Life, Love, and Other Dissed Emotions

ICE Assigned.

2026-03-22T20:43:28.812-04:00

Today's news threat from our government's Executive Office is to have the agents of ICE (Immigrant and Customs Enforcement) take over the jobs of TSA agents at the airports. The TSA agents are tired of working without pay, and really, with the current(ly rising) gas prices, they probably can no longer afford to, since they don't actually live at the airports.

Maybe ICE could live at the airports!

After all, they are having a lot of problems finding places to take them in, and an airport should be big enough. The bigger the better for keeping them housed. Plus, sooner or later, they will be facing the same lack of income and higher gas prices. It's just taking longer due to their Special Status.

On the surface, this is a great idea, and probably should have been thought of a long time ago. Just think what incredible numbers they could have arresting and deporting people who might be 'fleeing' the country so they don't get sent away!

Isn't this where they should have been looking all along? As well as stopping flee-ers who aren't being counted on their scorecards, they might even spy some brazenly deplaning as if they were entering a free country of their free will.

It's so obvious.

Isn't that where they should have been all along, instead of raiding private homes and dragging children off the streets? (Even if it isn't to bait or betray their parents and siblings?) Or playing Chicken with automobiles then bawking and squawking like one when they succeed at getting hit?

Or --? Well, never mind. I don't want to wander into the uncovered or undiscovered possibilities -- I'm sticking with the best known examples.

They are bad enough.

There are other considerations as well, some of them rather frivolous.

My biggest question is that, while they are 'directing' people through metal scanners and personally feeling them up at gunpoint, will they still be masked?

Will they shoot you if you punch them in their nose if they get too frisky with the frisking?

Will they put your underwear on their heads when they toss your luggage all along the belt? Use your bras as gasmasks?

Will they take their masks off to do so?

Will they step on your bare toes once they have your shoes?

Will they have tear gas in enclosed areas?

Will they use it?

Will you be there when they do?

ICE in the airports may well slow down the country as much as the pandemic did in 2020.If it does, our executive Officer will have done in 4 months what it took him 4 years to do last time around.

We'll all be getting free spa mudbaths in the swamp, won't we, and being the moles getting whacked in the Great Game.

But the mud will be free, and if we do get whacked, we won't have to worry about embalming and burial costs.

We'll just keep sinking, from the sublime to sub-lime.

Isn't that ridiculous?

Where is Samuel Adams?

2026-01-15T20:47:00.003-05:00

There are a lot of unbelievable things happening in our United States.

Things that should not be happening.

Things that should never happen, because they've happened before, and history knows the cost.

We know the cost.

Our government has turned against us.

Our government is attacking us.

Our system of checks and balances has, thus far, failed the everyday American.

The failure is because the very ones who ARE the checks and balances have decided that they'll do nothing.

Not every one of them, of course, but the majority of them.

They are neither opposing nor promoting.

They are doing nothing.

Waiting to see which side wins, so they can continue in their own importance.

I wonder, sometimes, where are the underground newspapers of the 1960s? The Village Voices? The LA Free Presses?

Where are the broadsheets and broadsides on every bulletin board or utility pole in every town?

People ARE speaking up, and speaking out.

There ARE rallies and protests and civil disobedience.

These are sometimes well-attended, and there is an effort at coordination, but it seems futile.

It seems random and chaotic and unorganized.

Where are the organizers?

Where are the Samuel Adamses as the USA passes from the Terrible Twos into the next phase of national existence?

Where are the Abbie Hoffmans and the Jerry Rubins?

The Black Panthers and the Young Lords?

Where am I?

I should be Sam Adams.

Shouldn't I?

Writing invective rhetoric, rallying cries, offering education and information and ideas?

Isn't that what effective writers do in time like these?

These days, we don't post broadsides on the messenger poles in the center of town.

These days we use memes, and sound bytes, and unfiltered, uncut videos.

OUR media is online, spread through invisible waves (for want of a better word.)

We are ALL speaking out, striving to be heard, but sometimes we lapse into speaking -- or not speaking out for our individual selves instead of all of ourselves together.

Our checks and balances are slowly beginning to appear.

So slowly.

But I, the wannabe Sam Adams, am I doing enough?

Am I doing my best?

Am I speaking up and speaking out?

Am I doing my best with the abilities I have?

How can I do more?

How can I do better?

Am I doing enough?

How can I do enough?

How can WE do enough?

Magic, Mystery, or just Me?

2025-03-11T22:26:00.000-04:00

Sunday night when I went to bed, my cane was on the floor, lying across the door hole. I looked at it, thought I should pick that up so I don't trip over it, then decided not to, because I don't ever use that half of the room early in the day.
Monday morning, when I remembered, it wasn't there. No big deal; I must have picked it up anyway without thinking about it.
BUT:
It wasn't anywhere. Not on my cart, not on the box, not by my desk, not stretched out oh the floor behind my box, not under the lip in the kitchen, along the bottom of cabinets, counter, and sinks. Not in bathroom between wall and vanity sink. not beside or behind refrigerator. Not between the bed and my trunk., not between my shelf units, not under the chairs beside the tv. I even looked under the bed in three or four different places! I always lean it on something so it will be near-at-hand.

Oh well, it must be here somewhere, and I'll find it eventually.
I always do. It does like to hide from me. (Which was why I made note of where I was leaving it before I went to bed,.)
So, being wibble-wobble, I didn't go anywhere Monday, although I did do a pretty good job of housecleaning.

Well, this morning (Tuesday) when I got up -- and it was morning -- I still couldn't find it. It was a warm sunshiny day, so I opened the window and the door and had plenty of white bright light and that long black rod wasn't anywhere to be seen.

It still has to be here somewhere, so I go through the whole day/routine/seeking and not finding things AGAIN, and having no luck.
Several times throughout the day I'd try again, getting more and more exasperated and dreading that i was going to have to ask someone in to look for me, thus making myself look and feel stupid.
I kept looking and taking care of business stuff, because I still wasn't going to go anywhere without my (literal) prop.

I made a last effort while I was fixing my meal. While I ate, I figured I was just going to have to ask, because it HAD to be here!

I finished eating, gathered my dishes, took them to the kitchen, and went to the bathroom.

There was the cane, lengthwise ALONG THE TOP of the stuff on the trunk!
Huh? Whut? I do not put my cane on top of things; I always lean it against something. That's why it always slides (falls) down under and between things.

So.

I don't know what happened, or how, but I'm happy. I don't have to ask for help finding a daily-use item in my home.
My one-room home.

I would like to know how it got there, but I sure am grateful to the mystic or magic that made it reappear. Hmm. Maybe there's an invisibility cloak in my trunk junk? I've just never seen it because -- duh -- it's invisible?
That still doesn't explain why it took about forty hours for me to see it there, or how it got from the floor on my right to the trunk on my left. (Must have levitated, too.)

A Wasted Sunday Morning (The Open Door)

2024-09-08T15:14:00.003-04:00

Okay! I have wasted my morning for a handful of breakfasts and a lot of cheese!

It didn't start out that way. It started out a simple necessary decision. I need groceries, among other things. I also need test strips that are Walmart brand. I tried to get them delivered but -- that's a whole 'nother story.

So, instead of going to Kroger, I went to Walmart. I could buy some other necessities there as well as some groceries. And if they had any Verizon phones, I could get that.

Off to Walmart I go. Pleasant, easy trip. Not a lot of traffic (church) and beautiful weather, and just a good feeling.

I should know better!

Amelia Walmart did NOT have my test strips. I even asked at the window and got the if-we-have-any-they'd-be-on-the-shelf. There weren't any.

They didn't have the brand of necessities I wanted.

No Verizon phones.

So I went to Walmart, used up my gas, and my time, for no real reason.

Well, I could still get groceries, although Kroger is cheaper and has better selection in most but not all foodstuffs, especially produce.

So I did. Kroger does not have $2 breakfast bowls, so I snatched me up a bunch of them, and Kroger doesn't always have the big box of cheese single, so I bought one of those. And a box of crackers. I wanted some fruit, but Wal-marts selection is bad and they want about twice Kroger's price.

anyway, I got those goodies, went to check out. Cashier asked about my day and I told him not well, but he didn't ask for any details. (He wasn't responsible and couldn't do anything anyway.)

Went out to car; loaded groceries into back seat, and tried to open door and get in, but couldn't. Somehow I must have locked the door. Easy enough to do when you're manipulating purses and canes and keeping an eye on traffic and all that other stuff.

I hobble around to the other side of the car and hit the unlock switch on the other front door which unlocks both. I see the driver side door unlock from the passenger side of the car.

Problem solved. (I wish)

Gimp my way back around and yay, hooray, but strange -- the driver door popped partially open when it was unlocked.

The damn door still wouldn't open!

I pushed it fully shut and tried again.

Nope, no luck. It would open just as much as it had popped, but no more. Well hell.

I figured the door panel must have slipped and been catching on the frame.

So I toddle around the car again, get in the passenger seat, flip the switch a couple times and then use my cane to force the door open.

It opens.

Yay Hooray again.

Back around the car this ridiculous fat old lady goes again -- I got some steps in today, I did. Yes,, the door panel was kind of loose and needed adjusting. Congrats on your clever diagnosis, fatso gimp (I'm starting to feel it by now).

I take care of that, seat myself, put my seat belt on, and the key in the ignition. (So I won't put it down and lose it -- I'm beginning to lose my faith in the Day.)

I close the door!

It goes KLONK and bounces back open!

Does it two or three more times.

It's not the inner panel. I can see that when I look, and the KLONK has a different sound than the padded panel should make. It's metallic!

omfg

the little hook thing that's supposed to latch on the door isn't moving. I can't exactly examine it or work on it there in the parking lot, but -- Heavy sigh -- oh well, I have a bungee cord, so I can hook it up somehow to hold the door until I get home.

Except that there is nothing in the car to attach it to!

Nothing on the door to attach it to, except for the rigging holding my window up. Well thank god there's that. Strange thing to be thankful for, but all things happen for a reason, right?

Except that there is still nothing IN THE CAR to attach the other end to. Did think about using my seat, but that was a no-go as a plan. I couldn't pull it hard enough, and if it was that hard to pull, could I trust it not to pull loose? As in either pull the seat out, or snap me in the back or head or something?

I guess i won't go to Kroger today.

Now if I can just get home.

Nope, nothing to hold it shut.

Guess I'll have to hold it myself. Yeah, like that's going to work.

I attach one end of the bungee to the strapping on the window, and run the other end up around the place holding the visor to the car, and just hold on to the other end of it.

All the way home.

I made it home, and here I sit, cussing and fussing, eating my breakfast and thin king of grilled cheese for dinner.

I'd really like to bang my head into the walls, kick a few rocks around, and maybe cry myself back to sleep.

I might do that.

When I calm down.

so, how is your day going? Please let me be happy for you

grayish rainish day

2024-09-05T14:32:00.003-04:00

It's been a grayish rainish day today and now that night is creeping in, the sunlight has taken on a misty mystic haze of almost-but-not-quite-a-rainbow light.

The air glows like golden dust.

The sun is behind the trees now. The trees are haloed in the diffused light. Not quite colors quiver as leaves tremble.

Along the alley, a long lazy ray of white light makes its way down the pavement, perfectly placed evenly with the edges. At those edges, where the light meets the grass, the color blossoms into golden fizz, dancing above the ground.

I reach for my phone, my only camera, and try to capture this ethereal moment that was already fading.

I cannot, of course. The magic is beyond both my skill and the phone cameras abilities.

I hope my words have helped you to see it. A slice of time such as this is meant to be shared,and i am sharing it with you.

The Heat of a 'Cool' Night.

2024-06-19T06:11:00.000-04:00

was awake/woke up again around 5 am. Temp was down to 73F so I thought I'd go outside for a while. Water my poor baked roses and make sure the lilac wasn't dehydrating (as if I'd be able to see that in the crepuscular predawn.) Get my clean laundry and the rest of my pop out of the car before the world starts heating back up.

Walk in the grass, wiggle my toes in the dirt, stuff like that.

Now, since it was still dark I just put on my spaghetti strap black sheath dress. This weather has my hair looking like a toilet brush (or a large bottle brush, if you prefer a different image.) So there I am, wandering up and down the fenceline, barefoot in black, scrub brush hair sticking out all over, randomly pouring water out of milk jugs, talking to myself, the water, the sky, and the green of summertime.

It's probably a good thing there was no one out, although it would have been delightful if one of my neighbors had come out and lifted the clothes hamper from the bottom of the steps to the porch at the top. One car came down the alley. No one up or down the street. No one was at the The Plane Street Coffee House and Cafe yet. Or at the childcare center. They usually start trickling in about 5:25. 5:20. It felt like I'd been out there an hour. I had planned to type this up while setting (not sitting) on the porch, but I gotta tell you. I sat down twice to catch my breath and slow my heart (and sweat) rate, and they ain't no way I'm staying out there. Hottest 73F I've been out in for a while. I'm getting worried about my trip to the dr Thursday, but at least I'll have some minimal air movement while the car is moving. Worse comes to worse, I can ask my sisters and we can put our heads together and patch together a Plan D. (One sister is plan B and the other is Plan C)

I believe my neighbor(s) have been watering for me, though. Either that or my tightly capped water bottles have sweated themselves back to full.
They are wonderful people, are they not, and I am blessed to have them and grateful for them, believe me.

And 73 degrees with a hot humid hazy headache high-pressure dome is not, I say NOT, a comfortable temperature.

Stay cool.
I'm going to.

A Wreck of a Good Day

2024-06-13T18:13:00.000-04:00

Well, y'all are not going to believe how I wrecked a beautiful wonderful day. I was finally going to get the jello shots for my knee, so maybe I wouldn't be so wibbly-wobbly. These were due in April, but, y'know, life was happening in the meantime.
Plus this day was already above 80 degrees F. Whew!

Got up early (for me) got all cleaned up, dressed, organized, etc. I even went outside and checked the reservoir on my car because it doesn't like heat when everything works., and everything hasn't worked for a while, but the car still usually gets me where I need to know. Filled it up. Didn't take a lot, which was a cheerful discovery.
Came back in, took medicine combed hair, packed phone and wallet in purse, since my dress has no pockets.

Checked my mail and Facebook, because I still had time. Lots of crazy stupid accidents going on. Accidents on 68 in a couple places -- not going that way-- and around and about downtown on the interstates and -- oh no! An accident earlier on Five Mile. Car upside down and on fire. That was the direction I was going. although it had been cleared up by then.

In other words, just a normal day with an unusual number of accidents showing up in my local feed.
Other interesting calls that have come in today include a kid around New Richmond selling a dead kitten, someone in Ripley skateboarding and flipping people off, a 15 year old girl kidnapped by a Ford 150 from King's auto mall, wearing a tie-dye shirt. (These were later and are just to show what kind of day this is here.)

AnyWay, I leave early enough to get gas in my car and head on down the road. Now this dr office is about 45 minutes from home on a good day, so I leave plenty of time beforehand. Once I'm out of town and the traffic has cleared a bit, I pull into the inner lane, so I won't have to change lanes to make a left turn when going through the business/professional area which is the last part of the trip, dr's offices being a professional setup.
All is going well. Cars in the outer lane are NOT passing me so I'm maintaining speed well, and stopping appropriately at the red lights. Nice smooth driving, although it doesn't seem as if I'm getting very far very fast.
Still, I have plenty of time.

Then I get to Amelia.

Let me tell you about Amelia.
Amelia is a town that isn't a town. The town government disbanded itself not long ago, after a couple hundred years of existence.
It is also. metaphorically, an inch wide and miles long. Narrow lanes, uncoordinated lights, 5 lanes in some places but not in others, lots and lots of traffic, including semis and oversized trucks.
No village police, since the village suicided itself when no one wanted to be the Big Frog anymore.
I keep having to slow down and sometimes momentarily stop for left-turners. Annoying, but not as annoying as constant lane changing in what looks like heavy traffic to me.

I get through the center of town, and there's a stopped car at a green light in front of me. I had watched two or three cars cut around him, changing lanes and getting back, but I didn't mind waiting. A sheriff pulled up behind me, and he waited too. There was a lot of oncoming traffic, so the driver ahead just couldn't go. In the meantime, traffic passing on my right had nearly stopped completely.
I decide to cut over like those other cars had . So, I checked mirrors, looked over my shoulder, checked mirrors again and pulled out
And some horn went off and a white car tried to barrel past me.

That did not quite work out. It's a good thing I was starting from a complete stop, and she wasn't going too fast (I guess) from traffic. I don't know where she came from, since I hadn't seen her coming.
No big smash up (nobody turned upside-down and caught fire). A few chips of paint out of her car and maybe a couple of dents. (I still haven't looked at mine.) No injuries. She had a passenger, also uninjured. I never got out of my car (combined heat and wibbly-wobbly knees)

I no longer had plenty of time.
I did not make my dr appointment (dammit), but considering all the weird things happening out in the public, we were pretty lucky.
But that is how I wrecked a good day.
Although no needles in my knees was a fair positive.
And at least we didn't have to wait for policed.

Reaching Out of Your Mind.

2023-12-10T21:05:00.000-05:00

Tis the season

when sadness looms, when despair overwhelms, when the light is literally gone or going, when life becomes filled with dark, cold, empty spaces.

When many of us retreat so far into ourselves that the corridor has closed behind us and we are stuck in a place with no door, no window, and no way out.

All we can see is the can'ts, wont's, don'ts.

We do not want anyone to know how far, how remote we've become. We pretend we're fine. We smile and make jokes when with others so they won't know how bad things are with us.

It's a time of year for joy and love. For literal warmth. For family huddling together in their caves until the world grows back into light and warmth of its own.

As happens when this season rolls around, there are many suicides and suicide attempts. Sometimes the mind collapses in on itself like a pile of so much rubble.

That Which Survives is buried, with pressure pressing all around. Pressing, pushing. compressing, making us smaller and more ineffective.

Recent suicides in my area have sprouted a lot of conversation on social media.

The messages are, or should be, hopeful, cheering, encouraging, optimistic.

For the most part, that is what they are --

to the ones not reduced to rubble in the dark places of their own souls.

Depression is a disease with many forms, many and varied symptoms, and a whole lot of unknowns. We, as a society, are finally acknowledging the disease aspect of this, and we even think we know how to help.

All the patient needs to do, is reach out, ask for help. Anyone can do that, right?

Well, no.

No one expects someone with a high fever and delirium to be walking around and talking sense.

No one expects the starving man or the thirsty child, so ill that any movement exhausts the energy in their muscles to the point of pain and unconsciousness, to get up off the floor and walk to the nearest kitchen and fix themselves. Shouting at a pneumonia patient to just breathe (or cough) is NOT going to make the air go in any easier or more effectively.

Yet this is exactly what you are asking of the lost souls buried in the dust, pebbles, rocks, bricks that are the rubble smothering and shredding them into components.

You ARE wonderful, opening yourself to the ill and offering to be their go-to when they need help. All they have to do is ask, or tell you of their need.

Their disease prevents them from doing so. It is a symptom.

They cannot ask.

They cannot reach.

It is not a matter of will.

It is not something they can do.

It is a symptom of their disease.

If you want to help, to prevent, to heal, YOU must be the one to watch for the symptoms, to reach out, to do the asking.

And it can be a helpless repetitive job.

You may not get answers.

You may get lies instead of truths.

You may be ignored and you will probably be shut out.

Darkness does not allow the admission of light, because when light enters, darkness is no more.

Look around you, at the people you live with, work with, deal with.

Are they being more quiet OR more noisy than is normal for them?

Are they preoccupied or often not occupied at all?

Are they just not themselves?

Ask them.

If they don't answer, or return generic answers -- "Just got a lot on my mind" or "it's been a tough time" or even "I'm tired; that's all. -- ask again.

Tell them you are here for them.

Then be there. Helping hand extended.

They cannot ask. The disease prevents that.

They may not be able to respond, and you are going to have to wield the shovel and shift the rubble. You are going to have to use an ice pick to bore a hole through a solid wall to let in the ray of light.

You will have to administer the treatment.

And they may fight you. Resist by non-response. That first beam of light can be painful to eyes that have too long endured the black blankness. Effective antibiotics can make an infection seem worse by declaring war on the invaders, who increase their numbers until the drug cuts off their reinforcements.

Do NOT say, they could've -- no, they couldn't. Their illness does not permit this.

Pay attention to behaviors, words, attitudes.

If YOU care, you must, must, must be the one to reach out.

The Seasonal Pause

2023-10-15T02:36:00.003-04:00

Tonight's the night!

Put on the socks, wrap a quilt around my head and shoulders, wrap my hands around a hot cuppa (for me, coffee) and sit on the porch.

It rained today, so the light is shimmering.

The lowering temperature has the air smelling so clean.

The clean smell of falling leaves and fading greens; of pollen-heavy goldenrod and foxtails, and all those plants.

of long darkened evenings and darkening days and long nights ahead when warmth is the best aroma and even in our electric or gas or other technology age, the scent of warmth calls to mind woodfires and cooked food and family.

Too soon the coming cold will be tiresome. The wet, dark evening will be an annoyance.

We'll be over it.

the plants will die, the greens will brown, and the trees will be bare.

But for now, for tonight, we can enjoy the changes in the air. We can cherish the passing of the seasons. We can await the coming hours of darkness knowing that, one way or another, the light will come again.

Eventually.

And the cuppa warms the hands, the nose, and the heart as surely as the socks and quilts warm the body

Magical Monarch Moment

2023-10-15T02:29:00.004-04:00

There was some magnificence in today though. It was a beautiful day with a nice breeze. The birds, bees, and butterflies were busily enjoying all factors.
It's so nice that the small creatures of nature appreciate the work that I (and mostly my friend) put into creating a place for them.
It is also "nice" that I can sit at my desk and look out my door or window and see them going about their lives, adding their own color to the patchwork and their own movements to nature's dance.
I saw the little white butterflies that we called cabbage moths playing tag or chase, whooshing up an ascending breeze and drifting downward when it passes. They chased one another through the flower beds and across the yard for I don't know how long.
It made me laugh.
The magickal highlight today wasn't the white wingers playing tag together though.

The highlight of the day was a single monarch butterfly.
This monarch, which looked to be as large as my hand, cruised in the center of the yard, away from the flowers and the weeds.
This monarch was alone. No companions; no playmates.
This monarch was in the spotlight -- I mean sunlight -- in the middle of my freshly mown yard, with the treetops tossing and the leaves cheering on.
And this monarch performed for it's audience.
(or was it only playing?)
Up and down it swam and soared and slid and sailed. Climbing and banking, or drifting in a straight(ish) line from one end of the yard to the other.
I swear I could almost hear it shrieking "Whee!" on several dives, and "Oooh!" during the climbs. I could feel the wind beneath its wings and the surety that came with that.
As I headed back inside, it floated toward me, rested for a moment -- I think it was smiling -- and then flew off in another direction.

Everywhere a Name! Everyone a Name!

2023-08-18T22:20:00.003-04:00

"You (he/she/they) stole my baby name" is one of the most profound entitlements seen or heard every day. Titles -- another word for names -- are not subject to copyright for a reason. (They should also not be subject to trademark, especially now that some institutions are claiming possession of single letters, but that's another story.)

In most cases, the person making this claim heard, read, or otherwise saw the name somewhere else and really, really liked it. You'd think that this would make it self evident that the name had a previous owner, but it doesn't seem to be working that way.

The only excuse I can think of is that these name-owning people are all the poor children named Amber Nicole, or perhaps Tiffany, if female, and some variation of --aden or --axson if male. I do feel a great sympathy for those like-named persons.

But still, it is most likely that someone else had it first, and that you are the thing you are raging about.

Gifted Gifting

2023-07-22T02:17:00.000-04:00

Here is a little slice of my life for yall.

My indulgence for myself this month was 2 books on the PNW, the setting of most of my (full length) stories. A book about the flora and fauna and the geology of the area. The other was an adult coloring book of the same.

Do you know they don't have fireflies as we know them throughout that region? I'm so glad I researched that before I included them in a pastoral scene! I really was looking to see when they appear there, being that region is north of me, and happily saved myself from an inaccuracy. (So happy!)

Anyway, it made me think since so many of my stories are in that setting, I needed a good reference book at hand. (Google leads me down too many rabbit holes.)
I thought the coloring book would help me become more familiar with the wildlife especially if I use the pictures in the other book as guidelines. Easier for descriptions and environments and other details.

So, I ordered the books.

Now, you may know I have a granddaughter.
This beautiful child (while I can still get away with calling her that-- she's about to turn 15.) If you've followed this blog, or looked at many of my pictures on Facebook, you have seen this child's work.
She is as gifted in her art as I am in mine (I say modestly)
Her art is not the same as mine.
I draw my scenes with words.

She actually draws her scenes.

For a long time now, she has mostly drawn people. Anime to start. Actually it was Sponge Bob to start, almost as soon as she could walk and talk, and hold a pencil, pen, crayon, or chalk. But she has advanced past sponge bob, and even passed beginner's anime.

She drew a couple pictures of her mother, from photographs. So lovely.

She has tried landscapes.

She can't help what colors and lines flow from her fingertips any more than I can do more than direct the barrage of words that flow through mine.

She was with me this weekend, and I showed her my coloring book, and while looking through it she seems to have fallen in love with the pictures. You could almost see her mind adding in the colors -- with her alcohol based markers, specifically. So she instantly knew the medium she'd use, and was applying colors as I arrange words at such times.

It's not often our gifts arrange themselves in such harmonious fashion., and those times will become even more rare as we both age.

Perhaps someday she will illustrate my books.
Or create backdrops or CGI images for productions of said books.
What a nice family connection that would be for future generations.

So
Happy Birthday (early) Hailey, and ENJOY.
Enjoy using your Gift with my gift to you.

And I'm gonna buy another coloring book.

Chasing Water

2023-05-21T19:47:00.002-04:00

I love waterfalls.

They are beautiful, shiny, wet, and wild, and wonderful.

I've seen big waterfalls -- I've been to Niagara.

I've seen mostly smaller ones.

I've seen bright waters arcing out from a narrow opening in rock, and I've seen the water dripping, seeping, and pouring and running down hillsides of rock.

I've seen from one extreme to the other, but I've not seen it all.

More than the visual appeal, there is power in these falls. The falling water somehow scrubs the air. You can feel the friction in the air. You can feel it bristle and rub against your skin. You can smell and taste the freshness. Something to do with ions and an exchange thereof.

It is electric.

Water, falling, with power, speed, and mass practically begs us to -- do something with it.

Make electricity.

Grind wheat or corn, or boulders into pea gravel. (That's how nature often does it, after all.)

Operate machinery.

Cleanse ourselves, our souls, and our environs.

There is nothing that compares to the free-falling of free-flowing water.

But, for all the magic and thrill, and ionic-exchanging fresh electricity, we must remember that power misused or misdirected has the ability to destroy. That same roaring rush of 'might' that lights your home can also send it spinning like a rubber raft on the ocean in a hurricane.

I love waterfalls, but I have a dread of floods, but in a way, a flood is a horizontal, not vertical, waterfall. The beginning of most floods, as they breach a dam or slam into a bridge uses that same power harnessed and misdirected as a vertical fall down a hillside.

Of course, flooding can also be sneaky. That compares to the waters that drip, ooze, and fall over rock walls and fallen trees. The water level can rise, and spill over in increments, and before you know it, you are knee deep, hip. deep, waist deep in sapping, sucking insidiously flowing waters.

I suppose, in conclusion, that the leaping, roaring waterfalls are inherently more honest than flooding. They excite and refresh me, mentally, spiritually. and physically. They thrill me, in so many positive ways.

I seek them out, in my own small way.

I avoid, or try to, the floods, and I fear them.

Power is power, and it is a personal choice how we see it.

How we use it.

But we should always be aware of it.

We should remain in awe of it, not differentiating between horizontal and vertical. As power is power, so water is water. It is for each of us to decide how we see it.

Amidst the Mysts (The Bridge2)

2023-05-04T16:02:00.002-04:00

The man was sweating lightly, feeling trembly. He remembered.

He remembered.

He had been walking from the shop to the farm, where his son was to bring him his lunch. His wife always wanted him to have something fresh, and since he liked her cooking, that was fine. He never knew what combination of his children would show up, and he usually made bets with himself on who and how many it would be. Since school was back in session, it was usually just one or two of the older boys.

He had stopped to check out the balsams – something wasn’t looking right about the three year olds. He didn’t see anything – no insects or growths, and he made a note to have Jamie or Jon to check the soil. They may have been placed too closely, now that they had grown and spread out. They didn’t look crowded, but you couldn’t a;ways tell by looks.

Ne bent a needle, and put it to his nose, then grimaced at the sharpness the scent sent through him. Oh well. He’d best get to the office at the Farm, and get his lunch. That should fill up the hollow place that was starting to ache.

It had been a long and busy morning up yonder.

He ambled on, passing into the spruces. They were his favorites, for shape, for scent, and for color. They were ready for harvest this winter, and he was already getting gentle inquiries for bigger orders. His brothers still thought people were crazy to buy cut trees to take into their house until they were fire food, but they were renewable and profitable, if only for about three weeks a year. But what a profit!

Whew! There was the office! Sure seemed like it had taken a while to get there today. He was exhausted! But then, he hadn’t exactly been in a hurry, and he couldn’t be late since his lunch wasn’t there yet.

By the time he got to his desk, he was sweating lightly, and trying to remember what he had been lifting up yonder the was making his shoulders ache. Probably cases of books, although he didn’t remember any specifically. It was just something that usually happened when he was there.

He sat at his desk, literally pushing papers from one stack to another. There was nothing that needed immediate attention. Nothing that really needed his attention at all, besides maybe soil samples from around those balsams. Jamison could take care of that. He wrote a note so he wouldn’t forget, then smiled as he heard someone approach whistling

It was Jamie. He’d know any sound that boy (young man, not a boy for a while now) made anywhere. And it sounded like he was alone, too, which was rare enough for either father or son, let alone both of them.

He stood up to greet Jamison, – and was forcefully thrown backward. By what, he didn’t know. Just that it was sudden, it was strong, and it had pushed him hard enough to topple him and his chair.

And then he was walking through the woods, following or seeking the sound and source of indescribable music.

As if the clear crystal air itself was singing, without words. Vibrating with sound. High pristine notes, low deep chords that could be felt maybe more than heard.

The harmony was perfect.

No, the harmonies were perfect.

Invisible strings strummed by invisible hands.

Notes, tones, and chords from the air itself, no words but those perfect harmonies.

He had to find the instruments and the music.

And so he had come to the bridge, with its singing, playing cables, but no song.

There were people coming and going on the bridge. Some ran forward to meet joyfully those waiting, some came away quickly from the bridge, eager for their next best thing.

There were people – masses of people, standing alone or in groups all along the bridge. Some were saying ‘hello’ and some ‘good-bye’ and some nothing at all, just watching.

Was there someone watching for him?

He slowed his walk forward to search the crowd. He saw–

He saw many faces, of different degrees of familiarity. Former co-workers and employees, never quite forgotten, but never a whole portion of his life. Casual friends, old acquaintances. He saw them, and they saw him, but any greeting or recognition was that od “used to be.”

He saw his mother (as beautiful as she used to be) and his father (as strong and sturdy as he had used to be) and they both smiled and waved to him, but they were surrounded by children (unborn and stillborn and too-early born, and too shortly living siblings?) and he could see that they –all of them – were content.

Happy and content, not sure why they were at the bridge just now, but they were together and so they were happy. They were there for him, but they were not waiting for him.

His eyes searched the crowd, looking and looking for someone looking for him, and there was no one there of that description.

He was approaching the Bridge, and there was no one there for him.

It was then, just before stepping away from the ground onto all bridge, that he became frightened, and turned and ran.

He would NOT go to where no one waited for him. They would be waiting for him to get home. His son was bringing him lunch. How had he come to this bridge? Why was he here?

This was not his place.

Definitely wasn’t his time to be here or – someone (did he know who?) – someone would be looking for him, waiting, if this was where he was supposed to be.

He took fright and he ran.

He had run and run and run, until he ran into the fog, and the more he ran the thicker the fog became and the more lost and alone he felt, until he had stopped to catch his tortured, ragged breath by leaning his hand against the tree trunk while he tried to solve his mysteries.

He opened his eyes and knew his truth. He had been the one looking for someone. His friend of many years. His lifetime friend; his forever friend.

The friend who had been beside him all along, but that he could only see by going into the Mysts.

His life, and his friend, were here.

His life, and his friend, were now.

The bridge faded, for a time, until time,into the fog, until the only thing before his eyes were the fog through the trees, and Love.

Amidst the Mists: The Bridge (1)

2023-04-12T22:15:00.006-04:00

He opened his eyes and they looked out at the nighttime darkness of a cozy room, but he didn’t even see that.

The image before him was that of a bridge.

The most beautiful, unrealistic bridge he’d ever seen.

A fairy bridge. Made of lights, colors, and threads.

And he had seen it before.

He had run from it before.

That night…

He steadied himself in his mind. No more running.

Besides, what was frightening about a bridge? Even an unworldly one? Even one created by fairies and woven by spiders with spider-thread? Ones that caught the silver-and-gold light and turned it to dancing rainbows of dancing color?

He looked the bridge over carefully, in his mind.

He had seen pictures of bridges built that way, he knew with certainty. Huge steel behemoths, towering over waters, the bridging held up by what looked to be fine dainty fibers but were actually metallic cables somehow spun together to bear great weight, but with flexibility.

He thought maybe he had actually seen one, without the colors and the soft focus. Real ones. Or maybe only one.

But where? He’d had to travel, at times, but those times he tried to keep few and far between, and also short. He had never liked being away from home for long, even before he had married and started with the children.

Home was everything, and the best part of traveling for his work was when he could return home, whether as a success or a failure. It all worked out.

It always worked out.

After he got home.

It didn’t really matter where he had seen such a bridge (New York, maybe?), he just knew that he had.

There was some comfort to be found that an actual bridge designer, working with real and modern materials, had seen such a bridge and figured out how to build one. He’d made it real.

It was a real thing, in the world.

Not, he reminded himself, made of cobwebs and moonbeams, but still real. The cobwebs and moonbeams were for the future. Something for the young to aspire to.

The thing about the bridge – he studied the mental image once more. The bridge didn’t end. It arced, and it faded into the distance, the bridge lights mingling with the stars. The bridge wasn’t swallowed by fog, or obscured by scenery. It was there, and you looked as far as you could see, and it was still there, and then there was a point where you could no longer separate it from its background. The words ‘blur’ and ‘fade’ were inadequate to this great light-based phenomena, but they were the best he had.

The important thing about the bridge wasn’t its style or even its existence.

The important thing about the bridge was its load.

Carventure for the Knees: First of Three

2023-04-03T21:37:00.003-04:00

Let me tell you about my carventure today.
It was great fun, as it always is, when I set out on my own, in my trusty rusty automobile.

First, I had to remove the blankets draped over the window that won't close. We had hella storms over the weekend and winds and tornado warnings and all the good stuff as kitten-cub March roared it's way out as a full grown bull-mad lion. So I had protected the car and contents as best I could. All that had to be undone before I could go anywhere. Blankets on the windows tend to limit the driver's ability to see out, and that's not really good in gray-day situations. (Although it wasn't actually raining by then.)

Next I needed gas. Well, my knees have been bad all week, and, it was, in fact, for my knees that I was going out, so I went to the gas station here in town -- hometown tradition; Wichard's -- where they will pump the gas without having to be informed of a disabled person's presence. We're just like normal people to them!
There appeared to be no other customers waiting, there were no autos in the service bay, and not even the stand-around chit-chatters (generally known in the service industry as the Liars Club. Every business has them.)
I didn't think the 'service person' was ever coming out.I was wondering if I was going to have to go somewhere else and DIY it. But, having worked as customer service, I know that the slow times are when you have to go do the extras in the back room (or equivalent,) and so I waited.

Finally.
Got my gas.
And a light came on on the dash, one that I never even knew existed. One word, SECURITY in red (not orange) lights. Car was running; no knocks, pings, or heartbeat thumps. Brakes were holding well. Temperature gauge was reading normal, so I proceeded with my drive down to Five Mile Road.
Everything worked as it should all the way there. I did the safety stuff -- long stop times, staying back, not getting too close, keeping in the outside lane.
At one point my cruise control turned itself on. That was interesting, as I was approaching a stoplight in an interstate ramp area.
Got there with no further excitement, parked, went in, got a goopy and painful shot in both knees, and headed back out.
The security light did not come back on when the car restarted.
Going home, yay!
As I turned off the road onto the highway to home, that darned old low oil light came on and stayed on.
Same engine check; no pings, clatters, or thumps, no getting hot, no unexplained or unusual noises. So I continue on, thinking I'll stop somewhere for a nosh, and while there I'll see if the reboot -- I mean restart -- thing will work it's magic once again. So at an approximate halfway spot I did just that. Went to a drive-thru, had to turn the key off to be heard on the speaker (my car, like myself has some type of bronchitis and chronically breathes very loudly)
And guess what!
It did indeed work again, and I made it home with my lunch and to my ice packs and my bed.!
Whew!
What a journey to start my week.

Amidst the Mists 7

2023-03-11T02:37:00.006-05:00

He was still in the bed, but sitting up more and better.

In other words, he was getting bored.

Tonight, for several rare minutes, he had been alone, while voices and doors

and all the sounds of a full busy household sounded around him.

He watched out his extravagant window as the darkness fell, long and slow,

and the mists gathered off the lake and wandered down from the treetops. Winding,

whirling, dancing.

He thought of the clean living smell, and wished he was out there once more.

“No, you don’t,” a voice said next to his ear and he looked around but no one

was there.

“You aren’t here, go away,” he said crossly.

“Now how can I go away if I’m not here?”

“I don’t know how you’re here when you aren’t here.”

“Temper, temper.”

“Oh shut up!”

His wife looked into the room. “Do you need something? Are you talking

to me?”

“No. Just – just talking, I guess.”

“My silly man,” she said, came in and kissed him on the forehead and

adjusted the covers around him, like he was one of the children.

“Don’t,” he ordered, but then caught her hand before she could retreat.

She waited.

“Do you s’pose, ” he said hesitantly, “that I could sit in the window?”

“With night coming on? Do you think that’s – safe?”

“If it’s not, I have more work to do on the window. Besides, night air being

sick isn’t true.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah. I do.” He turned her hand over and studied it, then rubbed it softly.

They were silent together, then she sighed. “Jesse and Jonny

are still here. I’ll send them in to help you.”

“Alright.”

“You have to let go of her hand,” the voice beside him advised him. “She’ll

stand there all night letting you hold her hand.”

He sighed, and let the hand go free.

Not Feeling so good

2023-03-06T21:57:00.000-05:00

today has been weird, health wise. Woke up groggy, when I finally woke up. Blood pressure pretty low on first two readings -- needs to be watched. Lowering bp was why they first adjusted the first diuretics dosages, and this may be (or may not) a repeat of that. It did come up and stay up once I was up and moving around a bit.
My sugar is higher than I'm used to, too, My metabolism is seriously out of sync. I can feel that every day. Watch the numbers, watch the numbers. (Now, my numbers aren't all that bad -- one of my sisters would like to have my numbers, and her doctor would congratulate her if she did -- but they are running high for me, for the most part since just before I went to dr last week.)
I already have two more dr appointments set up regarding these changes, and everyone should be on the same page. one never knows for sure about communication on the other side.
Anyway, I'm off to write on one of my four stories, at least, and maybe all four of them until I fall both asleep and out of my chair. Actually, there's only three Works in Progress -- number four is an idea that is just beginning to germinate. I do wish it wouldn't, at least until the others have blossomed a little more (and maybe the one 'out there' begins to bear fruit) But, hey, it's spring. And Spring is all about germinating and growth that leads to blooming and bearing, so I guess I can't complain too much. Not justifiably, anyway.
So that's me for today.
Hope everyone else is doing even better

Amidst the Mists 6

2023-03-04T20:35:00.002-05:00

He was back in the bed, back in the bedroom.

It wasn’t hot and steamy and there wasn’t so much noise or people

coming and going. It was a pleasant place to be.

And he didn’t feel bad.

He was propped up on pillows, his hands folded across his chest

(that was a tiny bit unnerving) He was breathing easily and nothing hurt

especially.

He opened his eyes. The room was filled with muted sunshine pouring

through the large window facing east. Muted because the sun was overhead.

He’d built in that window to watch the sunrises over the mountains and

across the lake. The time and trouble he’d had installing all those panes of glass!

It had been such detailed work, but he had never been sorry about the time and money spent.

It was a perfect way to start the day, especially in the Dark Time

that was winter.

There were a couple of children playing some game on the floor. Marbles

maybe. Young, still wearing baby gowns. Couldn’t tell if they were boy or girl

or both.

Right now he couldn’t recognize if they were his children, or his grandchildren, or

maybe one of each.

Closer to, beside the bed, a tall young man with dark almost curly hair was

stretched out with his feet propped up on a second chair. He was dressed in a fancy

suit. A party suit, not a funeral or church suit. Wouldn’t be suitable for a business

meeting, either.

For a moment, he was puzzled that there was only one of the fancily dressed

young man there. Then he remembered that that was an okay thought, because

there really were two of him. His identical brother had been growing a beard the last he

remembered. (He wondered how that looked.)

The fancily dressed young man had a baby on his lap, a small one. An infant.

He wondered distantly who had been expecting before he went running through

that fog curtain.

The young man was talking to the baby, in a cheerful soothing voice,

threatening it with all sorts of dire consequences if it dribbled anything, from either

end, of any color or texture, even see-through, on his suit, which had been

ridiculously expensive and he’d probably never get another one like that.

The baby gurgled and waved its hands, which were mittened.

The young man laughed back and continued making threats in a light tone

in his pleasant voice. He was now telling the infant about his adventures and

strategies that had got him his suit, which Pops insisted was a ridiculous expense.

How he’d like to continue that debate, hopefully with a lot less temper.

Not, the man in the bed noted, to not have argued about it at all. That was

honest, anyway. Funny how the young made such a fuss over clothes. He’d never

done that.

In fact, until he married, he had been satisfied with off-the-shelf clothes that had

never fit properly. They were good enough.

“You’d think,” the young man informed the infant, “that Pops never had

tailored clothes in his life. That’s probably why he doesn’t know it's worth the price.”

The man in the bed raised a hand. “Jamie-my-son,” he said, and was pleased

at the sound of his voice. It didn’t shake, it wasn’t a whisper, and it wasn’t shrill.

The younger man turned and stared at him, his light blue eyes opening wide.

“Pops? Are you AWAKE?”

“Don’t call me Pops.”

The younger man leaned forward and pushed a button that had been wired

into the bedpost. It created a loud buzz outside of the room.

“You couldn’t wait til I was dead to bring in your electricity?”

“Oh, you were dead. You’ve died a few times, Pops. Last week or so, you’ve

been – mostly asleep.”

The room was suddenly crowded with people, and they made a heck of

a lot of noise.

Too much noise, really. He closed his eyes while his son tried to explain what

had happened to the multiple family members who had come running when the

buzzer sounded.

“Don’t call me Pops,” he said again, closing his eyes.

The room erupted in laughter and cheerful, joking talk as he drifted back into

silence.

Amidst the Mist 5

2023-02-26T05:29:00.002-05:00

“I am always with you. Why don’t you understand that?”

The man answered slowly, thinking out loud as he had so often

done with his friend. “The memory of you is always with me. But a

memory isn’t you.”

“Who is it then?”

“It’s an it, not a who.”

“Whos aren’t its? What are they then?”

"Whos are whos. Persons. Its are things.”

“Well I like to think I’m some thing. Some kind of a thing.”

“I like to think you’re a person. Even when you aren’t anymore.”

“Yet here I am.”

“Here you are.”

They fell silent.

They waited, together, in a place that didn’t (shouldn’t) exist, where their

presence together was as tangible as the strong friendship (love) between

them.

Both bodies and spirits seemed made whole out of the fog, by the fog,

and they rested as part of the fog.

The fog itself swirled and rippled around them, lightening and darkening,

and in general deepening and entwining, until there was nothing to be seen but the

glimmering light and the embracing cloud.

Amidst the Mists 4

2023-02-25T20:49:00.002-05:00

He was back in the fog, back at the rock, back with his friend Mark,

who was chipping at the rock with his knife.

Who was being a bit unfriendly. “You know you should go back, they

still need you.”

“I don’t have to hurry, I can be with you a while.”

“You are, always.”

“You don’t need to sound so happy about it.”

“I don’t want you here. I want you there. With them. Alive. Having

tomorrows.”

He gestured at the fog. “Not this.”

“Yeah, I prefer sunshine, myself. But you aren’t there. “

“I am. Always.”

“I never see you there.”

“Liar. You see me every time you look into my sons’ faces, or watch them

walk into or out of a room.”

He thought that over for a long moment. “No.”

“No?”

“I see parts of you in parts of them. But they aren’t you and you aren’t them.

I want you.”

“I’m telling you, I’m there. As there as I can be.”

“Then how come I never see you?”

“Because you look with your eyes closed.”

“That’s us’ly the best way to see things that don’t exist.”

“I exist. I’m here, am I not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining you. Hallucinating.”

“If I’m a hallucination, what does that make you, here, with me?’

“If I go back –”

“When you go back.”

“Will I be a cripple? An invalid?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

He shrugged. “When I’m here, it doesn’t,” he paused. “When I’m with you.”

Amidst the Mists, pt 2 of Part 3

2023-02-21T21:31:00.004-05:00

For a moment, or so it seemed, he was back in the fog, in the thick almost substantial parts of it, but sounds drew him back to the bed.

Sounds of footsteps.

Sounds of voices.

Three people, out in the hall. Tall, male. Working men, wearing boots, that they were taking off, from the sounds. Weren't they supposed to do that out on the porch?

A slammed door on a rush of wind and rain hitting the inside floor answered that. Rain coming from that direction, the porch was probably inundated.

Only one of the men came to the door(?) of the room. "Any change?" he asked, but not like he expected an answer.

The hand woman said yes and the doctor woman said no.

The doctor elaborated that there had been no physical change worth mentioning. Irregular breathing irregularities, but that was to be expected. No signs of returning consciousness.

The other woman said, in a warm positive tone, that she felt a difference. That he WAS coming back from wherever he'd gone. She KNEW, she just knew.

There was no doubt in her voice or in her words. Her surety warmed him from the inside as her hands had his outside, and he knew he could sleep, and rest, as he knew he needed to.

Mage, Madrigal, Mama

2023-02-19T00:24:00.000-05:00

For the last couple of months, In between writing bits and pieces of stories, when I've been playing around on Facebook, I've been getting/doing a lot of "off the grid" and "survivalist" items. Some of these have been links to quizzes and such.

So far the longest I'll survive on my own is about ten days, because I have very few hunter/gathering skills.

I admit it.

I don't.

And I should.

I have the knowledge stored somewhere in my being. All my life I have looked at weeds and herbs and known that they can be used for healing and helping, but I can rarely put a name to the plants or have any conscious knowledge of how to use them.

But I know I know this stuff. Why can't I bring it forth?

In fact, on rare occasion, I have needed, seen something, and used it appropriately in "emergency" situations. Once for fever, once for bleeding. Those were interesting experiences, and I don't remember what I used, for sure. I think it was plantain leaves for the bleeding and some kind of flower (rose? lavender?) for a wash for the fever. Thought about a tea, but the thinking brain said no. Too risky without knowledge to have someone ingest it.

BUT -- the (non)survivalist in me has a better chance as a member of a tribe, clan, or other grouping.

The quizzes and skill tests through the computer rank me very high.

As a wise-woman, as a story teller, and as a keeper of the flame, able to both hold the old traditions and reach out and embrace the new ideas and ways.

I am mage, madrigal, and Mother.

I am of great value to my tribe as a GrandMother.

The funny thing is, this suits me very well.

I'll keep the kids entertained while others do the hunting/ gathering.

I'll keep the perpetual pot of perpetual stew over the embers.

I'll make the coffee!

What really strikes me about these designations, under these situations and circumstances is the acknowledgement that this is a role with importance. In a survival situation, which I will only survive -- for only ten days or so -- because I can build a shelter with a fire near running water, my value is as a bringer of words.

Somehow, one would think the others would leave me there to dwindle and starve. But according to these different groups, I still have value. Practical value, as I can cook. Maybe not well, but survival level at least.

But the other values?

There is something somehow reassuring that the ones who create these tests and trials think to put any value on the Mystic and Traditional, and to find worth in song and story.

Or am I reading it all wrong, and this is a polite way of saying "You are worthless. Just stay out of Our Way!"?

Amidst the Mists, pt 1 of Part 3

2023-02-14T02:25:00.000-05:00

He was sweating again, and gasping, and he was in a hot place. He

hoped he hadn’t died yet, as that was a bad sign if he was, when

suddenly sound was all around him, as overwhelming as the heat.

Maybe not though, as the heat felt and smelled steamy rather than ashy.

They probably didn’t have water to make steam in the bad place. Unless

somebody was melting a snowball? (What did that mean?)

Voices, and people were moving around. A mix of male and female voices,

as well as children’s voices more distant. He knew the voices, and was

satisfied they were NOT dead people, so he must not be either.

That was a good thing.

Maybe?

He tried to take in a deep breath, but somehow choked on it,

and, good lord did it hurt! Breathing wasn’t supposed to hurt

living people, although sometimes it did.

If they were sick or something.

He stopped choking and managed a swallow of air that (still) left him panting.

At the sound of the breath, the voices rose, and congregated closer to him,

speaking quickly to one another and doing things to him, although he was

unsure of what they were doing.

Whatever it was they were doing, it did ease the squeeze from breathing

and his breaths were not so loud and raspy now.

The panic over breathing calmed, and he began to make more sense

(if one could call it that) of his situation. He was lying on his back, propped

up on pillows. He was covered with at least two quilts or blankets. (They weren’t

effective.Despite the hot and humid room, he was cold, cold, cold.) He wished he could put his arms and hands under the covers and pull them up around his neck, if not over his head.

He thought the thoughts, but nothing changed. His arms and hands were still

lying beside him on the outside of the covers. How very strange that they weren’t

doing anything.

He managed one deep breath. That was better.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth. Some medicine they had given him?

The taste was familiar, although he couldn’t name it. Probably something he

had given others when his plants and concoctions had been the only

medicines available.

That was a long time ago. He’d lost interest after Mark was killed, plus they’d

had a doctor by then, for all the good she’d done.

Aha! That was one of the voices. The lady doctor. She was probably the one

who kept picking up his hand by the wrist and holding it for short minutes

at a time.

“His hands are so cold,” the other female voice said. She was sitting on the

bed (?) next to him, holding his other hand, fingers entwined.

He liked that. He liked the holding, and he liked that her hands holding his

were warm. Her voice was warm, too, and worried.

She shouldn’t be worrying about things right now.

Actually, she shouldn’t be worrying about anything. Didn’t he take care of

everything for her? For her and – and what? Or who?

He struggled to hold onto the thought, but it slipped away from him,

like the vapors filling the air.

Missing the Kids: A letter to my Daughter

2023-02-13T03:45:00.003-05:00

I'm really missing your kids right now, kiddo.

Haven't seen or talked to them since Thanksgiving. They didn't even call me or text me to say Happy Birthday. (Christmas was sad, and they hadn't called me then, either, but there's no grudge there. I'm the one who had to cancel at the last minute.)Between the weather, my health, and my car's condition, I just haven't been able to get there. Seems like I'm farther away now than when you were in Georgetown and we were in Winchester.

There's no "we" anywhere now for me, not in Winchester, not in Bethel, not in our 'hub' of Mt. Orab. Tracy's miles away (good for her; I'm proud), and you and your daddy are gone.

I miss you, but this last few months I've finally begun adjusting to that. It's been a long hard pull, almost three years, but maybe I'm finally getting on. I guess I hope so, anyway.

It's those strange weeks between my birthday and yours,(also known as February) with Valentine's Day smack in the middle. That's always been a pleasant time for us, although I can't say anything specific that we've regularly done or shared. It's just that somehow, the month of February, at least right now, seems like the time we have usually been closest, as a matter of routine.

That probably doesn't make much sense, because it's really hard to explain. Mostly because I don't understand it myself. Maybe because it's one of those delusions that sneak up when one is bereaved. I don't know.

I miss you, but I know there's nothing to be done about that, except cherish memories and share photographs, I suppose.

And try to see your kids. I want to hear them and hug them so badly. Hopefully soon I'll be well enough and it will be warm and dry enough for me to make the drive.

In the meantime, you know if no one else does how often and how yearningly I think of them.

And you.

Be happy, my dear, wherever you are, in whatever form your energy is in.

I love you and miss you still.