Maria's Meandering Mind

2026-10-17T10:22:27.153-07:00

And now a note from my favorite editor and marvelous friend Jennifer Silva Redmond, as posted on her substack forum.

https://editoronboard.substack.com

And Now I’m The President!

No, not that president; it’s a new literary non-profit

Oct 16

As many of you know, I have been very active over the last 29 years with helping people get their writing published and market and distribute their books. First, I was selecting stories, essays, and poetry as editor of the Sea of Cortez Review (if you want to read more about that project and how it opened doors for me, click here).

In 2000, I was hired by Sunbelt Publications to market their books and acquire new projects (eventually I was promoted to Editor-in-Chief, to do those same things and much more!). In 2005, I started teaching classes on how to get published. In 2011, I became a freelance editor and publishing consultant, while still working with Sunbelt to find potential projects. Recently, I was part of a small group that helped spread the word about Sunbelt’s struggle to raise funds to reprint their classic books.

The effort to raise money was only successful enough to reprint one book, and help with expenses with another pending reprint. People kept telling us we needed to have non-profit status, but that is nearly impossible for a for-profit business to do, after the fact. But businesses said they couldn’t donate to printing books without that NFP tax designation.

Well, one thing led to another, and that small group of San Diego friends, including Neva Sullaway, author of Baja to Bering and San Diego Seafood, Then and Now, among other titles, started talking about how to enable companies and individuals to more easily and readily donate toward printing and publishing both classic and new books.

In other words, we decided to form a non profit! It took some time, but thanks to Neva and the other Friends of Sunbelt, that all took place, and somehow I was made President of the non-profit’s board and Neva is the Secretary (we are both doing this as a labor of love, not for any salary). You can reach either of us at info (at) regionalink (dot) org.

Our first order of business will be to solicit funding from individuals, companies, and foundations, and to establish partnerships with local and regional businesses, in order to fund the reprinting of children’s books that entertain and educate young readers about the natural history and cultural heritage of the U.S. Southwest, including Southern California, of course.

So, without further ado, I introduce you to Regional Ink, a registered 501(c)(3) public charity based in La Jolla, California. On the website you can learn more about the educational titles we are currently raising funds for, including a couple of desert-themed coloring books and Life in the Slow Lane: A Desert Tortoise Tale.

In my dreams, I can see Regional Ink being and important regional resource, enabling local authors and publishers to raise funds to produce, package, and print important literary and educational works. Every big success has to start somewhere, we are starting right here and now. I hope you’ll join us. And you can start by attending the first event we have planned, held at Sunbelt’s Chula Vista book warehouse and offices on November 21st from 4-7pm. You may have planned on visiting Sunbelt’s new(ish) location for the past couple of years, and wanted to see the book warehouse, so here’s your invite. And yes, it may be chilly out so there’s homemade chili!

There, you can meet Neva Sullaway of Regional Ink, Jeniffer Thompson of the warm and welcoming group Publishers & Writers of San Diego, and of course, meet the Sunbelt crew—Lisa, Nichole and Maria. (I won’t be there as I was already booked to do in-person book and writing events in the Puget Sound region—if you’re in the Seattle area, find out about the University District B&N event on Oct 26th here—so I won’t be able to be there. Typical over-booked president behavior, right?)

If you have any questions about Regional Ink, or the projects we are funding, or how your company or group can get involved, or if you want to cover Regional Ink or our event in the media, please feel free to email me here (just hit reply and your email will be private), or comment below if it is a general question (click the heart to go to the comments section, or email us at info (at) regionalink (dot) org.

If you think this post would be of interest to someone you know, you can share it in an email or message them the link (click share below). Or restack it!

NOTE: Editor on Board is always free, with no paywalls, but paid subscribers do get discounts on my editing services (like 20 percent off a content edit, and a free pitch or query consult). Click below to subscribe, or upgrade, if you’re already a subscriber.

I have more book reviews coming up in October; it truly is an amazing season for independent publishers.

Hasta pronto!

2026-10-06T10:58:46.738-07:00

05/11/2026

The Time is Now

There are times the walls close around me, yet I am outside.

There are no walls.

There are times I walk, heart and eyes rimmed with nameless tears.

I do not let them rain.

There are times I hear silence, a cacophony of unwanted thoughts.

I dare not speak them.

And there are times, in sleepless nights I fear unspoken truth.

That time is now.

2026-10-06T10:57:50.547-07:00

04-10-2025

Underneath the Fig Tree

Maria T. Groschup-Black

They say, “this tree bears no fruit.”

Its sturdy trunk towers above the vineyard; its branches covered with vines as they wend their way across nature’s trellis, a symbiotic offering of the vintner’s clever calculations.

Sun caresses the branches while wind tickles its leaves, enchanting the earth with ripples of light woven in iridescent patterns across the shaded ground.

Orderly rows of ants traverse exposed roots, up and down the trunk, and along its branches, carrying savory dew drops, nectar, and seeds. Bees laden with pollen hum about, then return to their hive and wax sweet honey.

Laborers lounge in the shadow, seeking refuge from the searing midday heat; and it is here that a seeker is called down from the branches to find salvation.

They say, “this tree bears no fruit.”

Luke 13:1-9, Luke 19:1-10

Family Ties

2026-10-06T10:52:48.158-07:00

Much has changed in the 3 years since my last post, yet so much is still the same. The house is still a disaster, close to condemnation with teenage sized holes in the wall; and we are still struggling to make ends meet while trying to give each child the attention he deserves and in many ways still craves. And I still pine away for that perfect “Cleaver” family unit that settles arguments with love and compassion rather than fist fights, shouting matches, and all out disrespect for one and all.

Most recently I realized just how much I’d allowed my love for family unity dissolve. I was content to contact my own siblings only on birthdays and holidays, while at the same time expecting them to know and understand the full extent of the chaos that is my life. A series of events led me to resent my oldest brother for living his life as he wants and should. I became angry that he was somehow unaware that I’d lost all control and was on the verge of collapse. Why had the family grapevine not reached him?

I lashed out, only to be met with his own litany of stress - including care for our aging father. It was a good airing of issues. We rediscovered our need to build relationships beyond birthdays and holidays. Our busy lifestyles prevent us from the old weekly dinners, but with care and planning we can schedule more frequent visits than just the few celebrations that require divided attentions.

Back from the Dark Side

2026-10-06T10:50:52.752-07:00

The subject of blogs and writing were discussed during a recent meeting. This of course caused me to mention this old thing, which led to the real possibility that others in that meeting might wish to read my blog and note that I've been rather silent over the past couple years.

Several writings ago I mentioned having been "Mommy Blocked" and left too exhausted to write some of the simplest of musings. Well, for those who care to know... the kids are all grown now and two have moved on to lives of their own. The third still requires a bit of mothering and nurture. He might be with us for some time. I recently asked him if "we were to move across country, was he coming with us?" His immediate response was "when?"

I now have 3 grands, a daughter-in-law, and son-in-law. The oldest is in the military for now, and the youngest has married a soldier. I acquired partnership in a small publishing company nearly 5 years ago, and have been running ever since. Once in a while I do find the muse and commit a short to the page, but not often.

I have a couple I am proud of and will post them shortly.

ZONKED: Torrey Pines Revisited

2019-07-01T16:43:00.004-07:00

Maria T. Groschup-Black

06/22/2019

ZONKED

Fat Man’s Misery – Revisited

Photo by Craig Groschup

About 7 years ago, I took the boys hiking at Torrey Pines State Park in the San Diego area of California. The park is located along the Pacific shoreline and supplies some of the most spectacular views in the area. It is a park full of history and ecological mystery, where a coastal - desert scrub landscape collides with the beach and where it is host to the uniquely indigenous Torrey Pine tree.

Time marched forward without my permission and the boys are now in their mid-teens. They are well on their way to that certain place where teenagers reside, between the Mommy years and young adulthood; A place where their undeveloped sense of self collides with burgeoning manhood. OOF!

Isaac is nearly 18 years old, determined to prove he is independent and self-sufficient. Nathan is soon to begin his sophomore year in high school and looks forward to drivers’ education. Austin is set to begin his freshman year and is already counting scholarships before they’ve hatched. Each is unique in his own way, and yet all are united in the singular goal that is “to make the adults crazy.”

A recent event made me determined to create experiences within our family that would renew and heal relationships. We started with our first hike of the season - a return to Torrey Pines. Our boys were less than enthused and grumbled the whole time. Isaac and Nathan even had the obligatory shouting match right there on the trail, for all to witness. The park hasn’t changed much and neither have the boys.

We began our hike from the bottom; a short hike from the lower parking lot, along the sand and surf to the trail "end" where it lets out at Bath Tub Rock. The boys claimed to have no memories of the original hike 7 years ago and were quite interested the the "bath tub."

Unfortunately the tide was high and the tub inaccessible. Isaac took interest in the fossil beds, but was more attentive to Uncle Craig's explanations than to those of dear old mom. Any wisdom I had to impart fell on deaf ears. Nathan just wanted to plug along and get done with the hike so we could return home, and Austin seemed content to follow the trails without interference from the siblings or adults.

The trails were still kept neat and accessible; and Fat Man’s Misery remains a memory. But thanks to a bountiful winter season, summer blooms were abundant and vibrant with bright yellows and purples that drew the eyes away from the ocean view and instead to our coastal desert scrub, an often overlooked aspect of the park.

Those with an alert eye were fortunate enough to see an osprey perched on the cliff surveying the waters in search of prey. Though not rare in this region, the osprey seldom rests in plain view and is magnificent to see.

I like to imagine that the osprey was there solely to bring back the sense of wonder that once delved in the heart of a child. That the strength and bearing of this watchful creature was symbolic of something bigger; but I'm not even sure they saw it lurking above their heads. Such is the rush of all things "family" - to be endured by teenagers so to humor their adults.

For all their squawking and "lets get this over" attitude, a shift began to occur. For as of this writing, the boys have asked for more. "When can we go on another hike?" "I have to work that day, can we go the next day instead?"

To hike along trails, woven through an ancient land, weathered by ages of time that seem to stand still, is a wonder when set beside the wink between 7 years ago and now. Here are flowers and trees so resilient that a decade of drought could not defeat. Here is ancient history at our footfall. Here is time - precious moments in time - meant to heal the heart and spirit.

Here, in Torrey Pines Revisited, begins a return to family.

JennyRedbug: It's Almost Conference Time! Will I See You There?...

2016-09-13T12:39:00.001-07:00

JennyRedbug: It's Almost Conference Time! Will I See You There?...: Yes, indeed, it is almost that time. I’m about to dive into my stack of advance submissions for the Southern California Writers Conference ...

CSI: The Mommy Files

2016-01-20T16:29:00.001-08:00

It can be both entertaining and disconcerting that my kids still believe they pull a fast one over me. To start, I have always been more observant than the average person. Add my own imagination and so many years of investigative experience and you have the makings of the perfect show: CSI: The Mommy Files. While I am certain there are a couple escapades I am not aware of, few truly go unnoticed.

The “not me” s and “I don’t know” s usually end with the truth exposed and appropriate discipline issued. Yet the hardest part of investigation is often left to conjecture; the “why” s. Today’s generation of school kids face a whole different set of horrors than did mine, or even my parents’. Those horrors can set off a completely different set of behaviors that can confound any parent, anywhere.

My parents practiced “duck and cover” in school drills due to the threat of missiles being launched at the United States. Bomb shelters were dug into backyards everywhere. Remnant of the era are in public buildings with the ominous “fallout shelter” signs to direct the populace to a place deemed safe during an attack.

My generation adapted the practice of “duck and cover” to be disaster drills; a way to shelter in place during natural disasters such as earthquakes and tornadoes. “Shelter in place” is the latest lingo used in schools, offices, and public buildings to indicate a danger; a danger so visceral that children practice “lockdown” when playing school.

We are now a society so terrified that all we talk about is the latest in a series of horrific acts. Acts of terror perpetrated on random strangers. Acts of terror elaborately designed to bring a community to its knees; and acts of terror perpetrated by children upon children in school – good old traditional bullying.

One of my boys recently began balking at going to school. Now I know this is normal, but not for him. He enjoys most of school and his first class is one of his favorites. After a few feeble attempts to convince me he was sick, I began asking questions. Keep in mind that Mom questions to a 14 yr. old are rarely met with syllables beyond a grunt.

I pressed with the “why” questions, and moved forward to girls – none of which elicited more than a rolled eye. The question that finally hit mark was “is someone bothering you?” His protest was a bit too strong. I changed tactics and headed into the bullying arena. He was not helpful but I came to believe that someone in his first period was threatening him. Was it a physical threat? Was it a kind of school yard blackmail? Did he owe someone money? Full denial led me to question if someone was threatening a loved one. Ahh, there it is… a hint of fear. His eyes betrayed him and I knew something had gone wrong; but what could it be?

Not surprisingly, he closed up. Revealed no more and stared out the window so that I could not penetrate his soul while driving. Too little information had been eked with too little time to explore as we pulled into the parking lot. I finished the ride with a lecture on the different types of bullying and the proper actions to end it and drove away wondering, no – worrying about my son who’d been acting oddly the last few days.

A mother’s imagination is a both blessing and curse. All manners of scenarios flashed as I drove the brothers to their school, and myself to work that day. Did he owe money? Did he do something wrong or shameful and was being blackmailed? Was he protecting another? Was the “friend” he hung out with after school selling him drugs? Yep… I went there.

For this fear, as well as other reasons, I forbid him to leave school grounds before I pick him up. No more afterschool hikes up the road to Jack or Wiener Schnitzle. I worried that since he had no money to buy with he might be borrowing heavily. I feared that his “friend” was maybe spiking the sodas they shared. I feared my own loss of control.

Regardless my fears it seems things calmed down after I stopped his afterschool trips. I may never know. You can only push a teenage boy so far before you hear the words “leave me alone, I can handle this myself!” So leave him alone I did, and maybe it has resolved. I no longer have the “I’m sick and can’t go to school” argument with him and am left to ponder – Was CSI: Mom right?

The Arrogance of Faith

2015-12-10T10:18:00.000-08:00

Christmas, a not quite arbitrary date chosen to compete with celebrations of faith throughout the world;

A time of joy and peace; as if joy and peace were exclusive to a single time of year.

A world so wrapped in its own desire, that joy and peace are incompatible unless uniformly celebrated;

A celebration of what could be, what should be, and what can never be.

A world without hate; a world filled with joy and peace throughout the year.

JennyRedbug: Backstory: What Came Before Page One

2015-08-21T14:38:00.001-07:00

JennyRedbug: Backstory: What Came Before Page One: There's nothing that makes me quite as crazy as expository dialogue that simply dumps a ton of information about a character's backs...

My White Privilege

2014-08-24T19:27:00.002-07:00

My White Privilege

Maria T. Groschup-Black

October 24, 2014. I am nearing the age of 50, and the Civil Rights Movement is “in” its 60s. I used to think of the Civil Rights Movement as modern history. An event significant enough to be history while having occurred during my lifetime but outside of my memory. While millimeters of progress were made during the 1950s, it seems the bulk of change occurred from 1960 – 1968. This is the white bread (or should it be “white bred”?) history I was taught and have believed for decades. But the truth is that the Civil Rights Movement is an ongoing struggle for just about anyone not of white America.

The past couple weeks have been fraught with renewed debates – no, renewed wars – on racial equality and the inherent mistrust of anyone not of Caucasian descent. The most commonly heard phrase of today’s war on ethnic inequality is “white privilege.” Although I’d heard these words before, I had little understanding of them until this week. Sure, I get it. I know I’ve had it easier than most; in part because I am white and in part because I was raised middle-class. You see, until now I thought I could use the words “white” and “middle-class” interchangeably.

I initially went to school where most of us were from similar socioeconomic backgrounds. Our school was integrated. Really it was – we had exactly two black families with children in the school. Hispanics were there, but they weren’t culturally Hispanic. They were as white middle-class as my own family.

In 5^th and 6^th grades I changed schools and found myself on the lower end of privilege because my new school was in an upper-middle class neighborhood. In my new school, status and acceptance was less about ethnicity and more about socioeconomics. I lived on the “poor” end of the district. The rich white kids were sure to make it known that those of us from the poor side didn’t fit in. They were also sure to point out in the structure of power that the non-white kids were from poorer families who serve theirs as housekeepers and other servant classes. Ah, white privilege; at least my mother wasn’t a servant.

There was a young black boy who had a crush on me. I hated him; not because he was black but because he was fat, nerdy and somewhat effeminate – and of course because his mom was only a housekeeper. In fact, I had a crush on another black boy. We even “went steady” for a bit. But when he brought me a piece of jewelry I just knew that he’d stolen the necklace from someone. Then there was the day I used the “N” word against a boy I was arguing with. He hit me. I tattled. He got in trouble. Ah, white privilege; I knew I was wrong, but that didn’t matter. He hit me.

So what is white privilege? I saw it in my youth, but never recognized it. It was the knowledge that I could get a boy in trouble for instinctively slapping me, even though I’d hurt him deeply with a word I didn’t really understand. It was the privilege of coming home to a mother who’d cleaned my room and cooked my dinner instead of some stranger’s. In my adulthood, 50 years after I came to be, I see little or no change.

In April 1963 Martin Luther King argued that “individuals have the moral duty to disobey unjust laws.” In May, protesters were dispersed with the use of fire hoses and police dogs. News images of the violence added fuel to the rising Civil Rights Movement. In June, Medgar Evans was murdered for his work with the NAACP. His white murderer was not convicted until 30yrs later.

On July 2, 1964 President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 which prohibited discrimination based on race, color, religion, or national origin. In June three civil rights workers were murdered in Neshoba County, Mississippi. They had been arrested for speeding and released several hours later to members of the KKK. Their bodies were discovered two months later. The murderer was convicted on June 21^st 2005, 41 years later.

On March 7, 1965 protesters marching from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama in support of voting reform were stopped by police at the Pettus Bridge. Police used tear gas, whips, and batons to disperse the group. Five months later Congress passed the Voting Rights Act of 1965. In doing so, they made it illegal to require literacy tests and poll taxes that made it difficult for poor blacks to register their votes.

On March 22, 1988 Congress passed the Civil Rights Restoration Act to enforce civil rights laws in private institutions that receive federal funds.

On November 22, 1991 President Bush signed the Civil Rights Act of 1991 to strengthen existing civil rights laws.

On April 29, 1992 four white police officers were acquitted of brutally beating Rodney King.

On May 10, 2007 a former state trooper was indicted for the murder of Jimmie Lee Jackson, 40yrs earlier.

In January, 2008 Senator Ed Kennedy introduced the Civil Rights Act of 2008, to improve accountability for violations of civil rights and workers’ rights.

http://www.infoplease.com/spot/civilrightstimeline1.html

Wait a minute! The first question that comes to mind is “why over a period of 50 years have we had to revisit this over and again?” Why have we had to enact 5 Civil Rights Acts? Why the hell does it take 30 – 40 years to convict white murderers of black people? I found some answers in Ferguson, MO. The parallels are not lost on me.

On August 9, 2014 Michael Brown, age 18 was killed by a white police officer. Differing accounts of the incident range from an unprovoked attack, to “he reached for the officer’s gun.” (The truth may never be known but white privilege assumes that when two or more are gathered, there is criminal intent, therefor he acted with malice when confronted by the white officer.)

On August 10, 2014, angered over yet another “incident” between white police and black youth; residents protested. The protest became violent and looting occurred. (White privilege calls it an incident rather than what it is – a death.)

On August 11, peaceful protests held during the daytime erupted to disorderly and riotous conduct at night. Police used tear gas and less lethal methods to restore order.

On August 12, police, wearing riot gear and heavily armed with military grade weapons dispersed a crowd of peaceful protesters. (White privilege calls this preventative enforcement.)

On August 14, local Ferguson police were replaced by Missouri State Highway Patrol. (White privilege says… look, MSHP has a black chief. Surely now they will calm down.)

On August 15, police released the name of the officer who shot Brown, but at the same time released versions of the incident that seem to vindicate him. Riots and looting began anew, regardless of the fact a “black chief of police” was in command.

On August 17, autopsy results were released that show Brown was shot six times. More rioting ensued.

The surface issues are fairly easily explained without ethnic identity. Two young men supposedly match the description of armed robbers in the area. A police officer sees them and stops them. A struggle happens and one of the boys is shot six times (twice in the head). These are the bare facts.

Using my own 19 years of experience as a police officer, let’s work backwards:

Six shots are not unusual. Neither are head shots.

Police are trained to shoot more than once. Once may not be enough to stop the aggressor. Police are trained in failure drills - two to the chest, one to the head – because it is a fact that even the most highly trained person can miss at point blank range during a struggle or during stress.

During a scuffle or struggle a police officer is allowed to defend himself with the amount of force required to subdue the assailant.

A 6’, 300lb man behaving aggressively could be considered an imminent threat to a 6’ 180lb police officer. Or for that matter, in reference to a shooting death a few days earlier in nearby St. Louis, an incoherent man with a knife aggressively charging towards an officer could be considered an imminent threat.

Stopping two people who match descriptions of robbery suspects is proper police work.

Being stopped is not always a matter of police profiling or harassment. I have had the following discussion during a traffic stop. “Hi, can I see your license please?” “You only stopped me because I’m black!” “No, I stopped you because you ran that red light back there.” In another version… “You’re only talking to me because I’m black” “No, but what color is that weed you are smoking?”

I will concede though that due to white privilege or lack thereof, it is not unusual nor unexpected to be accused of racial profiling.

Unfortunately the issues boiling at the surface in Ferguson and other areas of our country are not based in the bare bones facts. They are based in systemic institution of White Privilege. For example, these are just a few of the hidden pleasures we white folk enjoy.

Going to work knowing that on payday, no one will call immigration in order to cheat you out of your fair wages.

Walking into any store and not have staff or surveillance automatically tuned to you.

Standing in a group of two or more and not being labeled as a gang.

Using SNAP or food stamps without being judged as lazy or unwilling to work.

Having more than one child in tow without being looked at as a baby making welfare machine.

Speaking in slang terms and not being called uneducated

Speaking clearly and properly without being told “you don’t sound black.”

Is discrimination real in this day and age? Of course it is. When we see it we know it and can make efforts to change ourselves or the system. But we refuse recognize that the system inherently supports discrimination. We too must acknowledge that our tacit acceptance of the norm is as much to blame. We all should be angry; not at the officers or the dead, but at ourselves and the system that allowed this to happen.

May the Casino God Smile Upon You

2014-03-01T01:40:00.002-08:00

Here I am on the last day of February 2014; almost to the last minute, as it is now 11:52am, writing my first post for the year. Already two months into the year and it seems like just yesterday I was telling about a horrendous traffic jamb on Thanksgiving day.

Between then and now I was fired from the bus company for actions completely my fault. I am not proud of it, and in fact was only slightly amused when my youngest imperiously cried out "she lost her job again?" I was terminated two days before Christmas but somehow (with a lot of help from our village) managed to have a pleasant holiday without too much disappointment. I spent half of December and all of January posting resumes and submitting applications to just about any job - qualified or not. By the end of the month I was finally called to interview for a job located 65 miles north of home. I interviewed to drive the tour bus for Casino Pauma.

The whole process was invigorating and a boon to my ego in that it was evident they really wanted me. When I discovered, to my dismay the job was only part-time, I actually stopped the interview half through and told them there was no way I could travel that far every day for only part-time hours. I must have done something right because the interviewer immediately called her HR manager and they began looking for other positions.

Finally in February I was re-interviewed at the casino; this time for the position of slot attendant. Despite the images of scantily clad playgirls dishing out change and blowing kisses on players' dice, I accepted the position. Fortunately, the uniform is comfortable, unisex, and simple; and I'm not expected to blow on anything.

I've been working now for about three weeks; just enough time to study repetitive behaviors - after all, it is said "it takes 21 days to form a habit." I work the overnight shift which brings in a curious collection of characters. I am astounded at the many folks who have the means to spend all night, every night, plunking coins into a machine that seldom gives back.

Gaming with slot machines is not a social activity, and although it is difficult to have fun while losing, there is a perception fed by Hollywood that people actually enjoy watching the reels spin; all-the-while praying to an unseen Casino God to line up the symbols in their favor. But unlike the media images of loud, gay chatter and gamblers hitting the big one, most of the players at slots have a disinterested gaze as they mechanically push the buttons. Any other expression than "blank" could be simply described as "apathetic." They may as well be popping balloons on Pogo.

Granted, there are those who go to casinos for the thrill of chance. They are the worshipers of Casino God. Like all other faiths, Casino God is, at times, elusive. Followers have developed intricate theology requiring detailed rituals and bargaining prayer to invoke favor.

Bargaining prayers range from the simply "please" and "thank you" to the outright demands of "I've pledged and tithed all that I have... you owe me!" Casino God is a selfish god though, and once a congregant has won the big one, he demands it all to be plunked down again... perhaps in the next machine, but often into the same one that just belched "winner!" and fueled the room with renewed hope.

As the bells and whistles sound, a murmur slowly spreads through room igniting the ritualistic believers who perform detailed motions intended to bring on Casino God's favor. Most perform a mystic wave across the screen as to infuse the reels with "juju" so that they line up. Some knock on the screen, while others massage the glass. Regardless the method, it is faith and hope that keeps them returning night after night. "Who knows? You could be next."

I don't know about Casino God, but I am blessed in my new venture. Despite my prejudices and judgements, the job is fun. I never considered myself to be gregarious or outwardly social, but I love people watching. In just three weeks I've acquired a few favorite guests and miss them when they do not arrive on time. I learn just enough to hold polite conversations; and without jiggling or blowing kisses, help them enjoy their visit. I suppose that if this truly were a temple, then I'd be a teacher of the faith as I guide them on their journeys to Gamblers' Paradise.

May the Casino God smile on us all and we find our own wealth and happiness.

The Thanksgiving That Almost Wasn't

2013-11-29T11:12:00.000-08:00

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone. One more day of thanks for all the good in the past year. Just one more day? Shouldn't I be thankful everyday?

Last year we celebrated Thanksgiving in the desert mountains of Picacho State Park. It was a wonderful time that was to be remembered as the start of a new tradition. You can read about it here http://mariasmeanderingmind.blogspot.com/2012_11_01_archive.html. To my disappointment we were unable to continue the new tradition this year for a variety of reasons, but our time together was no less precious.

Since there was no camping this year, we opted to accept my brother's invitation to join with his family for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. But even still, Nichole and I wanted some way to make our family time special. Early in the morning we decided to take the boys to a movie. They don't often get to go to a theater showing since movies are so expensive these days.

The hot ticket this year is the Hunger Games - Catching Fire. Its a good movie, but not to be seen without having watched the first one. After the movie and a quick stop at home to gather a few things we headed north for dinner. Fifteen minutes into our 1 hour drive we found ourselves stopped in traffic. I could immediately tell this was more than an holiday traffic jam; Something was wrong.

Resigned to an extended wait, I turned off the engine and we sat... and sat. Many drivers became impatient and tried to exit the freeway by driving backwards down the shoulder. I cringed every time a car maneuvered to turn around or back up. Using the shoulder to drive against traffic or during an obvious emergency situation just isn't advisable. How else will the emergency crews get through?

Some at least had the good sense to turn their cars around and drove forward... the wrong way down the shoulder. Including a Santa and his elves who should no longer be allowed to drive on roads.

As if to prove my point, one hour into our wait, the bomb squad drove past us, along with one or two members who'd obviously been called out from their own family celebrations.

The boys were surprising well behaved and calm in spite of the time spent cooped up (if ever possible, don't get stuck with three boys of ADHD in a car on the road for 2.5 hours). In fact everyone was. Among the many people strolling through the freeway parking lot there were jokers of kinds. Cries, of "lets have a potluck" and "what did you bring?" rang out as we recognized we were all most likely on our way to dinner somewhere.

Traffic was finally freed to move 2.5 hours later, too late to make the 1 hour drive to brother's house so we headed home. Isaac was distraught that Thanksgiving was "ruined" until we reminded him that Thanksgiving was about us being thankful and spending good time together. I even suggested we have a Charlie Brown thanksgiving of leftover movie popcorn and toast. He liked that idea until we remembered the boys were to spend the night at Auntie Lisa's.

When we arrived a Lisa's we discovered she and her sister Charlene were prepared for us all. We gathered in front of a movie and ate Cornish hen, potatoes and stuffing. Everyone needs an Auntie Lisa.

What I really want for "traditions" is for the boys to have good memories to carry to their own children. Maybe we didn't get to go camping this year, but it is definitely memorable. In the end, I did have a Thanksgiving feast with my family and look forward to next year's adventure (as well as any to be had in-between.)

Family is as Family Does

2013-11-04T23:06:00.001-08:00

Nichole and I got married last week. Okay, so we've been together 11yrs. In fact, 11yrs to the day (10-26-2002) we held a grand commitment ceremony. We stood before family, friends and God to declare our love and commitment. Back then, that was all we could do. Same-sex marriages were not "legal" then. Instead we were allowed to register as Domestic Partners. Separate and almost equal.

Objectors to the idea of same-sex marriages continually stand by the idea that commitments of partnership are the same "after all, they grant most of the same rights as straight couple marriages." Most is not the same. I don't know of any married straight couple who has to file separate legal declarations to ensure their rights of spousal benefits, survivor benefits, medical power of attorney, or spousal privilege in legal matters. I don't know of any straight married couple who must prepare (but not file) an extra joint federal tax return in order to accurately file their joint state taxes. These are a few examples.

Now that I am off of the legal soap box, lets get back to the wedding. In 2002 we held a large celebration. Several extended family members joined us in our moment of joy. Aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters - but no parents. It hurt like hell that our parents wouldn't join us in one of the most important events of our lives. Like dutiful children, we sucked in our hurts, forgave and moved on.

I can't speak for Nichole's hurts, but I must put mine out in the open.

In 2002 my parents stood on their principals and chose not to attend. According to my father, the ceremony was not sanctioned by the church (and therefore not by God), nor was it a "marriage." In fact, my father accused us of just "playing house." My oldest brother attended out of a sense of duty to support me. Duty, not joy or love. His wife refused to attend and they forbade their children from attending.We were told by my brother and his wife that they did not want their children exposed to such an event - as if we were dirty, salacious abominations.

On the other side, my sister and other brother did attend - genuine in their celebration of our love. His children attended and to this day they remain "normal" and unscathed by our commitment.

Okay... there is the history. History, as we know repeats itself. Mid year 2013 the U.S. Supreme Court upheld challenges to California Proposition 8. Prop 8 was an anti same-sex marriage declaration. It was narrowly passed by vote and promptly challenged as unconstitutional. I don't know or understand all the legal mumbo-jumbo but the bottom line is that the U.S. Supreme Court has made it possible for homosexuals to legally marry in California. Now we finally have truly EQUAL rights to marry.

As it happened, our anniversary of commitment (10-26) fell on a Saturday this year. Nichole and I decided it fit perfectly for a marriage ceremony. We planned a small ceremony this time and sent out only a few notices to family and friends.

We knew that extended family from out of state would not attend. It was never expected (although one could always hope). Besides, we knew these were the same family member who have always stood with us and who attended the original commitment. What came as a crashing heart rending blow was the fact that NOT ONE SINGLE BLOOD FAMILY MEMBER ATTENDED!

My father, brothers and their families live barely one hour from us. Father originally told us he wouldn't attend, then he surprised us to tears by saying he would. "The church has softened its position and the marriage is legal." I was ecstatic. Up until the day before our wedding Father declared his intent to join us. Then, as he often does these days, he decided he wasn't up to it. He didn't feel good and wouldn't be there for me once again in my important time. I wish he'd just maintained his first impulse to not come, rather than raise my hopes.

The younger of my brothers, and his children - all who'd attended the original ceremony - each sent in their regrets that they were out of town an unable to attend. But my oldest brother and his wife - well they too had a convenient other thing to attend. I guess something more important than a sisters wedding.... worse still, is the fact that their three children, all of whom I've supported through their major events and such, didn't even have the courtesy to send their regrets! Because these three had been forbidden 11yrs ago, I made sure that each one received their own invitation so that they could feel free to make their own decision.

Now I know where I stand.

Okay so back to the good stuff. I want you all to know that despite the heartbreak, MY wedding to Nichole is the greatest event of my life. Being legally married makes us a complete family now. I have blood relatives, extended family, and I have my family.

My family consists of:

Nichole - my WIFE
Isaac - my oldest son
Nathan - my middle son
Austin - my youngest son
Lisa - because everyone needs an Auntie Lisa.

I am thrilled to have this family and the friends who all showed their love and support for us on our special day. To those far away who couldn't attend - I love you all and thank you all for your kind words and support. I know you were there in spirit.

I will never forget my wedding day. It will stand as one of the happiest days of my life. It will also stand as a reminder that family is not about blood. Family is as family does.

New Beginnings

2013-08-14T20:37:00.002-07:00

June 26, 2013

Early morning clouds promise a cool day as we sit in silence - each in his own thoughts. It is the first day for all; a new beginning. We do not know each other, but when the week is done we will be bonded together as the "newbies." A new crew with but one goal - to provide a future.

Most are young kids really, barely out of their teens creating their own way. As for me and the few others of age and wisdom; we are here because we love. We've worked through our prime years and yet find ourselves struggling to provide for our families. We find ourselves in need of just a little extra to pull through the rough times.

Rough is a relative word. What our ancestors lived through before us is, by far, greater an accomplishment. History will show that what we work so hard for are the extras - extravagant lives. They worked for the basics; to live.

But like I said... its relative. I work for my family and for myself. I've had my career, now it is just about living. So why not have fun while I do so? When my last job became overwhelming and no longer was fun, I changed. Now I have fun again... I drive the city bus. It is fun. I see some of the same people daily, but new faces as well. I'm outdoors in the not-so-fresh air and although I have a route, I am mostly independent.

What matters most to me is that I feel positive at the end of my day. I can return to my home and family less frustrated (most days) and not worried about whether or not my very productive day resulted in profits. I no longer work to exhaustion only to be told "its worthless."

I feel positive and I am happy. What more is there?

2013-08-14T20:13:00.002-07:00

From time to time I look back at my notebooks for meanderings and the starts of various writings. I often find interesting words strung together in pathetic attempts to make sense of my own mind. I recently cleaned out several pages from the notepad I carry at work. The best by far was not written by me but by my youngest son. I have placed it here for safe keeping... word for word and spelling not corrected. He was about 6yrs old at the time of his writing, and note should be made that his printing is the most readable of all in the family!

A story

I have a manchin that is big. I love my manchin that I live in because it is scary and spocky.

Austin Eugene Groschup-Black - age 6

From Paige to Page: 3-25-13 RMB You Amaze Me Dear Rita Mae Brown,Today...

2013-05-30T07:17:00.001-07:00

From Paige to Page: 3-25-13 RMB You Amaze Me Dear Rita Mae Brown,Today...: 3-25-13 RMB You Amaze Me Dear Rita Mae Brown, Today is one of those days when I question myself. One of those “What the heck are you th...

From Paige to Page: 3-11-13 RMB A Tree Friend Dear Rita Mae Brown,In ...

2013-05-15T07:07:00.001-07:00

Posting from a blog I follow - a word on how the world is intertwined

From Paige to Page: 3-11-13 RMB A Tree Friend Dear Rita Mae Brown,In ...: 3-11-13 RMB A Tree Friend Dear Rita Mae Brown, In Starting From Scratch: A Different Kind of Writers’ Manual you write “I wou...

From Paige to Page: 3-8-13 Electric OrchidDear Rita Mae Brown,“If I we...

2013-05-13T07:54:00.001-07:00

For all you writers in the world - an interesting take on the use of words

From Paige to Page: 3-8-13 Electric OrchidDear Rita Mae Brown,“If I we...: 3-8-13 Electric Orchid Dear Rita Mae Brown, “If I were you, I’d read this chapter.” You crack me up. That is the first line of “The ...

From Paige to Page

2013-04-29T08:38:00.001-07:00

Funny how some things written or argued 50 years ago are still so relevant today. Here is a new site I am following that honors one of the more relevant writers of yesterday and of today.

From Paige to Page

The Gypsy in Me

2013-04-18T08:42:00.000-07:00

“I don’t believe in coincidences.” I’ve heard this from many people, friends and strangers alike. For me, I just don’t know what to believe. According http://www.merriam-webster.com Coincidence is “the occurrence of events that happen at the same time by accident but seem to have some connection.” Is it then coincidence that on April 14^th, 2013 I lay awake half the night with a sense of foreboding; so much so that I called my best friend and told her “something big is bugging on me, and I don’t know what”? United States History will forever remember April 15^th, 2013 not as “tax day,” but as the day a terrorist bombed the Boston Marathon. I’m not going to join the multitudes and speculate the “who, or why” of this horrific event. But I do wonder why I was awake half the night before.

Yesterday, April 17^th, 2013 at about 4:00pm PDT, I sent an email to my best friend. Again describing a sort of anxiety I was feeling. I told her, “It’s not like a panic attack, but more like a heavy feeling as if something big is going to happen.” A couple hours later, at about 8:00pm CDT a fertilizer factory in Texas caught fire and blew up with force enough to destroy a radius of several city blocks. More died in this explosion than in Boston two days before. The injured and missing are still being sought. Coincidence? Maybe – or maybe I am channeling my Gypsy heritage.

My family heritage comes from the German Bohemians. While the family is of German descent, they lived in Bohemia – what is now known as Czechoslovakia. One of my Great-Great relatives married into a Gypsy family. I grew up with romantic notions of the Gypsies; their nomadic lifestyle, and their connections with the mystical world. I grew up “knowing” things. Not big stuff – I was not able to predict the future, or tell fortunes. But I was able to know when the phone rang that the call was for me, and that it was my cousin. Is it coincidence she lives in Texas?

My best friend is psychic. She knows things and feels things. We call on her frequently when we can’t find the car keys or something. She describes where they are (not typical or usual places) and then we find them. The last time they were lost she described “dark green shag” like a carpet. The keys were found in the front yard in tall grass. She also “knows” or feels people.

It’s an energy thing. She can tell when someone is “off” or when there is “more” to the story. Skeptics say that it is just an ability to read body language. I don’t know. She was instrumental in helping us determine how our house fire started. She insisted that Isaac knew more than he was telling. Despite the quality of his lie (until then we could always tell) she pressed on until he finally admitted playing with the matches. She was the one who kept on Isaac, telling him he wasn’t giving us the truth. She is the one who asked the probing questions that led me to see the moment of give in his eyes. I had stopped asking him and started telling her to drop it. But she knew.

We both feel spirits. She sees them and hears them. In a sense, she lives with them. I mostly feel them – at times. I know when I feel my mother, or my grandmother. They come in loud and clear. I feel others too. I don’t always know who they are, but they are there. We have a guardian angel that used to watch the boys when they were toddlers. She sat with them through the night. She is an older woman with merry eyes and full of love. My best friend says her name is Mabel and I know her. I don’t recall anyone named Mabel, although we did have a Mildred. I don’t think she is Mildred. We also have an impish spirit. This one I see out of the corner of my eye. It passes into the kitchen and out again. I used to think it was one of the boys, barely tall enough to be seen over the counter. But I still see this spirit on occasion and all three boys are taller than the counter now.

The Gypsy in me knows things. I can read people and know their spirit. I know what is broken in them. It is an energy thing. I feel their “vibe” and instinctively know how to soothe them. Is it coincidence then that I also know how to hurt them? This is an unfortunate consequence of “knowing.” Naturally, I never intend to harm anyone, but on occasion when I don’t reign in my gift, I do. Perhaps this is why so many Gypsies also have the reputation of being self-serving con artists. That is another story for another time. I embrace the Gypsy in me. This is a gift, whether blood born or not, that must be cherished and nurtured. This is a gift we see in Nathan. It is up to us to teach him how to use it for good things and not allow the “knows” to consume him.

This is the coincidence of life. We are all here on this earth, co-existing as manifested energy. We are all each other and what one emits another feels or knows.

Fire

2013-04-11T22:12:00.001-07:00

Eighteen years in law enforcement; half spent in a department where I was cross-trained as a firefighter. At least that is what I tell people. Our training consisted of two weeks of what not to do and some basic fire science. Nonetheless, I did fight fires on occasion. Eighteen years of knowing what to do in almost any emergency - seven years later I felt like an absolute fool.

It is said that in times of stress or emergency a person falls back on their initial training. Rote practice enables muscle memories to take over and actions automatically fall into place. Not really though. When the emergency becomes close and personal, things change. OK, that and maybe six years have dulled the autonomic responses.

Tuesday afternoon our house caught fire. Yep, something you only read about in the news... it happens to others in far away places. Tuesday, it happened to us. The boys smelled smoke and mentioned it. I dismissed it as "the neighbor's BBQ." Then the boys said it smelled like plastic burning. I didn't smell anything but wood smoke like a fireplace (not likely in 80* heat) or maybe wood chips in the BBQ. I want BBQ.

After a few words back and forth, we all saw the column of smoke billowing from our wooden patio covering. It was a lot of smoke. Just like we'd practiced, every time I burned dinner and smoked out the house, I told the boys to get out and go to the neighbor. They handled their part perfectly. I on the other hand stood in my bedroom trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing. I couldn't remember the plan. I finally settled on the laptop computer (have to attend class when this is all over) and the cat. I also had the presence of mind to call 911.

Just like in every nightmare I've had, I couldn't get the phone to dial out or miss-dialed. When I finally got it right I told the operator "I'm on fire!" That is about the time I came to my senses and started over. All the while going back in to get the dog. Really, the fire was on the patio and hadn't come inside yet so I had plenty of time. By then neighbors I've never met were there with hoses dousing the inferno.

We were ripe for this fire. An old sofa just outside the back door had baked in the sun for two years. An old broken rocker sat nearby and last year's dried out Christmas Tree was right beside the sofa. The fire started in the sofa. A bright orange wall of flames consumed the tree, sofa and the flashed over (rather under) the wooden awning.

While neighbors were dousing the flames, I walked in circles in the front yard. Not only was I stunned, I was in a fog and felt helpless. Sheriff deputies and firefighters all arrived and finished putting the fire out. Damage was minimal - all things considered. Then came the hard part. How the hell did a fire start in an old sofa?

I watched as the Captain interviewed all three of my boys. I suspected the truth and I allowed the Captain to question them without my presence. He came up with nothing. Isaac has apparently begun perfecting his lying skills. He had us nearly convinced, but for the fact that there was no other way.

I promised all three that no one was "in trouble" and no one was going to jail; just tell the whole truth. I repeated it several times to Isaac until I finally saw that investigative moment. The moment of resignation. There was fear in his tear filled eyes. I asked him if he was afraid and he barely nodded yes. I knew then that it was time.

Isaac, as many 11yrs old do had played with matches. Of all things, he had lit the match (or matches), extinguished it and then dropped the hot stub on the couch. Apparently the match had enough heat to smolder under a perfect storm of heat and wind, because without much more the flames were lit.

Isaac had no intent to start the fire. He was doing what so many do; acting grown-up. Lighting matches because he is old enough and mature enough to do so. I thought I'd taught him about smolders and about how matches burn even after they are blown out. I guess I hadn't. The look in his eyes was all I needed. Isaac was truly impacted by the fire and "what could have happened." I'm sure it won't happen again.

So in the aftermath, we are dealing with clean-up crews, construction crews, insurance agencies and three boys terrorized - again - by fire. All three remember the fires of 2007 when we evacuated. Austin had nightmares and fear of fire for years. Now it has started all over. All three refuse to sleep anywhere but in our room with us. Austin couldn't close his eyes without crying, twitching, or all out screaming. At least at this age he could tell us what he saw. His nightmare visions of lightning, fire, and firemen dying made me cry. That was three nights ago.

So now what? I don't know. All the training and practice in the world never prepared me to be the one on the helpless side. But that is what I feel: helpless. Helpless to comfort a guilty child. Helpless to comfort a terrorized child. Helpless to comfort a quietly suffering child. Helpless, helpless, helpless.

Maybe once the construction crews are gone and our house is back to "normal" things will fall back into place and I can go back to being the one in charge and the one who has it all together. Or maybe nothing will ever be the same. I just don't know.

The Other Side of In-Between

2012-11-29T09:03:00.003-08:00

Disclaimer: I promise this will end on an UP note!

Throughout the month of November there has been a challenge in the online world of Facebook to post each day something for which to be thankful. Many friends posted daily and some posted a week's worth at a time. Although I am of a thankful mind on just about every day, I chose not to participate. Those who know me are not surprised of this, as I do not participate much in any FB games or chain mail. Let me be clear: I am thankful almost everyday. I love my life and wouldn't change it. Nor am I particularly morose or without thanks this time of year.

November is a difficult month for me. Six years years ago on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, my mother passed away. It was both a sad and thankful moment as she finally rested after 10 years of cancer. She celebrated her life throughout the illness and we celebrate her life today. Even still, it makes Thanksgiving a tough turkey to swallow.

As traditions go, Thanksgiving was a holiday like most. The family gathered for the big feast and hung out with each other. In earliest years we gathered at the Grandparents so that we could celebrate with the uncles, aunts, and cousins. Later we gathered at Mom's to celebrate with siblings who no longer lived at home. We also brought in our many strays - those for whom family had different meanings. Eventually though Thanksgiving became the one holiday we children relinquished to our spouses' families. Since we still gathered weekly for Sunday supper, Thanksgiving became less important to us than the bigger religious days. That last Thanksgiving was bittersweet. We gathered, laughed, ate, and celebrated. It was a good time.

For six years now Thanksgiving has come and gone without much fanfare. No, it hasn't been a sad affair, just more like any other family gathering. We show up, we visit, we eat and go home.There has been little "tradition" associated other than it being an extra family day. This year we decided to try something different. We went camping!

I've known many people who take off for the long weekend to camp or buggy in dunes. While it sounded fun, to me it would lack the whole family atmosphere of gathering for the holiday. Besides, we aren't dune buggy people. Regardless, this year the long weekend came with a whole week off from school for the boys and Nichole, and an extra day off for me. It was the perfect circumstance for a family vacation.

We trekked about two hours east towards Yuma, AZ. Just this side of the state line is a beautiful California State Park called Picacho SRA. It is near the dunes but far enough away; tucked into the Chocolate Mountains and Picacho Peak. I'd never heard of it, despite the fact that it is a historical landmark where the large (2,500) mining town of Picacho once stood on the banks of the Colorado River.

Picacho is a beautiful secret. The desert is filled with volcanic stones, ash and quartz. In fact the hills have less dirt than rock. The rocks are polished by the elements to give a dark brown, or chocolate colored varnish, glittered with white and rose quartz. The campground is spacious with each site spread out for privacy. Fall is peak season - beginning with Thanksgiving weekend - and still our nearest camp neighbor was three sites away. The camp had plenty of residents, but was quiet and as peaceful as a night alone in the desert.

The near full moon rose midday and lit the clear sky nightly so that flashlights were only needed in the shadowed areas. In the wee morning hours after the moon set, billions of stars no longer viewed from city locations lit the sky almost as brightly. The boys were so tired I just couldn't wake them to look up, but I did make sure Nichole saw the stars. They reminded me of the years ago when our night sky was more about stars than streetlights.

We fished and each boy caught his first fish. What a great way to get the boys interested in fishing but to actually catch something! We caught 3 striped bass, 3 calico, and one bluegill. I didn't fish - no license - but it took both me and Nichole to manage the boys' lines and worms. Nichole even baited hooks while I rigged poles. Even funnier was watching her "hold" a fish and take the hooks out. Keep in mind though that these little guys weren't even big enough for a fish taco. Regardless, we cleaned and fried them up. Two bites for each of us except Austin.

Austin loves animals. Well, they all do. But Austin refused to eat the fish. After we questioned him a little, we saw something rare to him - compassion. Our little guy didn't like the fact that we'd killed the fish. Austin who seems to feel nothing for others, was near tears over this. In fact, the next day when we tried fishing again and caught only one... he insisted we let it go.

We hiked... and hiked. The first hike was supposed to be the historical trail to the mining camp. A misunderstanding with the ranger, and a park map not clearly marked - oh alright and me in the lead - took us in the opposite direction. We found an animal trail along a ridge that lead away from camp. It was a great trail with great views. We went as far as we dared with our snacks and two canteens. I bet it was about three miles or more and the hike took us about four hours. Along the way we were visited by the wild burros, descendants of the miners' burrow set free over 100 years ago. There was a family of four. Three adults and a yearling. The boys were fascinated at how the older burros circled the baby for protection, and at for how long the burros watched us as we carefully tread away to a different trail. After our snack lunch, we turned back toward camp - following various landmarks until we found the main road and moved to easier ground.

On our last day, after packing and before leaving, we decided to find the historical trail. It is a clearly marked trail with an even clearer trail-head, and completely in the opposite direction of where we started the day before. I let the boys lead this time. In some ways the trail was easier, but it went up and down and involved a little more scrambling. It was well worth it. This is the trail with all the park history. We hiked volcanic fields of rock, visited the old jail - a cave with bars, and found remnants of mining mills, rail cars and other scatter of 100 years before.With our second four-hour hike behind us, we piled into the air-conditioned truck and headed for home.

What has this to do with Thanksgiving? Well, our Thanksgiving feast of Turkey, potatoes, corn-on-the-cob, and pumpkin pie, was cooked in and eaten by the campfire. We put the turkey in a dutch oven and cooked it in the fire on hot rocks, wrapped potatoes in foil and threw them into the fire, wet our corn and threw it in as well. Everything was delicious! Okay, we didn't put the potatoes on soon enough so they were not cooked and therefore not eaten. But everything else was. We brought a store-bought pumpkin pie and whipped cream for dessert in the desert and topped it off with hot cider and roasted marshmallows.

The Picacho campground is definitely a "go back again" camp. We will visit another time and hike a few more trails. Maybe even canoe a little on the river. Who knows? We have agreed that our small branch of the larger family has its own new tradition. We plan to camp over Thanksgiving next year and for as many years as we can. We may go back to Picacho, or we may try new places each year. The details need to be worked out. But what I take away from this Thanksgiving, is that I've reached the other-side of in-between.

Amen.

A Blog Post from: The Cat is Speaking: The Suitcase

2012-10-09T09:33:00.001-07:00

This was a timely and interesting blog entry to one of the sites I read. I believe it warrants re-posting.

The Cat is Speaking: The Suitcase: Life is like a suitcase...full of rocks. Yes. Picture an old, worn out Suitcase, full of rocks. Picture a child, trying to carry it. He's ...

The Things I Take for Granted

2012-09-11T16:09:00.000-07:00

Last week I injured my wrist badly enough to require surgery. I'd love to share the details, but my father reads this and I must protect his poor tummy. So long story short, I cut my wrist and damaged the medial nerve. The medial nerve controls the thumb, index finger, and half the middle finger. I have no feeling in my thumb and index finger and I am currently sporting a cast. To say the least, I am not comfortable.

The hospital trip was interesting if not a bit humorous. In triage every time I said "I cut my wrist" the inevitable question that followed was "on purpose?" Nichole and I both lost count of how many times I was asked to repeat the details. Each new attendant in ER, or later in my room, had to ask. It is procedure, I know, but being aware of why they asked so many times gave me the giggles...well maybe that was the morphine.

I was whisked into surgery at the crack of dawn, six hours ahead of schedule. I don't remember being transferred to the table, but at some point I was aware of crying and telling them how much it hurt. I was also aware the nurse several times loudly ordered me to "breathe" or "Maria! Maria! remember to breathe!" No one said I'd actually stopped breathing in such to be problematic, but since I have no reference to time I couldn't say.

Surgery is past and I am back at work - full time; half as productive. In the course of a week I have compiled a list of things I take for granted.

In the category of life skills:

opening doors while holding a cup of coffee
showering in general, shampooing specifically
drying off sufficiently to dress
buttoning my jeans
pulling up my jeans
tying shoes
removing wrappers
cutting my food
buttering my bread

In the category of work and school

typing fluidly
stapling a neat stack
paperclips
rubberbands
cutting
separating continuous feed orders
holding phone while writing

There are many more inconveniences both at home and at work. But that is the key...they are simply inconveniences. Once the cast is off there will be a host of new issues to deal with. Some will be issues like the ones above, but with a twist. I will inevitably try to hold something and not feel it. I will have learn to test temperatures before grabbing and such. But the beauty of it all is that I will learn.

What have I learned is that I'm not an artist. No matter how hard I try, I have no skills to that end. I cannot draw or paint and I most certainly can't carve without injury. Instead, I can write; and with exception of writers cramp and creative blocks, I can do so safely.

And I can hug! Thanks for that reminder Jen.