It's here. It's Christmas Eve. Ebay and Amazon did their thang. For once everything is all wrapped, no church solos to be worried about. Miss it and yet enjoying the just chilling part of life too.
Read a beautiful reading about how we hear this story year after year.
How God is rock solid, never changing, always changing, and we dance together, staring into this story.
I felt this beautiful feeling. I was holding a paperweight, with a star, with sparkles that I've held year after year, looking down into a manger. Looking down into a story that says, "God is greater than Caesar. God speaks quietly, in a manger, and the angels give a great back up chorus that we can never top."
I look down into my paperweight, imaginary, and feel a little girl looking into it. Years passing, a young, married woman trying to become a grown up, a young mother watching the snow fall around the star, onto that stable, wanting to take the magic out of her heart and hand it to two precious souls.
Every year, that paperweight is the same, but the hands change, the story unfolds into another chapter.
Abdu'l Baha once said, "If you want a palace in paradise, make your home a gathering place for friends."
This year, we have been so rich. We are so surrounded by Love.
This year, looking into the paperweight, this very happy, deeply in love with God woman, stares down and marvels at how you can give love away all you want, it will always come back ten fold.
Here's to magic and a country full of folk celebrating a birthday, and to taking time to let the stress slide away to feel the magic, the gift that that precious child brings to us every year. He changed the world with a baby's soft sigh, and the Angels sang Amen.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Why I've Been Away and Other Stupid Thnigs
Okay.
I haven't written on here for weeks.
My good buddy Kelley reminded me of that. It made me feel great that someone actually cared.
I no longer fear death.
A big reason I've been away amazes me. It is one of the lamest excuses ever put forth....even better than my voice student who called me one time and literally said, "I forgot I'm in Guatemala."
Okay. How do you forget you are in Guatemala?
Okay. I'm looking out at a snow covered hillside going "How do you forget you are in Guatemala?"
So, my lame excuse, not that that was lame, that was more in the top ten mind boggling pile, my lame excuse is I got a cell phone.
I know. Lame.
Other people get cell phones and function as if life didn't miss a beat.
Not me.
I have been wrestling with this concept for years. I love gadgets. I love e mail and the web and finding wonderful things like "Don't let a crackhead sing at your funeral" on You Tube.
Imagine being able to do that sitting in your car. Or to look like a fancy person and say, "Let me check my calendar." and whip out an actual calendar on your phone. Not stand there rolling your eyes up in your head like it is somewhere just near your old fontenelles...up...there...Tuesday....hmmm....or is that a recipe for Tuna Brownies....
But, gee, an extra 90 dollars a month just to impress a receptionist?
My Scot Irish heritage railed against that one.
I'm proud to sport around an old cell that still says Cingular on it and costs me ten bucks a month.
But...new..toy...mommy...want......
So, a new motto is "If you can't decide between door number one and door number two, that's because you haven't found door number three."
Worked when I was trying to figure out what glasses to buy. What the heck.
So...door number three...Craigslist. My Mecca. I find a "smartphone" (scary thought) for sixty bucks...Virgin Mobile, on the 25 a month plan (now the same plan is a whole ten dollars more, that's 120 bucks a year I am saving!) (Did I mention my Scotch heritage? Single Mom status?) And I've been having to add extra minutes every month to my ten dollar plan, been paying about that anyway with no internet...this is unlimited.....what the heck! The month was prepaid, I am good to go!
Meet up with the very nice woman. She's just plain cool looking, hands me this phone in a gold, glittery case. It was just so right.
I can't remember the last time I've had a new toy. Well, since getting this wonderful puter from Geek Extraordinaire Jeremy that is....but, this...this was a whole new world and I was so excited.
I drive around the corner and sit in the mall lot. I don't really think I'll get phone reception here in Swamp Holler (pretty much right about that.) so I wanted to see what being a Virgin in a parking lot could be.
I'm tapping away, impressed. I see an elderly woman looking at me.
"No, I am not hanging out to pick up lost teens and abduct them." I send to her mentally. Didn't work.
I roll down the window, "Can I help you?" She just about collapsed in relief. "I can't find my car." "Well, feel free to hop in and we can drive around." "Oh, thank you!"
I move everything, accidentally plopping the phone's manual on the backseat floor that is mysteriously drenched. But, hey, it survived.
"What's the model and year and color of your car?" "Dark green. 1956 Buick."
Well, that should stand out.
Nope.
She's getting more and more upset. I didn't think it was quite the time to show her you can get Netflix right in front of Bon Ton! "Do you have anything with the car's model written down?"
Amazingly, she pulls out her insurance card. Boy, I never carry mine around. Thank God she did! It was a 2006, but what's a few numbers between friends.
We drive and drive, up one aisle, down another..."No, I"m sure I was in front of Bon Ton, I paid a bill there." 'Do you have a receipt?"
"Do you have anyone we can call?" "No."
I'm starting to wonder if she escaped from a field trip...you know the kind...and I would be spending the next fifteen years with this woman, drifting around the Galleria Mall.
Well, finally, we find it. In front of Sears. I've never been so happy to see a car in my life.
By then, it is dark and late. I go home. Well, after looking at one little Netflix clip in front of Bon Ton. Oh, and maybe running in to see if I could find a cool cell phone case. No luck there.
I go home. Mom has a new toy. It has colors. Mom checks e mail and voice mail and has, seriously, 14 messages from her bipolar brain damaged OCD poster child wasband. I was going to help him fill out some forms about the accident (as in How Do You Get Brain Damage Trying To Cross The Street?) (Smash! That's only fun in video games, by the way.). Some form trying to get help from the State to pay his medical bills.
Okay. I could play with my toy, but I know what would happen. I'd be there feeling that "Gotta" tug on me. So, just get the work done, then play! Okay.
Well, it took some doing, but got her done. Did take a break and played a bit before going to sleep. Got up, finished everything. My youngest called, and in his wonderful way of making life a party said, "Come get me and let's just do something fun."
Yeah!
I go to Wazzie's house to pick him up. I'd based the paper work for the State on some forms I'd gotten from his health insurance company. Had to call up and ask for them. Dave hands me a bag of bills and something from the company and said that was it. Well, what was there was fine, it had numbers.
I get it signed, ready to go. He says, "Oh, did you see the big envelope insurance sent me?" (OHHHH....like the one I asked you about literally three times that you told me was this rinky dink four pager??????) He hands me a stack of paper an inch thick. I had to get it copied, 132 pages. Front and back.
I had to go through and sort out each bill...was it a repeat...list each one, add them up, categorize them. Did I mention I was a music theatre major in school? I can count to four. After that I subdivide.
I was fuming. I just wanted it done. It took me seven hours. It would have probably taken a smart person ten minutes, but it took me seven hours.
And you know, had this conversation with someone this morning, what gets me is I never know. I don't know if I should get a degree in psych, or become a psychic, but I never know. I'd be fine if I knew it was just the brain damage making him forget. But, I've seen him in action for far too long. Crafty Kraut R Us. It is mind boggling the lengths he will go to to mess with someone. It would be nothing for him to do that on purpose so he could have a bit of a laugh late at night when no one is looking.
I mean...this man...hit by a van...nearly dies. No idea who his second born son was. Weeks in the hospital, a lot of that in a coma.
He's starting to get it together. He tells me the nurses are angry because he can't stand the hospital food and he can't feed himself. His girlfriend and I go out every day, bringing him treats, hand feeding him.
One day, I'm feeding him some bread and cheese. The nurse walks in, "What are you doing?" "Well, he's been having trouble with the hospital food and with feeding himself, so just helping out a bit."
She looked at him, "You're just messing with her, aren't you?" and he laughed and had to look away. He'd been feeding himself, eating everything on his plate.
A friend laughed. Said, "So, he is brain damaged, near death, and he can still mess with you?"
Yup.
It's not so much the stuff the man does, and several others that I know too, but it's so infuriating to not know why. I wrote once, "Why is a question better never asked aloud." But, sheeesh, why?
Brain damage...okay. Bipolar wacky...okay. Crafty Kraut...okay. You just plain hate me...okay. You just enjoy seeing me frustrated...okay. But...GRRRRRRR...it's annoying to not know which one it is!
Oh well. So, that was a few days of not having time with my new toy.
I was not the best to live with.
So. I have time finally. I download apps. I am scanning hand lotion barcodes and putting it in my shopping list app. I'm playing sleuth in some whodunnit game. I start getting "Memory is Low" messages. Huh?
Well....who knew?
Turns out my phone has crappy internal memory. Shoot! If I get another model, I may have to give up my 25 buck a month plan, nooooo!!!!
Well, web search is our friend. I see there is something called Rooting and it isn't what pigs do with truffles. Not to be confused with Rootching, which is what the Amish say when you squiggle in your seat and annoy them.
No, it means you take control of that doggie and you can get rid of silly Apps, like Virgin Mobile Radio. Wow, that app was an excersize in annoying! I guess I am just not happening enough, because that music had me wanting to take a hammer and make it beg for mercy.
Okay, I start researching how to Root an LG Optimus. I got an Optimus because I felt so Optimistic, get it? Well, that and I didn't think the other real choice, a Motorola, would fit in all my cool cell phone cases.
I am by far not a geek. My geek friends got e mails from me that they smartly ignored. I figured out how to root the phone. The first wave of that journey literally made my brain hurt. People just love throwing terms around and sounding cool. I spent so much time on Google looking up wacky terms that led to other wacky terms.
Gave up and went to Ebay as a joke, and actually found for two bucks a program that rooted my phone and no wacky terms!
Great!
Then needed to figure out how to partition the SD card. Wacky terms. Noooo!!!! It sounds like it should be so easy. Somewhere in there the computer stopped recognizing the phone so they aren't on speaking terms any more. Tried a lot of things to fix that and just give up.
Found a program to partition SD cards and hard drives and tangled hair. Did what the guy on the forum who uses a whole lot of wacky words said to do.
It all worked! Loaded up movies, and games and pictures and ringtones and music, music, music, and addresses and apps and still had internal memory galore!
But, the guy said to make the one partition small, and that was the only partition anyone recognized. So, had a 16 Gig card, and can only use 2 gig of it and that happy program won't let me change the partition size and okay, back up the card, I have another one....I can have this done in an hour and actually get some sleep and....
Back up card, back up files on the computer too, I don't know, color me stupid...I lost everything. Had to start over. All the way over.
Then find out my second SD card has brain damage and works sometimes but not others and doesn't really care about my feelings in this at all.
Well, somewhere in all this, thought the problem was that the phone was rooted, so set it back to factory settings which got rid of most of the programs I wanted to get rid of....by stupid Virgin Radio....so okay....spent hours getting everything back there again. Now the memory is running low and there are programs I wish I could swap onto the SD card and can't now and did I mention I love new toys?
I think my next new toy is going to be a sledge hammer.
But, what the heck. I can sit in waiting rooms now and watch "The Nightmare Before Christmas" or read a book. Sort of back to a normal life now...but...maybe...I should...just....root the thing...once and for...all.......
Sheesh.
I haven't written on here for weeks.
My good buddy Kelley reminded me of that. It made me feel great that someone actually cared.
I no longer fear death.
A big reason I've been away amazes me. It is one of the lamest excuses ever put forth....even better than my voice student who called me one time and literally said, "I forgot I'm in Guatemala."
Okay. How do you forget you are in Guatemala?
Okay. I'm looking out at a snow covered hillside going "How do you forget you are in Guatemala?"
So, my lame excuse, not that that was lame, that was more in the top ten mind boggling pile, my lame excuse is I got a cell phone.
I know. Lame.
Other people get cell phones and function as if life didn't miss a beat.
Not me.
I have been wrestling with this concept for years. I love gadgets. I love e mail and the web and finding wonderful things like "Don't let a crackhead sing at your funeral" on You Tube.
Imagine being able to do that sitting in your car. Or to look like a fancy person and say, "Let me check my calendar." and whip out an actual calendar on your phone. Not stand there rolling your eyes up in your head like it is somewhere just near your old fontenelles...up...there...Tuesday....hmmm....or is that a recipe for Tuna Brownies....
But, gee, an extra 90 dollars a month just to impress a receptionist?
My Scot Irish heritage railed against that one.
I'm proud to sport around an old cell that still says Cingular on it and costs me ten bucks a month.
But...new..toy...mommy...want......
So, a new motto is "If you can't decide between door number one and door number two, that's because you haven't found door number three."
Worked when I was trying to figure out what glasses to buy. What the heck.
So...door number three...Craigslist. My Mecca. I find a "smartphone" (scary thought) for sixty bucks...Virgin Mobile, on the 25 a month plan (now the same plan is a whole ten dollars more, that's 120 bucks a year I am saving!) (Did I mention my Scotch heritage? Single Mom status?) And I've been having to add extra minutes every month to my ten dollar plan, been paying about that anyway with no internet...this is unlimited.....what the heck! The month was prepaid, I am good to go!
Meet up with the very nice woman. She's just plain cool looking, hands me this phone in a gold, glittery case. It was just so right.
I can't remember the last time I've had a new toy. Well, since getting this wonderful puter from Geek Extraordinaire Jeremy that is....but, this...this was a whole new world and I was so excited.
I drive around the corner and sit in the mall lot. I don't really think I'll get phone reception here in Swamp Holler (pretty much right about that.) so I wanted to see what being a Virgin in a parking lot could be.
I'm tapping away, impressed. I see an elderly woman looking at me.
"No, I am not hanging out to pick up lost teens and abduct them." I send to her mentally. Didn't work.
I roll down the window, "Can I help you?" She just about collapsed in relief. "I can't find my car." "Well, feel free to hop in and we can drive around." "Oh, thank you!"
I move everything, accidentally plopping the phone's manual on the backseat floor that is mysteriously drenched. But, hey, it survived.
"What's the model and year and color of your car?" "Dark green. 1956 Buick."
Well, that should stand out.
Nope.
She's getting more and more upset. I didn't think it was quite the time to show her you can get Netflix right in front of Bon Ton! "Do you have anything with the car's model written down?"
Amazingly, she pulls out her insurance card. Boy, I never carry mine around. Thank God she did! It was a 2006, but what's a few numbers between friends.
We drive and drive, up one aisle, down another..."No, I"m sure I was in front of Bon Ton, I paid a bill there." 'Do you have a receipt?"
"Do you have anyone we can call?" "No."
I'm starting to wonder if she escaped from a field trip...you know the kind...and I would be spending the next fifteen years with this woman, drifting around the Galleria Mall.
Well, finally, we find it. In front of Sears. I've never been so happy to see a car in my life.
By then, it is dark and late. I go home. Well, after looking at one little Netflix clip in front of Bon Ton. Oh, and maybe running in to see if I could find a cool cell phone case. No luck there.
I go home. Mom has a new toy. It has colors. Mom checks e mail and voice mail and has, seriously, 14 messages from her bipolar brain damaged OCD poster child wasband. I was going to help him fill out some forms about the accident (as in How Do You Get Brain Damage Trying To Cross The Street?) (Smash! That's only fun in video games, by the way.). Some form trying to get help from the State to pay his medical bills.
Okay. I could play with my toy, but I know what would happen. I'd be there feeling that "Gotta" tug on me. So, just get the work done, then play! Okay.
Well, it took some doing, but got her done. Did take a break and played a bit before going to sleep. Got up, finished everything. My youngest called, and in his wonderful way of making life a party said, "Come get me and let's just do something fun."
Yeah!
I go to Wazzie's house to pick him up. I'd based the paper work for the State on some forms I'd gotten from his health insurance company. Had to call up and ask for them. Dave hands me a bag of bills and something from the company and said that was it. Well, what was there was fine, it had numbers.
I get it signed, ready to go. He says, "Oh, did you see the big envelope insurance sent me?" (OHHHH....like the one I asked you about literally three times that you told me was this rinky dink four pager??????) He hands me a stack of paper an inch thick. I had to get it copied, 132 pages. Front and back.
I had to go through and sort out each bill...was it a repeat...list each one, add them up, categorize them. Did I mention I was a music theatre major in school? I can count to four. After that I subdivide.
I was fuming. I just wanted it done. It took me seven hours. It would have probably taken a smart person ten minutes, but it took me seven hours.
And you know, had this conversation with someone this morning, what gets me is I never know. I don't know if I should get a degree in psych, or become a psychic, but I never know. I'd be fine if I knew it was just the brain damage making him forget. But, I've seen him in action for far too long. Crafty Kraut R Us. It is mind boggling the lengths he will go to to mess with someone. It would be nothing for him to do that on purpose so he could have a bit of a laugh late at night when no one is looking.
I mean...this man...hit by a van...nearly dies. No idea who his second born son was. Weeks in the hospital, a lot of that in a coma.
He's starting to get it together. He tells me the nurses are angry because he can't stand the hospital food and he can't feed himself. His girlfriend and I go out every day, bringing him treats, hand feeding him.
One day, I'm feeding him some bread and cheese. The nurse walks in, "What are you doing?" "Well, he's been having trouble with the hospital food and with feeding himself, so just helping out a bit."
She looked at him, "You're just messing with her, aren't you?" and he laughed and had to look away. He'd been feeding himself, eating everything on his plate.
A friend laughed. Said, "So, he is brain damaged, near death, and he can still mess with you?"
Yup.
It's not so much the stuff the man does, and several others that I know too, but it's so infuriating to not know why. I wrote once, "Why is a question better never asked aloud." But, sheeesh, why?
Brain damage...okay. Bipolar wacky...okay. Crafty Kraut...okay. You just plain hate me...okay. You just enjoy seeing me frustrated...okay. But...GRRRRRRR...it's annoying to not know which one it is!
Oh well. So, that was a few days of not having time with my new toy.
I was not the best to live with.
So. I have time finally. I download apps. I am scanning hand lotion barcodes and putting it in my shopping list app. I'm playing sleuth in some whodunnit game. I start getting "Memory is Low" messages. Huh?
Well....who knew?
Turns out my phone has crappy internal memory. Shoot! If I get another model, I may have to give up my 25 buck a month plan, nooooo!!!!
Well, web search is our friend. I see there is something called Rooting and it isn't what pigs do with truffles. Not to be confused with Rootching, which is what the Amish say when you squiggle in your seat and annoy them.
No, it means you take control of that doggie and you can get rid of silly Apps, like Virgin Mobile Radio. Wow, that app was an excersize in annoying! I guess I am just not happening enough, because that music had me wanting to take a hammer and make it beg for mercy.
Okay, I start researching how to Root an LG Optimus. I got an Optimus because I felt so Optimistic, get it? Well, that and I didn't think the other real choice, a Motorola, would fit in all my cool cell phone cases.
I am by far not a geek. My geek friends got e mails from me that they smartly ignored. I figured out how to root the phone. The first wave of that journey literally made my brain hurt. People just love throwing terms around and sounding cool. I spent so much time on Google looking up wacky terms that led to other wacky terms.
Gave up and went to Ebay as a joke, and actually found for two bucks a program that rooted my phone and no wacky terms!
Great!
Then needed to figure out how to partition the SD card. Wacky terms. Noooo!!!! It sounds like it should be so easy. Somewhere in there the computer stopped recognizing the phone so they aren't on speaking terms any more. Tried a lot of things to fix that and just give up.
Found a program to partition SD cards and hard drives and tangled hair. Did what the guy on the forum who uses a whole lot of wacky words said to do.
It all worked! Loaded up movies, and games and pictures and ringtones and music, music, music, and addresses and apps and still had internal memory galore!
But, the guy said to make the one partition small, and that was the only partition anyone recognized. So, had a 16 Gig card, and can only use 2 gig of it and that happy program won't let me change the partition size and okay, back up the card, I have another one....I can have this done in an hour and actually get some sleep and....
Back up card, back up files on the computer too, I don't know, color me stupid...I lost everything. Had to start over. All the way over.
Then find out my second SD card has brain damage and works sometimes but not others and doesn't really care about my feelings in this at all.
Well, somewhere in all this, thought the problem was that the phone was rooted, so set it back to factory settings which got rid of most of the programs I wanted to get rid of....by stupid Virgin Radio....so okay....spent hours getting everything back there again. Now the memory is running low and there are programs I wish I could swap onto the SD card and can't now and did I mention I love new toys?
I think my next new toy is going to be a sledge hammer.
But, what the heck. I can sit in waiting rooms now and watch "The Nightmare Before Christmas" or read a book. Sort of back to a normal life now...but...maybe...I should...just....root the thing...once and for...all.......
Sheesh.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Santa
An article in Mamapedia started my day. A little boy had discovered mom's stash of stocking stuffers, and should the mom then just let it out of the bag once and for all that Santa is not real.
I flashed to myself, a little girl, probably about five. We went down, from Ottawa, to visit my grandparents in Arlington, VA.
I snuck into the living room early Christmas morning and found sticks in my Grandpa Dinny's stocking! I was heartbroken and quickly switched the sticks with what was in my stocking.
I also noticed a piece of red flannel in the fireplace.
Later, Grandma Dinny told me, in a big gasp, that Santa must have ripped his pants. "Oh" she said dramatically, "Mrs. Santa is going to whip Santa with a switch and make him sleep in the woodshed!"
I was horrified, poor Santa living like that. No wonder he was mean enough to put sticks in sweet Grandpa's stocking!
The next year, back in Ottawa, we were walking to a store and Santa happened to be standing outside.
We ran to hear him, joined the circle around him. He was saying, "Oh, and last year, I ripped my britches! Mrs. Claus whipped my backside and made me sleep in the woodshed!"
Horrified, I managed to find the courage to tell him, "That was my house!"
Years later, my mother would laugh and say you should have seen his face. And she always swore she hadn't set it up.
To me, I feel lucky. I have teenage sons and I still tell them Santa is real. Oh, not the sneak around and pretend he shops at Walmart Santa. The real one.
I am lucky. I am so lucky to have a God that knows I am dense and leaves me no room to doubt. And I have Santa smiling, laughing, loving and always hearing, having fun in my life.
Every year I ask Santa for a little something. I never tell anyone else. Every year Santa gets it to me through someone, somehow.
The strongest example was one year, my boys were babies. I asked for a foot stool. I said I didn't care what it looked like. (I know the poor guy is very busy!) And I wanted a pet, but I wasn't sure with two young babies, that I was ready for the added responsibility. I'd leave that up to him.
That year too, a week or so before, I was shopping. I admit, now and then I hear voices. Luckily, they tell me good things so I'm not going to take drugs to make it stop. This one was a family friend. Frank.
He was more my sister in law's friend. He died in a sky diving accident. He had a wicked sense of humor and loved Heidi fiercely.
He spoke to me that day and told me I had to go to Phar Mor pharmacy. I really didn't feel like it, but he insisted.
I went in, he told me to go back to the book section. He made me get a Christmas collection by Maeve Beachey called "This Year Will Be Different" and it had a cozy fireplace glowing on the front, beautiful, big fire.
"It's for Mary." He said.
Okay. Mary is my mother in law. He loved messing with her.
I get home. The phone is ringing. It is Mary, choked up. She shared a duplex with my brother in law and his wife. The house had caught on fire. There had been a lot of damage.
I looked down at the bag I was holding, the fire, This Year Will Be Different, and I could hear Frank howling with laughter in my head.
So, Christmas comes. Paul and Julie and Nana (Mary) were in an apartment temporarily. The house had been that damaged.
They, sort of as a joke, left the presents charred and smoke damaged.
They owned a second hand store. They had been collecting all the match box cars that wandered through all year. There was a huge garbage bag full. The boys were thrilled!
They didn't notice many were melted, smoke damaged. Later, they would be in the store saying, "Wow, that car sort of looks like the one we have, but ours is browner."
We had so many cars, and potty training was so not popular, I used to bribe them. You should see the looks I got in public restrooms. "Momma! I pooped and I peed, do I get a car AND a truck?"
Oh well. Sure beat diapers.
So, in front of me is a large trash bag with a bow and a box.
I open the trash bag. There is no way to fully describe what sat before me. Golden legs, three, charred and burnt, leading up to a smokey, dusty clear plastic top with the ugliest plastic flowers, some melted, lying as on a battlefield.
"You said you didn't care what it looked like!" this joyous voice chortled in my head and had a great, long, belly laugh.
"Gee, thanks?" Trying to plot, is there any way to get even with Santa Claus?
Then the box. I open it. It is a plain, brown box. I'm afraid. I open it. It is a picture of someone holding a cat with "Bootsie" written underneath. Bootsie?
I pull out the picture, and there is a clear, plastic pouch with gray powder. I just stare. Julie chimes in, "It's a cremated cat. Paul gave you a cremated cat for Christmas."
My words came back to me...not sure...not sure I was ready for the...responsibility.....I look down at Bootsie...how many people get cremated cats for Christmas? Other than a dusting a few times a year, I can't say Bootsie was any trouble at all.
I used to laugh, imagine going to the vet with Bootsie, not even sure what sex the darned critter was...and saying, "What do you mean, he's...deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeead????????" bursting into tears.
Bootsie liked the back room, and I could hear him her it purring at me when I did laundry.
A minister at a church where I sang was fascinated. "How much does a cremated cat weigh?" "Can you see any teeth?"
When he was leaving to go to another church, I brought Bootsie in at his farewell service. He lit up, seeing me coming up the aisle, box in hand. His wife, guess she'd heard stories, was a southern belle and started in "Oh no, you are NOT!"
I hadn't really meant to pass the Boots, but I just had to, given the moment.
So, Bootsie is somewhere further south, hopefully still purring when people do laundry.
And to me, I don't care what anyone says ever, Santa will always be very, very real.
I flashed to myself, a little girl, probably about five. We went down, from Ottawa, to visit my grandparents in Arlington, VA.
I snuck into the living room early Christmas morning and found sticks in my Grandpa Dinny's stocking! I was heartbroken and quickly switched the sticks with what was in my stocking.
I also noticed a piece of red flannel in the fireplace.
Later, Grandma Dinny told me, in a big gasp, that Santa must have ripped his pants. "Oh" she said dramatically, "Mrs. Santa is going to whip Santa with a switch and make him sleep in the woodshed!"
I was horrified, poor Santa living like that. No wonder he was mean enough to put sticks in sweet Grandpa's stocking!
The next year, back in Ottawa, we were walking to a store and Santa happened to be standing outside.
We ran to hear him, joined the circle around him. He was saying, "Oh, and last year, I ripped my britches! Mrs. Claus whipped my backside and made me sleep in the woodshed!"
Horrified, I managed to find the courage to tell him, "That was my house!"
Years later, my mother would laugh and say you should have seen his face. And she always swore she hadn't set it up.
To me, I feel lucky. I have teenage sons and I still tell them Santa is real. Oh, not the sneak around and pretend he shops at Walmart Santa. The real one.
I am lucky. I am so lucky to have a God that knows I am dense and leaves me no room to doubt. And I have Santa smiling, laughing, loving and always hearing, having fun in my life.
Every year I ask Santa for a little something. I never tell anyone else. Every year Santa gets it to me through someone, somehow.
The strongest example was one year, my boys were babies. I asked for a foot stool. I said I didn't care what it looked like. (I know the poor guy is very busy!) And I wanted a pet, but I wasn't sure with two young babies, that I was ready for the added responsibility. I'd leave that up to him.
That year too, a week or so before, I was shopping. I admit, now and then I hear voices. Luckily, they tell me good things so I'm not going to take drugs to make it stop. This one was a family friend. Frank.
He was more my sister in law's friend. He died in a sky diving accident. He had a wicked sense of humor and loved Heidi fiercely.
He spoke to me that day and told me I had to go to Phar Mor pharmacy. I really didn't feel like it, but he insisted.
I went in, he told me to go back to the book section. He made me get a Christmas collection by Maeve Beachey called "This Year Will Be Different" and it had a cozy fireplace glowing on the front, beautiful, big fire.
"It's for Mary." He said.
Okay. Mary is my mother in law. He loved messing with her.
I get home. The phone is ringing. It is Mary, choked up. She shared a duplex with my brother in law and his wife. The house had caught on fire. There had been a lot of damage.
I looked down at the bag I was holding, the fire, This Year Will Be Different, and I could hear Frank howling with laughter in my head.
So, Christmas comes. Paul and Julie and Nana (Mary) were in an apartment temporarily. The house had been that damaged.
They, sort of as a joke, left the presents charred and smoke damaged.
They owned a second hand store. They had been collecting all the match box cars that wandered through all year. There was a huge garbage bag full. The boys were thrilled!
They didn't notice many were melted, smoke damaged. Later, they would be in the store saying, "Wow, that car sort of looks like the one we have, but ours is browner."
We had so many cars, and potty training was so not popular, I used to bribe them. You should see the looks I got in public restrooms. "Momma! I pooped and I peed, do I get a car AND a truck?"
Oh well. Sure beat diapers.
So, in front of me is a large trash bag with a bow and a box.
I open the trash bag. There is no way to fully describe what sat before me. Golden legs, three, charred and burnt, leading up to a smokey, dusty clear plastic top with the ugliest plastic flowers, some melted, lying as on a battlefield.
"You said you didn't care what it looked like!" this joyous voice chortled in my head and had a great, long, belly laugh.
"Gee, thanks?" Trying to plot, is there any way to get even with Santa Claus?
Then the box. I open it. It is a plain, brown box. I'm afraid. I open it. It is a picture of someone holding a cat with "Bootsie" written underneath. Bootsie?
I pull out the picture, and there is a clear, plastic pouch with gray powder. I just stare. Julie chimes in, "It's a cremated cat. Paul gave you a cremated cat for Christmas."
My words came back to me...not sure...not sure I was ready for the...responsibility.....I look down at Bootsie...how many people get cremated cats for Christmas? Other than a dusting a few times a year, I can't say Bootsie was any trouble at all.
I used to laugh, imagine going to the vet with Bootsie, not even sure what sex the darned critter was...and saying, "What do you mean, he's...deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeead????????" bursting into tears.
Bootsie liked the back room, and I could hear him her it purring at me when I did laundry.
A minister at a church where I sang was fascinated. "How much does a cremated cat weigh?" "Can you see any teeth?"
When he was leaving to go to another church, I brought Bootsie in at his farewell service. He lit up, seeing me coming up the aisle, box in hand. His wife, guess she'd heard stories, was a southern belle and started in "Oh no, you are NOT!"
I hadn't really meant to pass the Boots, but I just had to, given the moment.
So, Bootsie is somewhere further south, hopefully still purring when people do laundry.
And to me, I don't care what anyone says ever, Santa will always be very, very real.
When I Miss You
I miss you in little moments
the breath
between to and do.
I breathe in your energy
your sweetness
feel your smile next to me
and know
there is nothing better on this earth than to be loved.
silly jokes
a smile dancing in empty air
self aware
willing to share.
tears, something said years ago,
if I were driving to you in the night
billboards would line
sweet
sensitive
soul
and the end,
a psycho hotel,
but this landing
would be funny,
warm,
the kind of crazy that taps your toes
and proves
laughter is always
always
bigger than life.
Your sweet smile
dances my heart
please know I call on it
often
so ridiculously often
when you are away.
Friday, November 25, 2011
It's Black Friday
2011. My inbox on yahoo must have sixty messages, shop here,
find the best deals here. One day only. No, wait, TWO days only.
I have to admit, I have a 'thing' now about Black Friday. I'm in my fifties. That means I have to say things like "See! This is what's wrong with America!"
But, I'm sorry, it is. We take a day that is about gratitude, (that's Thanksgiving, by the way), and focusing on family, friends, abundance, and then top it off with commercial madness.
How can anyone focus on all there is to be grateful for when they are knowing they have to be out at midnight, standing out in the cold, to get that Asus Tablet for a hundred bucks off?
How can you sit back, relax, look around, and just feel the awe at all there is for you in this life when every commercial is about all you can save if you just bust your tail a bit more?
I admit, I sat here last night and saw a commercial that said if you go to their store at midnight you get this way cool camera. I looked at the clock and I could just make it. I thought that would be funny, all the spouting I did yesterday about people and their shopping madness to have the boys wake up and I show them a camera I got as a doobie prize for standing outside.
I stood outside last night and felt the quiet, listened to the stream, looked up at the beautiful sky through the trees. No one even offered to give me a camera. But, that's okay. Until I am sucking pudding through a straw and forgetting my kids' names, I'll remember.
This morning, I was so grateful to see an e mail from the Chopra Center saying, "Don't let black Friday get you down!" I was almost in tears! They understand!! Soothe my disconcerted soul, silly Indian man!
I clicked it and it was about skip the mall frenzy, buy our meditation packages for cheap.
They didn't understand. But, that's okay. I do.
I had the best Thanksgiving of my life. I am healing from congestive heart failure. Long story. Stay away from Actos, if all those law commercials don't convince you, take it from me. A year plus of walking up the stairs left me winded and scared. All because of one stupid pill. Now, sadly taking drugs, but grateful for those happy pills, I cooked for seven plus hours and other than noisy feet, could have cooked for more.
("I could have cooked all night...." )
I kept thinking about "What is a feast?" and it made me so happy.
A feast...celebrate...what to celebrate...I celebrate my sons. I celebrate that I am fifty and now I know family can be a good word.
I celebrate I have created, with them, a nest where I am safe. Where I am not criticized, belittled, afraid, but I can say how I feel, I can crawl in and point to the outside world and find comfort, peace. I can ride in the wind with two amazing people and yell WAHOO!!!
If that's not a gift, well, it is a gift. It's the greatest gift there is.
I celebrated having work that I'd go insane not doing. Last year, we had a blizzard and no one could get here for a whole week. No teaching voice! I ended up teaching the family dog to sing "If you're happy and you know it, bark real loud..woof woof" and "How much is that doggie in the window? woof woof"
She got it too, only barked on her lines. She started to get excited and barked on mine. I stopped and I said, "Sweetheart, you're stepping on my lines." She kind of grumbled. But, hey, she got it.
She passed away later that winter. But, boy, she was a miracle dog if ever there was one.
The boys laughed at me singing with Sheba. They said, "Mom, most people can take a week off of work."
I'm so grateful to earn my keep by doing my favorite thing with this line up of one amazing person after another. I feel like I am watching a parade on teaching days. Everyone so different, everyone so much fun, touching. Then we get to explore music. That thing that saved my life. That thing I will never understand but always love with all my heart.
And, as cliche as it may be, boy do I celebrate having a wonderful circle of friends.
A feast! We humanoids have been feasting since the dawn of humankind. People feasted to honor Jesus, people feasted to honor coming to this wonderful land. Now we feast to be stoked up to go to the mall? I don't think so. Not us wolfies. We feasted for all the right reasons. ha ha We feasted because life is so darned good, it deserved a special day just to say thanks to it.
And feast we did. Pineapple glazed yams, malt marinated turkey, wow, the best ever, stuffing with leeks, bacon and mushrooms. We went around the table, praying, thanking God for things in our lives.
Of all the good food, good laughs, nothing will ever top hearing my youngest say, in a choked voice, that he is grateful for me, that he doesn't know how he would have made it without me.
Feeling is mutual, dude.
2011. My inbox on yahoo must have sixty messages, shop here,
find the best deals here. One day only. No, wait, TWO days only.
I have to admit, I have a 'thing' now about Black Friday. I'm in my fifties. That means I have to say things like "See! This is what's wrong with America!"
But, I'm sorry, it is. We take a day that is about gratitude, (that's Thanksgiving, by the way), and focusing on family, friends, abundance, and then top it off with commercial madness.
How can anyone focus on all there is to be grateful for when they are knowing they have to be out at midnight, standing out in the cold, to get that Asus Tablet for a hundred bucks off?
How can you sit back, relax, look around, and just feel the awe at all there is for you in this life when every commercial is about all you can save if you just bust your tail a bit more?
I admit, I sat here last night and saw a commercial that said if you go to their store at midnight you get this way cool camera. I looked at the clock and I could just make it. I thought that would be funny, all the spouting I did yesterday about people and their shopping madness to have the boys wake up and I show them a camera I got as a doobie prize for standing outside.
I stood outside last night and felt the quiet, listened to the stream, looked up at the beautiful sky through the trees. No one even offered to give me a camera. But, that's okay. Until I am sucking pudding through a straw and forgetting my kids' names, I'll remember.
This morning, I was so grateful to see an e mail from the Chopra Center saying, "Don't let black Friday get you down!" I was almost in tears! They understand!! Soothe my disconcerted soul, silly Indian man!
I clicked it and it was about skip the mall frenzy, buy our meditation packages for cheap.
They didn't understand. But, that's okay. I do.
I had the best Thanksgiving of my life. I am healing from congestive heart failure. Long story. Stay away from Actos, if all those law commercials don't convince you, take it from me. A year plus of walking up the stairs left me winded and scared. All because of one stupid pill. Now, sadly taking drugs, but grateful for those happy pills, I cooked for seven plus hours and other than noisy feet, could have cooked for more.
("I could have cooked all night...." )
I kept thinking about "What is a feast?" and it made me so happy.
A feast...celebrate...what to celebrate...I celebrate my sons. I celebrate that I am fifty and now I know family can be a good word.
I celebrate I have created, with them, a nest where I am safe. Where I am not criticized, belittled, afraid, but I can say how I feel, I can crawl in and point to the outside world and find comfort, peace. I can ride in the wind with two amazing people and yell WAHOO!!!
If that's not a gift, well, it is a gift. It's the greatest gift there is.
I celebrated having work that I'd go insane not doing. Last year, we had a blizzard and no one could get here for a whole week. No teaching voice! I ended up teaching the family dog to sing "If you're happy and you know it, bark real loud..woof woof" and "How much is that doggie in the window? woof woof"
She got it too, only barked on her lines. She started to get excited and barked on mine. I stopped and I said, "Sweetheart, you're stepping on my lines." She kind of grumbled. But, hey, she got it.
She passed away later that winter. But, boy, she was a miracle dog if ever there was one.
The boys laughed at me singing with Sheba. They said, "Mom, most people can take a week off of work."
I'm so grateful to earn my keep by doing my favorite thing with this line up of one amazing person after another. I feel like I am watching a parade on teaching days. Everyone so different, everyone so much fun, touching. Then we get to explore music. That thing that saved my life. That thing I will never understand but always love with all my heart.
And, as cliche as it may be, boy do I celebrate having a wonderful circle of friends.
A feast! We humanoids have been feasting since the dawn of humankind. People feasted to honor Jesus, people feasted to honor coming to this wonderful land. Now we feast to be stoked up to go to the mall? I don't think so. Not us wolfies. We feasted for all the right reasons. ha ha We feasted because life is so darned good, it deserved a special day just to say thanks to it.
And feast we did. Pineapple glazed yams, malt marinated turkey, wow, the best ever, stuffing with leeks, bacon and mushrooms. We went around the table, praying, thanking God for things in our lives.
Of all the good food, good laughs, nothing will ever top hearing my youngest say, in a choked voice, that he is grateful for me, that he doesn't know how he would have made it without me.
Feeling is mutual, dude.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Silly Billy
Got this email I was planning to have fun laughing at, all this loopy
chat with the aliens stuff...but read it in the wee hours, and it got
my attention somewhat. This one guy is from the Andes talking at
their 11 11 11 fest. He seemed pretty credible.
I asked the aliens if they were around to come say hi. I'll let you
know. Hope they are the nice ones. hahahhahahaha Have to admit, I'm a
bit afraid to pop outside now.
Had a friend in college, Billy Morgenstern. He did one acid trip too
many, and got obsessed with aliens and other things. Like, he ran up
to this poor woman shopping with a toddler and grabbed the milk out of
her hand and said, "You can't drink that, it's radioactive!"
The toddler was impressed.
Well, we all were.
And he would go sit on this one hill and wait for the aliens. I used
to go out when it was bad weather with a note in a baggie.."Dear
Aliens, Billie is in apartment 1 B." and then he'd come in.
Now, this was Baltimore.
I'm telling a good friend Bill about this guy. He stops me..."What was his name?"
He describes him to me. Very distinctive (cute) guy.
Bill, in Ephrata, knows Billy from Baltimore!!! hahahhahaha
They met at the local metaphysical bookstore here in York.
Billy was at a lecture a few weeks prior and Bill was there, a snooty
friend had gone with Bill. She was across the room.
Billy starts whispering to Bill during the lecture.
He'd made a clay pot, his first one. He mailed it to President Bush as a
present.
President Bush didn't have time to respond. His assistant wrote to Billy and
thanked him and said that whenever Bush waved his hand, he was saying
thank you to Billy.
Billy said, "And I saw him on tv today, and he waved one hand, then
the other. That was a secret message to me. It said "Thank you,
Billie." "Very much."
Bill is howling, rolling on the floor pounding in the middle of this
poor guy's lecture and his "friend" was absolutely furious with him.
Sheeeeesh!!!
Small world.
Monday, November 21, 2011
A Real Musician is Born
Meet AnnaGrace.
Eight year old spitfire. Blonde hair, blue eyes full of adventure.
When she was a toddler she would ride the family dog like it was a horse through the woods over to her neighbor's house. Her mother would have to search high and low.
Now she rides horses. Every week I get to hear another adventure. Her eyes ablaze, this little dynamo sputtering with excitement over a bonfire, a dance, a horse show.
She had talked about a boy the week before. The next week she came in. She practically burst, "I wrote my first song!"
I smiled. I was sure it was going to be about Billy and his lunch tray.
This epitome of girlish innocence stands like a rooster at dawn and spouts out
"Pirate walk the plank.
Into the shark's mouth.
Then you will be dead."
I howled with laughter. It was just so good! The tune was simple. We figured it out on the piano and sang it together. I showed her how to change keys. She found "pirates" and we acted it out.
It became the studio theme song. Someone will say, "I can't decide what to sing..." and I'll start tapping the keys..."Pirate walk the..."
"NOT THAT!". Oh well. Worth a shot.
I introduced AnnaGrace to the next student one evening and said, "This is the girl that wrote Pirate Walk the Plank."
After she left, my next singer stood in awe and said, "I feel like I just met someone famous."
AnnaGrace studies guitar. She was studying with another student/friend. It was hard for her dad to find a way to get over there, so the lessons fizzled.
She loved to take one of my guitars and she'd just play random notes and sing and say, "Wait, I almost have it!" or just be happy with the song she'd found.
Lately, she's been asking me to teach her guitar too. So, last week, she brought in her beautiful small six string.
She showed me she could play a G chord. I got out her favorite song, and showed her there were G chords in it. So, we decided to play and sing together. When it was time, I'd yell out G and she'd pipe in with her guitar.
I have never seen her so focused. She kept bringing her copy of the music over and saying, "So, let me get this straight. First we do this line and it goes this way. Then we drop down here. I play here then you play here, got it?"
The song was "All The Pretty Horses" a lullaby. She decided to change the wording so it was "All the pretty ponies" because a big horse might be too much for a tiny baby.
"Hush a bye, don't you cry, go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake you shall have all the pretty little ponies."
"Now", she said, "What on earth does a baby need with ALL the ponies? " "I think he would be happy with just one. Oh well."
And off we'd go.
We played the song over and over, laughing.
At the end, she put her guitar down and said, "Wow, NOW I'm a real musician."
Hello world. Meet AnnaGrace. A real musician if ever there was one.
Eight year old spitfire. Blonde hair, blue eyes full of adventure.
When she was a toddler she would ride the family dog like it was a horse through the woods over to her neighbor's house. Her mother would have to search high and low.
Now she rides horses. Every week I get to hear another adventure. Her eyes ablaze, this little dynamo sputtering with excitement over a bonfire, a dance, a horse show.
She had talked about a boy the week before. The next week she came in. She practically burst, "I wrote my first song!"
I smiled. I was sure it was going to be about Billy and his lunch tray.
This epitome of girlish innocence stands like a rooster at dawn and spouts out
"Pirate walk the plank.
Into the shark's mouth.
Then you will be dead."
I howled with laughter. It was just so good! The tune was simple. We figured it out on the piano and sang it together. I showed her how to change keys. She found "pirates" and we acted it out.
It became the studio theme song. Someone will say, "I can't decide what to sing..." and I'll start tapping the keys..."Pirate walk the..."
"NOT THAT!". Oh well. Worth a shot.
I introduced AnnaGrace to the next student one evening and said, "This is the girl that wrote Pirate Walk the Plank."
After she left, my next singer stood in awe and said, "I feel like I just met someone famous."
AnnaGrace studies guitar. She was studying with another student/friend. It was hard for her dad to find a way to get over there, so the lessons fizzled.
She loved to take one of my guitars and she'd just play random notes and sing and say, "Wait, I almost have it!" or just be happy with the song she'd found.
Lately, she's been asking me to teach her guitar too. So, last week, she brought in her beautiful small six string.
She showed me she could play a G chord. I got out her favorite song, and showed her there were G chords in it. So, we decided to play and sing together. When it was time, I'd yell out G and she'd pipe in with her guitar.
I have never seen her so focused. She kept bringing her copy of the music over and saying, "So, let me get this straight. First we do this line and it goes this way. Then we drop down here. I play here then you play here, got it?"
The song was "All The Pretty Horses" a lullaby. She decided to change the wording so it was "All the pretty ponies" because a big horse might be too much for a tiny baby.
"Hush a bye, don't you cry, go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake you shall have all the pretty little ponies."
"Now", she said, "What on earth does a baby need with ALL the ponies? " "I think he would be happy with just one. Oh well."
And off we'd go.
We played the song over and over, laughing.
At the end, she put her guitar down and said, "Wow, NOW I'm a real musician."
Hello world. Meet AnnaGrace. A real musician if ever there was one.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
What I Want For My Birthday
I wrote this poem about Don Arenth. A world class architect, a singer, funny as heck, my voice teacher's lover and a dear friend.
I thought of it tonight, because Thanksgiving is coming. This year, I can also be thankful for my voice teacher, Mr. Petrich. He was so kind to me, and was very generous to wasband and myself in his will.
I am humbled, touched, and miss him. Humbled because we lost touch with each other, and it was my fault. But, he remembered me anyway. That's just like him.
Big, German man, imposing with a wicked grin.
Don...he was powerful, gentle, bigger than life. He made everything feel like a party, more than a party.
We would go to Mr. P's house for Thanksgiving. An amazing feast, German...who knew the Germans could cook turkey? Mr. P would cook everything, and it was amazing.
One year, we go over. We are sitting at the table, and Mr. P. is telling us about a student who annoyed him. He called him on Thanksgiving day to ask him a musical question. Mr. P. was furious.
Don said, "Yeah, I walked in, and here was Fred, fist f*cking the turkey."
That's Don.
Don contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion after a near fatal motorcycle accident.
I would go visit him in the hospital. We'd read a favorite book together, "Towards Serenity and the Resolution of Grief" by Rusty Berkus. It's a beautiful story book, with pictures. Each page had a simple sentence or two. A favorite of mine was "Weep what you must weep. Not only for this loss, but for all other losses you have sustained in this life."
We'd stop on a page and talk. Deep, beautiful talks, with tears, laughter, deep love. Don would take my hand and say, "Everyone is afraid to talk to me about what is happening. Thank you."
I would have walked across hot coals for that man. One night we said it felt like a holiday, what could it be...and somehow ended up as National Beet Day. Everything else seemed to be taken. So, I made him a card.
I went and got him some sod from my favorite park, so he could feel grass in his fingertips, and we made a mini park for beside his bed.
Don, Mr. P., you are on the same plane again, and I can feel your smiles. Thank you for all you are, all you have been.
The world was so lucky to know you.
I thought of it tonight, because Thanksgiving is coming. This year, I can also be thankful for my voice teacher, Mr. Petrich. He was so kind to me, and was very generous to wasband and myself in his will.
I am humbled, touched, and miss him. Humbled because we lost touch with each other, and it was my fault. But, he remembered me anyway. That's just like him.
Big, German man, imposing with a wicked grin.
Don...he was powerful, gentle, bigger than life. He made everything feel like a party, more than a party.
We would go to Mr. P's house for Thanksgiving. An amazing feast, German...who knew the Germans could cook turkey? Mr. P would cook everything, and it was amazing.
One year, we go over. We are sitting at the table, and Mr. P. is telling us about a student who annoyed him. He called him on Thanksgiving day to ask him a musical question. Mr. P. was furious.
Don said, "Yeah, I walked in, and here was Fred, fist f*cking the turkey."
That's Don.
Don contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion after a near fatal motorcycle accident.
I would go visit him in the hospital. We'd read a favorite book together, "Towards Serenity and the Resolution of Grief" by Rusty Berkus. It's a beautiful story book, with pictures. Each page had a simple sentence or two. A favorite of mine was "Weep what you must weep. Not only for this loss, but for all other losses you have sustained in this life."
We'd stop on a page and talk. Deep, beautiful talks, with tears, laughter, deep love. Don would take my hand and say, "Everyone is afraid to talk to me about what is happening. Thank you."
I would have walked across hot coals for that man. One night we said it felt like a holiday, what could it be...and somehow ended up as National Beet Day. Everything else seemed to be taken. So, I made him a card.
I went and got him some sod from my favorite park, so he could feel grass in his fingertips, and we made a mini park for beside his bed.
Don, Mr. P., you are on the same plane again, and I can feel your smiles. Thank you for all you are, all you have been.
The world was so lucky to know you.
What I want for my birthday
This time last year
you were dying.
Big eyes, whiskers like a muskrat,
a King with loving subjects.
We watched your breath like soldiers at campfire.
Last year, all I wanted
for my birthday
was to see your smile.
To know you knew,
to talk,
maybe for the last time again.
But you slept,
and I sat in a smokey waiting room
listening to dying people complain about food.
Birthday was so empty.
Christmas, New Years, National Beet Day,
empty-
filled with diapers and tubes
and icewater
-My mind when I was away
filled with when I could get back
My mind when I was there
filled with when I could get back.
Your hands patting mine-
we had the best talks those days
and how you worked to have them
how you worked to laugh, cry,
resolve, question
You were bigger than life,
a grand orchestrator,
and you were bigger than death
that slow acid bastard-
your room four concrete walls,
(Oh the rich colors You would paint them)
calling me to know more about God,
wishing I could see the Angels around you,
wishing you could see my park,
wishing we had been this close every day
not just at the end.
You must still be in that room.
Floating, detached...remembering
agonies of tubes and respirators
legs that won't work.
Your honesty, beauty, majesty
it can't be taken from this world.
It can't be made all gone like a glass of milk.
You must still be there-
mad that I haven't come.
And this year, you will wake up
to wish me Happy Birthday.
you were dying.
Big eyes, whiskers like a muskrat,
a King with loving subjects.
We watched your breath like soldiers at campfire.
Last year, all I wanted
for my birthday
was to see your smile.
To know you knew,
to talk,
maybe for the last time again.
But you slept,
and I sat in a smokey waiting room
listening to dying people complain about food.
Birthday was so empty.
Christmas, New Years, National Beet Day,
empty-
filled with diapers and tubes
and icewater
-My mind when I was away
filled with when I could get back
My mind when I was there
filled with when I could get back.
Your hands patting mine-
we had the best talks those days
and how you worked to have them
how you worked to laugh, cry,
resolve, question
You were bigger than life,
a grand orchestrator,
and you were bigger than death
that slow acid bastard-
your room four concrete walls,
(Oh the rich colors You would paint them)
calling me to know more about God,
wishing I could see the Angels around you,
wishing you could see my park,
wishing we had been this close every day
not just at the end.
You must still be in that room.
Floating, detached...remembering
agonies of tubes and respirators
legs that won't work.
Your honesty, beauty, majesty
it can't be taken from this world.
It can't be made all gone like a glass of milk.
You must still be there-
mad that I haven't come.
And this year, you will wake up
to wish me Happy Birthday.
Matthew Edran
His smile
lights the corner of his mouth.
The drama of the darkness
zombies
eating the undead
logic
clicking out like cards
in a wheel.
"I am a dark soul.
I am not happy,
But I like being not happy."
This is his cape
his mask
a child
a child that knows
too much of the darkness
too much tumbling, tossing
too much torment
too much soul for those young bones.
But shining
never to be squelched again,
please, oh please dear God,
a smile
too shiny for a smirk.
deliciously licking out of the corner
of his mouth
his eyes,
a laugh
that runs around the earth
and comes back
with winds of Turkistan
and whispers of Tibet
I brought this smile into the world.
I serve it, search it,
humbled before it,
tending, .
Zombies claw
And darkness drips
into purple billowing galaxies.
In his hand
a deck of cards
with monsters, cunning in their craft,
imagination unleashed.
But that smile,
this child will be safe.
We are all safe
with this smile in the world.
A little light
from God’s window.
Jon Schuyler
He nearly didn’t come here,
This second son of mine.
His heart so sweet,
He’d go back to heaven itself,
rather than cause me trouble.
His hands are pudgy,
his nails hold the dirt,
and he thinks
at moments with no rhyme to them
to say
I love you,
Momma,
More than anything on earth.
Such a child is scary.
Oh God, please don’t take him back.
I know we’re here to break our hearts
and heal them,
fill the cracks with shiny glass,,
but that one,
please dear God,
never put on my plate.
Wisdom
is one thing,
and he has it in both pockets..
But that heart
that seeks and holds such goodness,
his laughing dirty hands reach out to You.
Please let me hold them for awhile.
This second son of mine.
His heart so sweet,
He’d go back to heaven itself,
rather than cause me trouble.
His hands are pudgy,
his nails hold the dirt,
and he thinks
at moments with no rhyme to them
to say
I love you,
Momma,
More than anything on earth.
Such a child is scary.
Oh God, please don’t take him back.
I know we’re here to break our hearts
and heal them,
fill the cracks with shiny glass,,
but that one,
please dear God,
never put on my plate.
Wisdom
is one thing,
and he has it in both pockets..
But that heart
that seeks and holds such goodness,
his laughing dirty hands reach out to You.
Please let me hold them for awhile.
We Gather Together
It's Sunday. The big T Day is Thursday. There is no turkey unchilling in the fridge yet. I am so not into grocery shopping at this point. There was this very kind lady on an e mail list that offered a Thanksgiving meal, the fixings, for someone on the list in need.
I thought, "My car is old. I have old clothes. I just gave Dan the handyman my turkey fund. Maybe I can pass." I wondered if needing to not shop qualified as needy.
Got an email from the wasband last night. He is going to his what the heck is she for the big day. I sat in shock. We've been divorced, oh heck, long enough to not remember most of it, and he's come here every year. Every year I got to hear how depressed he is and the same stories trying to impress the children and annoy me, and my stomach would clench, once to the point where I was physically ill. Fun. But, hey, if we didn't do it, he'd be home alone eating peanut butter and the kids would be sad, which I admit, they have hearts of gold...so what the heck. I would tell myself to buck up, he used to be fun, maybe this year..... nope.
I wrote back, "Oh, it won't be the same without you!" I hope I managed to make it sound like that was a bad thing.
This year, I get to spend it with my two favorite humanoids. We can be relaxed and just have fun. Wow. I can't remember Thanksgiving ever being relaxed and fun. Weird, funny, unreal, maybe. Fun...not so much. Relaxed, only to the alcoholics.
Growing up. My mother was a holiday Nazi. She made the most disgusting sweet potatoes ever on the entire planet. She put in a whole bottle of rum. That's it. No sweetener. Try that as a five year old. You had to say "Yum" with just the right tone or she would go into a tirade. And people pay for acting lessons.
I remember one year when I was first with Wasband o' Mine. We came to their house first. My mother had gone on and on about buying a water fountain for the dining room. It added a touch of certain je ne sais qua...class....yeah, that's it...class to the joint.
It was plastic and had some Greek honey with an urn. Mother dyed the water blue, and it cascaded over lovely, turning blue, plastic flowers.
It would have given a kitsch collector wet dreams.
So, tiny dining room, eight people around a table. Water is pouring. One person would have to get up, whole side of the table would have to move around. Person would go pee. Person would come back. Whole table would have to move around. Next person would have to get up.
Finally, in a wounded huff, my mother turned off the rainmaker.
Everyone had their assigned roles. The men had to watch golf and football. The women fussed. Wasband decided to bring some dishes into the kitchen. Poor Auntie M nearly keeled over. A man! In the kitchen!
They chuckled about that for at least ten minutes. Knee slapping fun.
Then, we left that piece of Americana, and headed over to Wasband's house.
His mom was rather fond of the sauce, and an artist. She'd been storing her paint in the oven. She forgot and turned it on. Luckily, nothing exploded. But it didn't smell so great either.
The turkey was still frozen. She'd forgotten to defrost it. She'd managed to make frozen peas black. She was there, at the table, with an electric knife, slicing off frozen turkey chunks and cooking them in an electric skillet.
She was a dignified woman, in her own unique way. I barely knew her. The conversation drifted to her disappointment in her new beau, otherwise known as Mr. Softy, and how his sexual dysfunction did not excuse him for not caring about her needs.
"Hasn't the man heard of cunninglingus?" she asked, woefully.
Her youngest son didn't bat an eye. He said, "Face it, Mom, what you need is a good fuck."
She didn't bat an eye. She said, "Yes, I believe you are right. But, I'm not going to get it with him."
I remembered thinking how this was almost Newtonian, an equal and opposite reaction in the Universe. The exact opposite from the psychotic perfection we'd just survived, to this joyous chaos. Equal and opposite.
It was so nice to be on the other side for a breather, though.
I thought, "My car is old. I have old clothes. I just gave Dan the handyman my turkey fund. Maybe I can pass." I wondered if needing to not shop qualified as needy.
Got an email from the wasband last night. He is going to his what the heck is she for the big day. I sat in shock. We've been divorced, oh heck, long enough to not remember most of it, and he's come here every year. Every year I got to hear how depressed he is and the same stories trying to impress the children and annoy me, and my stomach would clench, once to the point where I was physically ill. Fun. But, hey, if we didn't do it, he'd be home alone eating peanut butter and the kids would be sad, which I admit, they have hearts of gold...so what the heck. I would tell myself to buck up, he used to be fun, maybe this year..... nope.
I wrote back, "Oh, it won't be the same without you!" I hope I managed to make it sound like that was a bad thing.
This year, I get to spend it with my two favorite humanoids. We can be relaxed and just have fun. Wow. I can't remember Thanksgiving ever being relaxed and fun. Weird, funny, unreal, maybe. Fun...not so much. Relaxed, only to the alcoholics.
Growing up. My mother was a holiday Nazi. She made the most disgusting sweet potatoes ever on the entire planet. She put in a whole bottle of rum. That's it. No sweetener. Try that as a five year old. You had to say "Yum" with just the right tone or she would go into a tirade. And people pay for acting lessons.
I remember one year when I was first with Wasband o' Mine. We came to their house first. My mother had gone on and on about buying a water fountain for the dining room. It added a touch of certain je ne sais qua...class....yeah, that's it...class to the joint.
It was plastic and had some Greek honey with an urn. Mother dyed the water blue, and it cascaded over lovely, turning blue, plastic flowers.
It would have given a kitsch collector wet dreams.
So, tiny dining room, eight people around a table. Water is pouring. One person would have to get up, whole side of the table would have to move around. Person would go pee. Person would come back. Whole table would have to move around. Next person would have to get up.
Finally, in a wounded huff, my mother turned off the rainmaker.
Everyone had their assigned roles. The men had to watch golf and football. The women fussed. Wasband decided to bring some dishes into the kitchen. Poor Auntie M nearly keeled over. A man! In the kitchen!
They chuckled about that for at least ten minutes. Knee slapping fun.
Then, we left that piece of Americana, and headed over to Wasband's house.
His mom was rather fond of the sauce, and an artist. She'd been storing her paint in the oven. She forgot and turned it on. Luckily, nothing exploded. But it didn't smell so great either.
The turkey was still frozen. She'd forgotten to defrost it. She'd managed to make frozen peas black. She was there, at the table, with an electric knife, slicing off frozen turkey chunks and cooking them in an electric skillet.
She was a dignified woman, in her own unique way. I barely knew her. The conversation drifted to her disappointment in her new beau, otherwise known as Mr. Softy, and how his sexual dysfunction did not excuse him for not caring about her needs.
"Hasn't the man heard of cunninglingus?" she asked, woefully.
Her youngest son didn't bat an eye. He said, "Face it, Mom, what you need is a good fuck."
She didn't bat an eye. She said, "Yes, I believe you are right. But, I'm not going to get it with him."
I remembered thinking how this was almost Newtonian, an equal and opposite reaction in the Universe. The exact opposite from the psychotic perfection we'd just survived, to this joyous chaos. Equal and opposite.
It was so nice to be on the other side for a breather, though.
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