This morning my next door neighbor called. Her Irish Setter has been sick for several months, but today was the final day. She wondered, tearfully, if I could come over and help her get her beloved boy into the car to take him to the vet. I was still lounging around with my coffee in my nightgown. I hurriedly threw on some clothes and walked to her house. Another neighbor was also coming to help. The Irish Setter was lying on a rug in the living room. He could no longer stand. His rear legs had become atrophied. My neighbor said he had cried in pain all night. The consensus is that he had some sort of gastrointestinal cancer. He was a large dog, and it took all three of us to get him into the car. He was obviously uncomfortable, chattering teeth, trembling. He has always been such a sweetheart, was the first to welcome us to the neighborhood when we moved here. All three of us women had trouble holding back our tears.
Long story short, once we were at the vet's office, the doctor came out with the syringe and administered it in the back seat of the car, which was the way my neighbor had decided she wanted it done. I was holding the dog as he died, just as I held my dear sweet cat, Trouser, last year. I barely controlled my sobs. So many memories flooding back over me. I remembered that my doctor had given Trouser a shot to relax him first, before the big overdose. I held him close and spoke to him as he died.
I had another dog, our family dog, Missy. Always loyal, loved and looked after my boys, was an integral part of our family for over 12 years. She contracted a mysterious cancer that caused large tumors on her abdomen. She went through a surgery to remove them, and lived another two years. But the cancer came back with a vengeance, as it seems to do too often. She stopped eating, wouldn't come for loves and hugs anymore. The boys were in school, my ex was off in another town. We all knew, though, that Missy's end was nearing. Bravely, I carried her to the car and drove her to the vet -- all alone. I had never done such a thing before. The doctor thought it best to put her down. I began to sob uncontrollably as he took her away to a back room. I wrote the check. This was back when the banks still sent your canceled checks with your monthly statement. I barely recognized my own handwriting through the blotchy tear stains on the check I wrote that day. I did not stay with Missy, and always felt guilty for that cowardly decision. When it came Trouser's time, I decided that for his sake, so he would not be as frightened at being at the doctor and feeling so sick, that I would stay with him through to the end. It was peaceful, tragic, heartbreaking. My heart is still broken, but I am glad I was there with him.
Same thing today, with my neighbor's dog. She chose to have him put down in the backseat of the car, lying on his blanket. She already has a place picked out where she will bury him, wrapped, I assume, in that same blanket. Back at her house, she told us she didn't want anymore help, but she was thankful we had been there with her. I understand the need to do your private grieving. It is a special kind of love we have for our pets, our companions, it comes completely without strings. They give us their uncompromising devotion. It is our duty to give them the decency and respect they deserve in their infirmity and death. They just don't stay with us long enough. And as we lose them, one by one, our grief compounds exponentially, even when the loss belongs to a neighbor.
So this post is for my neighbor and her brave, sweet Seamus. He was a great dog, always greeted our car as it past his house. I loved hearing him come out in the evening, barking as he came, as if to say to all the creatures that might lurk in the dark -- "I'm here, and I'm bad, and you better watch out for me!" The first time I went into "his" house, he brought me all the toys he owned, for me to throw and him to fetch, his way of letting me know he approved of my company. We were friends. I will miss him. I feel for my neighbor and the emptiness of her house today and in the days to come. It will not be easy.
Onward....
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Friday, August 24, 2012
Remembering My Pop On His Birthday
When I was a preschooler (except nobody called us that back then, we were just kids), I stayed with my grandparents all day every day while my mom worked. I don't know when this began, but as far back as I can remember, it was the state of things. I didn't mind it, in fact, I loved it, just figured every kid stayed with their grandparents all day every day while their mom's worked. I always felt loved and welcomed by them. I remember a single incident of a spanking from my grandmother with her soft house shoe because I kept going across the street to play with some neighbors even after she told me not to. I also remember lots of rocking.
My grandfather, we called him Pop, worked all day, too, for a wholesale grocery company about three miles from their house. He would usually already be at work when my mom dropped me off, but he called mid-morning to talk to Grandmother, and almost always to me, too. Occasionally, when Mom and I were running late, she would stop at a bakery close to Grandmother and Pop's house, and get me doughnuts -- which is probably the reason I still love glazed doughnuts above almost all other sweets. These doughnuts, in my memory, were exceptionally good. They always had a little crisp bottom where they had cooled on a wire rack and where the sugar had run down and pooled. These were doughnuts with substance, not the too-soft, doughy confections you find nowadays. These old time doughnuts were just good, and I was always exited about stopping there on the way in the mornings. This would usually be the first thing I said to Pop when he called -- "Mama stopped and got me doughnuts this morning." And he would always say in reply, "Be sure you save me the hole." What he meant was the imaginary hole, the center, back in those days you didn't see fried doughnut holes like you do now. I suspect the bakeries probably put what bits would have been the holes back into the dough to be rolled out and re-cut into actual doughnuts rather than selling holes separately. I never saw doughnut holes for sale until I was an adult.
At noon, we would hear Pop's car arrive in the driveway, and I would hide behind the refrigerator to jump out at him with a "Boo!" when he came in the back door. He would tremble and shake just as if I had scared him to death, just as if we didn't go through this ritual every single solitary day, and then he would hug me and kiss me and take me on his lap for a minute. And I would present him with my empty palm and the "doughnut hole" I had saved for him. He sometimes sang, "Have I Told You Lately That I Love You." I still remember the words to that old song.
At this time, mid-1950s, Pop would have only been in his 40s, but he seemed so old to me. He always wore a white shirt and modest tie, a Silverbelly hat, lace-up wingtips. He was of that time period. He loved his family, he loved Tennessee Ernie Ford, Gunsmoke, he loved God, and was a lay Baptist preacher. In World War II he drove landing craft for the Navy in the Pacific theater. After the war, when he went to work for the grocery company, he taught himself to speak Spanish so he could talk to the men in the shipping department. He could play the French harp. He kept a roll of wintergreen Lifesavers in his desk drawer, a roll of Lifesavers I sometimes robbed when I thought he wouldn't notice. He never said a word about my thievery. He was three years younger than my grandmother, a fact which she hid from everybody all their married life. He was my Pop and I adored him then, later, and still.
After lunch (we called it dinner) was done, while Grandmother washed dishes and I colored at the kitchen table, Pop laid down to take a quick nap. He was a snorer and the walls of that wooden house would shake he snored so loud. After about twenty minutes, Grandmother would send me in to awaken him. I would open the door and say in a stage whisper, "Pop. You've got to go back to work now. It's time to wake up." And he would say, "I'm not sleeping, I'm just resting my eyes." No matter the window-rattling snores that had just ended. I think he had it in his mind that it was somehow wrong to take an actual nap in the middle of the day.
In January 1992, Pop and I met for lunch. He went to the same cafe for lunch every day, managed by one of his nephews. They all called him by his name. They showed us to his regular table. They knew he wanted sweet tea. I don't remember what we ate for our meal, but we split a piece of apple pie, and then we went back to his house. This was not the same house where I had stayed as a little girl, but was a much more modern, comfortable house that he had bought for my grandmother a few years before she died. We sat in the den and talked about my writing. We talked about history. I was surprised by how much he knew about some of the historical characters from Texas history and the Old West. He gave me a book which I still have, GUN IN POCKET, BIBLE IN HAND. We discussed religion. Pop was still giving sermons at a nursing home then, but didn't have his own church anymore. Some of his views surprised me coming from him. He was not as close-minded as some of the so-called religious people I hear spouting their rigorous ideas now. He gave me a bracelet that had belonged to my grandmother. I still have it and cherish it.
Two weeks later, Pop got up one morning to prepare himself for the day. He was in the bathroom shaving when a massive heart attack or a stroke struck him down. My aunt and uncle found him mid-morning lying on the floor. We were all in shock. I had just spent that great day with him. I'm glad we had that time.
Happy Birthday, Pop. You would be 98 years old today. I love and miss you, still.
Onward ....
My grandfather, we called him Pop, worked all day, too, for a wholesale grocery company about three miles from their house. He would usually already be at work when my mom dropped me off, but he called mid-morning to talk to Grandmother, and almost always to me, too. Occasionally, when Mom and I were running late, she would stop at a bakery close to Grandmother and Pop's house, and get me doughnuts -- which is probably the reason I still love glazed doughnuts above almost all other sweets. These doughnuts, in my memory, were exceptionally good. They always had a little crisp bottom where they had cooled on a wire rack and where the sugar had run down and pooled. These were doughnuts with substance, not the too-soft, doughy confections you find nowadays. These old time doughnuts were just good, and I was always exited about stopping there on the way in the mornings. This would usually be the first thing I said to Pop when he called -- "Mama stopped and got me doughnuts this morning." And he would always say in reply, "Be sure you save me the hole." What he meant was the imaginary hole, the center, back in those days you didn't see fried doughnut holes like you do now. I suspect the bakeries probably put what bits would have been the holes back into the dough to be rolled out and re-cut into actual doughnuts rather than selling holes separately. I never saw doughnut holes for sale until I was an adult.
At noon, we would hear Pop's car arrive in the driveway, and I would hide behind the refrigerator to jump out at him with a "Boo!" when he came in the back door. He would tremble and shake just as if I had scared him to death, just as if we didn't go through this ritual every single solitary day, and then he would hug me and kiss me and take me on his lap for a minute. And I would present him with my empty palm and the "doughnut hole" I had saved for him. He sometimes sang, "Have I Told You Lately That I Love You." I still remember the words to that old song.
At this time, mid-1950s, Pop would have only been in his 40s, but he seemed so old to me. He always wore a white shirt and modest tie, a Silverbelly hat, lace-up wingtips. He was of that time period. He loved his family, he loved Tennessee Ernie Ford, Gunsmoke, he loved God, and was a lay Baptist preacher. In World War II he drove landing craft for the Navy in the Pacific theater. After the war, when he went to work for the grocery company, he taught himself to speak Spanish so he could talk to the men in the shipping department. He could play the French harp. He kept a roll of wintergreen Lifesavers in his desk drawer, a roll of Lifesavers I sometimes robbed when I thought he wouldn't notice. He never said a word about my thievery. He was three years younger than my grandmother, a fact which she hid from everybody all their married life. He was my Pop and I adored him then, later, and still.
After lunch (we called it dinner) was done, while Grandmother washed dishes and I colored at the kitchen table, Pop laid down to take a quick nap. He was a snorer and the walls of that wooden house would shake he snored so loud. After about twenty minutes, Grandmother would send me in to awaken him. I would open the door and say in a stage whisper, "Pop. You've got to go back to work now. It's time to wake up." And he would say, "I'm not sleeping, I'm just resting my eyes." No matter the window-rattling snores that had just ended. I think he had it in his mind that it was somehow wrong to take an actual nap in the middle of the day.
In January 1992, Pop and I met for lunch. He went to the same cafe for lunch every day, managed by one of his nephews. They all called him by his name. They showed us to his regular table. They knew he wanted sweet tea. I don't remember what we ate for our meal, but we split a piece of apple pie, and then we went back to his house. This was not the same house where I had stayed as a little girl, but was a much more modern, comfortable house that he had bought for my grandmother a few years before she died. We sat in the den and talked about my writing. We talked about history. I was surprised by how much he knew about some of the historical characters from Texas history and the Old West. He gave me a book which I still have, GUN IN POCKET, BIBLE IN HAND. We discussed religion. Pop was still giving sermons at a nursing home then, but didn't have his own church anymore. Some of his views surprised me coming from him. He was not as close-minded as some of the so-called religious people I hear spouting their rigorous ideas now. He gave me a bracelet that had belonged to my grandmother. I still have it and cherish it.
Two weeks later, Pop got up one morning to prepare himself for the day. He was in the bathroom shaving when a massive heart attack or a stroke struck him down. My aunt and uncle found him mid-morning lying on the floor. We were all in shock. I had just spent that great day with him. I'm glad we had that time.
Happy Birthday, Pop. You would be 98 years old today. I love and miss you, still.
Onward ....
Sunday, August 12, 2012
COPD or I Think I'll Get Another Opinion
So, I was not getting any better from my sickness. I would have a good day, then two bad days. Or I would feel better, start trying to check off my list, and slide backwards into feeling basically like crap. So, I called a doctor. One reason I was hesitating on this is because I really love my doctor back in Texas, and since I haven't been sick since we've been up here full time, I haven't had the need of a local doctor. Didn't know who to go do. My SO went to a doctor here once last winter, so I tried calling him. Frankly, I wasn't that upset when I was told I could see THAT doctor until mid-week next week. Because, well, he's a D.O. rather than an M.D. and I have these prejudices. Anyway, they told me that the only opening they had was with their newest associate, a M.D., to the clinic, and I could see her the next morning at 11:30. Fine. I am spoiled by my Texas doctor who, when he knows you are truly sick, will work you in that afternoon. And I was obviously sick -- I could barely talk above a whisper. But they were going to make me wait until the morning. Fine....
I thought I would wake up the next morning feeling well, and call to cancel the appointment as soon as they opened. But there were some things that happened to change that plan. Namely my SO, who showed up here at 9:30 pm having driven straight through, 16 hours, from Texas just so he could be here to take me to the doctor the next morning. He had been worrying about me, and hated being so far away, and when I told him I had made the appointment, he drove like a maniac to get here to make sure I MADE that appointment. He thought I had pneumonia. He wasn't far wrong. This was the clincher -- him making that desperate drive. But the second thing that happened is that I was coughing so hard, really the hardest cough I have ever had, that I threw up. Literally. Right on the bathroom floor. Jeez! Did I need THAT to clean up. Answer -- no. But I realized that this cough is really a bugger-bear, not normal at all, or productive enough, and even my ribcage was starting to hurt from this violent cough. Maybe I had whooping cough -- I'd read where it was making a comeback. And besides all that, I really wasn't feeling good enough the next morning to call and cancel, so I let my sweetheart drive me the 26 miles into town, and I made the doctor's office.
They had a ream of papers for me to fill out that took over 30 minutes. Apparently, I gleaned from some of the questions and statements I had to sign, that there is a big narcotic drug problem in Las Vegas, NM -- ya think! Maybe that explains all the violent headlines in the local newspaper. I told the lady at the counter that I felt like I was applying for a mortgage. She said I ought to have to make all the copies once I was finished.
I liked the doctor. She was, I would say about 38, young, smart, straight-talking. She told me she believes I have COPD. What?!!!!! Aka Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. No way, I said. She said that even though I have been a non-smoker for 20 years on my last birthday, I still have lung damage. I argued that the last time I'd had a chest X-ray, right before I had the breast biopsy in 2008, the doctor had told me that I had the lungs of a person who had never smoked, that you could not tell I had smoked 10 packs of cigarettes a week for 19 years. He said that! She just smiled, gave a head shake, and went on to tell me about how COPD presents itself in these bouts of acute bronchitis, and that I was not moving good air through my lungs. She said she thinks I have about 93% of my lungs at this stage, but that there is a test that will definitively diagnose COPD and that she would like to perform that test if I would like her to in about thirty days, once the infectious bronchitis I have now is taken care of. I liked her, as I said, but I got my back up about this. I refused to believe I have COPD. I said that I was going to be seeing my doctor in Texas on the 23rd of September and I could get him to do the test. She said that would be fine, and proceeded to take down all his information so she could forward her reports to him. How presumptuous of her!
Then she said that she was going to go get prescriptions she wanted me to take to clear up this bronchitis, and left the room. I laid there with my head spinning. I cannot have COPD. That is an incurable disease that can kill you! My SO had a woman he worked for who died from it about three years ago. She'd had a lung transplant and everything. I would go to my Texas doctor and together we would just decide that I had FINALLY developed asthma. I'd had an allergy doctor tell me I was borderline asthmatic back in the 90s.
She came back in and I attacked her with questions. She explained that asthma is usually something that begins in childhood. I gave her my whole history with allergies, shots, yada, yada. She sat down and listened. I said, "Can't this be asthma, or allergies, or what do you think?" She looked clearly at me. "I think it's COPD. But we need to do that test to get a definitive diagnosis." And I'm sitting there thinking, what do you have to gain from me having COPD? Are you being paid by somebody to prescribe COPD medicine? Is this just the designer disease of the year? Is there some ulterior motive for you telling me all of this? Why do you hate me?
She explained what she wanted me to do with all the drugs she was prescribing. Prednisone to get me through this bad bout of bronchitis -- which was caused, she said, by a viral infection that went into a secondary flareup, namely bronchitis. I have taken prednisone. It makes you feel like you can conquer the world. It's what the vet gave Trouser the last three months of his life. The next thing was an antibiotic, and amoxicillian combo to kill the infection. The third, and most important she said, thing was an inhaler, combivent. If this thing really helps you, she said, it will be a step towards us looking further into the COPD. Ah-ha!! Could this be the drug she was taking payoffs on? And then she gave me a steroid nose spray -- yeah yeah, been there done that. A million times. They make my nose bleed. But I've made my prescription drug deductible. I took it from her. She said go home, throw away the cough medicine I had been taking, and to take Mucinex without the D. And all this in addition to my blood pressure and cholesterol, etc etc. I really feel like a little old lady, now, with a pill despenser so I can keep track of what all I've taken each day.
Speaking of little -- I had lost 10 pounds. The only good side effect from all this. Don't mean to be so shallow. I celebrate any effortless weight loss, ok?
So we stopped off to fill the prescriptions, and I was really fading by the time we got home. My SO made me take a nap. I laid there on the bed and my mind was still reeling, but a little slower now. I remembered way back in 2000 when I had been admitted to the hospital emergency room with a BIG infection following my hysterectomy. The staff was more worried about the lack of oxygen in my blood than they were about my reddening incision area. The kept running test, took me to nuclear medicine, drew blood. And then I thought about how I cannot seem to get acclimated to this altitude, and we are coming up on one-year of being here full time. I walk the dog and come back so winded I can't move off of the couch for thirty minutes. Just bringing the groceries in from the car down in the carport takes the air out of me so much that I have to sit down before I can unload them into the pantry or the fridge. And climbing Mount Capulin when the boys were here last year, that seriously nearly killed me. Everybody was laughing at me, but I was in super distress. I tried to laugh it off, too, but it aggravated me how they would not take my situation seriously. They just thought it was because I'm out of shape. Well, there is that, but I do have breathing problems, too. Real breathing problems. My SO is constantly asking me if I'm "whipped out." His question, asked when he hears me gasping, also makes me angry.
Why the anger? I'm not sure. Maybe because I watched my mother die from lung cancer. And my grandmother from congestive heart failure. Both of them cause breathing problems. I try to take care of myself. I am not a svelte 20 year old and I see people my age who look better than I do, but I have never been sickly, in fact, have always hated to be sick. I have always been energetic. Nothing bores me more -- usually -- that to sit on my butt in front of a television, or to just sit doing nothing. That's just not me, never has been. I have to be busy, gardening, cooking, cleaning, even reading has become harder to do over the years, and makes me wish I liked audio books more so I could read and go. I am too young to get an incurable disease! I just am! But in my heart of hearts, I think this doctor may be right.
I joined an online forum. I've been reading posts other people with COPD have written. I'm encouraged that it is something that can be managed, but I still don't want it to be ME! I really do have a doctor's appointment with my old Texas doctor when we go back at the end of September. I thought I was just going for my yearly blood check so he would refill my blood pressure and cholesterol meds. But I guess I should probably call them on Monday with this latest news, because I think this doctor I saw Friday really is going to get in touch with him if I don't, or even it I do. She didn't seem like the kind who would make idle threats. Or diagnoses, for that matter. I'm not happy about all this, but I would like to know one way or the other.
Onward ....
I thought I would wake up the next morning feeling well, and call to cancel the appointment as soon as they opened. But there were some things that happened to change that plan. Namely my SO, who showed up here at 9:30 pm having driven straight through, 16 hours, from Texas just so he could be here to take me to the doctor the next morning. He had been worrying about me, and hated being so far away, and when I told him I had made the appointment, he drove like a maniac to get here to make sure I MADE that appointment. He thought I had pneumonia. He wasn't far wrong. This was the clincher -- him making that desperate drive. But the second thing that happened is that I was coughing so hard, really the hardest cough I have ever had, that I threw up. Literally. Right on the bathroom floor. Jeez! Did I need THAT to clean up. Answer -- no. But I realized that this cough is really a bugger-bear, not normal at all, or productive enough, and even my ribcage was starting to hurt from this violent cough. Maybe I had whooping cough -- I'd read where it was making a comeback. And besides all that, I really wasn't feeling good enough the next morning to call and cancel, so I let my sweetheart drive me the 26 miles into town, and I made the doctor's office.
They had a ream of papers for me to fill out that took over 30 minutes. Apparently, I gleaned from some of the questions and statements I had to sign, that there is a big narcotic drug problem in Las Vegas, NM -- ya think! Maybe that explains all the violent headlines in the local newspaper. I told the lady at the counter that I felt like I was applying for a mortgage. She said I ought to have to make all the copies once I was finished.
I liked the doctor. She was, I would say about 38, young, smart, straight-talking. She told me she believes I have COPD. What?!!!!! Aka Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. No way, I said. She said that even though I have been a non-smoker for 20 years on my last birthday, I still have lung damage. I argued that the last time I'd had a chest X-ray, right before I had the breast biopsy in 2008, the doctor had told me that I had the lungs of a person who had never smoked, that you could not tell I had smoked 10 packs of cigarettes a week for 19 years. He said that! She just smiled, gave a head shake, and went on to tell me about how COPD presents itself in these bouts of acute bronchitis, and that I was not moving good air through my lungs. She said she thinks I have about 93% of my lungs at this stage, but that there is a test that will definitively diagnose COPD and that she would like to perform that test if I would like her to in about thirty days, once the infectious bronchitis I have now is taken care of. I liked her, as I said, but I got my back up about this. I refused to believe I have COPD. I said that I was going to be seeing my doctor in Texas on the 23rd of September and I could get him to do the test. She said that would be fine, and proceeded to take down all his information so she could forward her reports to him. How presumptuous of her!
Then she said that she was going to go get prescriptions she wanted me to take to clear up this bronchitis, and left the room. I laid there with my head spinning. I cannot have COPD. That is an incurable disease that can kill you! My SO had a woman he worked for who died from it about three years ago. She'd had a lung transplant and everything. I would go to my Texas doctor and together we would just decide that I had FINALLY developed asthma. I'd had an allergy doctor tell me I was borderline asthmatic back in the 90s.
She came back in and I attacked her with questions. She explained that asthma is usually something that begins in childhood. I gave her my whole history with allergies, shots, yada, yada. She sat down and listened. I said, "Can't this be asthma, or allergies, or what do you think?" She looked clearly at me. "I think it's COPD. But we need to do that test to get a definitive diagnosis." And I'm sitting there thinking, what do you have to gain from me having COPD? Are you being paid by somebody to prescribe COPD medicine? Is this just the designer disease of the year? Is there some ulterior motive for you telling me all of this? Why do you hate me?
She explained what she wanted me to do with all the drugs she was prescribing. Prednisone to get me through this bad bout of bronchitis -- which was caused, she said, by a viral infection that went into a secondary flareup, namely bronchitis. I have taken prednisone. It makes you feel like you can conquer the world. It's what the vet gave Trouser the last three months of his life. The next thing was an antibiotic, and amoxicillian combo to kill the infection. The third, and most important she said, thing was an inhaler, combivent. If this thing really helps you, she said, it will be a step towards us looking further into the COPD. Ah-ha!! Could this be the drug she was taking payoffs on? And then she gave me a steroid nose spray -- yeah yeah, been there done that. A million times. They make my nose bleed. But I've made my prescription drug deductible. I took it from her. She said go home, throw away the cough medicine I had been taking, and to take Mucinex without the D. And all this in addition to my blood pressure and cholesterol, etc etc. I really feel like a little old lady, now, with a pill despenser so I can keep track of what all I've taken each day.
Speaking of little -- I had lost 10 pounds. The only good side effect from all this. Don't mean to be so shallow. I celebrate any effortless weight loss, ok?
So we stopped off to fill the prescriptions, and I was really fading by the time we got home. My SO made me take a nap. I laid there on the bed and my mind was still reeling, but a little slower now. I remembered way back in 2000 when I had been admitted to the hospital emergency room with a BIG infection following my hysterectomy. The staff was more worried about the lack of oxygen in my blood than they were about my reddening incision area. The kept running test, took me to nuclear medicine, drew blood. And then I thought about how I cannot seem to get acclimated to this altitude, and we are coming up on one-year of being here full time. I walk the dog and come back so winded I can't move off of the couch for thirty minutes. Just bringing the groceries in from the car down in the carport takes the air out of me so much that I have to sit down before I can unload them into the pantry or the fridge. And climbing Mount Capulin when the boys were here last year, that seriously nearly killed me. Everybody was laughing at me, but I was in super distress. I tried to laugh it off, too, but it aggravated me how they would not take my situation seriously. They just thought it was because I'm out of shape. Well, there is that, but I do have breathing problems, too. Real breathing problems. My SO is constantly asking me if I'm "whipped out." His question, asked when he hears me gasping, also makes me angry.
Why the anger? I'm not sure. Maybe because I watched my mother die from lung cancer. And my grandmother from congestive heart failure. Both of them cause breathing problems. I try to take care of myself. I am not a svelte 20 year old and I see people my age who look better than I do, but I have never been sickly, in fact, have always hated to be sick. I have always been energetic. Nothing bores me more -- usually -- that to sit on my butt in front of a television, or to just sit doing nothing. That's just not me, never has been. I have to be busy, gardening, cooking, cleaning, even reading has become harder to do over the years, and makes me wish I liked audio books more so I could read and go. I am too young to get an incurable disease! I just am! But in my heart of hearts, I think this doctor may be right.
I joined an online forum. I've been reading posts other people with COPD have written. I'm encouraged that it is something that can be managed, but I still don't want it to be ME! I really do have a doctor's appointment with my old Texas doctor when we go back at the end of September. I thought I was just going for my yearly blood check so he would refill my blood pressure and cholesterol meds. But I guess I should probably call them on Monday with this latest news, because I think this doctor I saw Friday really is going to get in touch with him if I don't, or even it I do. She didn't seem like the kind who would make idle threats. Or diagnoses, for that matter. I'm not happy about all this, but I would like to know one way or the other.
Onward ....
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Between the Flu & the Olympics
My SO left exactly a week ago on a work-trip. I had a list of things I wanted to get done during the ten days he would be gone, articles I wanted to start or finish, returned manuscripts to get back out, the endless novel, as always, my secret cat book. Within two hours of him leaving, I knew I was getting sick. My throat had been sore since the day before, not horribly sore, but naggingly so. By mid-day last Wednesday, it was beginning to feel horribly sore. But I did finish the gardening article. It was mostly finished anyway, just needed another edit. Raced to the post office to get it off, and that was the last of my productivity.
By day two, my list was not getting done, or was getting done in slow-motion. Throat really sore now, chest heavy, head aching like a hammer. By day three, the body aches began. I had run out of all my medications, so I ran to town. Well, drove -- it's 26 miles! I picked up a few groceries while I was there. Good thing, too, because this thing -- this flu -- was about to take me down! Seriously.
I had a date with some friends for Saturday morning. We were going to the Heritage Home Tour they were having in town, tours of 8 different historical homes -- my kind of thing. I had bought the ticket. I was really looking forward to it, wished my SO was here to go, but he would not have liked this as much as me -- just wasn't the sort of historical thing he really likes to do. But alas, twas not to be. I awoke on Saturday morning feeling like a sick, thick, snorty, achy, hoarse blob of raw flesh.
I staggered to the kitchen to make coffee. The HOT coffee might help my scratchy throat. I dug out the Robitussin. I drank it straight from the bottle. I let the dog out but didn't go with her. Hell with it. Let somebody holler. All she would do anyway was go hunt chipmunks by the wood pile. I'd get back to her when I felt less dizzy. I flopped down in the chair with my coffee, turned on the television, which I never do when the SO is not here. The Olympics were on. I stared slack-jawed at the picture. Zombie-like I dialed my neighbors to tell them I would be skipping the Heritage Home Tour. My neighbor didn't recognize my voice. "You sound horrible," she said. "I feel as bad as I sound," I said. I hung up and staggered over to the let the dog back in. She spent the rest of the day out on the deck while I slumped in my lounge chair with my coffee and the Olympics.
I watched every single event that day. And the next day. And the next. By then, completely hooked. I lost my voice, so it was no good going anywhere. My head hurt most of the time. I was so medicated I would fall asleep in my chair and wake up when the cheering crowds on TV alerted me that something wonderful had just happened. I dreamed about Olympic events. I was back in junior high school doing tumbling routines, or trampoline routines. Baton twirling had become an Olympic event, and I was trying desperately to remember the fundamentals. We used to get tested on those fundamentals during try-outs. I worried about being too old for the event. But I did still fit in my twirling outfits, a real dream if there ever was one. It was kind of cool, though, almost like hallucinating but not quite. I'm pretty sure I was really asleep. I woke myself up snoring a couple of times.
So here it is a week later. I'm feeling better but I still can barely talk. I still have a nasty cough, and I tire so easily. My body is telling me to take it easy and I am, with the Olympics, and my new Mac Book Pro. But my list is still sitting here unfinished. And my sweet man will be home on Friday. Wasted alone time -- between the flu and the Olympic Games. But hell, they only come around every two years.
Onward ....
By day two, my list was not getting done, or was getting done in slow-motion. Throat really sore now, chest heavy, head aching like a hammer. By day three, the body aches began. I had run out of all my medications, so I ran to town. Well, drove -- it's 26 miles! I picked up a few groceries while I was there. Good thing, too, because this thing -- this flu -- was about to take me down! Seriously.
I had a date with some friends for Saturday morning. We were going to the Heritage Home Tour they were having in town, tours of 8 different historical homes -- my kind of thing. I had bought the ticket. I was really looking forward to it, wished my SO was here to go, but he would not have liked this as much as me -- just wasn't the sort of historical thing he really likes to do. But alas, twas not to be. I awoke on Saturday morning feeling like a sick, thick, snorty, achy, hoarse blob of raw flesh.
I staggered to the kitchen to make coffee. The HOT coffee might help my scratchy throat. I dug out the Robitussin. I drank it straight from the bottle. I let the dog out but didn't go with her. Hell with it. Let somebody holler. All she would do anyway was go hunt chipmunks by the wood pile. I'd get back to her when I felt less dizzy. I flopped down in the chair with my coffee, turned on the television, which I never do when the SO is not here. The Olympics were on. I stared slack-jawed at the picture. Zombie-like I dialed my neighbors to tell them I would be skipping the Heritage Home Tour. My neighbor didn't recognize my voice. "You sound horrible," she said. "I feel as bad as I sound," I said. I hung up and staggered over to the let the dog back in. She spent the rest of the day out on the deck while I slumped in my lounge chair with my coffee and the Olympics.
I watched every single event that day. And the next day. And the next. By then, completely hooked. I lost my voice, so it was no good going anywhere. My head hurt most of the time. I was so medicated I would fall asleep in my chair and wake up when the cheering crowds on TV alerted me that something wonderful had just happened. I dreamed about Olympic events. I was back in junior high school doing tumbling routines, or trampoline routines. Baton twirling had become an Olympic event, and I was trying desperately to remember the fundamentals. We used to get tested on those fundamentals during try-outs. I worried about being too old for the event. But I did still fit in my twirling outfits, a real dream if there ever was one. It was kind of cool, though, almost like hallucinating but not quite. I'm pretty sure I was really asleep. I woke myself up snoring a couple of times.
So here it is a week later. I'm feeling better but I still can barely talk. I still have a nasty cough, and I tire so easily. My body is telling me to take it easy and I am, with the Olympics, and my new Mac Book Pro. But my list is still sitting here unfinished. And my sweet man will be home on Friday. Wasted alone time -- between the flu and the Olympic Games. But hell, they only come around every two years.
Onward ....
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Birds, Birds and More Birds
This morning, a black-headed grosbeak, with his Barbra Streisand nose, sat on a post cap on the deck and waited for me to bring out the seed feeders. We have the hangers placed in such a way that the squirrels cannot get to them, so it took me a while to fish for the hanger. I had to use a wire with a hook bent on the end to retrieve the one the grosbeak was waiting for. Before I could even get the feeder up, he was on one of the perches. I believe he would take a sunflower out of my hand if I offered it, which I may do next time. The other evening I noticed that he, or one of the others like him, has taken up residence in one of the bluebird boxes. Not what I had intended it for, but it has been unoccupied so I guess the grosbeak has claimed squatter's rights.
As soon as the grosbeak lit, but before I could get the second feeder hung up, two white-breasted nuthatch had joined in feeding on the first one I'd put up. These are the early feeders. Next come the pygmy nuthatches and the first wave of the pine siskins. Before the morning is over, the pine siskins will have taken over both feeders, occupying every perch and fighting with each other for position. There are even some pushy males who will fly at the feeding siskins, in hopes of scaring them from their perch. If the feeding bird is shy, this tactic works, but usually, they stand their ground.
By this time, the feeders are about half empty, and the level of the seed will have dropped below the upper feeding holes. Birds will continue to perch near these holes, and I have seen the pine siskin peck at the side of the clear feeders, as if they think if they try hard enough, they can get to the seed they can plainly see. It seems to frustrate them, and I usually try to keep the level above all the feeding holes. Often a pygmy nuthatch will just go right inside the feeder to get at the seed. They are small enough to thread themselves through the feeding holes, but sometimes they can't get out. More than once, I've had to fish the feeder in with my hooked wire, and open the top to let the pygmies fly out that way. So far, we have not had one die inside the feeder, but it's a concern.
As the day wears on, the hummingbirds become more active. We have rufous and broad-tailed hummers, primarily. Neither of these are birds found in Texas, so it delights me to have them here on the nectar feeders in New Mexico. They fight constantly for control of the juice. The rufous are especially feisty, as well as especially small. They are sometimes called Lucifer, and once you see them in flight you can understand why. They are flame colored, and look like little flying orange and yellow balls of fire. They have fiery personalities as well.
One likes to perch on the eagle tip of our flag pole. From that vantage point he can watch both the feeders we have hung from the porch rafters. One of the rufous got so controlling, that I was forced to hang a third feeder around the corner by the back door, so that he could not possibly guard all three feeders at once. Now he is constantly in flight in his efforts to keep the other hummers off of his "newest" juice source. Since I added the third feeder we have been overrun with other hummingbirds. We counted twelve on one of the small porch feeders. It only had four feeding holes, so there was a constant battle going on. They chatter and divebomb each other. They like the green glass feeder the best, which I find odd, since I don't put color in my juice. I had always been of the impression they are drawn to red feeders. Not so here. Although, the other day I was wearing one of my flowery house dresses and two hummingbirds apparently mistook me for a big flower. Both seemed to want to feed on my dress.
These hummers aren't interested in the pansy blooms. I have decided pansies have probably been so hybridized that the flavor, or maybe even the nectar, has been bred out of them. I have seen the hummers pierce the tomato blossoms, and the wild penstemon in the yard seems to be another favorite. None of the flowers, however, can compare with the juice in the feeders. They go wild for it.
In the evening, just before dusk, the crows, or more correctly ravens, began to fly up the mountain to roost. All day long they fill the air with their cacophony of calls. They have one that sounds like a quacking duck. I think that must be some kind of mating call, because one was doing it on a nearby limb with a female standing beside him. After making the call for a while, he jumped on her back. Jumped on and then off, immediately. It didn't seem long enough to do any actual mating, but perhaps it was a quickie. Anyway, in the evening there seems to be one bird who calls the others up the mountain. I fancy that one being the imam yelling "Allah!" It kind of sounds like that, a call to evening prayer. They respond by the hundreds, and take a full thirty minutes to all make the flight up the mountain to their mysterious roost.
The acorn woodpeckers have not been active lately, which suits me. They disrupt everything with their rude intrusions. They get on top of the hummingbird feeders and try to stick their bills in the holes. They don't succeed but they do cause the feeder to swing violently and spill juice out onto the ground below. We try to keep it as neat as possible around here to prevent bear incursions. We take in all the feeders at night. We have done this ever since a bear got to one of the peanut butter suet feeders back in June. The bear broke through the gate we have at the top of the spiral stairway that comes onto the porch. It took one afternoon to repair the gate, so we have not put out the suet feeder since then. I have another cake of peanut butter suet in the refrigerator, but think I'll wait until bear season is over to put it out again.
We also have Stellar's Jays, a gaudy bird with a Carmen Miranda topknot. They are a quiet bird, but I imagine that they can secretly speak Spanish. Their colors are beautiful, dusky blue and black. They're big but shy, usually choosing to feed on the millet and corn the other birds throw out on the ground. They will fly at an instant if either of us steps out the door. The other birds that feed on the ground surplus are the doves and the ravens, and also a half-tame doe we have named Crazy Sally. She seems to be an outcast from the neighborhood herd that roams around here.
I like to think we live in a bird sanctuary. It often seems that way. The birds don't seem to mind it when we join them out on the deck. They seem oblivious to the dog, too, and anyway, she's too busy trying to see squirrels in the trees. It's almost like the birds know this. One pygmy nuthatch who was perched on the waterer yesterday, even let the dog touch her nose to its tail before it flew away. I have had a pygmy take seed from my hand, just a touch-and-go that lasted maybe a second.
Some of the other birds we have that occasionally make forays through the mountains are red-wing blackbirds who come by the hundreds. Also little chipping sparrows who stopped here for a few months on their migration early last spring. We have had two or three mountain bluebirds, but they never seem to stay long on this mountain. We often see them in the valley, along with the meadowlarks and magpies. I wish they could come reclaim their boxes, but maybe there's just too much competition for them here. And anyway, we really do have enough birds to watch.
Onward ....
As soon as the grosbeak lit, but before I could get the second feeder hung up, two white-breasted nuthatch had joined in feeding on the first one I'd put up. These are the early feeders. Next come the pygmy nuthatches and the first wave of the pine siskins. Before the morning is over, the pine siskins will have taken over both feeders, occupying every perch and fighting with each other for position. There are even some pushy males who will fly at the feeding siskins, in hopes of scaring them from their perch. If the feeding bird is shy, this tactic works, but usually, they stand their ground.
By this time, the feeders are about half empty, and the level of the seed will have dropped below the upper feeding holes. Birds will continue to perch near these holes, and I have seen the pine siskin peck at the side of the clear feeders, as if they think if they try hard enough, they can get to the seed they can plainly see. It seems to frustrate them, and I usually try to keep the level above all the feeding holes. Often a pygmy nuthatch will just go right inside the feeder to get at the seed. They are small enough to thread themselves through the feeding holes, but sometimes they can't get out. More than once, I've had to fish the feeder in with my hooked wire, and open the top to let the pygmies fly out that way. So far, we have not had one die inside the feeder, but it's a concern.As the day wears on, the hummingbirds become more active. We have rufous and broad-tailed hummers, primarily. Neither of these are birds found in Texas, so it delights me to have them here on the nectar feeders in New Mexico. They fight constantly for control of the juice. The rufous are especially feisty, as well as especially small. They are sometimes called Lucifer, and once you see them in flight you can understand why. They are flame colored, and look like little flying orange and yellow balls of fire. They have fiery personalities as well.
One likes to perch on the eagle tip of our flag pole. From that vantage point he can watch both the feeders we have hung from the porch rafters. One of the rufous got so controlling, that I was forced to hang a third feeder around the corner by the back door, so that he could not possibly guard all three feeders at once. Now he is constantly in flight in his efforts to keep the other hummers off of his "newest" juice source. Since I added the third feeder we have been overrun with other hummingbirds. We counted twelve on one of the small porch feeders. It only had four feeding holes, so there was a constant battle going on. They chatter and divebomb each other. They like the green glass feeder the best, which I find odd, since I don't put color in my juice. I had always been of the impression they are drawn to red feeders. Not so here. Although, the other day I was wearing one of my flowery house dresses and two hummingbirds apparently mistook me for a big flower. Both seemed to want to feed on my dress.
These hummers aren't interested in the pansy blooms. I have decided pansies have probably been so hybridized that the flavor, or maybe even the nectar, has been bred out of them. I have seen the hummers pierce the tomato blossoms, and the wild penstemon in the yard seems to be another favorite. None of the flowers, however, can compare with the juice in the feeders. They go wild for it.
In the evening, just before dusk, the crows, or more correctly ravens, began to fly up the mountain to roost. All day long they fill the air with their cacophony of calls. They have one that sounds like a quacking duck. I think that must be some kind of mating call, because one was doing it on a nearby limb with a female standing beside him. After making the call for a while, he jumped on her back. Jumped on and then off, immediately. It didn't seem long enough to do any actual mating, but perhaps it was a quickie. Anyway, in the evening there seems to be one bird who calls the others up the mountain. I fancy that one being the imam yelling "Allah!" It kind of sounds like that, a call to evening prayer. They respond by the hundreds, and take a full thirty minutes to all make the flight up the mountain to their mysterious roost.
The acorn woodpeckers have not been active lately, which suits me. They disrupt everything with their rude intrusions. They get on top of the hummingbird feeders and try to stick their bills in the holes. They don't succeed but they do cause the feeder to swing violently and spill juice out onto the ground below. We try to keep it as neat as possible around here to prevent bear incursions. We take in all the feeders at night. We have done this ever since a bear got to one of the peanut butter suet feeders back in June. The bear broke through the gate we have at the top of the spiral stairway that comes onto the porch. It took one afternoon to repair the gate, so we have not put out the suet feeder since then. I have another cake of peanut butter suet in the refrigerator, but think I'll wait until bear season is over to put it out again.
We also have Stellar's Jays, a gaudy bird with a Carmen Miranda topknot. They are a quiet bird, but I imagine that they can secretly speak Spanish. Their colors are beautiful, dusky blue and black. They're big but shy, usually choosing to feed on the millet and corn the other birds throw out on the ground. They will fly at an instant if either of us steps out the door. The other birds that feed on the ground surplus are the doves and the ravens, and also a half-tame doe we have named Crazy Sally. She seems to be an outcast from the neighborhood herd that roams around here.
I like to think we live in a bird sanctuary. It often seems that way. The birds don't seem to mind it when we join them out on the deck. They seem oblivious to the dog, too, and anyway, she's too busy trying to see squirrels in the trees. It's almost like the birds know this. One pygmy nuthatch who was perched on the waterer yesterday, even let the dog touch her nose to its tail before it flew away. I have had a pygmy take seed from my hand, just a touch-and-go that lasted maybe a second.
Some of the other birds we have that occasionally make forays through the mountains are red-wing blackbirds who come by the hundreds. Also little chipping sparrows who stopped here for a few months on their migration early last spring. We have had two or three mountain bluebirds, but they never seem to stay long on this mountain. We often see them in the valley, along with the meadowlarks and magpies. I wish they could come reclaim their boxes, but maybe there's just too much competition for them here. And anyway, we really do have enough birds to watch.
Onward ....
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
I Think It's About Forgiveness
“There are people in your life who’ve come and gone,
They let you down, you know they hurt your pride.
You better put it all behind you; life goes on
You keep carrying that anger; it’ll eat you up inside.”
Don Henley, “The Heart of the Matter”
One of the hardest parts of life, I believe, is learning to forgive. But it is also one of the greatest gifts that you can give -- to yourself.
There’s that friend from high school who turned out not to be the best friend you thought she was, who when it came down to it, was more interested in her own well-being than in yours. There’s your mother who didn’t treat you the way you thought you deserved to be treated, who didn’t give you the respect you thought you had coming to you, whether or not you had earned it. There’s the uncle-in-law who looked down his nose at you, as if you were poor white trash, who diminished you with his contempt. There’s the husband who decided he didn’t want to share his life with you anymore, and the son who blamed you for all the things that are wrong in his world. If you just hadn’t moved him around so much he would be a better person.
Lying in bed at night, letting these things simmer, keeping you from sleep, wishing you could have those moments back. Oh, the things you could say to all these people, now that you have had the time to think it over, formulate the great comeback, the tear-down, the thing that would make them see how wrong they are to have done the things they have done to you, or said about you, or assumed about you, or attributed to you.
But then maybe there comes a time when you are able to take a step back, to look more deeply into the resentment, or just plain anger, that you feel, when you are able to see into another person, and realize that your mother wasn’t able to love you like you thought she should, that it just wasn’t in her to, that she did the best she could with what she had. Or you see that the friendship was only in your eyes not the other person’s, that it was your misconception of the relationship between you, and that people are fallible, often dishonest, and most of the time, self-serving. It’s easier for most people to shift blame away from themselves, but shifting that blame sometimes leaves a nasty void.
For me there came a time, a restless, sleepless night, when I was pouring back over the disappointments in my life, the trust I gave away, trust I felt had been betrayed. I was lamenting over the loss of so many years in a marriage that had fallen apart. It was oh woe is me, and how could he do that to me, and I gave him everything, and I didn’t deserve this. And maybe all of that was partly true, but there were also some deeper truths that I was having a hard time digging down to. I was focused on his shortcomings, trying to reason the whole thing along, how he had always been selfish, had given up on our life, had taken away the security I thought I had earned. And maybe it was that word “security” that finally opened a door.
I do believe that security, that feeling of rightness it gives us, is a fine thing, but it isn’t everything. While I working through all the things that had happened to get me to where I was at that moment, trying to find reason in the insanity that seemed to be my life right then, it struck me that, yes, he was weak. He had given in to his own desires, had fallen in love with someone else. And maybe he couldn’t help that those things had happened to him, that maybe he’d had a hard time working through the guilt of jerking the rug out from under us. But even while these things were crystallizing in my mind, it came to me that he was not the only one with weaknesses, and that the kernel that had spelled our doom might have been planted in our beginnings. Because I knew, had always known, that I married him for all the wrong reasons. That I had never been able to love him the way he needed for me to, just like my own mother had failed me with her inability to give me the love I thought I deserved.
And so the peace that comes from forgiveness of someone else is magnified tenfold by the peace that comes if we can forgive ourselves. We so often do all the wrong things for all the right reasons. I think it must be some deep-seated part of being human. That night, lying in the dark room reliving my past, I began to make sense of things, what had happened, and why.
I had a child when I was still a child myself. Yet the first time I held that child in my arms, a feeling of such utter responsibility for him swept over me. No matter what happened to me after that moment, I had this child to raise and I harbored a lot of self-doubt that I could do it. And when my first, rushed marriage failed, so predictably, I set aside my grief, didn’t even take a good hard look at it, or what it all meant for my own life. I was more determined to do the right thing by this child. I am not trying to rewrite history, this is simply the truth. And this determination coupled with self-doubt caused me to make some bad decisions. I married the first man who came along, the first one whom I thought would, and could, take care of me and my child. I thought he would save us. I liked him a lot; he had a good heart. I didn’t really understand him, or even try to. I was looking out for my own interests. I needed a daddy for my baby, and he seemed as good a fit as any.
If there was ever a recipe for disaster, there it was. I can look back more honestly and clearly at the scared little girl that I was then. I was more afraid to fail as a mother than I was to cast my own desires aside. The real surprise is that we were able to keep this tenuous life together for 34 years. We were never right for each other. He needed things I couldn’t give him, and I settled for less than I really wanted. We had no common interests. We lied to ourselves and to the rest of the people in our world that we were happy, until finally the security blanket I had wrapped around myself began to come unraveled.
As I laid there in that dark bedroom, I knew I had to forgive him for not being able to sustain the lie any longer. I had to do that so I could let go of the anger and betrayal I had been feeling with such intensity. I had to forgive him for me, for my sake, so I could move on with my life. But more importantly, and with even more difficulty, I had to forgive myself for the part I had played by settling for less.
Maybe this is on my mind now because of an article I’m writing for a gardening magazine. Or maybe it’s because of the company we owned together so recently closing down -- which has become almost a metaphor for the final ending to that part of my life, the last root pulled up. I’m eager to see what happens next, still scared, but eager.
There is much more self-forgiveness that I have yet to work through, some things that are even more complicated than others. We want to hold ourselves to a higher standard, and well we should. But we should also be kind to ourselves. Do the right thing, for the right reasons, and recognize what those reasons are. We need to do this to allow ourselves to find that path to wisdom and self-awareness. I can’t speak for others, but for me, these are lessons that I keep having to learn. And relearn
Onward ....
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
A Dog's Vacation
First of all, they had me groomed. Now, I like being clean, but I was at the groomer's for two whole hours. I thought they had given me away for sure this time. But my dad came to get me, and I was so relieved. I laid my head on his shoulder the whole entire way home. He kept smiling and saying words I didn't understand. He stuck his nose against my head and sniffed me. I think he liked how I smelled. I was a little bit too perfumed for my own taste.
At home, I watched Dad and Mom walk back and forth with bags and other things in their hands. I could tell they were planning to go somewhere. I hid behind the rocking chair. I thought they forgot me. But then Mom finally picked up my necklace and called my name, and I leaped up from my hiding spot, so happy, oh so happy. I WAS GOING! TOO! THEY WERE TAKING ME!
I was pretty sure we weren't going to the post office, probably to the store in the big town or someplace like that. But boy, it sure did take a long time to get there. And it was so hot. I couldn't believe how hot it was. I needed drink after drink. We got out for lunch at an empty place with lots of birds and truck going by, it was noisy, and I drank so much water. Dad gave me a pinch of his sandwich. It sure did taste great.
We got back in the car and drove for -- I don't know how long. I was really bored. We stopped at four different strange room places. I had trouble finding a comfortable spot to sleep in the first two, but the third one had a hidey-hole under a table by where my mom was snoring. I sure did hear funny things all night long. But each morning THEY TOOK ME WITH THEM, and I was so happy, for a little while, to be back in the car. I drove with them, watching the road. We got out at lots of places with odd smells everywhere. I'm pretty sure there were squirrels at most of them. One time I saw a rabbit and shot after it. I was with my mom that time so I didn't get fussed at for running hard. She laughs when I run. I like that a lot. Another place we stopped had lots of stones standing straight up and Mom and Dad kept stopping to look at each one of them. They seemed lost. And then a little dog with hair in his eyes ran over to play with me. He hiked his leg a few times, and I covered his smell with mine as soon as he moved. It was so much fun. Then we got back in the car and drove and drove and drove.
We finally stopped for a long time at a house with a crabby little dog that wanted all the attention. I let her have it for a while, but then I got tired of no petting for myself and started scooting in between her and the people. I tried very hard to make friends with her, even invited her to play one time, but she just snarled at me, and growled. For some reason she just did not like me. Except when we went for walks. Then we got along pretty well. She was good at synchronizing our steps, and we stayed out on the end of our leashes side by side. It was so much fun taking those walks, there just weren't enough of them.
Oh, one time while we were there, the people loaded us up in cars and we went to this neat park. It was full of squirrels. I kept forgetting I was on a leash and nearly strangled myself a few times going for those squirrels. I could have caught one, too, if it hadn't been for that leash. My dad usually lets me off the leash when we go to neat parks, but for some reason, he didn't do it then. I even missed running after a bunny rabbit that came out in an opening. We kept having to dodge all these tumped over trees, too. I couldn't figure out why those trees were all laying on the ground like they were. It was weird. Oh, I forgot to mention that one night we had all those horrible rumbles that shake the earth. I hate those like anything. They scare me to death. I wished so much to be home under my dad's desk. I couldn't find a good place to hide from those rumbles, and that other dog kept coming to bother me. She didn't even seem to see the flashes of light outside the windows.
After we had been at that house for a long long time, Mom and Dad started carrying bags again and going in and out of doors. I hid in a corner. I hoped hard that they were not giving me away to these new people and their little cranky dog. But then Mom jangled my necklace. I WAS GOING! THEY WERE TAKING ME WITH THEM! I was so excited Mom had to talk deep and loud to remind me to sit. I hate when that happens. I just get carried away sometimes. I did not even need my leash I was so excited to be leaving that place, even though they did have a nice backyard full of fast tree squirrels. I jumped right in the car when Mom opened the door.
We drove and drove again, and I figured out pretty quick that we were not going to the post office or even to the store in the big town. I got really bored. That back seat is not comfortable for sleeping, even though my mom had put a new cushion back there for me. I just couldn't sleep good in the car. Or in the two strange room places where we stopped. One of those places was just loaded with smells. I couldn't find a spot to lay where some other dog at some other time had already lain. I was pretty miserable all night.
Then we got to another place where I thought we were might stay for a while. There was a little curly haired puppy dog there that was just over the moon for me right from the moment I jumped out of the car. She raced around and around me, and I could tell she liked me. I let her smell me in places I usually growl at, but she was so little and cute, and fun to play with at first. We raced around with each other, and when I made my play moves, she just went wild for it. I liked that little brown puppy a lot. At first. After a while, though, she started getting on my nerves, always wanting to play, nipping at me. I finally had to snap at her to put her in her place. She just wouldn't take no for an answer.
This new place was out in the country and the new lady and my mom and dad walked all around with me and the bouncing puppy following. They had a pier with fish in the water, and gosh those fish were big. I wanted to jump in that water after those fish so bad. But then I saw two big dogs across the lake, so I raced over to meet them. My dad was hollering at me, but I just had to go see who they were. As soon as I got close to them, I knew I had made a BIG mistake. For no reason in the world, they both jumped on me and started growling and barking and biting me, and one got me in the water and was trying to grab my neck, and I really thought for a minute I was going to drown, but my dad came shouting and saved me. Except I could tell he was really mad. It scares me when he gets so angry and fusses at me. I didn't know what I had done. It was those mean dogs who had caused all the trouble.
I was covered with mud and my mom was crying. I felt so bad that she was crying. I let my dad wash me with the cold outside water hose. For Mom's sake, I tried to pretend I wasn't hurt so she would stop crying, but I was hurt, a little. I had some sore places around my neck, but Mom didn't feel them. She took off my collar and loved me and spoke something in her sweet babytalk voice, and took me inside to dry me off with a towel. I just love to hear her babytalk. It made me feel so much better. Boy, was I really glad when we left that place.
Then we went back to that old old house in the country where I used to live before Mom came. But I don't like it there anymore. I remember that there are snakes there and I hate snakes so much. I can't even relax when I'm there for worrying about snakes. I got bit once or twice and it hurt worse than anything. I thought I was going to die when I got bit. I stayed under the table the whole time. It seemed like we were there forever. The only fun time was when Mom took me with her over to the old man's house. I recognized his house as soon as we turned in the driveway and started whining. My favorite friend in the whole world lives there, and she was SO happy to see me. She's about the same size as me except she is brown and white striped and I'm just black. We ran and played and raced around the back yard until we were exhausted. Then we went inside for a big drink and took a nap on the cold floor. That was the only time while we were back in that hot old country place that I was happy. The next day Mom and Dad started carrying bags and things in and out of the door. I hoped they weren't going to leave me there, in that place where I am so sad and lonely and cramped. I was still sore from those mean dogs and I was not feeling too good. But then Mom picked up my necklace, and I was so happy. THEY WERE TAKING ME WITH THEM!!!!
We went back in the car and we didn't go to the post office. We stopped in a strange room place after hours and hours on the road. I really didn't like this room place at all. There were noises all night and I kept having to bark at things, which made my dad angry with me. I tried to let him know that I couldn't help myself, but he just won't understand these things. I hid under the table all night, and then Mom and Dad started carrying bags in and out of the door again. If they left me at this terrible place I just didn't know what I would do. But then Mom got my necklace. I WAS GOING!!!
I heard Mom telling Dad that I was the best-traveled dog she bet of all the dogs in the whole world. I didn't know much about that, or about the many many places we had been. I didn't know even why we had to go to any of them, and I wasn't too happy about a single place where we stopped. Except for the last place! HOME! We went home. I never thought I would see that place again, but there it was, and I could tell as soon as my feet hit the ground that all my squirrels were as happy to see me again as I was them. I chased them up and down the deck all afternoon. It was great to be home......
(Onward....)
At home, I watched Dad and Mom walk back and forth with bags and other things in their hands. I could tell they were planning to go somewhere. I hid behind the rocking chair. I thought they forgot me. But then Mom finally picked up my necklace and called my name, and I leaped up from my hiding spot, so happy, oh so happy. I WAS GOING! TOO! THEY WERE TAKING ME!
I was pretty sure we weren't going to the post office, probably to the store in the big town or someplace like that. But boy, it sure did take a long time to get there. And it was so hot. I couldn't believe how hot it was. I needed drink after drink. We got out for lunch at an empty place with lots of birds and truck going by, it was noisy, and I drank so much water. Dad gave me a pinch of his sandwich. It sure did taste great.
We got back in the car and drove for -- I don't know how long. I was really bored. We stopped at four different strange room places. I had trouble finding a comfortable spot to sleep in the first two, but the third one had a hidey-hole under a table by where my mom was snoring. I sure did hear funny things all night long. But each morning THEY TOOK ME WITH THEM, and I was so happy, for a little while, to be back in the car. I drove with them, watching the road. We got out at lots of places with odd smells everywhere. I'm pretty sure there were squirrels at most of them. One time I saw a rabbit and shot after it. I was with my mom that time so I didn't get fussed at for running hard. She laughs when I run. I like that a lot. Another place we stopped had lots of stones standing straight up and Mom and Dad kept stopping to look at each one of them. They seemed lost. And then a little dog with hair in his eyes ran over to play with me. He hiked his leg a few times, and I covered his smell with mine as soon as he moved. It was so much fun. Then we got back in the car and drove and drove and drove.
We finally stopped for a long time at a house with a crabby little dog that wanted all the attention. I let her have it for a while, but then I got tired of no petting for myself and started scooting in between her and the people. I tried very hard to make friends with her, even invited her to play one time, but she just snarled at me, and growled. For some reason she just did not like me. Except when we went for walks. Then we got along pretty well. She was good at synchronizing our steps, and we stayed out on the end of our leashes side by side. It was so much fun taking those walks, there just weren't enough of them.
Oh, one time while we were there, the people loaded us up in cars and we went to this neat park. It was full of squirrels. I kept forgetting I was on a leash and nearly strangled myself a few times going for those squirrels. I could have caught one, too, if it hadn't been for that leash. My dad usually lets me off the leash when we go to neat parks, but for some reason, he didn't do it then. I even missed running after a bunny rabbit that came out in an opening. We kept having to dodge all these tumped over trees, too. I couldn't figure out why those trees were all laying on the ground like they were. It was weird. Oh, I forgot to mention that one night we had all those horrible rumbles that shake the earth. I hate those like anything. They scare me to death. I wished so much to be home under my dad's desk. I couldn't find a good place to hide from those rumbles, and that other dog kept coming to bother me. She didn't even seem to see the flashes of light outside the windows.
After we had been at that house for a long long time, Mom and Dad started carrying bags again and going in and out of doors. I hid in a corner. I hoped hard that they were not giving me away to these new people and their little cranky dog. But then Mom jangled my necklace. I WAS GOING! THEY WERE TAKING ME WITH THEM! I was so excited Mom had to talk deep and loud to remind me to sit. I hate when that happens. I just get carried away sometimes. I did not even need my leash I was so excited to be leaving that place, even though they did have a nice backyard full of fast tree squirrels. I jumped right in the car when Mom opened the door.
We drove and drove again, and I figured out pretty quick that we were not going to the post office or even to the store in the big town. I got really bored. That back seat is not comfortable for sleeping, even though my mom had put a new cushion back there for me. I just couldn't sleep good in the car. Or in the two strange room places where we stopped. One of those places was just loaded with smells. I couldn't find a spot to lay where some other dog at some other time had already lain. I was pretty miserable all night.
Then we got to another place where I thought we were might stay for a while. There was a little curly haired puppy dog there that was just over the moon for me right from the moment I jumped out of the car. She raced around and around me, and I could tell she liked me. I let her smell me in places I usually growl at, but she was so little and cute, and fun to play with at first. We raced around with each other, and when I made my play moves, she just went wild for it. I liked that little brown puppy a lot. At first. After a while, though, she started getting on my nerves, always wanting to play, nipping at me. I finally had to snap at her to put her in her place. She just wouldn't take no for an answer.
This new place was out in the country and the new lady and my mom and dad walked all around with me and the bouncing puppy following. They had a pier with fish in the water, and gosh those fish were big. I wanted to jump in that water after those fish so bad. But then I saw two big dogs across the lake, so I raced over to meet them. My dad was hollering at me, but I just had to go see who they were. As soon as I got close to them, I knew I had made a BIG mistake. For no reason in the world, they both jumped on me and started growling and barking and biting me, and one got me in the water and was trying to grab my neck, and I really thought for a minute I was going to drown, but my dad came shouting and saved me. Except I could tell he was really mad. It scares me when he gets so angry and fusses at me. I didn't know what I had done. It was those mean dogs who had caused all the trouble.
I was covered with mud and my mom was crying. I felt so bad that she was crying. I let my dad wash me with the cold outside water hose. For Mom's sake, I tried to pretend I wasn't hurt so she would stop crying, but I was hurt, a little. I had some sore places around my neck, but Mom didn't feel them. She took off my collar and loved me and spoke something in her sweet babytalk voice, and took me inside to dry me off with a towel. I just love to hear her babytalk. It made me feel so much better. Boy, was I really glad when we left that place.
Then we went back to that old old house in the country where I used to live before Mom came. But I don't like it there anymore. I remember that there are snakes there and I hate snakes so much. I can't even relax when I'm there for worrying about snakes. I got bit once or twice and it hurt worse than anything. I thought I was going to die when I got bit. I stayed under the table the whole time. It seemed like we were there forever. The only fun time was when Mom took me with her over to the old man's house. I recognized his house as soon as we turned in the driveway and started whining. My favorite friend in the whole world lives there, and she was SO happy to see me. She's about the same size as me except she is brown and white striped and I'm just black. We ran and played and raced around the back yard until we were exhausted. Then we went inside for a big drink and took a nap on the cold floor. That was the only time while we were back in that hot old country place that I was happy. The next day Mom and Dad started carrying bags and things in and out of the door. I hoped they weren't going to leave me there, in that place where I am so sad and lonely and cramped. I was still sore from those mean dogs and I was not feeling too good. But then Mom picked up my necklace, and I was so happy. THEY WERE TAKING ME WITH THEM!!!!
We went back in the car and we didn't go to the post office. We stopped in a strange room place after hours and hours on the road. I really didn't like this room place at all. There were noises all night and I kept having to bark at things, which made my dad angry with me. I tried to let him know that I couldn't help myself, but he just won't understand these things. I hid under the table all night, and then Mom and Dad started carrying bags in and out of the door again. If they left me at this terrible place I just didn't know what I would do. But then Mom got my necklace. I WAS GOING!!!
I heard Mom telling Dad that I was the best-traveled dog she bet of all the dogs in the whole world. I didn't know much about that, or about the many many places we had been. I didn't know even why we had to go to any of them, and I wasn't too happy about a single place where we stopped. Except for the last place! HOME! We went home. I never thought I would see that place again, but there it was, and I could tell as soon as my feet hit the ground that all my squirrels were as happy to see me again as I was them. I chased them up and down the deck all afternoon. It was great to be home......
(Onward....)
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Trip Synopsis/Ancestor Search
Kansas - skyscraper silos. Corn fields. A Big Well. Wichita airplanes. Big Brutus. Clean roads.
Missouri - shapely barns. Quilt trail. Ozarks. Seafood buffet. Mountain Grove. Friendly people. Springfield traffic. Tall cornfields. Truman's birthplace. Wild purple statice.
Kentucky - gigantic barns. Intensive corn farming. Mississippi levees. Sycamores. Wild mimosa. Dense population. Land Between the Lakes. Bowling Green. Corvettes. Ancestors. Cumberland River. Queen Anne's Lace.
Surprising things about the trip so far are how clean the roads are in Missouri and Kansas. Missouri is clean. Kansas is squeaky clean, with lots of green spaces inside the towns. Missouri has great roads. Kentucky has poor signage. Nowhere have there been near enough rest areas. But Missouri's rest stops, even though they are few and far between, are the best. Kentucky is not as clean as either Kansas or Missouri but has taller trees.
Tomorrow morning we are going to go grave-hopping, looking for my Kentucky/Tennessee ancestors. These are my grandmother's people. And the more I study them they more they feel like my people, too. We are in Burkesville, KY tonight, in a motel on the banks of the Cumberland River. My 4th great-grandfather lived here in 1810, before he got his land grant and moved to the South Fork in Wayne County. He was granted 50 acres, and owned, in 1860, an appalling 11 slaves. He was married twice and had 13 children. I don't think he was wealthy, but he has a severe face in the single picture I have of him. They were hillfolk.
The Tennessee side has a moderate claim to fame. My fourth great grandmother's father was the brother of Gracie Williams, who at age 16 married Alvin York of Sergeant York fame. We will see his and her graves tomorrow, as well as those of the other ancestors -- cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents with several "greats" along with their names. I bought some Deep Woods Off today to keep the ciggers at bay. I've already been bitten all around my ankles by the horrible things. I'd forgotten how buggy the south is. Also how muggy. 104 degrees with 65% humidity will really take it out of you.
Till next time---
Onward....
Missouri - shapely barns. Quilt trail. Ozarks. Seafood buffet. Mountain Grove. Friendly people. Springfield traffic. Tall cornfields. Truman's birthplace. Wild purple statice.
Kentucky - gigantic barns. Intensive corn farming. Mississippi levees. Sycamores. Wild mimosa. Dense population. Land Between the Lakes. Bowling Green. Corvettes. Ancestors. Cumberland River. Queen Anne's Lace.
Surprising things about the trip so far are how clean the roads are in Missouri and Kansas. Missouri is clean. Kansas is squeaky clean, with lots of green spaces inside the towns. Missouri has great roads. Kentucky has poor signage. Nowhere have there been near enough rest areas. But Missouri's rest stops, even though they are few and far between, are the best. Kentucky is not as clean as either Kansas or Missouri but has taller trees.
Tomorrow morning we are going to go grave-hopping, looking for my Kentucky/Tennessee ancestors. These are my grandmother's people. And the more I study them they more they feel like my people, too. We are in Burkesville, KY tonight, in a motel on the banks of the Cumberland River. My 4th great-grandfather lived here in 1810, before he got his land grant and moved to the South Fork in Wayne County. He was granted 50 acres, and owned, in 1860, an appalling 11 slaves. He was married twice and had 13 children. I don't think he was wealthy, but he has a severe face in the single picture I have of him. They were hillfolk.
The Tennessee side has a moderate claim to fame. My fourth great grandmother's father was the brother of Gracie Williams, who at age 16 married Alvin York of Sergeant York fame. We will see his and her graves tomorrow, as well as those of the other ancestors -- cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents with several "greats" along with their names. I bought some Deep Woods Off today to keep the ciggers at bay. I've already been bitten all around my ankles by the horrible things. I'd forgotten how buggy the south is. Also how muggy. 104 degrees with 65% humidity will really take it out of you.
Till next time---
Onward....
Friday, June 29, 2012
Dodge City, Kansas
When Daddy was a young man, coming home from World War II, his troop train stopped at Dodge City, Kansas to take on fuel. The returning troops were made to stay on the train. Daddy had pulled KP duty the day before, and his sergeant said to him, “Hey Corporal, jump down from this train and run over there to the station to get me a newspaper.” He gave Daddy a nickel and Daddy jumped down from the train. Inside the station, he had to wait in line to buy the paper. As he was walking back to the box car being used as the kitchen, the train started away from the station. Daddy tucked the paper under his arm, and holding onto this cap, began to run. All the other guys in the KP car, hollered at him, and held out their hands, and Daddy made it to the train in time for them to pull him aboard as the train was leaving. Thus, he made it back to Texas and home. A few more seconds, and he could have been AWOL, all because of the sergeant and his newspaper. Daddy told me this story last night when I called him from the road.
It was 111 degrees in Dodge City yesterday. There are 27,000 people living here now. I imagine it was a much smaller place in 1945. We stopped at the Boot Hill Museum before we got a motel room. The museum is a tourist trap. We bought some souvenirs and left. They don’t allow dogs, not even leashed ones, on Boot Hill. We couldn’t leave her in the car. The temperature inside the car said 121 when we got back, and we were only gone about ten minutes. She was, as she always is, ecstatic to see us.
Today we will strike out for Missouri. Hopefully there will be better internet there. The weather everywhere is too hot for traveling. But I am pouring out my bucket list. I can now check off Kansas. That leaves about 15 more states I need to visit before I die. And another item on my list -- seeing the fireworks on the National Mall on the Fourth of July -- I will be checking that one off next Wednesday. In the process, I also get to see my son and his partner. I miss my “connections” to the world and to myself. My sweet son is one of those connections. A most precious one.
Onward ....
Monday, June 25, 2012
Adventures in Unemployment
It has been a while since I posted anything here and a lot has changed. For one thing, I am now officially unemployed, and frankly, worried. The company I owned with my ex-husband has, to use an appropriate cliche, gone down the tubes. The last several weeks have been tied up with closing things down, separating assets -- again! It's like getting divorced a second time from the same man. Now, I find myself wondering how I'm going to pay the bills.
Think I mentioned a few posts back that I had taken on a sales territory for a blouse manufacturer. So far, I am in the red with that endeavor. I've sold some blouses but my travel expenses have far outpaced any commissions I have been paid, and the blouses have simply stopped selling. I have some personal items I want to sell that might bring in some fast cash, but after that, I'm pretty much out of ideas. This is keeping me up nights, obviously. I guess I should have seen it coming. Well, I DID see it coming, but it's like having a someone you love get a terminal disease. You know they will die but it still hurts when it finally happens.
I have actually been preparing financially for this for a year. The real reason for selling the Buffalo Wallow was to get out of debt. I knew it was the most valuable thing, by far, that I owned, and once it sold I could pay off everything. So, I have no bills, other than those associated with homeownership of the New Mexico house: taxes, insurance, utilities, etc. But now I find myself living in an area where there is 29% unemployment, I am a 59-year old woman who is definitely NOT bilingual, an understood requirement for employment in this area. So the dilemma is what to do. I'm several years away from qualifying for Social Security, and oh yes, there's my exorbitant, and I might add crappy, health insurance premium, which is automatically deducted from my checking account each month. I'm OK for now. If I'm really stingy with money, I can last a while. Certainly not for the four years until Social Security becomes an option, but for a while.
My thoughts are to somehow make my skills as a writer pay off -- now, when I really need them to. I've done the book review thing. I enjoyed it but earned somewhere around .0000003 cents an hour -- maybe. Freelancing has never earned much for me, but I'm looking into ways to possibly make it pay better. I open to anything.
The company has for the last several years allowed me to procrastinate about writing, but that option has just closed. I'm for sale. I am thinking about a website, maybe get some editorial work. I'm pretty good at editing -- the "big picture" kind of editing. I can read something and tell when it isn't working. I can even often tell how to fix what isn't working. That should be worth something to another writer, although maybe not as much as before this self-publishing craze that is gaining momentum. I've done a little bit of research, put out feelers to people who are making a living at freelance editing. I do have some ideas.
And of course, there's the endlessly unfinished novel. We have a long-planned, unavoidable road trip to make this next week. The trip will end with the final "board meeting" in Texas of the company. After that, I will be disassociated from it forever.
Many years ago, when I was going through one of many bouts of marital troubles, I ran home to my parents for a weekend. My husband at the time and I were thinking about separating, which in hindsight we probably should have done for good. I don't remember much about that weekend except for my mother telling me that I needed to "find my purpose." This was long before I had become a published writer; I had only aspirations at that time. Her words stuck then and they seem especially appropriate to me once again. As soon as we are back from this trip, it's past time for me to "find my purpose," to become productive again. There has been a lot of joy in life lost over the last ten or so months. I am hoping to also "find the joy" that has been lacking.
Onward ....
Think I mentioned a few posts back that I had taken on a sales territory for a blouse manufacturer. So far, I am in the red with that endeavor. I've sold some blouses but my travel expenses have far outpaced any commissions I have been paid, and the blouses have simply stopped selling. I have some personal items I want to sell that might bring in some fast cash, but after that, I'm pretty much out of ideas. This is keeping me up nights, obviously. I guess I should have seen it coming. Well, I DID see it coming, but it's like having a someone you love get a terminal disease. You know they will die but it still hurts when it finally happens.
I have actually been preparing financially for this for a year. The real reason for selling the Buffalo Wallow was to get out of debt. I knew it was the most valuable thing, by far, that I owned, and once it sold I could pay off everything. So, I have no bills, other than those associated with homeownership of the New Mexico house: taxes, insurance, utilities, etc. But now I find myself living in an area where there is 29% unemployment, I am a 59-year old woman who is definitely NOT bilingual, an understood requirement for employment in this area. So the dilemma is what to do. I'm several years away from qualifying for Social Security, and oh yes, there's my exorbitant, and I might add crappy, health insurance premium, which is automatically deducted from my checking account each month. I'm OK for now. If I'm really stingy with money, I can last a while. Certainly not for the four years until Social Security becomes an option, but for a while.
My thoughts are to somehow make my skills as a writer pay off -- now, when I really need them to. I've done the book review thing. I enjoyed it but earned somewhere around .0000003 cents an hour -- maybe. Freelancing has never earned much for me, but I'm looking into ways to possibly make it pay better. I open to anything.
The company has for the last several years allowed me to procrastinate about writing, but that option has just closed. I'm for sale. I am thinking about a website, maybe get some editorial work. I'm pretty good at editing -- the "big picture" kind of editing. I can read something and tell when it isn't working. I can even often tell how to fix what isn't working. That should be worth something to another writer, although maybe not as much as before this self-publishing craze that is gaining momentum. I've done a little bit of research, put out feelers to people who are making a living at freelance editing. I do have some ideas.
And of course, there's the endlessly unfinished novel. We have a long-planned, unavoidable road trip to make this next week. The trip will end with the final "board meeting" in Texas of the company. After that, I will be disassociated from it forever.
Many years ago, when I was going through one of many bouts of marital troubles, I ran home to my parents for a weekend. My husband at the time and I were thinking about separating, which in hindsight we probably should have done for good. I don't remember much about that weekend except for my mother telling me that I needed to "find my purpose." This was long before I had become a published writer; I had only aspirations at that time. Her words stuck then and they seem especially appropriate to me once again. As soon as we are back from this trip, it's past time for me to "find my purpose," to become productive again. There has been a lot of joy in life lost over the last ten or so months. I am hoping to also "find the joy" that has been lacking.
Onward ....
Friday, April 6, 2012
Springtime in the Mountains
Tried the other day to post to this blog, and the power went off in the middle of it. Nothing was saved. We were having a big snow storm, on April 2 no less. It snowed for about 36 hours, accumulating 18 inches before it was over. Our satellite dish filled up and we lost internet and television for a while. But today, well, today is simply gorgeous. The snow is almost completely gone. We have been up in the high 60s for two days.
This thin air is hard to work in, though. We spent all morning raking pine needles and the pile we have is about 4 feet high and 10 feet across. A neighbor with a trailer is coming tomorrow to haul the pile off somewhere. He has land down in the valley and uses pine needles to fill in holes. Anyway, we wore out really fast, much faster than we do when we're working down closer to sea level.
We broadcast grass seed last year and the seedlings that are coming up now were growing too spindly trying to push up through all those needles. And they tell us it's good fire prevention to get rid of the needles. These pine trees are as much trouble as the oaks were back in Texas. They house cute birds and squirrels though, and I love to sit outside and watch them.
A mountain bluebird has taken up residence in the new bluebird house I bought last year. My SO hung it up in the Fall and sure enough, we saw a bluebird flying in and out of it just before the snowstorm. I hope it's still there but I haven't seen it in the last couple of days. They're mountain bluebirds, after all, they must be used to cold weather.
There are several species that stick year-round. The white-breasted nuthatch, for one, and pygmy nuthatch. We have chickadees year-round, ravens, and Stellar's jays. Red-wing blackbirds don't leave for long, but when they do, they come back in flocks. Sometimes, when we sit on the deck, things get hectic with the birds chirping and flying by overhead. We've had several near-misses when we were sitting too close to the feeders. These mountain birds are hearty and pretty fearless. I had one land on my palm last year and take a black-oil sunflower seed right out of my hand.
I've got baby plants growing in my office inside those Jiffy greenhouse trays. The success rate so far has been really high. I have found from experience that good viable seeds are the real key. The packets you buy at WalMart or the hardware store just don't have the germination rate as the ones from the seed companies. This year I went with Johnny's Seeds. I like veggies from Burpee, but I haven't given vegetables much thought just yet. The last frost date here is May 20th so I've got a while to wait before I try planting any tomatoes.
Still learning about this mountain gardening. It's trial and error, but I'm trying.
Onward ....
This thin air is hard to work in, though. We spent all morning raking pine needles and the pile we have is about 4 feet high and 10 feet across. A neighbor with a trailer is coming tomorrow to haul the pile off somewhere. He has land down in the valley and uses pine needles to fill in holes. Anyway, we wore out really fast, much faster than we do when we're working down closer to sea level.
We broadcast grass seed last year and the seedlings that are coming up now were growing too spindly trying to push up through all those needles. And they tell us it's good fire prevention to get rid of the needles. These pine trees are as much trouble as the oaks were back in Texas. They house cute birds and squirrels though, and I love to sit outside and watch them.
A mountain bluebird has taken up residence in the new bluebird house I bought last year. My SO hung it up in the Fall and sure enough, we saw a bluebird flying in and out of it just before the snowstorm. I hope it's still there but I haven't seen it in the last couple of days. They're mountain bluebirds, after all, they must be used to cold weather.
There are several species that stick year-round. The white-breasted nuthatch, for one, and pygmy nuthatch. We have chickadees year-round, ravens, and Stellar's jays. Red-wing blackbirds don't leave for long, but when they do, they come back in flocks. Sometimes, when we sit on the deck, things get hectic with the birds chirping and flying by overhead. We've had several near-misses when we were sitting too close to the feeders. These mountain birds are hearty and pretty fearless. I had one land on my palm last year and take a black-oil sunflower seed right out of my hand.
I've got baby plants growing in my office inside those Jiffy greenhouse trays. The success rate so far has been really high. I have found from experience that good viable seeds are the real key. The packets you buy at WalMart or the hardware store just don't have the germination rate as the ones from the seed companies. This year I went with Johnny's Seeds. I like veggies from Burpee, but I haven't given vegetables much thought just yet. The last frost date here is May 20th so I've got a while to wait before I try planting any tomatoes.
Still learning about this mountain gardening. It's trial and error, but I'm trying.
Onward ....
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Outside the Comfort Zone
When I was a little girl I was afraid of the dark. Mother put a nightlight in my room to try to alleviate this, but I believe the nightlight made things worse. I had a four-poster bed and the posts cast snake shadows on the walls. Once, my foam rubber pillow slipped off the edge of the bed, rested against the nightlight, and started a smoldering fire. The smoke woke Mother and there was a lot of alarm about this incident for a while. Then Daddy found a different kind of nightlight, one that lasted, I know, for fifteen years. It was small, cylindrical, and casts snake shadows just like the first one had. But we had no more fires.
I have never been a great sleeper. I fall asleep fast but staying asleep has always been a problem. As a child, I remember waking in the middle of the night, most nights, terrified of the shadows, afraid to peer out the window by my bed, a window by the way, that was usually open. This was before we had air-conditioning, and in Corpus Christi, we needed cool air far more than we usually needed heat. After a while, I would get out of bed, creep to my open doorway. Mine was the first room off the hallway. I would glance towards the living room. There was a window there that reflected light from the streetlamp on our corner, and those reflections looked like demons to me. I would race to the end of the hallway where my parents' room and my brother's room opened opposite from one another. If my parents' door was closed, as it usually was, I would opt for my brother, my Bubbie, my protector, my adored one. He never even awoke, but in his sleep just hugged me to him and I felt safe there. His window was also beside his bed, and I remember staring out that window at the streetlamp on the corner, feeling the soft breeze coming through the screen, and falling gently off to sleep. This same feeling still comes to me when my SO hugs me close to him during the night.
After I was grown, I carried this fear of the dark with me into my marriages, secretly. I didn't want to admit openly to being so silly, so scaredy-cat. My second husband was a traveling salesman. We lived in Jackson, Mississippi, far far from my old home. When he was gone, I slept with the lights on. What was it about those lights that made me feel more secure? I talked to my mother about once a week, and finally ventured to tell her about how noises in the night could paralyze me, make my heart pound uncontrollably. I'll never forget her response. She said, "Go see what they are." Go see? Actually get up and go find the thing making the noise. What a foreign idea that was to me. She said she had even gone outside in search of the thing that was making her afraid. "How can you do that?" I asked her. "Aren't you scared you'll run into a burglar or a prowler, or someone who wants to hurt you?" She replied, "If I'm outside I figure I can outrun them. Inside, I'm trapped."
Once I was raising my own children, I began to practice my mother's method. Get up and go find the thing that was frightening me. It always turned out to be the refrigerator, or a limb blowing against a window, a click-bug in the bathroom, or simply the house settling. I don't know when it happened exactly, but somewhere along the line, I stopped being afraid.
Years ago, before I ever had anything published, I attended a writer's conference in Houston. One of the instructors said something that stuck with me as well. She said, "Every day, do something that causes you unease, or that you dread." She was speaking mostly about learning to deal with rejection, with the business end of writing. Call an editor. Seek an agent. Submit a story. Get outside your comfort zone.
I recently had a little piece published in Birds and Blooms Magazine. It was submitted so long ago, I had actually forgotten about it. Two years ago, right after I built my greenhouse at the Buffalo Wallow, in my enthusiasm, I wrote a little article about backyard greenhouses. A few weeks ago, an issue of that magazine arrived, had been forwarded from Texas. I didn't even open the package when I saw who it was from, could not understand why I was getting this magazine when I had ended my subscription to it long before we made the permanent move here to the mountains. I figured they were just trying to induce me to re-subscribe. I tossed the package into a stack of other magazines waiting to be perused, on the trunk in the corner of the living room.
A few days later, my aunt called. She had been in her doctor's office, in the waiting room. She picked up a magazine, was reading along when she saw my name in the byline. She said she laughed out loud she was so surprised, and told another patient in the waiting room, "I just found an article my niece wrote." As I listened to her, I went over to the trunk where I had pitched the Birds and Blooms packet. I tore it open, and there it was, a thank you note from the editor, and my article inside the magazine covers.
Well, well. And what do you know! I am a writer -- still. Just one who isn't writing much at the moment. It isn't always simple to wrestle with the desire to write and the desire to live life. And let's face it, there is fear involved with writing. It's so damned personal, and has so much ego wrapped up in it, and you have to fight the feeling that a rejection is about more than just the work. I think it's this fear that keeps me from biting off the BIG, time-consuming, full-length novel that nobody might want to publish, or if published, to actually sit and READ. And there's this niggling thought in the back of my brain telling me it's risky, that it might, just might, have contributed to the failure of my marriage, and God knows I don't want this new relationship to fail, too. Because when I'm writing, everything else in my life is tuned out. It's not easy for me to find balance. But I'm trying every day to face this fear. Because the payoff, my name in a byline, a little teensy-weensy check, gives me the ultimate feeling of purpose.
Onward....
I have never been a great sleeper. I fall asleep fast but staying asleep has always been a problem. As a child, I remember waking in the middle of the night, most nights, terrified of the shadows, afraid to peer out the window by my bed, a window by the way, that was usually open. This was before we had air-conditioning, and in Corpus Christi, we needed cool air far more than we usually needed heat. After a while, I would get out of bed, creep to my open doorway. Mine was the first room off the hallway. I would glance towards the living room. There was a window there that reflected light from the streetlamp on our corner, and those reflections looked like demons to me. I would race to the end of the hallway where my parents' room and my brother's room opened opposite from one another. If my parents' door was closed, as it usually was, I would opt for my brother, my Bubbie, my protector, my adored one. He never even awoke, but in his sleep just hugged me to him and I felt safe there. His window was also beside his bed, and I remember staring out that window at the streetlamp on the corner, feeling the soft breeze coming through the screen, and falling gently off to sleep. This same feeling still comes to me when my SO hugs me close to him during the night.
After I was grown, I carried this fear of the dark with me into my marriages, secretly. I didn't want to admit openly to being so silly, so scaredy-cat. My second husband was a traveling salesman. We lived in Jackson, Mississippi, far far from my old home. When he was gone, I slept with the lights on. What was it about those lights that made me feel more secure? I talked to my mother about once a week, and finally ventured to tell her about how noises in the night could paralyze me, make my heart pound uncontrollably. I'll never forget her response. She said, "Go see what they are." Go see? Actually get up and go find the thing making the noise. What a foreign idea that was to me. She said she had even gone outside in search of the thing that was making her afraid. "How can you do that?" I asked her. "Aren't you scared you'll run into a burglar or a prowler, or someone who wants to hurt you?" She replied, "If I'm outside I figure I can outrun them. Inside, I'm trapped."
Once I was raising my own children, I began to practice my mother's method. Get up and go find the thing that was frightening me. It always turned out to be the refrigerator, or a limb blowing against a window, a click-bug in the bathroom, or simply the house settling. I don't know when it happened exactly, but somewhere along the line, I stopped being afraid.
Years ago, before I ever had anything published, I attended a writer's conference in Houston. One of the instructors said something that stuck with me as well. She said, "Every day, do something that causes you unease, or that you dread." She was speaking mostly about learning to deal with rejection, with the business end of writing. Call an editor. Seek an agent. Submit a story. Get outside your comfort zone.
I recently had a little piece published in Birds and Blooms Magazine. It was submitted so long ago, I had actually forgotten about it. Two years ago, right after I built my greenhouse at the Buffalo Wallow, in my enthusiasm, I wrote a little article about backyard greenhouses. A few weeks ago, an issue of that magazine arrived, had been forwarded from Texas. I didn't even open the package when I saw who it was from, could not understand why I was getting this magazine when I had ended my subscription to it long before we made the permanent move here to the mountains. I figured they were just trying to induce me to re-subscribe. I tossed the package into a stack of other magazines waiting to be perused, on the trunk in the corner of the living room.
A few days later, my aunt called. She had been in her doctor's office, in the waiting room. She picked up a magazine, was reading along when she saw my name in the byline. She said she laughed out loud she was so surprised, and told another patient in the waiting room, "I just found an article my niece wrote." As I listened to her, I went over to the trunk where I had pitched the Birds and Blooms packet. I tore it open, and there it was, a thank you note from the editor, and my article inside the magazine covers.
Well, well. And what do you know! I am a writer -- still. Just one who isn't writing much at the moment. It isn't always simple to wrestle with the desire to write and the desire to live life. And let's face it, there is fear involved with writing. It's so damned personal, and has so much ego wrapped up in it, and you have to fight the feeling that a rejection is about more than just the work. I think it's this fear that keeps me from biting off the BIG, time-consuming, full-length novel that nobody might want to publish, or if published, to actually sit and READ. And there's this niggling thought in the back of my brain telling me it's risky, that it might, just might, have contributed to the failure of my marriage, and God knows I don't want this new relationship to fail, too. Because when I'm writing, everything else in my life is tuned out. It's not easy for me to find balance. But I'm trying every day to face this fear. Because the payoff, my name in a byline, a little teensy-weensy check, gives me the ultimate feeling of purpose.
Onward....
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Hard Decisions & Pointless Worry
Well, we are back from Texas. It was a busy trip and I am glad -- so glad -- to be back home in the mountains. Highlights of the trip were: a good visit with my SO's granddaughter. A nice dinner with Daddy. An overnight trip to the Valley and dinner with my aunt and uncle who live there. We sold my SO's place on the Coast, but not before we had one night with old friends at Oysterfest. Spent a good afternoon with my grandson. Had my identity stolen and am still dealing with the consequences of that. And we caught up with our new widow-friend and played all afternoon with her sweet pets.
While we were down there we started trying to make some hard decisions about what we want to do about our living arrangements when we're there. Me, I would rather we didn't have to go down there so often, but that's unrealistic. Things just get crazy when we're there. I seem to do a lot more worrying down there than I do here. In fact, I had one major anger meltdown night when I got maybe three hours of sleep. I won't go into the whole reason for the meltdown but it has to do with a lot of self-pity and feelings of being cast out into the cold. As for my SO, he has conflicting feelings about his old family homeplace there. It holds a lot of memories for him, particularly of the son he lost last year, but it also causes him pain and anguish as well. We bicker a lot when we're there, which I hate like hell. But it's because of the issues both of us have to deal with that make it, on the whole, an unpleasant trip.
But back to living arrangements. Presently, we are bunking in the Salem, our 28 foot travel trailer. It is cramped and takes a constant effort to keep it clean and organized. We have too much STUFF there, and no place to put it all. There is an old mobile home on the place, and we sort of use it as auxiliary storage. We use the ancient dryer that still works as well, after multiple trips to the laundromat in town -- ugh. This mobile home has been my SO's go-to place off and on throughout his life, a sort of stop-gap place to live whenever his life has taken drastic turns. It is a 1973 model that has outlived it usefulness. There are gapping holes in the floor, pink insulation falling out from the bottom, bathroom fixtures that are in appalling conditions. It's dark and dusty, and simply worn out. He has thoughts of trying to fix up the place to make it livable, but I would be miserable in that place without practically rebuilding it from the ground up. I am for having it hauled off and reusing the space where it sits with a newer something -- either another mobile home or a park model trailer, something that isn't too costly but will provide pleasant enough shelter for us to use the few weeks a year that we come down. Right now, I feel homeless when we are there.
The day I had my grandson, he and I went to an RV dealer and looked around. I looked at a new park model trailer that was twice the size of the Salem. It had wood floors, an extra large slide-out, lounge chairs, a closet for a stack laundry, ceiling fans. It would still be a bit cramped, but seemed roomy after a week in the Salem. Also, they gave me a trade-in price for the Salem that brought the cost of the park model way down to reasonable levels.
When I came back with all this information, my SO hit the ceiling. He scolded me for even thinking about spending so much money when I am soon to be unemployed. It was not a fun discussion and we both came away from it feeling resentful. Also, contrite and uneasy with each other for a few days.
The following Friday, we made a trip into Victoria for a birthday gift for his brother, who was turning 50 the next day. I didn't realize my SO had other things in mind, too. He stopped at an RV place where he had previous dealings and we looked at a used 5th wheel. The price was about the same as the new park model, but I didn't think the 5th wheel was anywhere near as spacious. The people said that they would take the Salem on consignment, also not as good as the deal the Corpus Christi RV dealer had offered. On consignment, we might get more for the Salem, but it would not be instant and we would not get the break on the purchase price of the 5th wheel.
We drove on down a few blocks to a mobile home dealer. They had a very small cabin-style mobile home sitting out front. We asked to look at it. The price was in the same range as the 5th wheel and the park model, but this thing was tiny. A queen size bed would not have fit in the single bedroom. The saleslady then took us to their back lot where they had a lot of government issue FEMA mobile homes that have never been lived in and are in the process of being fitted out for sale to the general public.
Several months ago we watched a piece on television about the 3,000 FEMA mobile homes sitting in storage on a lot in Hope, Arkansas. These trailers had been purchased for Hurricane Katrina victims and then never delivered for one reason or another. The one we looked at was plain, adequate kitchen space, linoleum floors, a single, though large, bathroom, three smallish bedrooms, nice size laundry area, and roomy front room. It was 14 by 60 feet with central heat and air, and was only $4000 more than the tiny cabin model they had displayed out in front of their office. The price included delivery and set-up. Fourteen by sixty seemed like a mansion to me after living in the Salem for two weeks. We have enough furniture in storage and in the basement here to practically furnish the entire thing. Would have to buy some living room stuff, but that is basically IT. We agreed to think about this, wait and see what happens with the company I partly own in Corpus, and do the research needed to learn about how to dispose of the old, worn-out mobile home already on the land.
Oh, how life throws changes at us. And decisions that need to be made. We can only just hope we're making the rights ones and go about our business. I don't like to be having to make such big decisions at this time of my life, though. I had always imagined I would be settled someplace by now, with lots of security, writing the great American novel, no worries. I never dreamed I would have an elderly father taking up a lot of my thoughts, or contemplating the purchase of a mobile home for God's sake, or living in the mountains of northern New Mexico wondering how in the hell I'm going to afford all of this without a viable income. I guess I need to learn to roll a bit more. Flexibility has been my strong trait. But then endless worry gets you nowhere either. I have a big ugly fever blister on my mouth as a result of pointless worry.
On the upside, I've sold a few blouses this week. And the Kindle sales on The Passion of Dellie O'Barr are surprisingly good. So all is not doom and gloom. We have a party at the Lodge this Saturday to look forward to, and lunch today with some friends in LV. My SO's granddaughter is coming to stay with us in May, and we are bringing my grandson back with us after the next Texas trip in June. I guess my SO is right when he says that things have a way of working themselves out. I just need to settle down and see what happens next. And be happy, as the silly old song goes.
Onward .....
While we were down there we started trying to make some hard decisions about what we want to do about our living arrangements when we're there. Me, I would rather we didn't have to go down there so often, but that's unrealistic. Things just get crazy when we're there. I seem to do a lot more worrying down there than I do here. In fact, I had one major anger meltdown night when I got maybe three hours of sleep. I won't go into the whole reason for the meltdown but it has to do with a lot of self-pity and feelings of being cast out into the cold. As for my SO, he has conflicting feelings about his old family homeplace there. It holds a lot of memories for him, particularly of the son he lost last year, but it also causes him pain and anguish as well. We bicker a lot when we're there, which I hate like hell. But it's because of the issues both of us have to deal with that make it, on the whole, an unpleasant trip.
But back to living arrangements. Presently, we are bunking in the Salem, our 28 foot travel trailer. It is cramped and takes a constant effort to keep it clean and organized. We have too much STUFF there, and no place to put it all. There is an old mobile home on the place, and we sort of use it as auxiliary storage. We use the ancient dryer that still works as well, after multiple trips to the laundromat in town -- ugh. This mobile home has been my SO's go-to place off and on throughout his life, a sort of stop-gap place to live whenever his life has taken drastic turns. It is a 1973 model that has outlived it usefulness. There are gapping holes in the floor, pink insulation falling out from the bottom, bathroom fixtures that are in appalling conditions. It's dark and dusty, and simply worn out. He has thoughts of trying to fix up the place to make it livable, but I would be miserable in that place without practically rebuilding it from the ground up. I am for having it hauled off and reusing the space where it sits with a newer something -- either another mobile home or a park model trailer, something that isn't too costly but will provide pleasant enough shelter for us to use the few weeks a year that we come down. Right now, I feel homeless when we are there.
The day I had my grandson, he and I went to an RV dealer and looked around. I looked at a new park model trailer that was twice the size of the Salem. It had wood floors, an extra large slide-out, lounge chairs, a closet for a stack laundry, ceiling fans. It would still be a bit cramped, but seemed roomy after a week in the Salem. Also, they gave me a trade-in price for the Salem that brought the cost of the park model way down to reasonable levels.
When I came back with all this information, my SO hit the ceiling. He scolded me for even thinking about spending so much money when I am soon to be unemployed. It was not a fun discussion and we both came away from it feeling resentful. Also, contrite and uneasy with each other for a few days.
The following Friday, we made a trip into Victoria for a birthday gift for his brother, who was turning 50 the next day. I didn't realize my SO had other things in mind, too. He stopped at an RV place where he had previous dealings and we looked at a used 5th wheel. The price was about the same as the new park model, but I didn't think the 5th wheel was anywhere near as spacious. The people said that they would take the Salem on consignment, also not as good as the deal the Corpus Christi RV dealer had offered. On consignment, we might get more for the Salem, but it would not be instant and we would not get the break on the purchase price of the 5th wheel.
We drove on down a few blocks to a mobile home dealer. They had a very small cabin-style mobile home sitting out front. We asked to look at it. The price was in the same range as the 5th wheel and the park model, but this thing was tiny. A queen size bed would not have fit in the single bedroom. The saleslady then took us to their back lot where they had a lot of government issue FEMA mobile homes that have never been lived in and are in the process of being fitted out for sale to the general public.
Several months ago we watched a piece on television about the 3,000 FEMA mobile homes sitting in storage on a lot in Hope, Arkansas. These trailers had been purchased for Hurricane Katrina victims and then never delivered for one reason or another. The one we looked at was plain, adequate kitchen space, linoleum floors, a single, though large, bathroom, three smallish bedrooms, nice size laundry area, and roomy front room. It was 14 by 60 feet with central heat and air, and was only $4000 more than the tiny cabin model they had displayed out in front of their office. The price included delivery and set-up. Fourteen by sixty seemed like a mansion to me after living in the Salem for two weeks. We have enough furniture in storage and in the basement here to practically furnish the entire thing. Would have to buy some living room stuff, but that is basically IT. We agreed to think about this, wait and see what happens with the company I partly own in Corpus, and do the research needed to learn about how to dispose of the old, worn-out mobile home already on the land.
Oh, how life throws changes at us. And decisions that need to be made. We can only just hope we're making the rights ones and go about our business. I don't like to be having to make such big decisions at this time of my life, though. I had always imagined I would be settled someplace by now, with lots of security, writing the great American novel, no worries. I never dreamed I would have an elderly father taking up a lot of my thoughts, or contemplating the purchase of a mobile home for God's sake, or living in the mountains of northern New Mexico wondering how in the hell I'm going to afford all of this without a viable income. I guess I need to learn to roll a bit more. Flexibility has been my strong trait. But then endless worry gets you nowhere either. I have a big ugly fever blister on my mouth as a result of pointless worry.
On the upside, I've sold a few blouses this week. And the Kindle sales on The Passion of Dellie O'Barr are surprisingly good. So all is not doom and gloom. We have a party at the Lodge this Saturday to look forward to, and lunch today with some friends in LV. My SO's granddaughter is coming to stay with us in May, and we are bringing my grandson back with us after the next Texas trip in June. I guess my SO is right when he says that things have a way of working themselves out. I just need to settle down and see what happens next. And be happy, as the silly old song goes.
Onward .....
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Skiing, & a Family Tree in Progress
The boys were here for a long visit -- not long enough but a day longer than normal. We took them skiing. Well, they did all the skiing, but it was lots of fun sitting out in the sunshine people-watching. And the exhilaration of the boys after they came down the mountain for lunch was contagious. They kept saying how much they loved loved LOVED the mountains. I guess after their puny East Coast mountains, Angel Fire, at 10,812 feet, was a real treat. Sort of made me wish I'd worn ski pants and had rented some equipment myself.
Of course, I got off my writing for a few days. And will remain off of it for a few more, since we're heading for Texas at the end of the week. I have such mixed emotions about going back. I miss some of the people there, and will be glad to see them, Daddy especially. But I also know that going back is hard on my SO. He is reminded of things that are easier to forget up here away from it all in the mountains. And I definitely am not looking forward to temperatures in the 70s and 80s. I've gotten used to my cool weather! And I love it!
Snowed yesterday again. I took the dog out to romp in the afternoon after it had warmed to 31! All my Texas friends think I'm crazy, but I swear 31 degrees here is so much warmer than it is down there in the super humidity. Anyway, the dog is just so joyous when we romp like that. Her little eyes dance with fun and mischief. She loves to chase a toy and then play keep-away with me, taking me further and further up the mountains with each toss and catch. We found raccoon tracks, and lots of deer tracks. My SO has been putting out alfalfa cubes for the deer and they seem much appreciative. As do the little birds who visit us every day to snack on their seed. We have mostly sparrows, but some of the nuthatch are still around as well. I do so miss my kitty. He used to love to stalk the little birds. Never caught one, but it kept his mind active. When will my sorrow over losing him leave me? All I have to do is think of him and I cry big alligator tears.
One of the writing projects I have going right now is a story about him. I don't have much yet, and it isn't easy to write so I put it aside for long spells. But it is something I want for myself if for no other person to read. Sort of like some of the journals I've kept throughout my life. I take them out now and then and get new insights almost every time I do.
Something else I have been having some fun with is Ancestry.com. When we were in Denver at the market one of the wives told me about all the research she had been doing into her family tree. In fact, a long lost cousin turned up there to spend the day with her, and they seemed to have such fun. I can take one side of my maternal grandmother's family back to the early 1700s, but other family threads are just lost. I'm hoping they're not gone for good. Why, why, why don't people write these things down for posterity? You just never know when a future generation is going to take an interest, and it would be so simple to make it just a little bit easier for them to discover information and family connections.
Onward ....
Of course, I got off my writing for a few days. And will remain off of it for a few more, since we're heading for Texas at the end of the week. I have such mixed emotions about going back. I miss some of the people there, and will be glad to see them, Daddy especially. But I also know that going back is hard on my SO. He is reminded of things that are easier to forget up here away from it all in the mountains. And I definitely am not looking forward to temperatures in the 70s and 80s. I've gotten used to my cool weather! And I love it!Snowed yesterday again. I took the dog out to romp in the afternoon after it had warmed to 31! All my Texas friends think I'm crazy, but I swear 31 degrees here is so much warmer than it is down there in the super humidity. Anyway, the dog is just so joyous when we romp like that. Her little eyes dance with fun and mischief. She loves to chase a toy and then play keep-away with me, taking me further and further up the mountains with each toss and catch. We found raccoon tracks, and lots of deer tracks. My SO has been putting out alfalfa cubes for the deer and they seem much appreciative. As do the little birds who visit us every day to snack on their seed. We have mostly sparrows, but some of the nuthatch are still around as well. I do so miss my kitty. He used to love to stalk the little birds. Never caught one, but it kept his mind active. When will my sorrow over losing him leave me? All I have to do is think of him and I cry big alligator tears.
One of the writing projects I have going right now is a story about him. I don't have much yet, and it isn't easy to write so I put it aside for long spells. But it is something I want for myself if for no other person to read. Sort of like some of the journals I've kept throughout my life. I take them out now and then and get new insights almost every time I do.
Something else I have been having some fun with is Ancestry.com. When we were in Denver at the market one of the wives told me about all the research she had been doing into her family tree. In fact, a long lost cousin turned up there to spend the day with her, and they seemed to have such fun. I can take one side of my maternal grandmother's family back to the early 1700s, but other family threads are just lost. I'm hoping they're not gone for good. Why, why, why don't people write these things down for posterity? You just never know when a future generation is going to take an interest, and it would be so simple to make it just a little bit easier for them to discover information and family connections.
Onward ....
Monday, February 13, 2012
The Mountains Around Here, and Their Names
The weather has been deteriorating all night, and this morning, early, I woke to the sound of the wind howling. It's that intermittent wind I've mentioned here before. I can almost imagine it building over behind the mountains, forcing its way up and up, and then collapsing on itself and into our valley. Sometimes you can hear the fierceness of this wind, but if you step outside it's calm down on the ground. It's a high wind, and often passes right over us without bothering to come down here among the mortals. I find the mountains and what they do to weather to be infinitely fascinating.
I have been studying topographical maps online of our valley and the mountains around us. For some reason, I have to know the names of the mountains, where they're located, the names of the valleys and canyons, where they're located, the streams. It isn't an easy thing to learn. For one thing, the people around here call everything variously, almost as if they're making all of it up on the fly.
For instance, I was told by the real estate agent who sold us this house that the tall mountain to the west, the one that has snow on it even in July, that mountain, she said, was Elk Mountain. And so for months I called it that. Then my neighbor down the street, who has a envious view of that mountain through their back windows, well, they called it Gascon Peak. I then began to look through my mountain books, and could not find a Gascon Peak listed at all. This mountain is well over 11,000 feet and is pushing 12,000. I know this because of the very fact of that snow that stays up there practically year-round. So it would stand to reason that a mountain that tall, in this state, would be listed in the books. Hermit's Peak is listed and it's just 10,600 and rarely has a snow-cap past March. But Gascon Peak seems to be what all the people living right here want to call the damned thing, I guess because it's down Gascon Canyon. So I was going to just go with it, too. Except that it just isn't really IN me to do that.
The president of our association wrote a column in our newsletter in which he mentioned Gascon Peak and Lone Pine Mesa, another interesting name that I believe people just like to say. I ran into him down at the post office shortly after this article came out. Our post office is in the valley and from the parking lot there you can see almost the entire circle of mountains around us. I asked him to please point out Gascon Peak and Lone Pine Mesa to me, and here's the funny part. He couldn't do it. He sort of gestured with his hand and gave me a vague response, and I realized that he really wasn't certain either.
Back to the topo maps and my endless quest for the proper names and locations. And this is what I believe I know. The infamous Gascon Peak is really Penasco Grande, and it is 11,866 feet high. Beside it is Spring Mountain, also over 11,000 and scarred by a fire from about 7 years ago that began in Maestas Canyon below. Behind Spring Mountain, and barely visible from our valley is Elk Mountain, a sister mountain to Spring Mountain. Just in front of Elk Mountain, and blocking the view, is Bluebell Ridge, which runs right up to the back end of Hermit's Peak. There is a bald spot on Bluebell Ridge that keeps a snow-pack in winter, and that bald spot is called Bluebell Park. And finally, in front of Bluebell Ridge, hovering around the lower valley is Lone Pine Mesa, a very nondescript part of the larger loop of mountains. Lone Pine Mesa is in fact covered with pines, spruces, and other forest evergreens, but maybe at one time in its life it had a single pine. Who gets to name these mountains and why are they named as they are?
Another thing that I managed to find out, definitively is, that our house sits at 7600 feet, probably the reason I struggle to breathe every other day. A flatlander, born and bred at an altitude of about 6 feet above sea level, finds it hard to breathe when she climbs a ladder, let alone walks, talks and lives at 7600 feet. I'm hoping that someday this will stop being a struggle for me. Because I do so love these mountains.
Onward ....
I have been studying topographical maps online of our valley and the mountains around us. For some reason, I have to know the names of the mountains, where they're located, the names of the valleys and canyons, where they're located, the streams. It isn't an easy thing to learn. For one thing, the people around here call everything variously, almost as if they're making all of it up on the fly.
For instance, I was told by the real estate agent who sold us this house that the tall mountain to the west, the one that has snow on it even in July, that mountain, she said, was Elk Mountain. And so for months I called it that. Then my neighbor down the street, who has a envious view of that mountain through their back windows, well, they called it Gascon Peak. I then began to look through my mountain books, and could not find a Gascon Peak listed at all. This mountain is well over 11,000 feet and is pushing 12,000. I know this because of the very fact of that snow that stays up there practically year-round. So it would stand to reason that a mountain that tall, in this state, would be listed in the books. Hermit's Peak is listed and it's just 10,600 and rarely has a snow-cap past March. But Gascon Peak seems to be what all the people living right here want to call the damned thing, I guess because it's down Gascon Canyon. So I was going to just go with it, too. Except that it just isn't really IN me to do that.
The president of our association wrote a column in our newsletter in which he mentioned Gascon Peak and Lone Pine Mesa, another interesting name that I believe people just like to say. I ran into him down at the post office shortly after this article came out. Our post office is in the valley and from the parking lot there you can see almost the entire circle of mountains around us. I asked him to please point out Gascon Peak and Lone Pine Mesa to me, and here's the funny part. He couldn't do it. He sort of gestured with his hand and gave me a vague response, and I realized that he really wasn't certain either.
Back to the topo maps and my endless quest for the proper names and locations. And this is what I believe I know. The infamous Gascon Peak is really Penasco Grande, and it is 11,866 feet high. Beside it is Spring Mountain, also over 11,000 and scarred by a fire from about 7 years ago that began in Maestas Canyon below. Behind Spring Mountain, and barely visible from our valley is Elk Mountain, a sister mountain to Spring Mountain. Just in front of Elk Mountain, and blocking the view, is Bluebell Ridge, which runs right up to the back end of Hermit's Peak. There is a bald spot on Bluebell Ridge that keeps a snow-pack in winter, and that bald spot is called Bluebell Park. And finally, in front of Bluebell Ridge, hovering around the lower valley is Lone Pine Mesa, a very nondescript part of the larger loop of mountains. Lone Pine Mesa is in fact covered with pines, spruces, and other forest evergreens, but maybe at one time in its life it had a single pine. Who gets to name these mountains and why are they named as they are?
Another thing that I managed to find out, definitively is, that our house sits at 7600 feet, probably the reason I struggle to breathe every other day. A flatlander, born and bred at an altitude of about 6 feet above sea level, finds it hard to breathe when she climbs a ladder, let alone walks, talks and lives at 7600 feet. I'm hoping that someday this will stop being a struggle for me. Because I do so love these mountains.
Onward ....
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Going Into eBook Once Again
THE PASSION OF DELLIE O'BARR became available on Nook today. Odd that it came out on Nook before Kindle, but Kindle should be out before the week's up. I like having my books available again, even if it is an electronic version. I got 1099s from both Barnes and Noble and Amazon for sales of LILY last year. Surprised me. I knew I'd been getting little deposits from them, but it adds up.
Re-reading THE PASSION OF DELLIE O'BARR to catch mistakes made in the conversion process is what got me interested in working on the old screenplay again. I have been doing more of that over the last few days. My son and his partner will be here mid-week next week, and shortly afterwards, we are making our three-month trip to Texas, so the screenplay is something I can take along more easily. But once we get back from Texas, I am going to set it aside and get back to the endless novel. I'm really chomping at the bit to dig back into it.
It is fun to work on this screenplay, although I'm sure I'm going to have to cut easily half of it before I'm finished. I like learning a new way of writing, delving into the mechanics of it, and just finding methods to get the story done through dialogue and action. That just has to be good practice for novel-writing, too. In prose it's often too easy to cop-out with a lot of narrative and internal monologues. Not possible with a screenplay, or anyway, not AS possible. I am seeing more and more movies with voice-overs than I ever used to see, and for the most part, it's in movies where the script has been adapted from a novel. But I'm not quite good enough at this yet to do that effectively.
Anyway, I think I'm really looking at this screenplay as more of an exercise. I do understand that it's even harder to have a screenplay produced than it is to have a novel published. And I'm not sure I would be willing to put in all the necessary work that would go into that process. I've had some dealings with movie people -- producers, directors, writers, etc -- and they live in a totally different universe than I do. Truth is, I don't want to live in theirs, so there you are.
On another note, I've felt the need to fill my loose time with some money-making endeavors. I've started selling again. Ladies fashion blouses this time. It's a new line of merchandise for me but not a new concept. Selling is basically selling, no matter what the product. Hopefully it will turn out to be lucrative. Otherwise, I'll quit.
Onward ....
Re-reading THE PASSION OF DELLIE O'BARR to catch mistakes made in the conversion process is what got me interested in working on the old screenplay again. I have been doing more of that over the last few days. My son and his partner will be here mid-week next week, and shortly afterwards, we are making our three-month trip to Texas, so the screenplay is something I can take along more easily. But once we get back from Texas, I am going to set it aside and get back to the endless novel. I'm really chomping at the bit to dig back into it.
It is fun to work on this screenplay, although I'm sure I'm going to have to cut easily half of it before I'm finished. I like learning a new way of writing, delving into the mechanics of it, and just finding methods to get the story done through dialogue and action. That just has to be good practice for novel-writing, too. In prose it's often too easy to cop-out with a lot of narrative and internal monologues. Not possible with a screenplay, or anyway, not AS possible. I am seeing more and more movies with voice-overs than I ever used to see, and for the most part, it's in movies where the script has been adapted from a novel. But I'm not quite good enough at this yet to do that effectively.
Anyway, I think I'm really looking at this screenplay as more of an exercise. I do understand that it's even harder to have a screenplay produced than it is to have a novel published. And I'm not sure I would be willing to put in all the necessary work that would go into that process. I've had some dealings with movie people -- producers, directors, writers, etc -- and they live in a totally different universe than I do. Truth is, I don't want to live in theirs, so there you are.
On another note, I've felt the need to fill my loose time with some money-making endeavors. I've started selling again. Ladies fashion blouses this time. It's a new line of merchandise for me but not a new concept. Selling is basically selling, no matter what the product. Hopefully it will turn out to be lucrative. Otherwise, I'll quit.
Onward ....
Friday, February 3, 2012
A Tribute to My Mother
Yesterday was Groundhog Day. Don't think he saw his shadow here, but anyway, I can't remember what's supposed to happen if he does or doesn't. If it means winter is almost over, or that winter has a long way yet to go. Either one is OK with me. We had another two inches of snow overnight, and I like it when it snows. Every window has a beautiful scene outside, while it's warm and cozy inside. Good time for making soups and stews, which are a couple of things I seem to do all right by up here in this altitude.
Yesterday was also the 18th anniversary of the day my mother died. I often get the date confused with the 4th of February, which will be the 20th anniversary of the day my grandfather died. Both days have a poignancy for me, but for now, I want to focus just on one.
My relationship with my mother was tempestuous, to put it mildly. We often went months without speaking, generally because of some way she perceived that I had slighted her. She was quick to hold grudges, even against her children. She went to her death without speaking to my brother. She also had a nasty habit of saying critical things in a hurtful way, and in what my aunt (her youngest sister) called of being tit-for-tat on everything. When she sent out Christmas cards she made a list. If someone on the list reciprocated with a return card, they got a check beside their name. At the end of the season, those without a check got crossed off the list and those names would not get a Christmas card the next year, maybe not ever again. She also expected quick Thank You notes whenever she sent a gift. If she didn't get that Thank You, the gift recipient would hear from her. She was shameless about such things.
People are complicated. Mother was certainly no different. She could be difficult, yes indeed, she could. But she also delighted in holidays, would rather get a sentimental card or note than a funny one, or even a gift. She would sit vigil bed-side when someone was sick or in the hospital, and take over food to the family back home. She loved to dance. And sing. And did both rather well. I remember teaching her The Twist when I was about 9 years old, which made her only about 35 but I thought she was ancient, and so funny for wanting to learn the latest dance craze. Of course, long after The Twist was well out of fashion, Mother continued to do the dance whenever what she called "a fast song" was playing. I think she Twisted way into the 1980s.
She loved to play games, and was also good at most of them, most of the time, especially complex games with tricks and trumps and partners. Although she couldn't be called a good sport because she lost poorly. I remember once when she was playing Monopoly with me and my brother, and was losing pretty badly. When her token (always the Tophat) landed on Park Place, which my brother not only owned but had added several houses to, she refused to pay the rent and instead picked up the board and tossed everything on it across the room. So much for good sportsmanship, but later, probably feeling a little remorse over her behavior, she made peanut butter cookies. She let me dip the fork tines into sugar then mash the dough flat before she put them in the oven to bake. I was proud of the cookies she claimed we made together.
Once when I was in the fourth grade, Mother came to school to have lunch in the cafeteria with me. It was parents' week, and she took off from work to be with my class that day. She wore a boat-neck pullover top in a color of blue that perfectly matched her eyes. Her hair was done in a kind of Jackie Kennedy pouf, and her skirt hit her just at the knee. She wore the pair of fake-pearl cluster clip-on earrings my brother and I had given her for her birthday, and I thought she looked beautiful. When she appeared at our classroom door, I jumped up from my desk and went to take her hand, pulling her into the room to meet my teacher and the other kids in class. I seem to recall that there were a couple of other moms there that day, but mine was surely the best, and prettiest, mom on the planet.
As the years go by, 18 of them already, these sweet memories are the ones that have taken over inside me. I have not forgotten the arguments, the clashes, the butting of heads that she and I did as I grew into womanhood. But it does me more good to dwell on better memories.
At the end of her life we seemed to silently agree to believe in the good that was between us, the love, the devotion if not outright adoration. She was so sick, had lost all her hair and finally couldn't get out of the hospital bed set up in her front room. I spent one afternoon shortening her nightgowns so they wouldn't tangle beneath her, and applying Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion to her bald head because the new hair coming in made her scalp itch.
She struggled with her oxygen hose, and came and went in a drug-induced fog that made her grouchy and abrupt. She ordered me around, ordered Daddy around, too. She didn't have enough breath to couch her orders in kindness. The afternoon I spent sewing up her gowns, she interrupted my task endlessly. Do this, do that. Come over here and help me. I felt like a jack-in-the-box that day, jumping up and down from the sewing in my hands. Finally, she said to me, "Cindy," in a sharp tone that I knew would be followed by some sort of order from Colonel Mom. I sighed and prepared to put down the sewing yet again.
"What now?" I said, probably with some impatience in my voice, too. I looked at her and could see the glaze that had settled over her eyes. Whatever thing she had wanted me to do for her this time was lost in the pain killers, the confusion caused by the tumor in her brain.
Finally she said, "Come over here and kiss my head." She sounded forlorn and pitiful. I laid aside the gown I was hemming, got up from the couch and went to do just that. Her tiny new hair smelled like Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion. Her skin felt baby soft against my lips.
These are the memories I choose to keep close to me. I do this for myself as much as for anyone. It's easier to forgive than to hold onto hostilities. And it's a painful thing to lose your mother, no matter how difficult she might have made things from time to time. So much of your own self-definition is tied to your mother, and to those early days. These are things I see more and more clearly, after all these 18 years without her physically in my life.
Onward ....
Yesterday was also the 18th anniversary of the day my mother died. I often get the date confused with the 4th of February, which will be the 20th anniversary of the day my grandfather died. Both days have a poignancy for me, but for now, I want to focus just on one.
My relationship with my mother was tempestuous, to put it mildly. We often went months without speaking, generally because of some way she perceived that I had slighted her. She was quick to hold grudges, even against her children. She went to her death without speaking to my brother. She also had a nasty habit of saying critical things in a hurtful way, and in what my aunt (her youngest sister) called of being tit-for-tat on everything. When she sent out Christmas cards she made a list. If someone on the list reciprocated with a return card, they got a check beside their name. At the end of the season, those without a check got crossed off the list and those names would not get a Christmas card the next year, maybe not ever again. She also expected quick Thank You notes whenever she sent a gift. If she didn't get that Thank You, the gift recipient would hear from her. She was shameless about such things.
People are complicated. Mother was certainly no different. She could be difficult, yes indeed, she could. But she also delighted in holidays, would rather get a sentimental card or note than a funny one, or even a gift. She would sit vigil bed-side when someone was sick or in the hospital, and take over food to the family back home. She loved to dance. And sing. And did both rather well. I remember teaching her The Twist when I was about 9 years old, which made her only about 35 but I thought she was ancient, and so funny for wanting to learn the latest dance craze. Of course, long after The Twist was well out of fashion, Mother continued to do the dance whenever what she called "a fast song" was playing. I think she Twisted way into the 1980s.
She loved to play games, and was also good at most of them, most of the time, especially complex games with tricks and trumps and partners. Although she couldn't be called a good sport because she lost poorly. I remember once when she was playing Monopoly with me and my brother, and was losing pretty badly. When her token (always the Tophat) landed on Park Place, which my brother not only owned but had added several houses to, she refused to pay the rent and instead picked up the board and tossed everything on it across the room. So much for good sportsmanship, but later, probably feeling a little remorse over her behavior, she made peanut butter cookies. She let me dip the fork tines into sugar then mash the dough flat before she put them in the oven to bake. I was proud of the cookies she claimed we made together.
Once when I was in the fourth grade, Mother came to school to have lunch in the cafeteria with me. It was parents' week, and she took off from work to be with my class that day. She wore a boat-neck pullover top in a color of blue that perfectly matched her eyes. Her hair was done in a kind of Jackie Kennedy pouf, and her skirt hit her just at the knee. She wore the pair of fake-pearl cluster clip-on earrings my brother and I had given her for her birthday, and I thought she looked beautiful. When she appeared at our classroom door, I jumped up from my desk and went to take her hand, pulling her into the room to meet my teacher and the other kids in class. I seem to recall that there were a couple of other moms there that day, but mine was surely the best, and prettiest, mom on the planet.
As the years go by, 18 of them already, these sweet memories are the ones that have taken over inside me. I have not forgotten the arguments, the clashes, the butting of heads that she and I did as I grew into womanhood. But it does me more good to dwell on better memories.
At the end of her life we seemed to silently agree to believe in the good that was between us, the love, the devotion if not outright adoration. She was so sick, had lost all her hair and finally couldn't get out of the hospital bed set up in her front room. I spent one afternoon shortening her nightgowns so they wouldn't tangle beneath her, and applying Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion to her bald head because the new hair coming in made her scalp itch.
She struggled with her oxygen hose, and came and went in a drug-induced fog that made her grouchy and abrupt. She ordered me around, ordered Daddy around, too. She didn't have enough breath to couch her orders in kindness. The afternoon I spent sewing up her gowns, she interrupted my task endlessly. Do this, do that. Come over here and help me. I felt like a jack-in-the-box that day, jumping up and down from the sewing in my hands. Finally, she said to me, "Cindy," in a sharp tone that I knew would be followed by some sort of order from Colonel Mom. I sighed and prepared to put down the sewing yet again.
"What now?" I said, probably with some impatience in my voice, too. I looked at her and could see the glaze that had settled over her eyes. Whatever thing she had wanted me to do for her this time was lost in the pain killers, the confusion caused by the tumor in her brain.
Finally she said, "Come over here and kiss my head." She sounded forlorn and pitiful. I laid aside the gown I was hemming, got up from the couch and went to do just that. Her tiny new hair smelled like Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion. Her skin felt baby soft against my lips.
These are the memories I choose to keep close to me. I do this for myself as much as for anyone. It's easier to forgive than to hold onto hostilities. And it's a painful thing to lose your mother, no matter how difficult she might have made things from time to time. So much of your own self-definition is tied to your mother, and to those early days. These are things I see more and more clearly, after all these 18 years without her physically in my life.
Onward ....
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The Real Deal
I have not written anything for the last few days but I have been writing in my head. I consider this to be valid, because any writer has to do a lot of thinking about writing in addition to the actual act of writing, or putting words to the page, virtual or otherwise. I stopped working on the screenplay, because I basically got stuck. Couldn't think of what part needed to be amended, or left out altogether, or focused on, so I just set the screenplay aside for the time being. I picked up one of my old, oft-rejected short stories. I have never put all those stories onto this computer, and frankly, the idea of putting them out there for Kindle has been sort of seductive, so I thought I would at least get them onto this computer, and in the process give them a freshening. That is exactly what I thought I was doing with this short story, except.... I got stuck with it, too.
This is a story that has had many very "nice" rejections. In other words, editors have made lots of comments along with their rejections. This story has also been workshopped, critiqued, whatever else a thing like this can go through. I have always sort of liked this story. It has elements in it that I have wished to see in print. Oh well.....
It has also been set aside for the time being.
And so... I am back to thinking about the "endless novel." We have watched a few war movies lately. That has me thinking about it. And I started reading 33 MONTHS AS A POW IN STALAG LUFT III by Albert P. Clark, which has me thinking again about it, as well. I have not gone so far as to actually get it out and dust it off, re-read it or whatever, but I am definitely headed in that direction. The thing is, I have put so much work into this novel. It is 90% done. I re-read it about a year ago, made some minor changes, and found it to have a lot of merit, surprisingly so. A really good writer friend of mine has read it and also found it to have merit -- she gave me some excellent feedback. I really would like to finish it. In fact, it's one of my biggest desires, to finish this novel.
Thing is, I don't know if it will find a publisher. I think fear is inching it's way into this project, insidiously. I am not certain about that at all. But I have been in contact with my "old" editor recently, and so I'm thinking maybe I should just go ahead, on faith, and finish this damned novel. It probably wouldn't take but a couple of months, if I really put my nose to the proverbial grindstone and got after it. I have the backing of my sweetheart -- he says he supports me 100 percent. I have the research material right here, a few feet from my desk. I have new insights into the plot, or character motivations anyway. Why not? It's one of the things I have set my sights on actually doing, completing it. Before I die. My bucket list. Whatever.... I've been talking about it for ten years now at least. Why not go for it? Finish the goddammed thing!!!
I truly think this is the REAL deal. The thing I SHOULD be working on. It's the place all this other superficial writing has been leading me. I truly think that I am a novelist above and beyond anything else. I truly think it's time to put myself on the line with this. Why not? What is the holdup? What new and profound excuse can I come up with now for not going ahead with this almost-finished novel? What better place to work than where I am now, in the peace and quiet of these lovely mountains? What else can I say or do to keep me FROM doing this, completing this? What?
I even think it might be the best thing I've ever written. It has certainly been the most challenging. And the interruptions. The set-backs. Losing a marriage, losing a life, losing a son, changing my whole entire lifestyle, my path. God, what hasn't happened to keep me from doing THIS? But it is time now. Excuses are becoming tired and oh so lame. Not even I believe them anymore.
(In a whisper...) Onward ..... (Yes, I CAN do this, by God!)
Onward (with conviction) ......
This is a story that has had many very "nice" rejections. In other words, editors have made lots of comments along with their rejections. This story has also been workshopped, critiqued, whatever else a thing like this can go through. I have always sort of liked this story. It has elements in it that I have wished to see in print. Oh well.....
It has also been set aside for the time being.
And so... I am back to thinking about the "endless novel." We have watched a few war movies lately. That has me thinking about it. And I started reading 33 MONTHS AS A POW IN STALAG LUFT III by Albert P. Clark, which has me thinking again about it, as well. I have not gone so far as to actually get it out and dust it off, re-read it or whatever, but I am definitely headed in that direction. The thing is, I have put so much work into this novel. It is 90% done. I re-read it about a year ago, made some minor changes, and found it to have a lot of merit, surprisingly so. A really good writer friend of mine has read it and also found it to have merit -- she gave me some excellent feedback. I really would like to finish it. In fact, it's one of my biggest desires, to finish this novel.
Thing is, I don't know if it will find a publisher. I think fear is inching it's way into this project, insidiously. I am not certain about that at all. But I have been in contact with my "old" editor recently, and so I'm thinking maybe I should just go ahead, on faith, and finish this damned novel. It probably wouldn't take but a couple of months, if I really put my nose to the proverbial grindstone and got after it. I have the backing of my sweetheart -- he says he supports me 100 percent. I have the research material right here, a few feet from my desk. I have new insights into the plot, or character motivations anyway. Why not? It's one of the things I have set my sights on actually doing, completing it. Before I die. My bucket list. Whatever.... I've been talking about it for ten years now at least. Why not go for it? Finish the goddammed thing!!!
I truly think this is the REAL deal. The thing I SHOULD be working on. It's the place all this other superficial writing has been leading me. I truly think that I am a novelist above and beyond anything else. I truly think it's time to put myself on the line with this. Why not? What is the holdup? What new and profound excuse can I come up with now for not going ahead with this almost-finished novel? What better place to work than where I am now, in the peace and quiet of these lovely mountains? What else can I say or do to keep me FROM doing this, completing this? What?
I even think it might be the best thing I've ever written. It has certainly been the most challenging. And the interruptions. The set-backs. Losing a marriage, losing a life, losing a son, changing my whole entire lifestyle, my path. God, what hasn't happened to keep me from doing THIS? But it is time now. Excuses are becoming tired and oh so lame. Not even I believe them anymore.
(In a whisper...) Onward ..... (Yes, I CAN do this, by God!)
Onward (with conviction) ......
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