning. It was my birthday, and momma always put out my presents on the kitchen counter for me to find when I got up.

When I woke up, something just wasn't right. I went to pee and then wash my face, thinking that maybe she had planned something really special since this was an important birthday for me, but I wasn't hearing noise, no voices, not a sound from anything.

I walked into the kitchen and saw the envelope. My name was scrawled across the face of it, like it had been done in a hurry. I ripped it open. It was one of those pull out cards that announced what a wonderful day the recipient would have. I started pulling out the message, seeing my message:

H A P P Y A N N I V E R S A R Y

That was the day I turned 13.

That was the first day I started raising myself.

I think of that day often. I think of it every time I get up on the pole. I see it behind my closed eyes every time a john is licking my face and telling me how beautiful I am. I think of it every time some Christian minister walks in the club, trying to put his "Jesus is coming and you're going to hell" pamphlet in my hand and saying girl you can do better for yourself than this.

I want to yell, "I have already been to hell, but someone else sent me there, and nothin else can be worse than that."
But I don't. Because that same minister, that shepherd of lost lambs, that emissary of a so called higher being, comes back in two hours with dark sunglasses on his face, and makes my rent for a month. And sometimes, if he has gotten an especially full plate of tithes the week before, two month's.

Today is my birthday. I am not old enough to vote. I cannot legally drink, and I cannot sign any type of contract without a parent, but I am alive without having one.

This is the day I turn seventeen.

Broken

I walked into the coffee shop and sat down. I don't know why. I'm not a coffee girl.

The guy was there before me. And had obviously been on the phone for awhile. "I don't need a girlfriend, " he said. "Why would you say that?

"If you think that, then you don't know me like I thought you did.

"I don't need a girlfriend!"

He slowly removed the phone from his ear, looked at it in disbelief, and laid it on his table. "I need you." 

Then he put his face in his hands and wept.

I sat there, one table removed, one life separated from another by a piece of furniture, and shared his grief, his pain. He didn't know I was there. I didn't care.

02.20.02

He hadn't spoken in days. He couldn't.

I hadn't spoken in hours. I couldn't.

I was going to be the last witness to my Daddy's life. I was the one to see him off on his next journey, wherever that may be.

I was to bid him bon voyage and Godspeed.

Before he quit speaking, he was talking to my dead Mother, which brought a certain amount of comfort to me. He also thanked Charlie for the hearing aides Dorothy gave him after Charlie died. Then there was the old cat that seemed to be always jumping into the clothes dryer. My dear old Dad asked a kitty to give him back his shorts.

He chattered, I listened, I laughed.

I held his right hand with my own. I didn't want to squeeze too hard for fear I would bruise him. I cupped his face with both hands. I told him that I would be all right. I told him my brother would be all right. I told him that we loved him and that he did a good job as a Daddy, as a Friend, as a Man.

I told him he had suffered for one second longer than was too long.

I told him that it was ok for him to go.

He looked at me, his hand relaxed, and one single tear fell from his eye.

Rest in eternal peace, Hugh Lang Pettit.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzz

Shutter Shock

"Lay down with me. God you look so good. I want to take some pictures of you. Open your legs a little. Touch yourself. A little more, babe. Ohhh, that makes me hot. Honey, no one is gonna see these but me, don't worry, I promise. We're married, after all. Trust me.

Trust me.

Trust me.

I am your husband."

I heard what he said. Each and every word. And I believed each and every word. What a turn on, what an aphrodisiac, to hear someone voice their desire for you. How erotic to hear someone you love wants to take photos of you, wants to look at you like that, remember you like that, forever.

Those were the days before smart phones, before cameras with USB drives. The days even before the internet. The images were Polaroids because you would not want to send film to the drugstore to be developed. After all, it was to be private. Only between a husband and wife. Only between partners. Only between trusted lovers.

Then, one day I said to him, "You hit me. It will not happen again. I am leaving you. Do you understand what I have just told you?"
He said to me, "If you leave me, I will nail those pictures to every telephone pole in town."
I said to him, "if you do that, I will come up behind you when you least expect it and put a bullet in your brain. Do you understand what I have just told you?"

The next day, there was an envelope containing my intimate pictures under my Welcome mat.

I have come to know that a lovely young woman in my community has been the victim of a similar situation, albeit with a modern, twenty first century twist.

These are the days of smart phones, devices that can "bump" each other to transfer high res pictures. One click, one bump, and your face and every before now publicly unseen part of you is out in the world to look at, forever.

Forever.

This young woman's husband has broken the spousal trust. He has released intimate photos of his wife. A wife who loved her husband enough to trust him to take intimate pictures of her.

Trust me

Trust me

He put those pictures on the internet to hurt her, to shame her, to humiliate her. To possibly lose her job. No reason justifies this action. It has only shamed him.

Unfortunately, she can't tell him "if you do that, I will come up behind you when you least expect it and put a bullet in your brain. Do you understand what I have just told you?" because we do have smartphones, recording devices, and internet, and she is a public figure. The images are already out there.

But her friends, family, and I will stand beside her. We will champion her. We will defend her, no matter what.

Forever.

Sam

My friend Mike is a lover of dog. Not just a dog lover, because a lot of us are, but a Lover of DOG! A Friend of Dog. He has loved dogs from childhood, but when he became a man, it became part of his life's mission. That mission was, when one came into his path, when it was in his power to do everything in said power, he would enrich, support, protect, and save DOG.

The first was Bert, the loving, big boy, Bert. But this is not Bert's story. This story is Bert's Dog's story. Bert found Sam, a starving, poor, damaged shell of a dog. What someone might call a cadaver of a puppy. Mike's motto for Sam has always been "Sam, Sam, the Happy Hound", but what some do not know, there is an ending to that limerick, "who was almost dead when he was found."

We all fall in love with puppies, sweet smelling little bundles. We all fall in love with dogs who like to run and play, snuggle when WE want them to, understand our language even when we've taught them naught, expect them to poop and pee when and where they're supposed to. But what happens when a dog comes into our path who is not cute and cuddly?

What happens when your animal has found another animal whose sole existence is the basics? Eat, because the body says. Shit, because the body says. Sleep, because the body can do no more. That pup knew nothing else. Hunger, pain, hide, sleep. Who knows what that puppy went through in his early life. Bert found that puppy, and he knew his Dad would help. And Bert's Dad did, Mike did. How many of us would have passed on by? How many of us would have called an authority, "Come get this animal!", or not? How many of us would have just looked away from that damaged soul?

Bert found Sam because Bert knew Sam needed to be found.

Sam thrived. Sam thrived because Bert's Dad saw to it, Mike saw to it. Sam grew because Bert's Dad fed, nurtured, loved, and brought that poor damaged soul back from the brink.

Sam has lived through the death of his savior and friend, Bert. Sam has lived though the introduction of a younger brother, Lucas. Sam has lived through the introduction of the Girl Dog, Lilith, and a Pibble Princess, Tyger Linn. Sam lived because of the love and protection, through various times, of all five, but most of all his doggy Dad, Mike Firesmith.

But Sam was old. Sam was tired. He watched Dog Dad introduce younger dogs into the pack as fosters. He didn't understand they are temporary. He just wanted to eat, sleep, and to be loved by his Dog Dad.

And, I believe in his heart of hearts, he knew he was loved, he knew he was safe.

Rest in peace, old man. You were loved.

http://mikefiresmith.blogspot.com/2013/07/a-dozen-years-of-dog-happy-rescue-day.html

Ride 'Em Cowboy

I get home late today. As usual, I go to my bedroom, strip off the day's work uniform, and put on my comfies. Then I go into the adjourning bathroom to hang up my clothes. I notice Moby sitting next to the toilet, and with a very impatient look on his face, says "Maaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!" I realize, damn! I left the toilet lid closed when I left for work this morning. My big cat, my big boy Moby drinks out of the commode. The term "toilet water" has a real meaning for my handsome man.

So, of course I apologize to him, and immediately lift the lid, whereupon he proceeds to lean into the bowl and drink as if he had just crossed the Gobi. Side note here to all you PETA people: my cats have fresh water at their easy access in my kitchen, so don't even go there with me.

I finish the hanging of my duds. Moby has finished his camel concession, and saunters over to sit on the bathroom rug and gaze through the door into the bedroom. I means he is just kind of do doodly doing it, lah de dahhing it, when BAM! Out from behind the shower curtain, hidden like the stealthy ninja kitty that he is, Bosco flies down, and lands just behind Moby's butt. Moby looks at me with the "oh, shit" face and jumps into the air one foot and starts to run out of the room. Bosco, not missing a beat, wraps his arms around Moby's neck, and rides him out of the bathroom like a monkey on a dog.

I laughed for thirty minutes. Moby has not looked at me since.

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