So I was on DMT giving XP to friends and Rosie has a 5 rating and she's blocked!  What does that mean? Rosie? Are you out there?  What's going on?
And no new post to the Writing?  Has something happened?  Am I on the outs?  Geez...paranoia!  Setting in...Darn............................

Anger

Anger...I have trouble expressing thoughts about this topic.  I guess it's because I haven't had that clenched fist, red, boiling mad feeling in a long, long time....And that's probably because all my feelings were burned up in the black hole of mourning...

I have been living in a five year hiatus from feelings of any kind. Love, hate, anger, and pleasure have been welded into the fire pit where I cherish the embers of my old life. Sometimes those embers spark and flame, sometimes they glow softly, but they will never have the warmth nor give me the light again...

I have had to build a new fireplace. It is made of bricks brought by friends, solid brick, piled high, shielding the wind of discontent, the water of my tears, and the anger of the loss. I choose my starter carefully and lay on each branch before I strike the match. I guard the fire. I will not risk it again.  Therefore,  I do not let the feelings in. It is superficial but survivable!

Anger...grrr

Anger…grrrr

Today I was Tonking. Tonk is a card game…low hand wins. After not being successful for a few (like more than 3) hands, I decide to move on to another Tonk group. I entered the room and the host says “hey you fu.k leave”…”Reese, get the fu.k out of here”…”Reese, leave…we hate you Reese”. I asked…How can you hate me when you don’t even know me? The more they begged me to leave, the more I was determined to stay put! and I did…I told them they were very disrespectful to me when I first arrived in their room. This did not seem to bother them. There were two…one on my right and one on my left…I was smack in the middle and not budging…They did not own stars so they could not kick me. Had I been host, I would of gladly kicked them and would not have closed my eyes while doing so. Then the host says, “I will just keep extending til you leave”. I, still standing my ground replied back “I don’t care, I have all day”…Then the host says “you must not have a life if you can sit here all day”, I said nothing….then the host says “you must be a lazy n”…..then I started to see red red red!!! I was filling with anger…I was clenching my teeth…my body was turning into a stiff board…my exhaling was deep…then the host turned and said “ok, we’ll play Reese and take all her money”…..well, I let the clock run down to 1 and I high tailed it out of there. No way was I going to chance losing to them little snot nosed twirps…

After I removed myself from their room, I wish I had stayed…I wish I had taken down their names…I wish I had a full bar of Lava Soap…

anger

anger is something i can easily write about. 
im happy right now.
it's a rare, unfamiliar.. unwieldy feeling.. happiness.

anger is so much more my home.

well.. it was.

now i question that statement.

anger is learning that my dad gave my brother his credit card to go on a 'long haul' to ny state from ohio with one of his buddies.  (whatever that means.. cuz my brother doesnt 'do' anything) and upon his arrival home.. ignores my dad's request to return the card and doesnt offer to pay the $2000 tab.  they were gone 2 days.

btw.. he didnt bother swinging down to visit me.. i was only a couple hours away.

anger is coming home and finding my parents' belongings.. photos.. clothing.. books.. paperwork.. artwork.. and other things in huge piles in the basement.. sopping wet..........completely ruined.  my sister in tears.. my brother beligerant and blocking the doorway.. his wife smirking out from behind him..  my dad.. still too grief stricken to care.

anger is finding my girlfriend had slept with my brother.. no mistaken identity.. you cant fake the lack of a limb.

anger is sitting in a hospital room, for a week with sister and mom.. thinking dad wouldnt ever recover from the cerebral hemorrhage..  and no sign of my brother.

that's just the short list of anger.
my anger is wrapped up in my brother.  i cut the tie.. but the anger.. lingers.

today, in my happiness.. anger's stranglehold.. is temporarily faded.

Anger ugh. go away.

did we already write on anger.  wtf?  brb.  Yes we wrote on anger on 2/1/2012  Oh well.  reruns!

 So we are writing about anger because Reese got mad.  I got indignant just thinking about somebody making Reese mad.  How dare they? They better run!



============================================================
 My mother lived her life Angry.  Her core default setting was a place of Anger and mean spiritedness. I don't want to be like that. I saw it poison her.  


I hate being angry.  I try to avoid it like stomach flu.  I wash my hands often of things.  I cover my mouth when I might say something that would spread bad feelings.  I repress any angry situation like I'm taking penicillin for it. I stay away from society if I am angry.   I will tell you Go Away (without the please) to avoid outbursts.  (sorry for that)  Every once in a while I will blow up from some random small thing that triggered something and my self control comes down like a knocked over supermarket display.


The last time I was royally pissed off, JC helped me through it.  We went into DMT and drew.  I felt it leave my body.  My shoulders relaxed, my stomach unknotted, my heart opened up.  I felt good feelings return.

My son didn't go to school again today.  He appears to be stoned.  We're not angry.  I can't afford to take it into my body.

I went back to my happy place and relaxed...

Aaaahhh.  

har har

i cant tell a joke to save my life.. i ruin the punch line or just forget it.  so .. usually the joke is on me.

corny jokes appeal to me.. just because they are punny and well.. dumb.  so here goes my attempt at remembering the corniest joke i know.

*****
there were these three knots standing outside a bar
a small knot
a medium knot
and yeah.. a big knot

sign on the door reads.. no knots allowed

oh hell i already ruined the damn joke.. let me start over

*****

there were these three ROPES standing outside the bar
a short rope
a medium rope
and yeah.. a long rope

sign on the door reads.. no ropes allowed
(snickers)

short rope says 'i don't care.. i am thirsty' goes in the bar. 
bartender says.. 'are you a rope?'
short rope says.. 'yeah.. so?'
gets kicked out.

medium rope says 'wth.. let me try'  sneaks in the side door..
bartender squints and says..'you a rope?'
medium rope stands up tall and says 'YEAH.. what you gonna do about it?'
gets kicked out.

long rope shrugs.. ties himself in a knot, frays his end, and casually saunters into the bar.
bartender glares and says.. 'are you a rope?'
long rope frowns and says.. 'im afraid not.'

har har

My Joke

My favorite joke is one on me. It's really a coming of age story and it goes like this:

The year my family moved to California was a hard one involving many sacrifices. When Christmas came around I knew there wouldn't be any big presents for me. That put me in a little funk. We all went shopping at the local variety store and made the most of our meager funds. I bought my handyman dad a screwdriver.
On Christmas morning the funk was worse. Suffering with thirteen year old angst and hormones and disappointment, I came out from my bedroom and threw myself on the couch where I decided to stay and be upset.
I yelled at my brother to leave me alone! My baby sister came to comfort me. Not happening! I complained to the dog. I muttered about life in general. I was determined to be miserable and take the rest of the family down to. They had pancakes, I skipped breakfast. They gathered round the tree, I sat on the couch! Surprisingly, my mom and dad let me wallow in self-pity and soon enough I started to feel a little better without their intervention. Maybe Christmas would not be as bad as I thought.
Somewhere along the line, I started to anticipate my dad unwrapping his gift from me.  A screwdriver! Why had I chosen that?  Well, it fit my budget.  He was always looking for one. Mom said it was a good one. And, an idea was forming...I could make a joke when he unwrapped it.  A grown-up joke! A joke about screwing!
Yup, thirteen and thinking of sex jokes, on Christmas!  But, I hadn't really crossed over the line to 'adult' jokes before.  My dad was the card in our family.  Always able to make a funny pun or humorous aside (not sexy joking...after all, I was the one who discovered that!) But, to mention screwing as a joke?  That would definitely put my humor into the adult category.
From the point where I decided on my joke,  I began having a good time...In fact, I was beating my dad to some obvious humor about other gifts and teasing.  Things were looking up.  Dad seemed a little slow on some of his puns and I easily beat him to the punchlines. This whole Christmas was beginning to be about me on a roll! I was clever, funny, the life of the party. My dad was unusually quiet (maybe he was hormonal?). Then, I asked him to open his present from me. Oh, a screwdriver! Yes! Bet you and mom can have fun with that! Ha ha!  Wink wink! The other kids would never figure out what we adults were talking about!
I expected a retort from dad.  He smiled, grinned to show he got it, but didn't come back with anything.  He was letting me loose! All righty...I could handle that.  And I did. One liners, puns, silly stuff...the family was in stitches and I had a ball! I was the star that Christmas.  and then...the big reveal....
The prized family gift that year was a Wollensak reel-to-reel tape recorder which had been placed under the couch to record the entire four hour Christmas festivitiy and the first sound on the tape is me yelling, "Leave me alone!" So, my coming of age is captured for posterity on tape!  What a present! What a joke!

My Favorite Joke

Special Nails

Two simple carpenters were working on a house. The one who was nailing down siding would reach into his nail pouch, pull out a nail and either toss it over his shoulder or nail it in.

The other, figuring this was worth looking into, asked, "Why are you throwing those nails away?"

The first explained, "If I pull a nail out of my pouch and it's pointed toward me, I throw it away 'cause it's defective. If it's pointed toward the house, then I nail it in!"

The second simpleton got completely upset and yelled, "You moron! The nails pointed toward you aren't defective! They're for the other side of the house!"



===============================================================


 That's a variation on my favorite joke, which is this:

Guy has just opened a large box of pencils and looks down at it with disgust.  He starts picking one up, looking at it, throwing it in the trash, Picks up another,  nods his head, puts it on the desk and goes on for quite a while like that.

His secretary walks in and asks him what he's doing?

 "I'm sorting out the defective ones.  At least every other one has the point on the wrong end!"

It's Spring

I've already had a gadzillion sensations this morning and it's only 8:02.   My chest confirms this with quivering inhalations and exhalations.  My neighbors confirm this after they saw me trudging down the walk, being escorted early out of the house and round the block by my determined husband.

Again.

It is spring, and I've been drug by my husband from my winter cocoon and inspected for seasonal damage.   I emerge groggy and a bit heavier every spring and waken to the new pulses of life going on around me.

Yeah,  but what excuse do I have?  I  live in Florida!  Life is so fragrant and vigorous round here, it shouts all winter.  Flowering plants, brilliant yellows, oranges,  bright reds and purples on every lawn, round the corner, tucked in pots at the store, parrots overhead,  lizards underfoot.  canals of fish rippled waters every other block. All the migrating birds hanging around, ducks raising babies round Christmas time. All winter long gorgeous weather and lower humidity.  And I pick now to get active, now that the days are warming up past pleasant.

My clock still ticks four season time?

Yep, it does.  And here I am, toes a tingling, back a bit straighter, arms moving and stretching out, mind a whirr of sights and sound, organs jiggled back and forth and body all aglow.

It's Spring!

Fly's Alaska

http://www.newsminer.com/view/full_story/6459797/article-Athabascan-linguist--tradition-bearer-Katherine-Peter-dies

His grandmother was a good writer.  I will be hunting down her books...
 http://www.amazon.com/Neetsaii-Gwiindaii-Living-Chandalar-Country/dp/0933769113


http://talkingalaska.blogspot.com/2010/03/katherine-peter-1918-2010.html

Alaska Native Language Archive  insert, Peter, Katherine.  you will get tons of stuff

The archive has sound files of her speaking.  they take a while to load up. 



Alaska has a rainforest, did you know that?

Tongass National Forest

Fly went to school, mushing on a dog sled,  how cool is that?

And in the summer he went to fishcamp with his family to catch the Salmon.

 This is next door to his camp

and this tiny pic is he and his mom.

THE LOVE OF SHARING OR NOT

THE LOVE OF SHARING OR NOT

(names have been changed to protect the innocent)

One day, my youngest daughter BJ came running in the house. Mom…mom… BJ screamed, the neighbor girl ran over a mouse outside with her bike. I, being curious went outside to see what she was talking about…Eeeegads… Is that thing ugly! Had to be half dead if it got run over. I picked it up and brought it in the house. Checked it over very carefully... Hmmm…what is this creature??? Never seen anything like this. It is totally hairless... 1 head, 4 legs, 1 stomach and a loooong skinny very hairless tail.

Eyes are tightly shut…very wrinkly…hairless……eeeegads…ugly!

But, it was breathing so this meant it needed attention.

We were getting ready to go camping the following weekend so I asked my friend Sharon to tend to this creature, which by now we figured was a baby squirrel. Well, we named him Tippie since we figured he either tipped out of the tree or a jealous sibling gave him a boost. In the latter case, we could have named him Booster…

We had to set our clocks for 4 hour interval feedings which were with a syringe and after each feeding we had to stimulate Tippie for fear of him exploding.

Off Tippie went…a weekend retreat with Sharon and her family…a hubby, 3 kids, a doberman, pug, and 3 cats.

Sharon fell in love with Tippie as so did I but I had to hand him over to Sharon while we went camping.

When we arrived home from our camping weekend, I called Sharon to bring Tippie back. She fell even more in love with him and decided to keep him. Her husband MJ hated the idea but I shared. When she would shower, Tippie was right in her hands lathering along.

Days, weeks, months went by and Sharon let Tippie have the run of the house. Tippie must have been lonely one day and we all know that squirrels like to chew on wood. Well, Tippie didn’t just chew on the woodwork, but also on MJ’s solid oak six foot beautiful handcrafted gun cabinet. I’m glad I shared. Was this the end of Tippie??? Heck no… MJ was ticked, but that didn’t matter. Tippie still was able to run loose inside the house…til one day one of Sharon’s kids broke a basement window. Tippie decided to venture the outdoors. Sharon was on her way to work one day and there lies Tippie underneath the bridge…just about as flat as the day we found him but this time he was not breathing. Hmmmm second thought…maybe I shouldn’t have shared.

Halloween not for me!

Halloween not for me!

Picture this:

Senior year of high school. My friend Sharon and I decided to go trick or treating. Back in the 60’s you could go from house to house for miles and miles and believe it or not, with no adults hovering around you. People were much more trustworthy.

Even tho Sharon and I were approaching our 18^th birthday we wanted to go trick or treating one last time. For good times sake. Probably our last til we started our families.

My mom was very laid back. Mom, Sharon and I want to go trick or treating. Can you help us? Home made costumes are the best. Anything goes! Well, since my dad was a milkman, he had bib overalls. We borrowed his bibs and flannel shirts and mom took some coal from the coal bin and rubbed it on our faces. We went as cute little hobo’s.

House by house…

Knock knock knock…

Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!

After getting a good ½ bag full of goodies, we are on our way back home. We walk up the walkway to this one last house, open the door and enter into a screened in porch. We knock and a woman dressed in a habit opens the door. She took one look at me and said “Steve, you are too old to be begging for candy”. “Who the heck is Steve” Sharon and I asked each other. We both just shrugged. She was a nun! An official nun! We decided to get out of there before she ripped our disguises to pieces. She ruined everything!

I always wondered if Steve was a student of hers…

Poor Steve!!!

After high school friends get lost but memories stay. Mom captured that moment. It is displayed with some of the best.

Thanks mom!  Ily

Gifted One

Gifted One

My dad and I were very close. When I was younger I always wanted to hang on to his hand so I would say “Yet me hang on Yover”. Dad was a milkman and I used to go on the route with him. I had to take the orders up to the homes and bring the money back to dad. His leg bothered him so his movement was slowing. He had a sore on his leg that was the result of a car accident years ago and it would not heal. He had a skin graft done and it failed. Then another and this one took. He was healing nicely and finally getting back on his feet.

One day I took my oldest daughter K for a walk. Dad stayed home. He was just lounging around still in his jammies. We weren’t gone long and when we came back, dad was laying on the living room floor listening to music. He loved music. He sang in the choir in church. He had many friends that were also choir members. Being a devout catholic, after mass they usually met at the local bar which was kiddy corner from the church. They had to wetten their whistle, play a couple games of euchre or cribbage and put a nickel in the jukebox and sing some more.

Time for supper dad…dad, time for supper…c’mon Eug, time to eat. He tried mumbling something but we could not make it out. I called the ambulance. Back in them days, we did not get the fast response as we do now with EMS. It took almost an hour before the ambulance finally came for dad. He was rushed to the hospital with a severe stroke. With a stroke, you need to thin the blood asap. This was not done. It hit on his left side of the brain and affected his right side of the brain. His walking, talking, singing, eating, showering all ceased. He was taken to the VA and they did not even start therapy on him. Reason---he had a blockage in his groin and if he stubbed his toe it could move to his heart. So, they didn’t want to waste anyones time with therapy. They were thinking he was going to die within minutes, hours, days. They sent him home with me, my hubby, and at that time our oldest daughter K.

I was bitter…

Dad still would go to the bar and drink and sing in his own voice but this time a voice where his words are unrecognizable. Dad would stumble and fall and that darn blockage that could have taken his life never moved to his heart.

He passed away 9 years later. I was not bitter anymore. I was so happy to have shared 9 more years with my dad. I was the lucky one. I had received a gift. A gift of having someone special in my life for an extra 9 years. I am a gifted one.

When dad died, we were all at his side in the hospital. Did the stroke take his life? No…Did the blockage take his life? No…

He died of gangrene of the stomach at the age of 55.

Dad…I miss you!

just go...

JUST GO...

I HATE YOU!

GO AWAY!

NEVER TOUCH ME AGAIN!

I NEVER WANT TO FEEL YOU!

WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?

I WANT MY LIFE BACK!

JUST GO AND LEAVE ME ALONE

JUST GO........................

my man

high school…best friend sharon

wedding…maid of honor...best friend

one year later…best friend says vows

families started…drifting apart

many years later…reunited

mean words of jealousy

drifted way apart

seven years later…reunited but with caution

best friends bitter divorce

illness sets in

waiting for death

i want your man

forgiven but not forgotten!

and the winner is...

and the winner is…

When I was maybe about 8 years old, I used to spend a lot of time at my aunt and uncles house which was just across town. Way back then (and even now) during the summer time parks would entertain kids with teaching them how to make bracelets, keychains, etc out of intertwining different colored plastic strands. We would also have water balloon tossing on very hot days. Making sure balloons popped so we could replenish our bodies with moisture. Contests were held with walking from one side to the other with a peanut shell on a butter knife. The team that made it without dropping their p-nut shell –were the winners. My team was always so-so. We’d win some…we’d lose some.

One hot summer day they were holding a freckle contest. Oh boy…It’s a sure win for me. I spend a lot of time in the sun. In fact when I was  really really little---like still in a playpen, my mom, dad, brothers, aunts, uncles and cousins used to go to Bennet’s Island and go bullhead fishing. Everyone is catching their share of bullheads and occasionally a catfish or carp. The hot sun is making its way across the earth. While everyone is flipping their cane poles in and out of the water, they forgot about me sleeping in the playpen on that hot hot sunny day. I had 2^nd degree blistery burns. I was little enough not to remember this, only remember what I had been told.

Anyways…getting back to the freckle contest. I am a true red-head, very light complexion, spending a lot of time in the sun. I entered the freckle contest…first place prize is a big bag of goodies. The bag was tied tightly with twine and you get to have your picture taken. This was a big deal…a big deal to me and my competition---cousin Dale. He had brown hair, darker skin than mine but he also had freckles.

There were 5 of us that entered the contest.

One is eliminated…

#2 is eliminated

#3 eliminated….oh my chances are getting better…now it is just me and cousin Dale. The judges look at Dale then Reese. Then another look at Dale and another look at Reese. Finally they have made their decision.

and the winner is…

I walked back to my aunts house…empty handed---no picture

spring...rosie's choice

spring…rosie’s choice

One of my favorite times of the year…

birds chirping~

buds opening ~

beautiful bright and pastel colors~

trees branches are filling with twigs.  the twigs are  budding and shaping a clothlike textured leaf with lines running through them which are called veins.

If you watch carefully, you possibly could see a flower blossom, a leaf grow, grass turn green, butterflies float in the air, dogs being walked, children running, playing…

You can hear the birds chirp, bees buzzin, mating call from the mallards, children singing, screaming…screaming because they feel unleashed.

Spring is my favorite season…

As I sit in my house tonight with temperatures reading 11degrees and snow plows going through the streets, sanders making their way I say:

“Spring Can’t Come Soon Enough!”

All alone am I.....

Alone:

(names changed to protect the innocent)

Boy, do I know something about this subject.

About 25 give or take years ago, I was asked to play on a co-ed softball team with my hubby, cousin Donna and her hubby Bill. I, along with hubby, were THE oldest ones on the team. We are called “The Saber Tooth Squirrels”.

We had at least 5 years on the other players. I don’t think I ever threw a softball much less hit one with the stick so there was a lot of preparation that had to be put into this one. Bill recruited a bunch of his young co-workers to be on the team. Day after day they worked with me. Throw harder…throw faster…keep your eye on the ball…hit the ball…catch the ball…run…run faster…Bill is the one who would do the line up and positioning of the players. You had to rotate girl, guy, girl, guy, etc… I was the absolute slowest person on the team…(hmmm I still am slow) and Bill would make sure Todd, a little speedy Gonzales was next in line…yup right after slow-poke Reese. If I was lucky enough to get on base, Todd would be next and he was such a show off. Todd would catch up to me, me running with all my might and him barely at a trot.  He was not allowed to pass me up but there were times we were running side by side.

We entered into a tournament one summer. It was a very hot day. We played the first game and had time some spare time before we had to play another so we got a quarter barrel and went to a park just down the road and talked and laughed and drank and drank and drank. Now it is time to go back to the ball park and challenge the next team. We were first at bat. It was my turn. Whoa…which ball do I swing at? I see more than just one. Hmmm… I take a swing at anything…pow…I hit the ball. I put one foot in front of the other and I was running-running-running…all of a sudden down down down I go. Not sure what happened. I’m guessing my upper body got ahead of my feet and down I went. Laying there…in the dirt…face down. Not a single team mate would come to see if I was ok. I lay there in embarrassment. Can’t someone just come and help me up? Let me hide my face.

There I lay….alone!

Down on my belly, in the dirt, arm bleeding…

and alone…

I hear the umpire holler YOU’RE OUT!

The last time I fit in...

The last time I fit in…

Rosie’s pick of the theme. Rosie and JC are writing in a timed room.

When Rosie said she had a good theme for the morning, I thought “oh boy, the last time I fit in”….hmmmm…fit in what? I jokingly said “a size 5 jeans”? Let’s see, the last time was probably a few…maybe more than a few years ago.

When I married, I weighed 98 lbs and was a size 5. I birthed my first child and shortly after, I automatically downed to the size 5. I birthed my second child…again downed to a size 5. I birthed yet another child…only this time I didn’t down,,,I upped and upped and upped. So in reality, the last time I fit into a size 5 was about in 1975.

Yyyyyyup! That’s the last time I fit in……………………………………..

bored...

High school sophomore year…

You know how it is when you talk about a couple…Rosie & Dan or Lucy & Desi or Jack & Jill…sometimes the males name come first and sometimes it’s the female.

Since there were three, I will refer to us as me, Pat and Fran.

Pat & Fran were a year older than me but we were in the same grade. We did not go to grade school together but we knew of each other. Our friendship grew stronger as we reached high school. We were together almost every weekend.

Pat & Fran despised school with a passion. They seemed to skip quite often. Fran lived right across the street from the school and they would “hide out” there for the day staying away from the windows so no passer-by’s would spot them and turn them in.

One day, Pat & Fran were caught…oh oh…detention time!!!

I was bored…my best friends were in detention…..what am I suppose to do while they are sitting in a room absolutely doing nothing and I was on the outside of the detention room also doing absolutely nothing. Well, Pat was seated in a chair visible to me so I would gesture something to her and she would just secretly try answering me with her eyes or one hand cuffed around the other or nod her head one way or the other trying not to let Mr. ___ see her..... Ahhhh…didn’t take long and Mr. ___ caught on and quietly walked to the door and stood right in front of me…motioning with his index finger to come, follow me.

I ended up in detention room along with my best friends but for disrupting his discipline room, he added an extra day of me sitting, alone, doing absolutely nothing and being bored. My friends didn’t hang around…

Self-forgetfulness

I'm reading an article about Henry Stanley, famous for his search for Livingstone in Africa. Around the age of 33, he proposed marriage to Alice Pike, 19. She accepted and he began his three year trek from the East coast to the West coast of Africa with her picture and a letter of her undying love for him in his pocket. Of the 220 men who started the journey only half survived the dysentery, accidents and other calamities which occurred.

While writing about the adventure he credited his survival to his fiance, Alice, his love, "my stay, my hope, and my beacon". He was able to fixate on her rather than the horrible conditions surrounding him. He called this ability 'self-forgetfulness'. At one point in their journey, a decision, which he opposed, was made to wait at a camp for additional porters who never came. Eventually, they continued on but Stanley reported, "The cure for their misgivings and doubts would have been found in action, rather than enduring deadly monotony." He occupied himself with discoveries and writing, shutting out "baser thoughts".  Stanley saw the work as a mental escape: "For my protection against despair and madness, I had to resort to self-forgetfulness; to the interest my task brought...This encouraged me and was morally fortifying."

Action vs. boredom. Any activity is better than boredom. And so, I write, draw, make valances, take drives, play with the dog,  learn something new like TONK, and read the Smithsonian magazine. And I learn about self-forgetfulness, a worthy topic.

Bored?

Bored! and in an interesting way....a little oxymoronic, hm?

I love teaching, any place, any time...I'm up for it.  Especially, at the beginning of the school year! The kids are fresh, rested, and happy to see their friends.  It's a great time because they're ready to be engaged!

Teachers, too, feel the excitement.  New students, new classrooms, new lessons. We're ready to decorate, plan, and greet the kids!

So, what do all districts do with the three days before school opens, which are usually called Teacher Preparation Days? They sit us in meetings. Sit!  Us! In meetings! You can't get further from my classroom than the High School gymnasium where we all gather. A flag salute, an invocation, a Welcome Back from the High School Senior Class President and a song by the choir all in the first 20 minutes. The High School Principal seconds the welcome and reviews the 60 year history of the school we are in. He mentions famous graduates, Olympians, Senators, and the local Mayor. All I want to do is teach!

The keynote speaker is next.  A local graduate who founded a silicon valley multi-billion dollar company, he greets us and explains it was here where he was first introduced to the field in which he would excel. Forty minutes later he has finished the power point presentation which he read from the huge computer screen. Because I am energized I can't quite focus on what he's talking about.  Instead, I'm running scenarios in my mind, assigning seating charts, creating bulletin boards , seeing my aides again.

Around me the clapping signifies the big wig is done. We are dismissed to have a ten minute break for coffee, pastries (I do neither...get some orange juice because I feel a slight dip in my energy level). After break, we have the Superintendent deliver a half hour State of the District speech which is a reprise of the material he presented at an end of the year faculty meeting at each school in the district three months before. He introduces the head of instruction who tells us some insignificant changes to State mandated programs (none of them mine). Next, the District Financial Officer is given fifteen minutes to discuss why there will be severe cuts to the budget.  He goes over time by an additional fifteen minutes. The Union President makes some remarks and then we are shown the schedule for the afternoon and the next two days.

It's 11:30 and we are asked to return at one o' clock to individual classrooms where we will be meeting in departments and have discussions about how we perceive this year within the constraints of the new requirements and budgetary constrictions. Just as I am planning my exit to my car, and perhaps an unfortunate (but opportune) date with ptomaine food poisoning,  the speaker wishes us bon appetit! The luncheon has been specially prepared by food service and we should applaud them in advance.  We do, and he intones...please sign in at the door to the cafeteria so you can receive your packet for this afternoon's activities! So, no escape possible.  And, I drag down to the cafeteria the energy fading fast.

Because I taught for 40 years I grew accustomed and prepared for this ritual of start-up.  But, I always wondered why any new, ambitious, young teacher remained in the classroom after a start like this.  I guess that's how they know you love to teach!

what? no dryer?

so it's spring
and the forsythia has burst
and the cherry is in full blossom
and the daffodils are dancing

and the smell of downy is in the air..

everyone in my neighborhood hangs their clothes out to dry
it's green
and it saves money
the dryer doesnt heat up the house unnecessarily..
and well.. it just smells so good.

so a few summers ago i had a student who lived a couple houses away and she wanted to come to my house for her lesson.  i agreed. 

first lesson at the house, she walks up the back walkway and i greet her at the deck.  my clothes and sheets are on the line and so are my neighbor's.

she says.. 'are the people in this part of the neighborhood poor?'

i look at her.. puzzled.  no, why?

'well your clothes are all out on the line.. don't you own a dryer?'

shame on me for forgetting we live in an age of technology.. where we are so used to everything being quick and easy.. and at our fingertips.  this is a kid who has never known a life with no internet or cable or cell phones and has never had to hang a load of laundry out to dry.. ever.

i smile wryly.. and usher her in for her lesson. 

the golden pass

"Where did you feel the most bored?  Write about it in an interesting way."

hahahaha

junior year high school
study hall

hollie and i were so bored we devise an infallible plan to skip out.  i had procured a golden pass from the french teacher.  the pass excused us from study hall.. but was totally open ended.. no date on it. 

so every day, for three awesome weeks, hollie and i signed ourselves out of study hall and headed down to the cafeteria or my house or wherever..  anywhere other than those four white walls lined with desks manned with bored sleepy silent students.  this was before the advent of.. texting.. cell phones.. 4G.. angry birds..  words with friends.. blahhhhh!!

we had some fun.. escaping boredom.  LOTS of fun. 

so one day, we are sitting in a corner of the empty cafeteria, messing around.. and in walks pam.   pam, the office helper.

'hey guys.. mr. hoover is looking for you both.  something came to the office for you, hollie.. and when they went looking for you in study hall and saw you were both signed out, and you werent in french class...  well, i figured i better give you the heads up.'

shit.

hollie bursts into tears.  'i knew this was a bad idea!  why did i ever let you talk me into this?'

relax.

'relax??  what are we gonna do?   i cant get any demerits!  i have never had any demerits!!'

i tried not to roll my eyes.  i will take care of it.  come with me.

i take her by the hand and walk her straight into mr. hoover's office.  i sit directly in front of him.. hollie behind me.. crumpled into a messy ball of tears.

mr. hoover.  we decided to come forward and admit we skipped out of study hall today.  we are really sorry, and we will never do it again.

he just gives me a blank stare.  squints at me.  'is this the first time?'

yes sir.  and it won't happen again.

'ok.. well.  here's what we are going to do.  i am going to make a note in each of your records that you skipped class, and that i withheld 5 demerits.  but..  if i catch either of you skipping class again, you will get detention.  understood?'

yes sir.

mini crisis averted.  hollie never skipped class again.  ever. 
i am fairly sure mr. hoover didnt believe me, but never had anyone actually fess up like that.

good times.

The Most Bored

"Where did you feel the most bored?  Write about it in an interesting way."

Oh gosh,  At college,  I guess the day in Advanced Accounting class, where it became so painful, I had to pack up my suitcase of textbooks and attempt to sneak out of the class unnoticed.  But the door was in the front, so the teacher looked over at me and said to the class,  "I knew that this lesson was bad, but I didn't know it was that bad."    And they laughed.   I was so relieved when I got out of the class.   I hadn't realized that it was mind numbing boredom that I was experiencing.  It just seemed like if I didn't get out of that class,  I would just crumple up and stop breathing. 

That sounds like a panic attack, doesn't it?  The last thing I would ever want to do was call attention to myself, by leaving a class early.  I would never, ever walk out on a teacher like that.  I loved learning.  I respected teachers.   It would be so insulting.  I remember discussing it with myself, and just being beyond caring.  I had to put distance between me, my ears and that droning voice, or I would change forever inside.  Or I would stand up and scream in class,  "Who in their right minds, care about foreign exchange rates and generally accepted accounting procedures.  WHO!?!." 

I had the wrong major.  I knew it the longer I stayed in it.  By the time I got to auditing, I was dead inside.  I was defeated.  My grades had started to slip.  Three years of college, I had a 4.0.  Racked up A after A after A after perfect scores on finals, another A. Then the upper level accounting classes hit me.  OMG. 

If I had only had the courage to quit and switch.   But I didn't.  I accepted my losses, got my degree, with honors, and never worked in the field. 

a cognitive dissonance

of late.. my mind has been wrapped around winning and losing..

i used to play games.. and get so angry if i lost.  even the simplest least competitive games.  i had to be the best.  very few people know this about me, partly because.. i won a lot.. mostly because i usually never let on.  i let them see my competitive nature.. but rarely the flash of anger.
well.. unless it was monopoly or.. checkers. 
i experienced the same feelings in playing omgpop games.  i had to be the best at whatever i played. 

it wasnt about winning.  it was about being the best. 
i wasnt happy.  and i didnt like this ugly side of myself.
but i think i have won this battle.

now.. i settle for just being good at stuff.
i am happy just playing and having a good conversation with a friend.
i am happy just horsing around and having fun.
im happy just walking into a game.. with friends shouting my name.
they seem happy to see me.  as happy as i am to see them.
that's so.. nice. 

************
life just seems like a series of victories and defeats
and there is yet another battle i would win.

no matter how large or small the victory in my life..
it's hollow

in this moment.. i feel sapped, drained, and raw again

i opened myself up today
i did things i find particularly difficult and distasteful
things i usually avoid

decisions
judgements
opinions
and a little deceit

i stepped so far out of my comfortable place i could barely stand it
and i felt physical pain

the pressure was.. intense, but i survived
and i did the job well.  this is a victory.. right?

then.. why do i feel empty and unhappy.. defeated
..like i am running in circles again
im running myself ragged.. knowing there is no winning this race.

i was asked to do this job today.. because someone believed in me.  and instead of feeling pride and confidence.. i just felt more pressure to perform.. to produce.  i realize this is partly why i never went any further in my career.  i buckled under the slightest hint of pressure.  i need to think about this more.  im not seeing the entire picture.  i just know i have impeded many of my own potential successes. 

is it ok to say that i know i am great?  that the talent i possess.. and have worked so hard all my adult life to hone and perfect and craft.. that i know it's special?  that i could be.. the best!  if i were a great pianist.. it would not be so hard to say it.  but because my instrument.. my art.. my talent is a physical part of me.. saying that is like saying i .. I am great.

as a singer, i have always found it amusing that we hear ourselves so differently than others hear us.  we perceive our voices..  in abstract.  it took me a long time to find my voice.. to love and appreciate it.. to even recognize it.

i am finding my voice all over again.  here.   a new voice.  this voice says im gonna be ok. heh.. will i ever believe that?  this voice says to let go of victory.. let go of defeat.. and just be.  heh.. will i ever listen?

will i ever trust my own voice?
could it be.. i have to 'win'  because those lesser victories somehow superficially make up for.. the victories i could have had in my life..
lydia.. i miss you

Recurring Dreams

I don't dream. Not like I used to. Only if I sleep in the afternoon or am overheated do I have any recollection of the stories my mind tells me. It wasn't always so.
The first memory I have of a bad dream was when I was young enough to know trains and how big and powerful they are...
This train is following me on tracks that I'm walking. The front has a cartoon face, like present day Thomas the Tank Engine. But, it can't be, because the only cartoon engine I knew was the Little Train That Could!
It's a nice day and the train and I are enjoying a stroll down the tracks when it's suddenly close, too close.  It seems to be breathing on my neck. I check back and the cute cartoon face is scowling and menacing.  I start to run. It's catching up. No problem.  At the bend up ahead I will jump off the tracks. I do and take refuge in the cave beneath them. Happy I've solved that problem! Shockingly, the train leaves the tracks and pursues me into the cave. It's very close when I awake screaming.

I experienced that dream many times before I was twelve. I never bested the train.

Another dream I had as an older child, maybe high school age, involved a tangled labyrinthine house based on my grandmother's.  I would enter this warm, loving, familiar home and walk up stairs to little closets and up more stairs to attics, and through more doors to reach little hideaways under the eaves of the roof and then pass through, or behind, mirrors to get to the secret hideaway room which was full of warm comforters, soft friendly animals, and often times, giggly girlfriends. My grandmother's real house had two stories, six rooms, and a lot of love!

That was a good dream! I had it fairly often and always awoke happy.

When I was a teacher, before the start of the new year, new students, new challenges, I would have what I would come to call my 'I can do anything...no problem is too big for me to handle' dream.

It is the first day of school. I am filled with anticipation, looking forward to the new year, teaching Spanish and English to the academically talented eighth graders. Oh, no!  Some bad news from the principal...the new furniture hasn't arrived and my thirty one students will do without until it arrives. No problem, I usher them in and they take seats on the floor.  The principal drops by to inform me of another problem...the state has changed my assignment to History instead of Spanish. No problem. I will handle the class by reading ahead in the book and teaching just ahead of the students. However, the books are not due to arrive for two weeks! But, I can fake it for that long...there is a map on the wall after all.  I can start with a discussion of maps and explore how much the students already know. As I look out I am pleased they are still with me and seemingly captivated.  At the same time, the classroom door opens and, beyond comprehension, the principal brings in the State Secretary of Instruction who has come to evaluate me and my teaching style!  Thank goodness this class is with me and giving full attention. I can do this. I turn to unfurl  the map and can't quite reach the pull unless I get a little more height. So, I climb on to the counter top and manage to display the map. The students are watching, the examiner seems impressed, the principal is smiling. I can do this.

It's at this point, I realize I'm buck naked!  I awake with heart pounding and completely ready for anything my first day has to offer.

I ran from the police.

My son breathlessly whispers into the phone.   "He was pointing at me to come over to the car and my friends ran and then I ran.   Can Dad come and pick me up?  I don't want to be messed with by the police. "

Ah gee, better go get him.  At least try to find out what is going on.  What in the world?

So I keep on tonking,  Dan goes to get him.  He gets home very quickly and is banging around.    Angry, throwing things.  the door comes off the hinges and hangs to an angle.  I"m losing at tonk.  Reese is asking me to remember something.  Things are toppling in his room.    There is a lot of shouting and fussing going on.  The police get cussed out a few times.

Finally there is calm.   He has fallen asleep.  

I end up in bed and sleep a fitful sleep.  We deal with stressful things in the morning when we are well rested, not late at night.  Breakfast is when I will hear the story.  Till then I will wonder and worry.

Dan starts.  " Son showed me the police man and what I saw was a van broken down and a service truck there helping to get the van going again.  The truck had a yellow light on the top of it.  "

Oh?

No police man?

None that I saw.


Son, what happened?  Did you have your glasses on??

"Alex told me it was an unmarked police car and he said the guy was pointing right at me to come over.  I didn't see any guy in the truck, but I thought I was mistaken and Alex was telling me the truth.  He said they were searching the van "

Alex told you...  This the same kid that told you about evil monkey?


"Mom! You don't know anything!  Evil Monkey is real!  He hides in the bushes and makes noises. "


Son, we don't run from the police, and you need to be more brave when it comes to believing yourself.

Don't believe what Alex tells you.

milo

my ma had a big brown van
and she would haul us everywhere in it
before the big brown van
she walked us all over town in the stroller..
me and my brother packed tight inside the stroller and my sister either walking beside ma, or sitting on the little ledge just under the handle, next to ma's purse.

she loved that van.

i remember she would pick up milo, whenever she saw him walking around town.. far from home.

milo.

just the name makes me smile.

we grew up just a few houses down from his sister.  and he was a daily fixture in our lives.
milo always wore a trench coat.  big guy.. aging.. slump-shouldered.. and limping a bit.  used to walk my sister to school.  kids would ask her.  'ewwwww.. did he offer you a moldy sandwich?'  'ewwwww.. aren't you scared of him?'
milo was harmless.  ask him the high school football scores from 1968, 1952, 1979.. on any given date..who was on the team.. who was on the opposing team.. and he could rattle off the statistics without hesitation.  amazing.   
i was sad to hear he passed a couple years ago.  they erected a facebook shrine for him.  the things people said about this man.. so heartwarming.  the best stories coming from my sister and others in our neighborhood who knew him best.

i can still hear his voice.  the way he said my ma's name..  every time she would offer him a ride. 

im trying to hear her voice.  i dont know why.. i cant.

Two devoted brothers

Sharon's white fresh scrubbed kitchen reminds me of a foster care story.  I'll get to it in a minute.

I worked as a child care giver in an institution that housed and cared for the more severely abused foster children.  It was the Salvation Army Residence for children and we staffed 4 babies to a worker, or 6 toddlers to a worker.  These were very challenging cases that were beyond the abilities of standard care that foster care parents gave in their home. 

We received children after the hospital had treated their broken bones, their starvation, their burns, the cuts between their legs from blunt force trauma.  We had a nurse on staff to help with the tubes and things.

It was tough duty and I learned so much about child abuse and the effects of trauma on the body and the soul.  It got me ready and trained to take foster children into my home . I'll tell you later some of our little triumphs and successful interventions that made our hearts swell with a job well done. 

  But right now I want to introduce you to two little brothers that we had in our home.   I've forgotten their names, and I don't know what happened to them, down the road.  I can guess they made it out of their childhood alive, but I don't really know.

The toddler was 18 months old.  He was the size of a 9 month old.  He didn't walk and did a poor job of crawling.  The preschooler was the size of a toddler.  He was painfully thin and malnourished, wiry and stunted.  The two of them had been starved for a long time.  There had been no food in the house and the older one had done his best to feed the young one through his crib.  They ate paint.  They ate wallpaper.  They ate what they could find. And they ate their own feces.   They had been released from the hospital after just recovering from a bad case of shigella. 

I needed a safe place for the older one to sleep.  He hopped out of the bed and pushed things into his brothers crib, when no one was looking.   He was trying to feed him, loose scraps.  But the most worrisome thing he kept giving him was the contents of his own bowel movements. It got messy in our house.

I tried diverting him.  In theory, one would think that tasty food, would be preferred to vile diaper droppings, but he has a compulsion to take care of his brother, the only way he had for so long.  He got sneaky.  I put them in separate rooms.  They wailed for each other in the night.  I stayed up and supervised them.  They waited me out till I had dropped off to sleep in the chair to start their nightly raids.

Past the bowls of snacks. and fruit and easy to reach items put out for their comfort, he would sneak and raid the fridge for something familiar.   I found the mayonnaise jar in the little one's crib, mostly empty,  all four of the stove's burners lit, brown fingerprints on the fridge door and the older one sound asleep in his bed, with feces smeared on his hands.  A good nights work and job well done.  He was determined to take care of his little brother. A few weeks went by.   The children had come back positive for severe lead poisoning. I would need to take them into the hospital outpatient for every day for weeks to get them chelated.  I used a bus for transportation to go cross town and strolled them stuffed into one stoller the rest of the way.   A very officious worker was sent out to test OUR place for lead, and I had to endure a scolding and lecture from the worker...   Excuse me, they got poisoned at their last home, not here.  Look at the time frame.   He actually sniffed at my face.

It was inevitable, the older one spiked a very high fever, and started vomiting and passing liquid stools.  I put on gloves.  I had a blanket between him and me, when I rocked him.  I wore a smock and was so careful.   He was violently sick again from shigella dysentery.   His body poured out the germs.  Bacteria everywhere. Blood and oily stools.    I tried to cope with it myself, but then the baby brother came down with it.  I had to take them into the hospital and get them proper round the clock care.   While they were there, they could get the lead  poisoning treatment they needed, the fast way, via IV.  And better yet, they had  a crib with a top on it.  steel bars that kept the two of them in at night.  Safe and secure.   Oh I wanted that crib for home.

Then I came down with shigella too.  OMG I was so sick.   I thought I was going to die.  I wanted to die.
I lay on the floor of my bathroom and wept.  I didn't really know which end to stick over the toilet.  I shriveled to a lesser version of myself.  And the pain...  It went on for 6 weeks after that.

The health department got involved. My husband worked in food service and had to go down and give a stool sample.  They said he couldn't be around that source of contagion and work at his job.

The hospital called... The children were due to be released.   Oh no you don't.  We are not going to pick those two up.  They require round the clock supervision past our abilities. 

Know your limits

miss giggles

an amusing convo with my very giggly student..

'me and allie are talking again'
that's good.  you two are so close, i am glad to hear you worked everything out.
'well, i wouldn't say that.  we just started talking.  do you watch The Voice?'
i am familiar with it.  adam lavigne is pretty cool.
'omg! i love adam!  we were watching The Voice on Monday, and he was telling a singer to lean forward and push out the sound, and that they would sound better.. and i thought.. omg, JC would haaaaaaaate him for saying that'
mhm
'and then allie says, if JC told me to do that, I would.. if it would make me sound better.. (she giggles) and i said, omg! i would jump off a bridge if JC told me to.. if it would make me sound better.. and she said, me too. (more giggles) and then i said, we could both jump off the bridge together and as we got closer to the bottom.. the scream would start to sound like an angelic 'ahhhh' (she demonstrates) and then when we come up out of the water.. we would automatically sing 'i can see clearly now...'(another demonstration followed by more giggles)'
ok, breathe.. (shaking my head and smiling) are you ready to sing?
'yesss'

a friendship salvaged.
i'm sure i will hear this story again today.. when i see the only slightly less giggly miss allie.  (grins)

Variation on a theme from the video

I awoke with energy today. A fortuitous aligning of the amount of sleep I got, my blood sugar level, and the exercise I got yesterday have given me a rare desire to do the chores in my kitchen..
My kitchen counter is a clutter magnet piled high with trinkets from my son's collections, the groceries from yesterday, dog paraphernalia, pill bottles, scissors, swatches of cloth for a project...stuff! I've been meaning to clear it to the counter top for days.  So, today's the day!

Just as I begin my sister comes to the door to return a borrowed electric carving knife..  Just dropping it off. (Maybe she had extra energy this morning also!) I use it only twice a year and keep it in the odd little cabinet for the microwave air vent above the stove. When I attempt to put it up there the chai latte tea favored by my daughter when she visits, has taken its' place. This cabinet needs rearranging, I think to myself.

From the top of the two-step stool I'm on, I can see everything in the cupboard and make room for the carving knife. I can also see the top edge of the microwave and the surface of the cabinet door. They are covered with an accumulation of greasy dust! While I'm here, I should wipe this clean, I decide.

Down I go to the faucet, dunk the sponge in the hot water, drip on the Dawn liquid and climb back up. Wipe, wipe, scrub with the flip side, wipe again....this is a tough mess. Down I go to get a clean towel to wipe up the dirty residue. It cleans up really well.  The cupboard door is back to its melamine luster and the microwave looks nice ...except for the vent .  The little slats are still dirty.  I remember the vent is removable. Two screws and I could take it off and wash it in the sink! Great idea. Down I go to get the screwdriver. Everyone I locate is a straight slot! So, I finally find the smallest one which I can use on the Phillips screw with success.

The first screw comes out with no problem.  The second turns and turns and never rises! The whole vent comes off with that screw in place.  It had never been attached because the plastic support was broken all along. So, maybe I can glue the support parts back in place and it will be better than it was when installed! Great idea. Down I go to wash the vent, clean the support parts, find the glue.  Has to be a plastic glue!

In my office I find a glue pen, rubber cement, wood glue, white glue and some dried up crazy glue! Guess I'll have to go to the store for some plastic glue!  Maybe later.  Right now I have the microwave vent on my counter, the two screws in a 1/4 cup measure, the bits of support column drying on a towel, four screwdrivers, two dirty towels, a grimy sponge and my counter top is still nowhere to be seen!  And, I'm fairly exhausted...hungry, too. Think I'll go make lunch and take a nap.

A Good Kid

(So, I'm sharing this longer piece because I didn't do the work last night! Hope it's not too long.  Rosie's duct tape story brought it to mind)

Stephen Nottingham was our first foster child.  He came to us newlyweds because he needed a place and my mother’s foster home was full. He was nine years old and his teacher had recommended he be placed beyond his own home in a more therapeutic situation. I had teaching experience, loved kids and was assured it would be a placement for a short time, perhaps no longer than my new husband’s Navy training and deployment. Two years. The $300 a month would be a nice addition to my salary and Jon’s meager stipend.

We first met his teacher at the Los Gatos school where she was tutoring him. “He’s a hyperactive child, very smart, and he needs lots of activity.” No problem, I was thinking. We lived out of town on a lake and there were many places to hike and run and be a kid. We had horses and a dog and we rented a small two bedroom cabin in a gated community. Lots to do.

“His folks have had a lot of trouble with him, but I think he just needs a different parenting style,” she said with confidence and the wisdom of her many years of teaching. She was also my mother’s best friend, and I was pleased she considered Jon and me appropriate for the task.  We were both in a Master’s Program at Santa Clara University and children with problems were the kinds of kids we were studying. It was a perfect placement.

We met Steve in his home in Los Gatos. He was exactly as advertised! Small and wiry, it was hard to see how this little nine-year-old could be a problem child. Sure he talked fast and seemed overly curious, almost jumpy, with a high nervous laugh and an impish quality.  He was blond, good-looking and with the slightly pinched features of a child of an alcoholic. His mother confided to us he was adopted, and his real mother was a movie star, and he looked just like her! Didn’t we agree? Well, there were many short, blond, and cute female stars with recognizable names, but we never figured out who she was.

His home was upscale, located in a toney foothill location in an affluent community. It had lovely views and furnishings. In fact, it was hard to imagine how these people of means could not handle a little boy. Surely, they would have access to whatever that child needed.  Well, it turned out what that child needed was us!

As we were shown around their home each door we came to had a hook lock at the top beyond Stevie’s reach. His mother explained it was their solution to his insatiable trouble-making. At each room the hook was unlocked, the door opened, and we were ushered in. Little Stevie greeted each new opening with manic delight, rushing past us and throwing himself with a wild abandon. Jumping, running, opening drawers, searching closets, he was a frenetic imp.  His parents ran after, and finally, his dad took him away while his mother and I continued to talk. She was beside herself with nervous anxiety, she confided.

“He’s a monster! I have no peace. He’s after me every second, demanding attention. I have to watch him or he will destroy everything. I have no time-off! Please take him so I can get some rest.  I’m afraid I’m going crazy!” And, she sounded as if she were.  What had we gotten into?

Steve came to our cabin, was dropped off with his suitcase and a box of toys which seemed to hold no interest for him.  His interest instead was focused on our house.  There were no locks on our doors.  Our cabinets needed no keys.  Everything we had was accessible.  And, access it, he did! That first day he went through everything. All of our newly combined childhood mementos, high school memorabilia, wedding presents, clothing and equipment, was touched, inspected, examined, taken out and put back in its place. His focus was intense, his energy boundless.

On the second day he put his room together. Whatever he wanted to do to establish his own domain we allowed. We helped when he wanted it and he kept checking to see if he could do… whatever. We said ‘yes’ every time he asked.  That was our strategy.  We had discussed how we would manage this little guy who had been denied for so long and that is what we had decided to do.

By the third day we noticed an odd trend. He was taking blame for things. Everything! Oh, sorry! I left the milk on the counter.  Oh!  I spilled water. And, the bottom line was always, what punishment do I get?  Guess I’ll be sent home now, he said, many times.

Jon and I tried to understand what we could do or say to help him. We discussed more interventions and strategies to change his old manipulative habits. By the second week, he was more relaxed, sleeping regular hours, and relatively content. But, he still was overly concerned about being bad! He seemed determined to point out to us how bad a kid he was!  It was as if he needed to show us because we were so naïve we didn’t recognize how ‘bad’ he was.

Jon and I decided that he had always been told he was bad and responsible for the many acts he had been punished for. His perception of himself was as a bad boy. And, he was trying hard to act like one. However, he had probably never been punished for something he didn’t do. So, we decided to give him an unjustified ‘accusation’ to see if he would stand up for himself. Could we get him to a point where he perceived himself as a good boy?

The test came when Jon turned over the garbage can outside and came in and accused Steve of doing it. He admitted it! Interesting… Steve was sent out to pick up the garbage and put it back in the can.  He did it. No protest.

When he came in we talked about what had happened.  We knew he was not responsible for the can being turned over. Jon did it! How did he feel when punished unjustly? Why didn’t he tell us he didn’t do it? He was a good boy. Etc. From that point on we wanted honesty. Could he do that? If not, we couldn’t help him. Yes, he said. We never had any trouble with Stevie from that day on.

About a month later Steve and Jon decided to fly a wooden airplane Jon had had from childhood. As he and Stevie put it together, Jon remembered a part was missing that made it inoperable. It was a little nose cone which held the propeller on the body.  He knew it had been missing since he tried to fly it as a boy. Steve’s eyes lit up.  “I know where it is”, he shouted gleefully, and ran off to a closet. Sure enough, inside a package of odds and ends, inside a little box, beneath a pile of knicknacks he found a little nose cone that fit the propeller. And, the plane flew!

Steve was with us uneventfully for two years after which his parents divorced and he eventually went to Phoenix to live with his dad. He was a good kid. is mother’s mental breakdown precluded her from raising him.

Just saw the topic...Duct Tape...here goes

The handyman we hired called it Duck Tape because it sheds water like a duck's back.  He even brought me some with that name on the packaging.  He was right!  And out to prove it!  I know it's Duct tape because it's used to splice pieces of duct together.  Or, so I was told by my dad when we were taping ductwork pieces together. I'm sure I'm right!

 I grew up in the superior 'first born' position. I learned everything just before my little  brother asked the questions. Therefore, he and I both  learned I was always right . ....this one's not going well. I'm not going to have much to show for my twenty minutes...I'm leaving it now.  Some difficulties with this write relate to my brother in this story .  He's gone now.  Another problem is the fact that duct tape was a joke between us. So  much so, that my last Christmas gift to him was a duct tape wallet!  Anyway...going to play DMT after I read the two duct tape posts. Sorry.

This drives me batty...

Okay...here's my dilemma...my sister sent me a neat little video which would be a nice addition to our little humor gallery here. When I right clicked it for the URL this was what transferred.


<object style="height: 390px; width: 640px"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6oHBG3ABUJU?version=3&feature=player_popout"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6oHBG3ABUJU?version=3&feature=player_popout" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="640" height="360"></object>



I doubt you'll get to see it at this rate.  But, if you can't figure this out then you might want to go see it at Youtube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=6oHBG3ABUJU&vq=medium


I doubt the youngsters will enjoy it as much as the rest of us....


===========================================================

Sharon, what you have is html code. so when you paste it into the text box here, you first hit the html button

voila.   and then be sure to return to compose

duct tape

can't call myself a country boy.. if i don't keep at least a few rolls of duct tape on hand at all times.  stuff comes in handy.

in between visits to the shriners hospital, my brother's leg would usually be in sad need of repair.  often it was just left in pieces.  i can remember ma being mortified to show the prosthetist his leg.  there were always holes.. scuffs.. scrapes.. screws missing (one of which i ate when we were toddlers).. dents.. and it was almost always broken beyond repair.  inevitably, there was duct tape involved in make-do repairs. 

when we were young adults, he no longer had help from the shriners.. and refused to look for other resources.  instead, he fashioned a leg out of machine parts and a universal joint off a drive shaft.. thing weighed a ton.  and of course, it included.. hillybilly chrome.  that leg nearly... or may have... ruined his back.  several fused vertebrae later, he was informed by the doctor that he needed to get rid of that leg or he would be confined to a wheelchair for life..  and it would happen sooner, rather than later. 

i guess he got rid of it.  last i heard he wasn't in a wheelchair.

Duct Tape

My son had his duct tape moments.  I do not mean I taped his mouth shut or wanted to.  My mother did that to me and it was horrible, horrible, horrible.

Oh sure he was noisy and full of questions but I was so delighted in his intellect and imagination I indulged him with my attention and interest, till recently.  Now I would like him to moderate his chatter, because he slips into mania and even a loving parent can't help but hide a yawn behind their hands, when his speech is pressured and he jumps from topic to topic rapid fire.  He also needs to not interrupt conversations for play by replay of video games and youtube reenactments.   I would like to get a word in edgewise around here.

We kept a huge roll of duct tape in the workshop.   Hefty and thick.  He was about seven, I remember him being quiet and busy in the workshop and in the play room.  We made a large bright, well equipped playroom for him.  He had taken the duct tape and wound it in and out and over the playroom, roping in chairs, stringing together toys, going across window, and finally had managed to wrap himself up from top to bottom including around  his mouth several times.  How did he manage to get his hands down to his sides, tightly taped, and his feet cinched in at the knees?. 

If another adult would have seen it, they would have called child welfare, it was that thorough of a bondage job, he had done on himself.  He had hopped to the foot of the stairs and mmphed, mpph! mmmmhph! till I came to see what that muffled sound was.

It would be a few years later, when he would try a belt around his neck.

Just spent my day reading posts from March 1 to the present.  I'm so glad to be here and sharing in this way.  Thank you all for the nice welcome. I did add comments also. Hope you want feedback. Sharon

Mrs. B

Commercials commercials commercials…

If you want to know more, log onto http://www.---.com/

I don’t have a computer…how am I suppose to log on???

I have no idea on how to use a computer and probably am too old to learn.

Yet another commercial comes on……..log on to http://www.+++.com/

That’s it! Time to invest in a computer. It can’t be that hard to learn. Ha!!!

My future son-in-law helped me pick one out. We chose Gateway and it was delivered right to the back door in a black and white box that looked like a cow. I kept it in the box for a couple of days until help would arrive and it could be set up.

What does it mean by username? log in name? password?

Time to further my education:

I’m off to college. WooHoo…College for me!!! MATC! Oh wow!!! I feel special…My first and only class is “Beginners Computer Course”… I eventually bought the Computer Book For Dummies! Really sets a persons mind backwards…off to college and buying a book for dummies! To my surprise, the book was very useful.

A tall, broad shouldered, light skinned female with long blonde wavy hair walked through the door and introduced herself as Mrs. B.

The course was a very short course. I received an A and Mrs. B encouraged me to further my education in computers.

Which I did…

My next class was "Introduction to the Internet"...

I am now voicing with people all over the world...and all because of commercials commercials commercials...my computer...Mrs B...and the internet...

art history

first day of class
test
WHAT?
Jungian personality test

he places each student's name, test result, and our career choice on a large index card and hangs them on a string across the top of the chalkboard.

mine reads:
Wen : INFP : Singer
next to Rasmus: INTJ : Cognitive Scientist
and Dennese : ENFJ : Artist

it's my senior year
art history class.. the hardest class to get into.. and i had my coveted spot
*****

i cant tell you why exactly.. but that class changed my life. 
it opened my eyes to the world around me.
it gave me eyes to see the culture i had been cultivating slowly all my young life.  to see the value in it.  to see i hungered for more.  and to see that my future was bright..  daunting.. but bright!

in my mind flashes an image..
mr. simpson holding this picture up to the class.. venus of willendorf
i had no idea what a venus was..  wasnt that a planet?
he says.. 'write an essay on what this is.. you got 15 minutes.' (omg.. aha moment!!.. explains later)
i dont remember what i wrote.. that and many other essays just like it.. are long gone.
i do remember thinking the boobs were arms holding baskets of water or something.  haha
amazing, there's no way i can look at it now and see it the same way.. fresh, naive, uneducated.

we hand our papers in.  and he explains what it is.  jaws drop.  not one of us had a clue. 
defining moment.
beginning a lifelong fascination with art.
*****

graduation
i walk up the hill to return my cap and gown
there stands mr. simpson and his young wife.. my childhood neighbor.
he calls me over.
pats me on the shoulder.
and says quietly.. 'you are ready.'
*****

as a kid, you dont realize the meaning of some of the things adults say.
i was young and dumb.. but those words stuck with me all my life.
just as having to write in under 20 minutes has stuck with me.. all my life.

smiles.