ptsd

Probably one of the most heartbreaking maladies I’ve ever experienced is post traumatic stress disorder. People who say, “Just get over it!” whatever "it" is, simply have no clue. The majority making that statement wouldn’t know PTSD if it bit them in the butt, and therefore can’t even being to understand the insidiousness, the malevolence of this “disorder.” It totally takes over your life, to the exclusion of relationships, jobs, taking a shower or even trying to brush your teeth.

If you remember, last year I fell and cut myself pretty badly, resulting in a tourniquet and a ride with some of DeSoto’s Finest to the nearest ER. Three months later, I was still having panic attacks when I drove into the same parking lot. I learned never to go there at night, because since the event took place at night of course that’s when the memories were the worst. I also learned that if I got there in the daytime and found myself getting short of breath, it was better just to back away from the building and go home, or someplace else not associated with the trauma. I even sought counseling. My very good friend gave me some free (but still professional) advise. She said this is one case where “no pain no gain” is a lot of hooey. If it hurts to do that, STOP DOING that. And so after six months I realized, sadly, that I would likely never be able to drive into that parking lot without reliving the terror. Trust me, staring death in the face is traumatic, no matter how it comes.

It all came rushing back to me again this week, when I dropped off the box of goodies at the Fire Station. It's been a year, but the mere proximity with people I associate with the accident was almost more than I could get through.

And to think that our combat soldiers go through it day after day, night after night, and not just for a couple of hours, as was my case, but for six months at a time. Frankly, I don’t know how any of them get on the plane at the end of their R&R. To know that you’re going BACK to hell, but do it anyhow, just doesn’t compute. At least not for me.

And when they come home, they can look forward, maybe if they’re lucky, to nine whole months of "normal life" before they have to put on their game face and saddle up either for the same hellhole or a different one. But hell is hell no matter the name on a map. And trauma is trauma, no matter how it happens.

God sits on the shoulders of the therapists, and I have the absolute utmost respect for them, in particular the marvelous group at Brook Army, but I’m not sure the majority of them can do more than sympathize with the plight of our combat military. In my heart I give them a standing ovation for trying.

But empathy comes only when you’ve been there done that threw away the tee shirt. And, frankly, I wouldn't wish the experience on my worst enemy.

buyer beware

Saw recently the suggestion on the best way to make sure the Christmas gift you buy your child is something they really want: have the child write down their wish on a list and post that list on the refrigerator door.

We tried that very thing when we were stationed with USMC in Millington, Tennessee. There were three lists on the refrigerator that year, one for each child. And we carefully explained before we posted the lists that the reason we were doing it was to give Santa something to choose from, that they would not get everything on the list, but it would make it easier for Santa to know what to bring.

Come Christmas morning there were four presents for each child, and yes, all of the items had been on the individual lists. But the youngest looked at her presents and burst into tears, and then got so angry it was incredible, throwing one of the biggest tantrums I’ve ever seen from a child of any age.

Turns out the entire month of December each time she saw something advertised on tv, no matter what it was, she had added it to her list. And for some reason she simply didn’t hear that part about not getting everything on the list.

So parents, be aware, this could turn out to be a real lose/lose situation.

getting nowhere fast

So there I was, standing in the aisle at wally world, about to select a jar of sugar free blueberry preserves, when a roly poly gentleman pushed my cart away and shoved his five-by-five self next to the display, muttering under his breath, “gotta find honey.”

I stood there in shock, while he took all of five minutes to pick up each and every kind of honey on three shelves and read the contents and then put it back and pick up yet another brand to consider. Totally oblivious to anything and anybody around him. He finally made his decision and shoved back and made a right turn and almost fell over my cart. He looked in my general direction and said, “oh, sorry, didn’t realize I was in your way.”

In my way? Are you kidding me? I looked him straight in his dumpling face and responded, “You are absolutely one of the rudest people on earth.”

It didn’t faze him one iota, matter of fact, I don’t think he even heard me, and then he and his jelly belly self was gone.

Picked up the item I needed and since it was the last on my list headed to the front of the store. Because I had more than 20 items in the basket, I got in one of the high-density lines. Noticed oompa loompa one aisle over, in the “fast lane.” I wrote my check, thanked my cashier for working, and as I headed for the parking lot saw Mister I’m So Important standing there, visibly fuming, behind a customer having trouble with a debit card.

Sometimes retribution comes quickly. And without me having to do a thing. YEA!!

brought to you by the letter "r"

So here we are at the end of the year and the nightly news is asking for votes on the fave picture/event of the last 12 months. I’d rather remember my fave children’s sermon (thank you, Doshia) that was brought to us by the letter "R." She began by talking about we’re Ready to start the last month on the calendar. Our parents are Rattled and there’s just never enough time to get it all done, and we’re thinking about gifts to buy and presents to Receive (and maybe Return). She mentioned New Year's Resolutions, of course, and then turned her attention, and those of the small listeners sitting at her feet, to R's that are Really Relevant. Such as Restoration of Relationships with family and friends, Renewal of long-term goals, and Rebirth of life-long values that have sadly, for one reason or another, gone lacking.

I was, as always, enthralled by her words and bet I (and the other adults in the congregation) got a lot more out of it than the kids. But at the conclusion, as the little ones trooped off to Children's Church, in view of Recent computer issues, one R she didn't mention was the foremost on my mind: Reboot.

What if we could Reboot our life? What if we could look back and not just do something differently but totally erase it from existence? A real "do-over." As I was preparing my lunch a few hours later that day, I Reviewed the morning. And Realized there's nothing in my life that I would Revoke completely. Yes, there are events in my past that still hurt, memories that give me pause, happenings that if I'm not careful will put me into panic mode with my head beneath the covers, but all in all the lessons have led me to this place, this time, this life. And while I may not exactly Rejoice in some, I am grateful for them all.

As my very best lifelong friend said, “I so totally agree with you. There are things that are still painful. There are things, the thought of which make me cringe and thank God that He was watching over me, or I wouldn't be here today. There are things that at the time I so desperately wanted to turn out differently from the way they did. But after all is said and done, I wouldn't change a single drop of Rain, for fear it would destroy the subsequent Rainbow.”

thanks but no thanks

So there was actually turkey for dinner, after all, in our house yesterday. Found a 4-pound turkey breast that required only 2 ½ hours to cook, and it was excellent: just moist enough, skin perfectly browned with its coating of butter/rosemary/lemon peel. Carrots instead of sweet potatoes, as expected, but that was ok. Blueberry pie instead of pumpkin, and that was ok, too. The cornbread dressing contained bits of Italian sausage, apples, celery, and mushrooms. Again, excellent. Gravy really really good with just enough chunky stuff to be interesting. Three kinds of deviled eggs (dill, parsley, regular), a loaf of homemade bread, and omg Trisha Yearwood’s recipe for bacon-wrapped-asparagus bundles. Sour cream mashed potatoes, yum-m-m-m-m-my!! And creamed onions.

Now, keep in mind last week I asked hubby about what I should fix for Thanksgiving dinner, so I’d know what to put on the shopping list, making sure to include all his faves, but leaving out all the good stuff (read that to mean the things I like that he doesn’t). When I asked if he would like creamed onions this year he assured me he likes them just fine and yes add it to the menu.

And so I made creamed onions. They turned out great. Sauce perfect, tiny fresh pearl onions cooked but still with just a hint of crunch, taste of bay leaf just barely coming through, and with just the proper amount of heat from a dash of tabasco.

Noticed at the end of the meal everything was gone from his plate except the creamed onions.

I said, “What’s the matter, you didn’t eat the creamed onions, you told me you like creamed onions.”

He replied, “I like creamed onions, just not THESE creamed onions.”

“What’s wrong with them?” I queried.

Silence.

I tried again. “You’ve never actually eaten creamed onions before today, have you?”

A small voice came back from somewhere down in the middle of his easy chair, “No, but they looked so good when Julia made them on last week’s show that I thought it might be nice to try.”

Three guesses what will not be on the Christmas menu. And the first two don't count.

the most wonderful time of the year

Recently a friend said she is becoming aware of the futility of trying to schedule holiday celebrations with her children. Not because of anything she’s done, but because the kids are grown now and significant others have begun to take center stage in their lives.

I was reminded that when I married it was made known to me, in no uncertain terms, that we were expected to be at the in-law’s house, not just for Thanksgiving but for Christmas, too.

It wasn’t such a big deal at Thanksgiving, although I missed the favorite foods I knew growing up, and soon learned that venison was an acceptable alternative to turkey. At least we had sweet potatoes, but forget cranberry sauce, and anything pumpkin was not to be seen, mainly because anything you couldn’t raise on the farm wasn’t worth having.

Christmas was a real trial. Forget the fact that my family might like to see us, fil’s forcefulness combined with hubby’s irritation at being asked to set up a tree in our own home made it next to impossible for personal decorations.

My children have very few memories of celebrating a holiday in their own home. We always had to pack up and go at least two days in advance, so there went Christmas Eve, too. And how to keep presents secret from inquisitive five-and six-year-olds during a ten-plus-hour car trip was more than I could manage, there simply weren’t enough blankets in the world, so whatever we took had to be small in size and number. Even though the station wagon was large, there wasn’t a lot of room left over after you packed enough clothes to last a week for four people and added a dog in the back. But there was always a light in my kids eyes, from what was under the tree at the other house, and they certainly enjoyed spending time with a granny who doted on them.

Which was way better than the second marriage. Good thing my kids were older by then. After a couple of years of being all but forgotten they became less expectant of receiving anything from hubby’s family, and learned to sit quietly with their two presents while they watched the only four people who mattered tear through the wrappings of numberless boxes of joy. (I hope there’s a special place in hell for adults who take out their frustrations and unhappiness on little children.)

But the upside is that all those years were good training for me. These days I snail mail what I must to people I care about but who don't care about me. Thank you God for a daughter who, even with her Herculean schedule, makes sure there is time for me to spend with her and her family in the week before the actual day. Otherwise, I spend the holidays at home alone, while hubby works. Food? He does not eat pumpkin, sneers at cranberry sauce, and don’t even think about putting sweet potatoes where they can be even sniffed, much less seen. He favors beef tenderloin over turkey, quail instead of ham. It just doesn’t seem worth the expense to buy something that only I enjoy, and so I don’t. There are very few Christmas decorations in our home, because, frankly, after twenty years of trying I am just too tired to set up a tree and decorate and then take it all down and put it away on Christmas morning. I’m the only one who knows it’s there, so have pared down to whatever can fit on the dining room table. And it’s not like there would be anything under the tree, anyway. Oh, well. At least cleanup is fast.

And, yes, please, I'll have some cheese with my whine.

magic hour

Daylight savings time ended on Sunday. Have noticed that it takes me longer and longer each year to reset all the timepieces in the house. With the advent of the latest ubercoffeemaker (thank you, Denise!! we truly love it), there are now six clocks in my kitchen alone. Add three in the master bedroom (two electric and one battery operated), two in each bathroom (one electronic, one battery), one in each of the two guest bedrooms, one in the office, one in the great room, and one in the master closet.

I’ve learned the best way to get ‘er done, without expending a noticeable block of time and energy is, starting at noon on the day before the change, I take a couple of minutes to reset the clock(s) in whatever room I happen to be in at the time, and so before I go to bed on Saturday the task is complete. Except for the one in the car, which I never can seem to remember, and on my way to Church realize it’s off. And of course for the next month every watch I wear (depending on the day’s couture) also will be wrong. But all in all it works out pretty well.

And despite the time it takes to do it, with the “setback” there is an hour that I don’t have something specifically scheduled to do. Which brings me to the subject of today’s blog. How did you spend your extra hour?

This year I didn’t sleep through the change, as per normal, but instead I went Christmas shopping. Oh, don’t misunderstand, I was not literally out on the highways and byways at that hour, I’m not that foolish, but comparison shopping on the internet is not only possible, it’s preferable. And so today, as I make my weekly foray, I’m also buying the presents I picked out during that magic hour. Which means I can have everything bought and wrapped by Thanksgiving. WOOHOO!!

Only one problem with the time change. At 3:30 each morning this week kitty has nudged me and whined, “I don’t care what the clock says, my tummy says it’s 4:30. Get your butt out of bed and feed me.” This week I’m letting him slide. But beginning next week each morning I’ll make him wait an extra few minutes before I actually do get up. Which means he and the clock will be sync’d somewhere along about March. When daylight savings begins again. Sigh.

not quite a "thriller" and aren't we glad

So another Hallowe’en has come and gone. In 90 minutes handed out 150 dum dum lollipops (because they’re allergy free) and a case of water (to the grateful adults). Light levels on the porch too low to get pics, but saw some really cute costumes. The tiniest participants were the best, as they toddled up to my door.

I do question the motives of the several single parents who showed up with a tiny baby clamped to one shoulder and carrying an old ratty pillowcase in the other hand.

I didn’t grow up celebrating the holiday, there were no costumes donned at our house and I honestly don’t remember doing anything about it even in school, it evidently was not a real big deal back in fifties era Birmingham. I do remember my mother saying the reason our family didn’t “do” Hallowe’en was because it would be begging, and in her way of thinking anything even resembling begging was anathema.

For that matter, I don’t think most of the under six crowd even knew the original purpose for why they were out there trudging the sidewalks last night. Far too few instances of a kid who actually said “trick or treat” and fewer still anyone saying thank you.

Only had one instance of too-old-to-be-out-doing-that, but not about to stand up and say no to teenage thugs who knew intimidation was the real name of the game.

For three hours our street was double (and in places triple) parked with vans and pickups and flatbed trailers (seems our street, being first, serves as the designated drop-off point), which made it really hard for hubby to turn into our drive when he got home. And there was one instance of someone POUNDING on our door thirty minutes AFTER I turned off all the outside lights and came in to nuke a quick dinner (we ignored them and finally they went away).

GHPD was a refreshing and welcome presence during the evening, cruising the neighborhoods in their SUVs and handing out candy to the youngest goublins. A big thank you to Mayor Pereira and the City Council for what I hope will be an annual appearance for our Finest.

The only thriller was Sirius in the background. All in all, I'd say it went pretty well.

So now, this morning, the plush gray rat with black plastic tail and flashing red eyes that plays scary music when you push his tummy is retired for another year, along with the spider web serving platters, the big plastic orange porch pumpkin, and the ghostbusters treat bowl. The four-foot-long scarecrow has come off the front door, replaced by a festive harvest time wreath. All that’s left to do is pick up the candy wrappers and soda cans from the yard, after daylight. Speaking of which, have not yet decided what I’ll do with that extra hour this weekend, but stay tuned, I’ll let you know.

frankly, my dear

I have a new buddy. She came home with me for a short visit last week. She quickly found the water bowl waiting for her, likewise the bowl of cat treats (oh, yum-m-m-mee it’s dairy flavor!!) and then was quite happy to accompany me out back, where she surveyed the yard and decided on a likely spot needing fertilization, then came and stood quietly at the door until I opened it.

Once inside, she took up a position in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. A short time later, she got up and strolled to the back door, looking over her shoulder at me. I let her out, but this time I stayed inside and watched as she wandered happily. She finished her appointed rounds, came back to the door, did not bark, did not scratch, simply touched the door with her front paw one time, and waited for me to open up. Ah, that was rewarding but exhausting!! She ambled over, let Jim pat her head and call her “Baby” then sprawled on the throw rug next to the front door and took a nap. Sometime later I went into the kitchen to make cole slaw and, as she claimed a spot in the middle of the floor, realized just how tiny my kitchen really is. Oh, did you want to step here? Too bad for you!!

Three hours later, as we were getting back in the car to take her home, she tried to jump up onto the back seat and didn’t quite make it, scrabbling but failing to find purchase on the too slick upholstery. And so she simply sat, half in, half out, catching her breath, so to speak, until I gently spoke to her and with a soft tug on the leash, got up, turned around, and then decided she could comfortably make it one step up to the floorboard. Which is when I discovered just how tiny my car really is. But once she was completely in, then she took the next step, up, and onto the bench seat.

Never once during our trip here or there did she try to get into the front, but seemed quite content to sit and survey the world as it passed by. The size of the back seat is canine friendly, well, at least for her size, as she could rest her chin on the back shelf, just this side of the brake light, and by simply turning her head could see out through all the windows. Alternating between snoozing and looking around, the trips were uneventful.

But once we got to her house, and I opened the car door, she froze. You could see it in her eyes, as her deductive reasoning kicked in: “oh, yes, this is where I had the problem 30 minutes ago, and now I’m not sure what to do.” I didn’t push, wanting to let her make the decision, but there was the lure of an offered treat, and so she got up her courage and with one bound she was out of the car and on the sidewalk.

At the stoop, she pressed her nose to the door, but when it didn’t open immediately, looked at me as if to say, "And just WHAT are you waiting for?" The homeowner answered our knock, and we were inside, Baby going straight to “her kitchen” floor, where she sprawled comfortably, accepting two last treats from me before my departure.

Back home, Jim and I talked. I don’t know if she’ll ever come home with me again, but it doesn’t matter, our lives have been forever changed. And we’re in love with Scarlett.

black bird singing in the dead of night

Just a comment on the recent push to put healthy snacks in vending machines. Fast food normally means way too much salt, way too much starch, way too much fat, way too much sugar. And way way way too much in the way of preservatives; how else to maintain the five year shelf life of the average cheeto. And when a person has no willpower over such offerings when hunger rears its ugly head, well, while I don’t completely agree that this area of my life should be yet another place where the dadguvment steps in, I guess it was just one more step in a long line of “it’s for your own good” legislation.

And so, actually, I was glad when hubby recently requested that I pack carrot sticks and celery sticks with his lunch. Seems he’s determined to not only drop a few pounds but also reduce his blood pressure readings. (Since you asked, yes, reason being the upcoming annual for the Guard; although for the life of me I can’t figure how he thinks being “good” for a month can undo the “ungood” of the previous eleven.)

Unfortunately for me and the weekly food budget, his intentions were, well, you know what they say about good intentions. At the end of the week was left with three of five containers that he had taken with him and then brought back home, unopened, untouched, with sticks now too soft to crunch and so not fit for human consumption. Threw them into the back yard in hopes resident rabbit would appreciate the treat. Poor bunny never got a chance. Who knew crows would eat carrots and celery? And not just eat them but fight over the crumbs.

Hmmmm. I suppose the moral of this story is: that’s why I’ve never seen a crow too fat to fly.

And not that it has anything to do with anything, except that this title is stuck in my head and all morning I’ve been channeling Paul McCartney, but I really don’t like this time of year. Send hubby to work in the dark and it’s dark before he gets home. Who ever decided to put off ending daylight savings until November? Shame, shame.

I can name that tune in two notes

My life is filled with music. Number one thing on my list each morning, as you can guess, is feed He Who Waits for No One and nothing will sway him from standing alongside that bowl. Second on the list you can guess without me going into detail. And number three is turn on the radio in the upstairs bathroom. My fave oldies station plays the kind of music I’m inclined to want early in the morning, but they also give frequent traffic updates, and in a household where both of us now go to work, that’s a necessity. In the car, it’s the same station, and I hum along as I toodle. Television commercial music is quite often, these days, based on a song I either remember from years past (ah, yes, advertising playing to the boomer generation) or have heard more recently as I cruise thru the land of Sirius.

But lately I’ve also been noticing music in things most unmusical. When I plug the cell phone into the charger, I hear two notes from The Blue Danube. When I open the microwave to retrieve the hot cuppa, I hear notes from Three Lock Box. Oh, okay, not really. But the similarity is so great that it starts me humming. So glad the coffee maker’s dirge comes later in the morning and does not set the tone for the day.

poor hubby

For the past two mornings the grass in the pasture across the street has had a definitely blue/green tinge. And so in the spirit of the season, yesterday decided to finish decorating the great room for fall. Retrieved from the supply closet a bag of fake fruit.

Usually I set a bowl of apples and pears on the table by the front door, for display purposes only, until hallowe’en is thankfully over and the last trick-or-treater has disappeared into the dark, leaving a scattering of candy wrappers in their wake. But a time crunch prevented me completing the arrangement, and so simply put the fruit in a bowl and set it on the kitchen table.

Keep in mind we never eat at that table, it’s there for prep purposes only, with meals served either from the counter or on the dining table.

This morning, after Jim left for work, noticed something amiss with one of the too-red-to-be-real apples. Evidently hubby had gotten up some time during the night and gone foraging. Bless him, he never said a word to me about it. But you can bet I’ll ask when he gets home tonight. And now I’m off to buy some real apples.

another case of just thought I've seen everything

My church is holding a Lord’s Acre event in November. The usual offering to Lord’s Acre, back when this was an agricultural community, was the proceeds from the sale of whatever was grown or grazed on a single acre of your property. Most of the residents these days are less likely to have arable land as a resource, so there is a second option: if you are giving other than produce, the item must be home made. I’m challenged beyond measure. I knit but you wouldn’t want anything I’ve made. I crochet but not in the last twenty years (not even sure where the hooks are). I cook, but do not can, and frankly just the thought of botulism scares the heck outta me, so probably never will.

After much prayer and careful deliberation I decided the only thing I could do was take an item and turn it into something else, but specifically something you could not pick, as is, off a store shelf. And so this week found me at wally world searching for kid size tee shirts. The plain white kind, suitable for adding my personally-designed, hand-crafted, iron-on logo on the front.

In the process of searching I found cellophane packs containing three tee shirts each, and at a fairly good price. Closer inspection of the packages, however, revealed that of the four hanging on the display, one had been opened and a single tee shirt removed, with the package then placed at the very back of the display where it had obviously gone completely unnoticed by the sales associates in that department, and for who knows how long.

Whoa!!!!

Remember my “breakfast at walmart” post? I can almost understand that early morning shopper, who fed her children slices from a loaf of bread and then closed up the package and put it back on the shelf. (Which I bought, by the way, and brought home and fed to the birds.) But, tee shirts? Seriously? Are there people in this community so desperately in need that they’re stealing clothing? I don’t understand such dire circumstances. My children didn’t have a lot as they were growing up. We were a military family, hubby gone most of the time defending against all enemies, and while it wasn’t exactly starvation wages, there was always way too much month left at the end of the money. I worked three jobs but there simply was not enough for luxuries, just bare necessities. I know there were many times my kids looked at what the other kids had and felt terribly deprived. But I never thought we were so bad off that I felt I had to resort to stealing food or clothes. Thank you, Jesus.

But, then, I’m from another generation, one that does not feel the world owes us anything other than an opportunity. A fair chance to work for what we get and get what we can afford to pay for right now, and after a hard day’s labor sleep peacefully at night. But, then, that’s me, living the ethic handed down from my parents. Just saying.

unplugged

The closer we get to the election the more my phone rings. From early morning to late at night, it rings insistently. When I’m home I can answer and then just hit 9 9 9 9 9 until they give up and go away. But when I’m gone, it’s a different story. The blinking light usually means somebody I don’t want to listen to and have no desire to dialog with has called and left a message which goes on for as long as the record portion will allow, and in some cases even called back two and three times to continue their important news. And so I turned off the answering machine. And then went blithely off to my appointed rounds. Came home to yet another blinking light. Seems the answering machine has a default that says to itself, “oh, she didn’t really mean to turn us off, therefore I’ll just turn myself back on and make sure she doesn’t miss this very important maybe urgent incoming call.” Right. The answering machine is now not only turned off, it’s unplugged. And it will stay that way until I decide to power back up. Which should be some time the middle of November. If then.

and the dream goes on

Where do they come from, these young men and women who look beyond today and then raise their hand and pledge to defend our Country against all enemies foreign and domestic? They come from every town, city, county, and State in our land. Despite the knowledge of what might be, they come. And in droves. No longer do recruiters have to beat the bushes for candidates, they have to beat them off with a stick.

What makes a young man decide at the age of thirteen on a future in military service? I watched him slog through four years of ROTC. He’s on track now for joining the Guard.

What makes a young girl decide her future is in the Navy? And then not only graduate from the Academy but do it with honors and then go on to become one of the few women active duty pilots.

What makes a high school wrestler decide to forego the comfort of a here and now and join the regular Army? Ask my grandson.

What makes a boy decide at the age of six that his future is in the Corps, and not just make that decision, but never waiver from it, and in the next twelve years, despite injuries and surgeries and untold pain not only never lose sight of the goal but do everything in his power to ensure he achieves it? I have no answer, but another grandson proves it’s true.

What causes a heart to beat red, white, and blue? All I know is, the dream is not just alive, it’s hale, hearty, well, and living in North Texas.

God bless them. Every one.

one day at a time

tiara

Recent court case makes me wonder about something. For sixteen years I was made to get up at a certain hour seven days a week. I was forced to learn how to cook meals, do laundry, and clean house. I knew the only proper response to anything my parents said was “yes ma’am” and “yes sir.”

I was grounded if I didn’t get all A’s in school, because school was my job After graduation from high school I found a paying job and for another three years went to work five (or six) days a week, no laying out because it was raining or because the day was too pretty, or because I didn’t feel like getting up.

I was taught how to fix a flat and change the oil in the car.

I learned that not everybody wins, and sometimes not everybody plays, but even if you’re sitting on the sidelines you still yell for your team.

I was in Church three times a week whether I liked it or not.

There was no question, as long as I lived under my Dad’s roof, I would abide by his rules. Mom was the deciding factor on the type of clothes I wore, the way they looked when I wore them, and makeup better be acceptable to her standards.

I learned the hard way that if I did something bad punishment would be swift and appropriate.

I learned I didn’t always get it my way. No tantrums allowed. And don’t roll your eyes at me young lady. You can wear a tiara when you can afford to buy your own.

I watched them vote, and as soon as I was old enough I registered and have voted in every election since, even if I had to walk to the polls to do it. I learned to give blood. I learned to visit the sick. I learned to pay my tithes, even if it wasn’t convenient, pay my bills in full and on time, save some, and then how to live on what was left

Yep, I was an abused child.

invocation

The rabbit has given up on us. Not sure where she went, but haven’t seen her in days. Well, let me put that another way; kitty has not alerted me to the presence of a critter in the back yard for quite some time now, so am assuming she’s gone on to wetter/healthier climes. It’s so dry here that the grasshoppers are gone, nothing left for them to eat. The weeds were blissful after the hour-long shower we got last week, but now even they’re looking past puny. A weekly hour with the soaker hose on the foundation has only a minimal effect. Last night at the Ovilla city council meeting, the invocation beseeched God for wisdom for our elected officials, health for our families, and safety for our troops. But the biggest “yes, Lord,” came when he prayed for rain.

good, bad, ugly

We are well into west nile season here in North Texas. Several deaths reported. Cities spraying nightly and every news cast reminding folks about getting rid of standing water in the yard. Hmmm. Considering we’re also in drought mode, makes me wonder how water of any kind could be standing anywhere after an hour of this heat.

But the good news is Off has come out with a personal protection device with battery operated fan that clips onto your belt and reportedly keeps the mosquitoes away. The bad news is it doesn’t work. The ugly truth is how much it costs, considering it not only does not live up to the hype but as far as I’m concerned does absolutely nothing other than get in the way when I’m mowing the yard. Don’t waste your time looking for it nor your money buying it.

Well, ok, it may be that my metabolism isn’t what they envisioned when they developed the formula, and it might very well be an excellent choice for others, but for me, it just doesn’t work. What I have to show for the experiment are two clip ons that have been relegated to the recycle bin and several recent purchases of calamine and other assorted itch aids. Which in itself is a whole 'nother subject.

What does work for me as a repellant? Dryer sheets. Yep. And so way affordable. I pin one of them on my waistband before I go out to work in the yard and am simply amazed at how well it protects. Who’d a thunkit?

Not sure who told me about using them in this manner, but as soon as I remember you can bet they’re going to get a big huge “LIKE” on their wall.

the new jerusalem

And so it is that we are now in full Olympic mode. Beginning Friday night at 6 pm the little red light on the DVR has been in constant glow, reminding me that even as I go about my daily chores, or sleep for three or four, somewhere in London (or thereabouts) someone is competing for (and drugging for and doping for and arguing for and protesting against somebody else) winning a medal.

I always watch the first and last day, without fail, and up until this year have actually recorded the broadcasts for posterity, with the rest pretty much up for grabs depending on what the telly tells. But this year NBC has for all intents and purposes turned over its entire schedule to broadcast the eighteen days of glory.

Now, I’m still a sucker for watching those young gymnasts fly around the parallel bars, and seeing a 15-year old touch the pool wall first to win gold does more than just tug at my heart strings. But, frankly, I’m just not that into kayaking in a man-made pool or watching the river sculls or beach volleyball (how the heck it made it into the games is way beyond my ken).

But as the days wear on, even though I feel myself drifting toward Olympic overload and find myself turning away from the visuals on the flat screen (no, we can’t call it the tube anymore, the tube is underground in London), I am still, in my minds ear, drawn back to five minutes during the opening ceremony, when a positively delightful young man in a yellow shirt stood up and sang the words of William Blake:

And did those feet in ancient time.

Walk upon England’s mountains green.

And was the holy Lamb of God,

On England’s pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here,

Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;

Bring me my Arrows of desire;

Bring me my Spear, O clouds unfold!

Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,

Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand,

Till we have built Jerusalem,

In England’s green and pleasant land.

not for me

For the past couple of weeks I have been scanning pictures of my grandchildren and posting them to facebook albums. The comments from viewing friends have varied from a simple like to a big omg. The responses from the gc have made me laugh, and a couple of times, cry.

Truth be told, most days I’m never very far away from tears. Depression is ever present and some mornings it’s all I can do just to get out of bed. Oh, I get up, all right, kitty is relentless, and if I don’t respond to his initial attempts, with a gentle paw on my face and a “mom mom mom” from his hungry maw, then he goes on to other methods, all of them involving something that will without doubt get my attention. First, usually, he hops up onto the bookcase headboard and tickles me with his tail. If that doesn’t work he leaps to the bedside table and proceeds to knock over anything that’s not nailed down, particularly relishing the resultant crashes as items hit the floor. And if that doesn’t work, he lays down across my feet and (not too) gently nips my toes. By then I’m usually inspired (?) enough to kick off the covers and stumble to the kitchen, mindful of course that he’s dogging my footsteps as I trudge the length of the house.

But once he’s fed, the predawn envelopes me and I have to make some decisions about how I’m going to handle the rest of the day. I’ve learned not to turn on the television, because in the weeness of the morning the newscasts focus on either the terrible or the terribly mundane, both of which serve only to heighten my sense of unease. Listening to my best deejay is better, but barely. And yet the silence of the house is the least fave, because alone is bad but alone with my thoughts is awful.

Before the accident there were always good days and bad days but for the most part the good outweighed the bad. Since the accident, I experience way more of the latter. And when the memory hits, it’s a six flags ride and all a downward spiral. Trauma is trauma, however it comes into your life. Going back to bed is not an option, because dreams are almost as bad as reality. A pill might make things better but what do you do when the dose wears off? I understand why some people start the day with a drink or a drug, needing something, anything, to numb the woulda coulda shouldas. But neither is viable for me. And so the darkness closes in and the voices in my head sing the dread refrain. I was an ugly evil child. I was a bad wife. I was a horrible mother. Mistakes are always remembered and never truly forgiven. All the lights in the house turned on do nothing to assuage the bile in my gut. And there is no wounded warrior program for me.

my kids

There are lots of pictures and photos in my home. Some of them are fave repros, Monet or Van Gogh or Remington or Russell, depending on the décor du jour, but the majority are of people, places, and things, gathered along the way throughout the years. They are, for the most part, mounted in albums or stored away in a bug-out bag in the office. There are two on the staircase, however, that I look at several times every day, each time I climb to the office. Neither was taken by me, or a result of a personal contract. Denise, in a wisdom way beyond her years, paid for them with her own money and gave them to me as a present when she graduated.

Darling daughter, if I never before said thank you, I’m sorry it took me so long to recognize your efforts, and I’m saying it now.

vhs vs dvd

Shortly after we married we stopped going anywhere besides work and Church. Granted, there wasn’t a lot of it, since my job kept me flying in and out almost weekly, but when we were home at the same time almost all of it was spent viewing television, either from the home projection system in the great room or the table model in the bedroom. And we were constantly recording something, from old Three Stooges comedy movies and loony tunes shorts to opening and closing Olympics ceremonies and extensive coverage of what turned out not to be the Y2K end of the world. When we got a free weekend for HBO or Showtime or Cinemax, we kept both recorders going nonstop. When we moved from the beach house to the country, we packed the tapes into three duffle bags and schlepped them down the four flights of stairs and then upon arrival at the new house arranged a cement block-and-board bookcase for them. Each time something went on tape, I faithfully typed the addition into the alphabetically arranged library list, showing the subject/title and author/star along with any other relevant info. As the collection grew, I started numbering the boxes. But soon even that wasn’t sufficient to quickly find whatever it was Jim wanted to watch, and so began to log not only the number of the box but also the color. Eventually I put the whole shebang on the computer so he could open the file and find stuff when I was out of town. By the time we moved from NC to Texas our obsession had garnered six hundred plus VHS tapes. There were over a hundred red (2 hours 40 minutes playing time, which we used for Kevin Costner epics), yellow (2 hr 10 minutes for the majority of telecast movies), and gray, black, white, and blue (2 hours each) for all the rest. I don’t even remember how many copier paper boxes we filled with tapes but it seemed the stream would never end as we packed the Ryder truck.

Once we got to Allen, Texas, and the rental house, I carefully stacked the boxes in the spare bedroom, close to the door, so they were easily accessible to Jim, who had decided he didn’t want to work for a while and was staying at home, and he insisted he must be able to find things quickly when I wasn’t there to do it for him. Six months later, at the end of our lease, we packed up and moved again, to our current home. This time we built a brick-and-six-foot-wide-six-board-high shelving system in the office. I just about crippled myself moving all those boxes up the stairs, but once it was done I was quite proud of the effect. The tapes were arranged by color, with the numbers facing outward, again, so Jim could find whatever he wanted with a minimum amount of effort. And since the shelf was located adjacent to the computer desk, and the library listing had a shortcut on the desktop, it was one-stop shopping.

Fast forward twelve years. I’m tired of hearing him gripe about how none of those old tapes will play on either of the current players. I’m sick of looking at (and dusting) the shelves. And, I’ve become firmly convinced that the DVD format is head and shoulders above tapes, anyway, not to mention they’re way lighter and take up half as much space. And so, three weeks ago I asked him to spend a bit of his midnight hours going through the tapes, and if there was something he really really really absolutely positively no doubt in his mind could not live without to put it into a storage box I had conveniently placed on the office floor, reason being because I intended to trash anything that was still here after he left on this latest deployment.

Are you surprised that he said he didn’t find anything worth saving? Well, I wasn’t. Sooooo, I went through them all, discarding with gleeful abandon, then toted that barge and lifted that bale and after six hours there were only fifty tapes remaining upstairs. (You couldn’t walk through the garage, the floor was so full of trash bags, but the upstairs looked fantastic!) And then, on Friday, early in the morning, I wheeled the city-supplied trash bin (which was by then full to overflowing and almost too heavy to move by myself without getting a hernia) to the street, and made eight trips to pile up all the garbage bags, waiting for the green monster to pick up and haul away. By noon it was all gone and the trash bin was back in its place just outside the garage door. Sooner or later I’ll get around to making a new list of what was retained, but because I know from experience that you never need something until after you throw it away, I didn’t delete the old list. For comparison purposes only, doncha know.

P.S. He asked two days later if I’d kept Stephen King’s “The Stand.” Well, no, honey, darn my hide, but that was one he’d tried to watch about a year ago and discovered a whole hour was missing from the middle of the series when evidently the cable went out, as it was so wont to do in coastal Carolina with our way less than satisfactory cable provider. Guess I’ll just have to search Amazon dot com for a DVD of it. But it won’t be any time soon, I guarantee.

July 4, 2012

Fourth of July has always been my favorite holiday. Because it’s not about giving gifts or wrapping presents or fixing a turkey or ham or going to extremes to decorate the house and yard in extravagant displays that will be enjoyed for a day or two and then taken down and stored in either the garage or the attic for another year. Really, there’s not much special that I do on this day. Other than hanging out the flag and then just simply showing up and letting somebody else do the work. And, maybe, if I’m fortunate and feeling fine, marching in the Duncanville parade. Ah, Independence Day, with the right to just be me, on my own terms, and the freedom to celebrate with all the other Patriots in this Fair Land.

nostalgia

 What a joy is BYU TV. It has become the channel we turn to when we want good, wholesome themes, and more often than not gives us a pleasurable trip down memory lane. For example, last week the Passport Earth series featured the Lipizzaner Stallions. And immediately afterward aired “The Miracle of the White Stallions,” a Walt Disney production from 50 years ago. This type of movie viewing is not unusual for this channel. For example, Pete’s Dragon, another fave, was televised recently. Coming up this week, and a propos for the 4^th of July celebrations, is The Music Man (love me some 76 trombones). For us it seems the older Disney movies hold just as much fascination as today’s Pixar offerings. Different, of course, but, all things considered, no less wonderful. I’m resigned to the fact that we will never see a return to family oriented programming on the big four networks, and that’s such a shame. The Mickey Mouse Club was one of my most fave shows when I was young. Didn’t get to watch every day, because nine months of the year homework took precedence, and it took longer during the summer to keep the house clean, but when the school work load was small, and my chores were done, if there was time, I got to sit for 30 minutes and see things of the world I would never in my life otherwise have an opportunity to see. Yes, some of it had little substance. To wit, Anything Can Happen Day. And I well remember my brothers making fun of Spin and Marty. Strangely enough, they never said anything negative about Annette. Drooled, yes, but never ridiculed. And while we’re on the subject of nostalgia, does anybody remember what it was we were supposed to do with the water left over from boiling eggs?

a pressing matter

Does anybody besides me iron anymore? We have two ironing boards in this household. Mainly because hubby got tired of having to traipse up the stairs to use the one and only, and he never was happy with the current setting on the iron. Soooooooooo, in the interest of keeping the peace, he now has one of each in his dressing room, and I still have mine, upstairs. But recently even this became a problem. Seems it’s in his way. He wants to use his computer (not the household one), and that means he has to plug it in, and the only outlet currently available in the office is one on the wall - - you got it - - right next to the ironing board. So, in the interest of keeping the peace, I moved the whole shebang into the guest room. Now when I need to press something I have go into the guest room and plug in the iron and then go into the bathroom to get a glassful of water and then move the supplies and, well, you get the picture. OK, none of those things is really a problem, it’s just inconvenient. But life is full of inconveniences, yes? There is, however, one tiny minor detail of concern. Last Sunday before heading out for my normal routine, I decided I needed to press my skirt. In a hurry, as always, I zipped through the job, donned the still-warm garment, unplugged the iron, carried it into the bathroom, emptied the water into the sink, went back to the guest room, set the iron on the board, closed the door and went to Sunday School and Church. When I get home first thing is always turn off the alarm, next is take off my shoes. The next order of business is change from skirt to grubbies. Before I could two and three on the list, I heard the most awful racket emanating from the upper portion of the house. Oh, Lord, I thought, what’s gotten into the attic? Nothing. Kitty was scratching at the guest room door, desperate to be set free from the prison he had been forced to occupy for the last five hours. Oh, and it does no good to tell him that sneaking into the guest room just so he can occupy the clean soft space on top of that bed might not be the best idea in the world. As of this morning the ironing board is back in the office. And Jim will just have to deal.

pilot of the airwaves

There are, I think, for most of the boomgen, songs that take us back to a particular time in our life when things were either really awful or really great. Of course, that perception is colored by time, and may not reflect actual events; sorta like childhood summers, easy to remember swimming in the lake but mosquito bites less easily recalled.

For me it’s not only songs, but also radio stations. And deejays, Lord love 'em. WSGN/WAQI’s Tommy Charles (RIP) and Doug Layton were all the rage in Birmingham during my high school years. When I resided in Los Angeles, KRTH totally did it for me. Any time I lived in the D/FW area it was Ron Chapman, and I followed him through three careers and as many stations. These days it’s oldies with Jody Dean & the Morning Team.

But above them all was WROA in Biloxi and my very fave Pilot of the Airwaves. Living on three hours sleep a night, this man kept me awake in the wee hours while I studied electronics and, when I wasn't hitting the books, was sometimes my only hold on sanity as I tried to reconcile life as a single parent with a full-time job in the Air Force. Wonder whatever happened to Ken Slater?

routine

Jim’s been back for three months now, and this household has settled into what, for us, is as close to a routine as we will probably ever have. Four am finds me in the kitchen, fixing a first cup of coffee, kitty me-r-r-r-owing in and out between my feet, impatiently awaiting a dollop of salmon or trout or tuna. Teevee muted, radio off until 5 am and my fave deejay drive-time show, the neighbor’s mega-truck not yet fired up, there’s only faint barking from distant neighborhood dogs to break the pre-dawn stillness. I used to hear a train in the early mornings, but either CSX changed the schedule or the ambient air temp is such that the lonely whine no longer carries this far.

This morning the only sounds in the house are the office window screens moving in the ubiquitous North Texas breeze (which in any other part of the Country would be considered a gale), and clicks of the computer keyboard. And the sounds of gentle snoring in the master bedroom. Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

Remembering Annie

Dear Ann:

Sometimes it seems like just last year we said goodbye, at most, no more than five, since you graduated from ATC training and went on to bigger and better things. The memories are still so fresh, can it, truly, have been a lifetime ago?

You stood at the ball field one night and held my children’s hands, huddling together against the chill of the autumn fog-bound Biloxi evening, laughing with the joy of simply being alive and outside in the fresh air. I took a picture of you all, six eyes gleaming redly in the technology not yet proficient at doing away with it. I look at it often, and think of what a fine woman you were, then, and, no doubt, are today.

My daughter speaks of you with love, for you were the first grownup in her life to treat her as something other than just a little kid. She laughed with delight at the way you pronounced some of your words, your accent so very far and foreign from our own southern drawls.

You cooked for us one night, do you remember? Coq au vin, and it instantly became a household favorite. My son, for years, when asked his favorite food, always said, “Chicken the way Annie makes it.” I’m sure that if he could, he, too, would speak of you with love, for even before he knew what the word really meant, he loved you; you were his first crush. I don’t think any other woman in his life ever quite measured up to you.

I have an undying gratitude to you for not only loving my children, but also for loving me. In particular, for the way you told me what to expect from basic training, saying you wish someone had let you know beforehand, so it wouldn’t have all been such a surprise. You gave me tips on using rubbing alcohol to clean the bathroom faucet without leaving spots, the wonders of toothpaste to take black marks off those god-forsaken tile floors, and that if I took my bath before hitting the rack I could be up and on the walk in time to keep the DI off my case. And you gave me one more tip, one that has meant more to me than any other single piece of advice from any other friend, co-worker, or family member. You said to me, “If you must cry, do it in the shower, so no one can see.”

Ann Beneke, wherever you are, dream peacefully tonight. Your always and forever friend, Pat.

It's never easy. No matter their age, they always leave us too soon. The road to serenity is a hard one, and all uphill. But those left behind move on, eventually. Tears subside and grief diminishes, but neither is so far out of reach that it can't be recalled immediately by a favorite scripture, a song, this morning's sunrise, or a breeze.

perspective on grief

Grief takes on different faces for different people. Oh, I am way familiar with the basic stages, and until recently thought I was well equipped to handle them all. On the way back to Texas from Kennesaw Jim was talking about Mom, and the rest of the family, and reliving all the trauma and tribulation of his teenage angst-filled years. I just let him talk, and from time to time murmured something non-committal, just so he’d know I was still listening. Dad had given him an envelope, as I drove through western AL and he sat shotgun and reviewed the contents, I heard his voice change. Had thought I knew pretty much everything about him, but discovered there is a whole previously undiscovered side to hubby. He broke down once, reading a stupid bad final grade on a report card, for gosh sakes, and then, mercifully, slept, waking only when we stopped for gas in LA. Usually we swap drivers with each fill-up, but I should have known better. From the time we left the welcome station just east of Marshall, it was a wild ride. He kept to the speed limit, yes, but had set the cruise control and it seemed he was hell bent that nothing deter him from maintaining that chosen velocity. You know how when our soldiers first come back from a combat zone the FRG tells us not to let them drive for 48 hours? Well, that same edict should apply to the first 48 hours after a parent’s memorial services, too. He talked and he talked and he talked, mostly about nothing, but then he started talking about how we should sell everything we own and run away to Australia. I just held on for dear life and let him rant, praying silently that if this was my time, then, so be it, Lord, just take me home to Glory and don’t let me suffer too much on the way. We made it here, oh dark thirty, and then he couldn’t decide what he wanted to eat, he had talked about twelve different things on the way, and when I offered to fix his desire he didn’t want what we had but something not in the kitchen and totally unavailable at that hour in our tiny Texas town. He was up for what seemed like forever, just couldn’t settle, and of course he wanted me to be up, too, so he’d have a focus for his anger, but by dawn on Sunday I’m going on no sleep for way too many hours and it was all I could do to stick with him. He finally just collapsed in his made-for-two great room chair, and I crept off to bed. When I got up three hours later, thanks to kitty’s insistence, Jim was sleeping restlessly in our bed. And in the kitchen to fill the empty treat bowl, discovered all sorts of food wrappers on the table and counter. Seems hubby went on a feeding frenzy, not being able to decide on any one thing, he had nuked everything he could find in both freezers. He slept until time for work on Monday. The anger is still there, just under the surface, ready to bubble up and explode with no notice, as it has for three days now. The woulda-coulda-shoulda-mightabeens are sometimes almost more than I can take. And I’m still holding on, but I wonder how he would have handled it if there had been no one to hear and mutely accept his tirades. He’s still eating everything he can find, and every time he walks in the kitchen kitty decides it’s time for him to eat, too, so I’m spending an uncommon amount of time fixing for the two of them. If in the future I EVER say I’m adding another male to my household, somebody please shoot me.

so what are YOU going to do about it?

Another Mother’s Day has come and gone, but history is always there. Sometimes the memories are so painful it’s hard to catch my breath, for the growing up throwing up years were anything but kind. Chaos reigned supreme in that house where there was no mother’s knee to sit on, no hugs of encouragement, no for-no-reason kisses, because emotions were not to be publicly displayed. If you hurt, suck it up, tamp it down, bury it deep, no tears, just be glad for what you have and get on with the day. And if you were happy about something, anything, better not show it, because sure as shootin’ there’d lightning fast be a way to bring you down. Not a lot of mirrors in our house, because to look in a mirror for more than the couple of seconds needed to check your teeth was vanity. And, OMG, don’t even think about glancing at your reflection in a shop window. Jewelry? Not until you have a wedding ring. Makeup? Forget about it. Don’t expect to hear the words “I’m proud of you,” for pride was a sin. If you did something good it was because you were supposed to, if you did something bad you just confirmed her fears of who you really were deep down inside. And never, never, never ask if you were loved. Because you would not like the answer. And, no, not just me and my childhood. The sister I knew swore for years that she had been adopted. Oldest brother ran away from home every chance he got until the day he and the Marine Recruiter sat in the living room while Dad signed the papers and Mom refused, trying with all her might not to let him escape her clutches. It was the only time I ever saw her cry; tears of frustration rather than grief. And then a short time later youngest brother was ripped from friends and shipped off for his senior high year, no reason given other than because she was afraid he would turn out like his brother We were, for the most part, kept at home except for brief stints of school and church, and away from other people, besides the few and far between she deemed acceptable. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I realized not all families were like ours, and only when I went to college that I learned there was a 13-letter word to describe our situation. But, then, I learned too much, and so after one semester of freedom was pulled back home and married with five day’s notice to someone from a family they had “checked out” and found better than the alternative. When friends asked why the wedding was so quick she told them I was pregnant. Not true, but, oh, well, women in that era were still little more than chattel, and while it’s true that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, for me, there were no options. I didn’t have the guts to say “no.” And when a few months later my first pregnancy ended in miscarriage, it somehow seemed like only what I deserved. It was only after she died that I began to have an inkling of why she was the way she was. Orphaned at two, she grew up with no one to teach her parenting skills, no person to encourage her with anything besides slaps and kicks, raised by a series of “cousins” and working for a meager living by the age of ten, totally on her own at fourteen when she fled the Ouchita. I think the first time in her life she experienced love from another person was when she met Dad. And even then the people in her life tried to sell her into marriage with a moneyed friend. Hence, the elopement to another county, a justice of the peace and witness wife roused from their bed in the dead of night, and marriage vows read under a street lamp. The middle of the Depression, the only thing they had was each other and the refurbished chicken coop they called home. And then the oldest child died the day before the fourth was born. Lord, lord, it’s a wonder she had any sanity about her at all. I think it was only after the grandchildren arrived that she felt comfortable receiving a hug from anyone. Years of therapy did not bring me self-esteem, for you cannot restore what has never been. One counselor said, “OK, so, they screwed up your life, what are YOU going to do about it?” And so, a year after she died, I found a modicum of closure when I left a letter on her grave, asking forgiveness for not being the daughter she wanted, for being the daughter who lived instead of the two she loved and lost, telling her it was okay that she was not the kind of mother I thought I needed, but expressing gratitude that she had given me life. But the acorn does not fall far from the tree, reasons are not excuses, and I am too soon old and too late schmart. My own children have suffered dearly for my lack. I can only hope that someday they might leave a letter on my grave, forgiving me for not being the mother they deserved.

the longest goodbye

How do you say goodbye to someone who doesn’t know you’re saying goodbye? Hate Alzheimer’s. Hate it, hate it, hate it! When Mrs. Reagan called it the long goodbye, she wasn’t preaching to the choir. Those of us who have been intimately involved with the devastating effects of this disease suffer from another type of grief, a stage beyond the normal, because this is an ending that seems to have no end. We are told that in the midst of life we are in death. I get that. But this kind of death just goes on and on and on. There are memories, yes, but none recent. This year there was a Mother’s Day card that was read to her by those around her and perhaps she hugged to her chest but her lucid moments were so few and far between that the words on the card could never truly be shared. Alzheimer’s is a thief; it robs our loved ones of the ability to love us back. And, that, to me, is the saddest aspect of all.

anniversary

Raised my hand for the first time and swore to defend this Country against all enemies, foreign and domestic, in February. Three months later did it again and then immediately got on a bus headed for yellow footprints at LAFB and Basic Training. Thirty-eight years ago today. Still remember the pre-dawn yawning mornings on the walk ready to march to chow. And the sweltering heat of midday straggles to and from classes where they taught us how to be successful female soldiers. How many new airmen will get sore feet is indelibly etched in my mind. But our arsenal was made of skirts and berets, not carbines, our only ammo lipstick and eyeliner. And our curriculum was about how to sit with decorum, how to stand properly for pictures, and how to look good while marching across the parade ground in heels. Not one darn thing about actual defense of a country, this one or any other. Unless you consider coffee a weapon. And, thinking back, some of the gluck I drank over the years at various far-flung-world-wide-godforsaken-outposts, while never lethal, too often would have qualified as a biohazard. And I remember as soon as the first inspection and confiscation of personal items was over and the DI walked out of the bay, I stripped and rushed to the shower, because the one thing my Daddy told me about the military was not to ever let them see me cry. I remember the way I felt the first time I stood in uniform at attention and heard My National Anthem played by the post band. The tears flowed again, but on that day I didn’t care who saw. That summer my feet grew two sizes. I lost ten pounds. Not too long after graduation, the pounds were back but the marriage was gone. These days I still get up at oh dark thirty every morning but don’t spend money on makeup, normally wear penny loafers instead of heels, and do NOT miss the grinder even a tiddly bit. But the way I feel about service to my Country has not changed. And I’d do it all again. In a heartbeat. In the blink of my un-mascaraed eyes.

that ratty old quilt pt 1

I was in the kitchen packing a box with containers of green salad, baked potatoes, carrots, pot roast, and cheesecake for granddaughter Hayes Elizabeth to take back to the University. She was in the office upstairs, looking for an old textbook of mine, to use for research in a senior paper on health care. Her voice drifted down to me. “Gramma, who was Bettie Winkle?” “Bettie who?” I called back. “Bettie Winkle. Her name is on this ratty old quilt up here.” I put aside the storage bags and climbed the stairs, considering how best to frame an answer to her question. I knew exactly which ratty old quilt she was talking about. We had pulled it from the linen closet when we were cleaning out the house after Mom’s death. There were actually four quilts tucked at the back of the bottom shelf. One was done in perfectly horrendous dark solids and plaids and checks and florals, the sole touch of whimsy one tiny piece from a delicate balloon print. Fabrics from the time of The Great Depression were representative of the lack of everything including hope, and Depression-era families never threw away anything, so the explanation for the design was self-evident. Another quilt in soft greens and grays prominently displayed a regally beautiful Kwan Yin in the center square. My favorite was one with a red-white-and-blue star design that I today lovingly display in my bedroom. And then there was this one, in soft pinks and blues and yellows, stitched on a plain white backing. And even though it was literally falling to pieces, I simply could not bear to part with it. My HODAR had already learned (the hard way) not to question my choices on what to take away with us, and so simply added the quilts to the box of many-times-washed-to-the-point-of-being-threadbare linens nobody else wanted, a stack of stained hand-embroidered table cloths and napkins, knitted tea cozies, and crocheted fall-colored striped afghans. Mom had died three months earlier, but I was not willing to let her go. Hubby and I both knew it was not so much the articles I wanted to keep as the memories associated with each of them. And, yet, while this one particular pastel-hued quilt showed the most signs of wear, it was one I could not remember ever seeing used. Made of lightweight fabric, it was what Mom called a summer quilt, an aid to cut the chill of nights in the mountain region of Arkansas where she and her sister were born and raised. We had a coal furnace in the basement of our house in Birmingham, augmented by gas heaters in the common rooms. Not so lucky my northern cousins. The cooking fires burned brightly all day in that sprawling old farmhouse, but were banked at night, and no amount of socks or bricks or hot water bottles could completely remove the chill from our toes. I remembered one Christmas visit and a night so cold my four cousins and I actually burrowed between the goose feather mattresses in our efforts to keep warm.

that ratty old quilt pt 2

But how to describe the tradition of sleeping four or five to a bed to a grandchild who grew up with not only her own private bed but also her own private bed room? She didn’t wait for my answer, however, instead saying, as soon as she saw me, “Why have you never told me about these guys?“ Granddaughter had grown up hearing all about my Dad’s family and their immigration from England to Colonial Isle of Wight, Virginia. Pitts, Slaughter, Hembree, Chastain, Cordell, Johnston, and Thornburg were names she well knew. Names painstakingly recorded in Dad’s Bible allowed us to track each generation as they moved from Virginia to South Carolina, Georgia and Tennessee, Alabama and Texas. The oral tradition that Grandpa Lloyd found Texas too hot for his liking and went back to North Georgia for a wife was something we had always laughed about, in complete and rueful understanding, during our own sweltering summers here in Dallas/Fort Worth. But now, with this tattered old quilt, our attention turned to the nebulous realm of the Osburn side. No traditional family Bible remained from Mom to give us even a hint of who these people were. I sat down next to Hayes on the floor, and fingered the fading threads. “You know my Mother was an orphan, right?” She nodded and I continued, “Mom didn’t know much about her family. Of course she knew her sister, Iris, and her Papa Sam, but her Mother Pearl was a mystery. Pearl died when Mom was barely two years old. And nobody ever talked about how or why Pearl died. Mom didn’t even know her own Mother’s middle name, much less where she came from, or anything about her family. The names on this quilt are her stepmother Stella Nelson Osburn’s family,” I concluded. “Well, I’m just really surprised you haven’t done anything to remedy that situation. You’re the genealogist.” And with that gentle smiling reproof, Hayes got up from the floor and went back to searching the bookcase. An hour later, with a flurry of hugs and kisses, the box of food under her arm and a hundred dollar bill secretly tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, she hopped in her SUV and was on her way back to Houston and the Cougars. But for the rest of that day her words echoed in my head. Why hadn’t I done anything about it? I am the product of more than a single ancestral line. These folks, too, are, after all, my family, my blood, kith and kin. And so began the odyssey. Internet websites are my least favorite form of research. Too often the information is not only misleading but just plain wrong. It is, however, a good place to start. I searched the social security death index, and found the basic facts. But I wanted more. A search of archived newspaper obituaries for the relevant date returned not only the information about Bettie’s death but also listed surviving kin. And then it was off to the races with emails to cousins throughout the South.

that ratty old quilt pt 3

Among the names that turned up was one I recognized as being much more than a cousin. I discovered that Mother’s half brother is buried in the National Cemetery in Fayetteville, Arkansas, as a result of his Korean War Soldier status. Finding his survivors was a little more difficult, because the government is loath to give out information that could possibly be used for identity theft. I fully understand and applaud that decision, but it certainly did not help matters. Despite the painstaking research and helpful suggestions from Old Chisholm Trail Chapter sisters, the days were soon bereft of anything new. As my frustration level rose, enjoyable yet fruitless hours in the Dallas library found me with only eyestrain and a newly-developed sense of respect and admiration for real genealogists. So it was back to the obituaries and subsequent online telephone directory searches. The result is that in the past year I have been able to find and contact several family members who still live in and around the old homestead in Hazel Valley. One sweet cousin suggested I use the find-a-grave index. Well, duh, why didn’t I think of that! Many cemeteries now have online lists of all who are interred. In one such list I found not only my maternal grandparents but also the great grandparents burial locations. Some of the websites even list contact information of the person who took the time and trouble to record and post the information. Sometimes, if you’re fortunate, there’s even a picture of the headstone. Other links can direct your search to the homepages for various State and Federal agencies. A personal check sent to the Archives in Arkansas gave me a copy of my grandparents’ marriage license. The entry on the bottom line showed that the person who had performed the ceremony was my great great uncle. Further research on his name turned up the fact that he had been a circuit riding Baptist Preacher. Now I knew there were preachers on both sides of our family tree. Another cousin emailed an old newspaper article about a house in England that our Osburn ancestors supposedly sold to Queen Victoria. I’ve yet to prove the authenticity, but wouldn’t that be luv-er-ly! As the days flew by and emails from a widening circle of sources graced the inbox, one clue quickly followed another. I not only found censuses to support the family emigration from Virginia to Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, Arkansas, and Oklahoma, but also discovered that Great Great Grandmother Perlina was a landowner under the Homestead Act of 1862. And, finally, one of the most cherished treasures of all, the Blevins ancestor who was a Revolutionary War Soldier/Spy from Virginia. WOOHOO!! Patriots on both sides of my family!! Supplement, here I come.