Riding and Deciding

It's a little cold, but I want to ride. I need to ride because it has been awhile and I need to feel and think. I back my bike out of the garage and push it into position. I check the headlights, blinkers, rear lights and brakes. I put my on leathers like a gladiator and I am ready.

A lot of the road to my destination is not pretty. In fact, it's downright ugly. Ugly plastic mailboxes that resemble ET. There are barren, brown cotton fields with pivot sprinklers standing as sentry until next planting time.  Other fields have the remains of dead sunflower stalks standing, but the Grackles as a black cloud swoop in and begin feasting on the seeds left behind. The Mesquite trees are spindly. The Old Farmers Almanac says not to plant a garden until the Mesquites have budded. By these Mesquite's way of thinking, it's going to be a long time before I can put a spade in my flower beds.

The oil derricks along the road are pumping a song of their own, almost a waltz. One two three up, one two three down. Someone's gold is being pumped. Someone's land is being drilled. I wonder if this is a good thing.

The stripes of the highway below my left are running. They have a rhythm of their own, even though they're silent. LineLineLineLine. LineLineLineLine.

I pull up to a stop sign and get ready to turn left, but that car is coming. It starts to slow down and it looks as if it's turning right, but there's no blinker. It still thinks it's turning right because it now has drifted into the bicycle lane. But still no blinker. I'm not going to move, but keep my bike in first gear in case I need to. It does finally turn and the window is down. He's an old man, I should keep my mouth shut, but I can't stop myself, "You don't have a blinker??" I yell.  I feel bad, because my Dad was once an old man driver.

I like this part of the road because there are animals living along it. There is a vet up on the left. There are horses in his stalls. Sometime I think if a vet has horses, it is probably not a good thing, but I spot the farrier getting ready to shoe. There are donkeys on the right. Cute dappled donkeys and the not unpleasant smell of manure in the air. Up ahead, there's a sweet pooch who sits by the side of the road watching. He just sits and watches me drive, no chasing in his mind. I wave to him and he smiles.

I turn again and drop down below the caprock. Now here it's warm. This is another world from before. Rocks and crags, hills and draws. Some of these Mesquites look happier.

I look for the sign. Gospel Ragtown it says, but that venue is not what I'm looking for. As I turn at this sign, the road is rough, pocked marked, rutted. I drive slower because my bike is lower than some and I don't want to bottom out. The drought in my state has been horrible, but down here, in the draw, it seems to be a memory. There is green here and there, especially after the recent snow and now warmer sun. The maple trees, though still naked, are stretching across the road to touch each other, as if to say "I remember you, I'll wait for you." I turn to the right and travel to my spot. I know I've not been the only one here, but I pretend that I am. I pull to my stop, get off my bike and walk. It's not too far now.

The spring is still running. In this desert of a land I live, water is life, water is precious. I find my rock and sit. I sit and gather wool, daydream and remember. I remember back 12 years ago to the week. I was taking care of my Dad; he was dying. He had put up a valiant fight, but he was now ready. He had been without his wife of 56 years for six and he was ready to go. He had smoked for a part of his adult life, but had quit cold turkey over 40 years ago. He hated that I smoked, not for how it looked, but for what he knew it to do. He had lung cancer and hadn’t smoked in over 40 years. “But your Mother smoked forever and she was able to quit,” he would tell me, encouragingly. I wanted to say, “Yeah, but she died, even the same," but I never did. The excuses are piling higher in my mind than the stacks of  cigarette packs I’ve bought; other ex-smokers are stronger than me, I enjoy it, it keeps my weight down. Everyone who has known a smoker, or even is an ex-smoker has heard or said the same. But I know my excuses are empty. I have just made my up mind here and now that I will quit. Not just try to quit, but to quit. I’ve picked my Daddy's death anniversary which is in a few days as my day.

I will do this not for my Daddy, but because of him. I will do it because he told me I could, oh those many years ago. This time I will succeed.

The Waves in my Mind

My mind is awash with ideas. It feels as if I am back in California, standing on the sand watching the waves come at me and not knowing which one to run from and which one to jump into. There are tiers in these waves. The first ones are small. Seemingly insignificant little ripples that hardly make it to the shore, but those tiny waves bring riches when they do; small iridescent shells that once were homes, a single tentacle that's still alive and moving. There are golden flecks of sand. Then more waves begin, with their larger size. Left, right and center they come. These bring more life; a small jellyfish floating up. Then the wave sucks it back to continue on wherever it will go. The beautiful shell of a sea turtle rolls in and as it turns in the surf, the core of the animal is gone, eaten out, eyes dead. Another wave washes over this dead thing, taking it away. Larger waves come. The sound of them crashing to the right on the rocks is almost deafening. There is an echo. Another one is coming. Another one is rising, threatening. But it is so beautiful, turning over and over, blue green, green blue. Where is this one going? Roiling over and over and, so tall, I cannot see the horizon; it seems to rise to the clouds. I begin to think that it will crash over and crush me. I run as fast as I can. I run because my life depends on it. I run and jump into this wave. The current takes over and pulls me with it and I relax.  My body doesn't fight. My mind doesn't resist. This is my home now.

Donations Please

"Hello, my name is Melinda and I am a blood donor." 

"Hello, Melinda."

More specifically I am a platelet/RBC donor and I try to give regularly. I suppose you can call me a donoraholic. I am also type O, so the blood center loves me, like the vampires that I think they are. Some of my friends don't understand my need to do this. Some of them actually think I'm nuts to spill my own bodily fluids voluntarily. 

There are strict requirements that must be met in order to donate. The minimum weight for women is 110 pounds. When I got up this morning and stepped on the scale, I saw 111.5 on the digital readout. Women must also be at least 5'1". I stretch the tape measure to 5'5 1/2". I think I'm average.

All donors go through an interview process, if you will, prior to being attached to a big machine with a needle and long tubes. You are asked all sorts of incredibly personal questions and I wonder if they have the police department's phone number on speed dial in case you answer yes. If the answers you give are in the negative and the technician is satisfied you are not lying, your blood is tested to make sure you are not anemic and that your platelet count is high enough. My count was a little bit lower than eight weeks prior, but it wasn't too low for me to be rejected.

The technician leads me to the donation room and I get settled in; heating pad on the lap, blanket over my body. I get plugged in with a needle in my arm to drain and earbuds in my ears to fill. My tech, Jaquie, heads off to confer with the other techs about my readings. And they confer and confer and confer some more.

Jaquie comes back and explains to me that, with the combination of my weight and my lower platelet count, this particular draw will take longer than usual in order to reduce any side effects on my body. Hum? Longer is better? Oh, well. I tell her I certainly don't have anything better to do, so lets get this show on the road.

Jaquie programs all my numbers into the computer and pushes "Go". She turns the monitor toward me so I can see the progress. I have 103 minutes ahead of me.

I'm settled in for the long haul. I have a large and very eclectic collection of music on my iPad. Sometimes when I'm in this chair, I listen to classic rock, sometimes it's classic classical. Today, since its cold and dreary outside, I choose the latter.

Time passes; I read and I listen. I read a man's life through his words and I listen to serenity in my music. This is the best time ever, believe it or not. I am relaxed, I am at peace, I am alone and there are no interruptions from anything or anyone. I really look forward to this time.

Then it's over. I'm finished. I go into the break room to have a snack, a soft drink and wait the requisite 15 minutes before leaving. I begin texting a friend some short puns about my donation that I think, at the time, are incredibly funny. I walk out to my car when I get a reply text from him that says "What??". I go back to the previous texts and see that Mr. iPhone Spellchecker had taken over and had decided what I originally typed wasn't really what I meant, so he had taken it upon himself to change it.

I begin to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Not a twitter, not a giggle, but a full-fledged from the bottom of my gut laugh. I don't think I'm hysterical, but I can't stop laughing. I'm sitting in my cold car, in the parking lot of the blood center and I look like a loon, a laughing loon. Another donor walks up and taps on my window. "Are you ok? Do you need some help?" he asks. I'm laughing so hard that I can barely answer. As tears of hilarity are streaming down my face, I look at him and nod. I croak out an "I'm ok, thank you." Maybe my friends who think I'm nuts for donating are right. Maybe I am nuts.

A platelet apheresis donation procedure separates the platelets and red blood cells. My blood will be used for trauma patients, perhaps a child in surgery. My platelets will be used for people undergoing cancer treatments. I had a dear friend die last month from pancreatic cancer. I often wonder if any of my past donations had been used to help him just a little. I like to think so. I wonder if my friends would understand that affinity I feel with him. If they did, I wonder if they would still think I'm nuts.

Taylor's Last Ride

Taylor's Corvette hit the guardrail at 76 miles per hour. It flew over the culvert and slammed into the embankment. He did not die on impact.

Taylor lived his life knowing he would be a football star. Growing up, his favorite team was the Dallas Cowboys and his all time idol was Roger Staubach. Taylor knew every snap, stat and touchdown the quarterback had made. His parents sent him to the New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell, New Mexico, where Staubach had attended, where Taylor was the starting quarterback for the Colts. He was recruited and signed to play for the Texas Longhorns in Austin,Texas before his foot hit the stage the night of graduation.

As expected, Taylor won the top spot for the Longhorns. He led the Horns to two conference titles and was a leading contender for the Heisman trophy in his sophomore year. He was being courted by the Pros. There had been scouts from the Saints, the Raiders and even his beloved Cowboys. After the end of his junior year, he made the decision to go pro and was signed by the Dallas Cowboys. Taylor had thrived in Austin. The lifestyle there was the polar opposite of life in the small dusty town in New Mexico and the strict rules and regulations of the Military Institute were no longer valid. He was living his dream, but Taylor had a secret.

After he had first moved to Austin, Taylor began exploring his new hometown and found Sixth Street. Even though he had charted his life course carefully through his love of football, he had never entertained a romantic or even a dating life. In east Austin, he finally found what he had never searched for, found what he never knew he needed.

The gay lifestyle was one of freedom for Taylor. He would go to the clubs in anonymity and dance through the night. He would meet his sexual partners in restrooms and alleys, never asking names, never telling his own. He began calling himself Roger during these times. Then he met Frankie.

Frankie was outgoing and flamboyant, slight in build, but big in personality. He was the exact opposite of Taylor and Taylor adored him. They would meet at the bars, drink until they could barely stand, then stumble down the street to the local Motel Six where they would have sex until they were sober again. Roger would leave Frankie in the morning and become Taylor again. 

He had to prepare for his move to Dallas. With his signing bonus from the Cowboys, he had bought himself a new corvette, but wanted to be frugal with the rest. He had rented a small condo in Dallas and needed to pack up his life in Austin. That meant leaving Frankie. He must pack away his gay life, too. There was no room for that life in the NFL. If anyone found out about Taylor's secret, his career with the Cowboys would be over before it started. The existence of Roger must be erased forever.

One night the week before he was scheduled to leave, he had one last tryst with Frankie. They met at their favorite bar, had drinks, then retreated to the motel. That night, instead of crazy, wild sex, they made fervent love. Taylor did not want it to end. When the sun began to come up, the lovers showered together, then left for breakfast. That's when Taylor told Frankie he was leaving.

The morning of Taylor's departure, he checked his mail one last time. There was only one letter, the envelope written with a beautiful hand.

A letter and picture were found on the floorboard of Taylor's wrecked Corvette. The letter said simply, "Dearest Taylor, I know who you are. Love, 'Frankie' "

Happy Day

I have a birthday coming up. This is a milestone birthday, of sorts. I love milestones. Milestones mean that something significant has happened. I think some people think of a birthday as a millstone. This stone isn't a burden to me because, unlike a lot of people I know, I’m excited to have birthdays. Fifty nine is my stone, the last stone in the sixth decade of my life.

 

I refuse to do a reflection of my life now because I have plenty of life yet to live. I do know that I have many things to be happy about. I know I've lived life as full as needed at the time. I know I have been a loyal and helpful friend. I don't lie. I've never stolen, except that time in fourth grade when my Mother caught me and I apologized. So never mind.

 

I've grabbed life when life, at the time, didn't want to be grabbed by me. I've snagged things that should not have been snagged, but I did and I lived. My birthday means that I will have another year to go places I've never been; have experiences that are still unknown. I'm excited. I cannot wait.

Death and Texas

When someone dies in this part of Texas, in small towns where everyone knows everyone, you show your love with food and time. You get the call that a loved one has passed and you run to the grocery store and stock up on food that can be frozen, saved for later, used for another time when grief takes over and the family just doesn’t need to cook. My friend, Glynnis, lost her husband of forever on Tuesday. He died at 2:45 and I was at their home by 3:30. I went there to listen, to help grieve.

David told his forever wife and favorite daughter on Saturday to go away from the hospital and not come back. He didn't want them to see him when the time came. I don't think I would have left, but he wasn't my Husband or Daddy. He was theirs. He will be cremated and his ashes will be spread onto the lake that he loved, as it should be. David was a strong man. He was the rock for his family. He will be missed terribly, but he will be remembered forever.

Yesterday, January 17th, he and Glynnis would have been married fifty years.

David and Resa

David was a take charge man. If there was an obstacle in his path, he figured a way to take a different route. He and his wife raised their granddaughter, Resa, when her own mother was unable.

 

Resa thrived under David's wing. She excelled in high school and received a free ride scholarship to college, where she graduated with high honors. After graduation, she got a job at a large, local bank. David could not have been more proud. She was the first of their clan to go to college.

 

Then David found an obstacle that would become more difficult to overcome. He was diagnosed with incurable pancreatic cancer. The doctors gave him nine months, at the most. But he knew he would beat it.

 

But that was not the last obstacle. Three months after his diagnosis, his beloved granddaughter was arrested and convicted of embezzlement. She was sentenced to twenty months in prison. Even though David's doctors had given up, he had not. He would see Resa free again.

 

On Tuesday, at 2:35 pm, David received a call from Resa. She was to be released on Thursday. David smiled and said "I love you, Darlin'". At 2:45, David passed away.