Depression rules this month!

 October and November are the two hard months for me.  Of course, when you get to my age there are anniversary deaths and birthdays every month.  And they occur in every month, but it just seems like fall and winter are the most prolific.  And then I have momma whispering in my ear to remind me that I am getting older.  I almost said I am getting old, but older works better in this context!  My mind is still fairly clear and for that I am grateful, but when I look back at the people who have left me, I get very sad.

Earl, Richard, Gene, Josephine, Jake, Mary, Dorothy, and of course, mom and dad are all gone, along with a myriad of aunts, uncles and cousins.  Just Donna and I are left to carry on the heritage.  I have lost track of all the cousins and their lineage.  I figure I am doing good to remember my kids and their  kids and those kids's kids!  I had a great granddaughter graduate high school last year!  I think I have 8 grandkids and 11 great grandkids.

Longevity seems to be a given in our family.  Either you pass to your great reward in your sixties, or you are doomed to a long and fruitful life.  Since I am now 81 years old, I am assuming I will be a centurion in the future.  Kenneth passed 20 years ago, and I have dated a few times, but I cannot bring myself to think I want to have another husband at this stage of the game!

I tend my geese and raise a garden.  I can my produce and bake and cook.  I drive myself to church and shopping and change my furnace filters when they get dusty.  I need to paint, but that is not happening.  I got the smoke detector down from the top of the wall, changed the battery, but cannot seem to twist it just right to put it back up there.  I am assuming it will beep if it needs to!  It will be much easier to turn off laying on the sewing table by my bedroom door!

Well, the day has begun and the geese want out of their house.  They need to forage through the weeds on the back acre looking for a stray grasshopper or a treasure trove of seeds.  I need to brew up a cup of coffee in my little french coffee press and get ready to face the day.

Momma always said that the old people are like the seasons when it comes to dying.  They either die in the fall like the leaves on the trees dropping to the ground, or they die in the spring, like the new leaves opening.

Momma knows!

I missed the "dirty thirties!"

 Momma, Dad Josephine and Jake were there for the "dirty thirties", but I was but a mere gleam in my Daddy's eye at the time.  I think they were called that because the wind blew and there was no vegetation to hold the soil.  I could be wrong, but I think that, "therefore it is!" And we do all live by what we believe to be true, don't we?

I do know that I used to have a bunch of ration stamps.  I think I sold them on ebay because every time I looked at them, it made me sad.  There is just something about poverty that seems to eat at my very soul.  I am not poor and I am not rich by any means, but I am "secure" and that is what I have clawed and scratched my whole life to attain.  I guess I may fall in the category of the "working poor."   

Poverty seems to have a hold that goes to the bottom of my soul.  I have my house, car, savings and am secure, but I still have little habits that irritate even me.  I have all kinds of things I do to make a few extra dollars.  I am a seamstress and the money I make from that goes into my third bank account which is known as "my third bank account."  That money is designed for things I need and want as opposed to my first bank account which is for my retirement check which supports the house and feeds me.  I also have a savings account with a minimal balance in case the other two dry up.  To say I live from hand to mouth would be a good way to describe it.  But be aware that I do this not because I am dirt poor, but because the memory of when I was dirt poor is ingrained into my very being to the bottom of my soul.  It is an empty part in me that can never be filled.  It is what guides every thing I do from the time I get up until I go to bed at night.

First, I am a hoarder.  My closet is filled with clothes I have never worn and will never wear, but still I keep every stitch.  I went yesterday to buy new panties and bras.  I came home with 3 bras and forgot the panties.  I went through my old bras and did not throw any away.  The new ones are in the back for a "special occasion" and I want to ask you just what in the hell that means?  I can not foresee every wearing them until all the straps and fastners fall off the old ones and can not be stitched back on!  When I put a pair of underwear on and they slide down before I can get my jeans on, out they go.

It does not stop there!  I eat alone most of the time.  I do cook and I try to cook for one, but that does not happen.  I was trained in "institutional cooking", which means every meal is built with an army in mind.  this means that if I cook a pot of beans, I will eat on that pot until it is gone or until it grows a soft, green mold across its top whilst setting in the refrigerator waiting to be "warmed up one more time".

I am looking at plastic tubs in the middle of my front room full of yarn.  I love yarn and am now in the process of crocheting "market bags" since I hear plastic bags are going to be discontinued at the end of the year.  Sadly, most of my yarn is polyester or some such synthetic that for some reason I can not bring myself to use on my "recycle bags."  You do notice that the beginning of this paragraph uses the word "tubs" with an "s"?

It does not stop there.  Every scrap of paper must be used on both sides.  Any container with a lid can be used for storage of something that should have, no doubt, been thrown out long ago.  I have probably 6,000 yards of fabric down stairs that I will use "some day".  When I do make a quilt I go buy "new fabric" just for that purpose.

I have 2 heavy duty mixers and one Kitchen Aid.  Also have an assortment of ladles, mixing spoons, measuring cups and spoons, cutting boards, knives of every size and shape for chopping or cutting anything that does or does not move.  I have five different sizes of roasters!  One for a very small piece of meat all the way up to a 20 pound turkey and beyond.

My mother is the one who pointed out to me that I was a hoarder and why.  Kenny's mother used to wrap up a tablespoon of leftovers and put it in the freezer for "later".  

We save containers.  We save boxes.  We save change.  Nothing is save from us and everything that crosses my path has more than one use.  It is sad, but you know what is sadder?  That our society is not geared to people like me.  Drink a pop, throw away the can.  Eat a half of a sandwich, throw the other half in the trash.  Thirsty?  Spend $1.50 on a bottle of water and drink half of it and throw the rest in the trash.  I wonder how many tons of trash are generated every day on this poor planet?

The longer I live the more thankful I am that this world is not my home, I'm only passing through! click here to play

People who forget the past tend to repeat it!  Just something to think about!

You never really know someone....

 Mother told me many things long ago.  Of course at the time, they did not apply so they went into the cache deep in my mind and were of course, forgotten.  It is strange how things remain in the deepest recesses of our memory and they seem to be completely forgotten.  Life goes on an even keel and then out of no where, up pops the devil! 

Another thing my mother instilled in me was a very deep grain of honestly.  I find it pretty close to impossible to tell a lie.  The reasoning behind that is that if I lie I have to remember that lie or I will be tripped up when the truth comes out.  So, if I tell the truth I know what to say when asked about an incident.  Usually life goes on with no need to remember anything, but occasionally something really matters.  And there are a few incidences that I have closed the door on something that happened and completely blocked it from my conscious.  But all that is neither here nor there this morning.

This morning is about living and dying and deceit and honesty.  I had a friend.  I thought he was a good friend.  We spoke every day.  We shared time.  We ate together.  Drank coffee together.  We shared past experiences and future hopes.  I was close to his family. I loved them and they loved me in return.  A friendship that would endure, I thought.

He contracted covid.  Of course he went into isolation.  He was a caring man and did the right thing.  So we talked on the phone.  No more Sunday afternoon Scrabble games.  No more cooking a pot of Lima beans.  No more coffee made from special beans.  Just the phone.

He sent me a text at 6:38 AM one Saturday morning.  "The keys to the house are in the mailbox."  Cryptic?  I thought so.  I got dressed and drove over there.  I got the keys and went in.  He was in bed downstairs and I told him I wanted him to see a doctor.  He said alright.  I told him my phone would not work in the basement so I  went upstairs to call.

He put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. 

In that split second my whole world changed.  I do not recall hearing a gun shot.  When I went back downstairs I thought he was asleep, so I went back to wait for the ambulance.  And then the coroner.  It has been 8 months.  It has been a lifetime.  

I assume someday I will quit playing the "what if" game.  Coulda', woulda', shoulda'.  It is all water under the bridge.  PTSD or whatever, it is all moot.  Over and done with, move on.  But you know what?

That is a lot easier said then done.

Good Morning World!!! I love you!

For a few weeks now I have been kind of moping around.  This virus has had me in it's grip along with a few other things.  My little heart has been heavy.  I actually lay in bed and think of reasons not to get up and wish for the day that eternal sleep will become a reality.  But no more!

This morning I woke up to the beautiful sunshine that God has given me.  I woke up with a peace of mind that told me that no matter what today brings, or tomorrow or the next day, I will handle it and thank God that I can.  I know my mission on earth has not been fulfilled and God has lain out a clear path for me to follow.  While I do not know what is next in my life, I know I will follow that path.

Right now, it all looks pretty bleak, but this will change!  The sun is the still beautiful light shining in my window.  It shines on my kids first and then comes to stir me.  My cat is trying to crawl on my keyboard and usually that irritates me, but not today.  I am thankful I have a keyboard and a cat.  I am sad about my dog, but at least I had him for a while.  I am sure he and Shirley are together and my wounds will heal.

My church is still closed and while I do not have the comradery of the congregation, I do have the everlasting arms to hold me.  I know that professions of my faith will catch some of you off guard, but those of you who really know me will not be taken aback.  It is probably almost sacrilegious to think that a woman with as many ex husbands as I have could ever make it to heaven, but you are wrong.  I am a good, compassionate, caring person.  God knows that!  And when it is all said and done, he is the one that matters.

I thought I was lonely and actually entertained ideas of dating!  I actually had one particular little fellow in mind, but he was not a willing participant and for that I thank him.  Companionship takes two, it is kind of like a dance.  But you know what?  I have been known to dance alone before and will probably do it again.

For now, there is only one thing I need and that is my mind.  You would be amazed at what goes on in my head!  I have moved mountains and conquered the world.  I have loved and been loved and that will not change.  I do not know what tomorrow will bring.  I do not know if this virus will catch me here in my little home, but I do know that whatever cards I am dealt, I will play.

There is probably not a person reading this that knows that 60 years ago I almost succeeded in a suicide attempt.  It was a one time thing and I never tried it again.  I thought about it, but that was all.  I know there are people out there now who are struggling and I just want to say this:  If I can help, give me a call.  I can not solve your problems, but I can listen.

If you need an ear to listen, leave a note in the comments down below.  You can leave your email or phone number.  I am on facebook.  It really is a wonderful world out there!

Peace to all!

You never really know a person...

Once upon a time I was visiting with  a very wise man.  We were discussing a friend we had in common.  OK, it happened to be an ex husband of mine who had done something exceptionally stupid and I said, "Why I thought I knew him better than that!"  To which he replied, "You never know anyone.  You only know of them.  You only know what they let you see."  Good point!

I recall standing at the grave of my mothers last husband and her saying, "Who was that man?"  He had presented himself as a lonely widower with a son and a daughter and no other relation in the world.  The funeral had been well attended by brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles and a former parole officer. She never knew him.

So this morning at 4:15 AM when the eyelids opened for the day, I thought of this and I wondered, "Who do I have in this world that I really know? "  I came up with nobody.   So I took this thought to the next level and asked myself, "Who am I?  Does anyone really know me?'  Once more I came up with a negative answer.

I know some of you out there think you know me, but do you?  I may not be who you think I am.  I present a face to the public and a face to my friends that may not reveal the depths of my soul.  I appear to be very well adjusted, compassionate, caring, honest, giving, kind and so many other things, but you know little about the person who lives in this body.  I have lots of friends, but do I?  What is a friend?  When I am lonely, who do I turn to for companionship?  Who do I trust with  my deepest secrets?  When the dark abyss of the deepest recesses of my mind cry out for comfort, who do I reach for?  When I am sinking in despair at the long road ahead, who reaches to lift me up?

When your phone rings and I am on the other end and I ask, "Whatcha' doing?"  Is this really what I mean or am I saying "I am so lonely I can not think straight.  I am sinking in depression.  Save me!"   The sad part of life is that no matter how transparent people seem to be, they are not.

I have learned that depression is depression.  It comes.  It stays.  It lifts and it leaves, but it comes back.  How is depression lived with every day?  I do not know, but I do know it is fairly common in this day and age.  I read one article that said, "Depression is like a big black dog that is always there and when he lays on you, you can not get him off and you can not move."  I guess that sort of explained it for me.

I guess the point I am trying to make here is that we should always make the effort to be kind to each other because we never know what is going on in another person's life and mind.  Watching a baby at play may make someone happy, but it may make someone sad.  A cheery, "Good morning!" may make one person feel special, and make the next one think you are nuts.  So what is the answer?  I do not have it, for all my years of experience.

My advice?  Keep plugging away.  All that glitters is not gold.  Everything that goes up, must come down.  Let a smile be your umbrella.  And most importantly,

You cannot sprinkle showers of happiness on other people without getting a few drops on yourself!

Chicken feet? Of course. Right up there with Carp!

I was talking to a friend the other day and explaining to him the facts of survival back in the "good old days." I am pretty sure he thought I was making it up about the carp and all.  He told me that Carp was a trash fish and no one really ate them.  Hmm.  Seems like I recall wading in the river with a big seine and filling tubs with them   Mother had a way to can them so the bones got soft and they were almost like Salmon.  I said "almost".  They looked like Salmon, but they sure did not taste like Salmon.  We liked the Carp best drenched in corn meal and fried in lard.  And we always had bread when we had fish because one of the little kids would always swallow a bone and the only way to get it on down was to eat a piece of bread.  I am amazed today that none of us ever had a perforated intestine, but we didn't.

So few people are around today that actually lived through the times back then in the small town of Nickerson when it was catch as catch can and anything that didn't move real fast was going to be eaten.
Try to imagine 8 of us living in a 2 bedroom house and no income.  The house payment was $10 a month and it came first.  Mother always planted a big garden that consisted mostly of sweet potatoes, onions, beans  turnips, and corn.  The corn was not the sweet corn like we enjoy around here in the summer, but was dried and then ground into corn meal.  The root vegetables were pulled up and stored in the root cellar.  Apples were abundant and several bushels of those ended up in the root cellar.  We ate apple sauce, fried apples, baked apples, and boiled apples.

Mother always seemed to have chickens around and chickens meant eggs, except when "brooding" season was upon us.  That was when the old hens sat and hatched out babies.  Not all of them sat and we still gathered eggs, but I always kept a damn close eye on those beady eyed hens.  They were just as apt as not to fly off that nest and peck me if I got to close.  They never actually did that, but I lived in mortal terror that one day one might.

Usually the hens kept us with plenty eggs, so there were cakes when we had sugar.  If one of the neighbors butchered a hog and dad helped we had pork and we got the fat which was cooked in a cast iron pot and this gave us "cracklings" and lard.  I think out here they are called chiccarones.

Meat was never very plentiful at our house through the week, but come Sunday, we always had meat of some kind .  My favorite was fried chicken because then there would be potatoes and the good country gravy.  Now to the feet part.  Mother had to make a chicken stretch to feed 7 of us, so every bit of the chicken as going into that skillet.  Not the head though.  The feet were immersed in boiling water and skinned.  They went right into the skillet and while there was no meat on the feet they were good for chewing on and the little kids never knew they were not really getting anything to eat.

Sometimes mom would come up with a roast beef.  That was something to die for.  I especially liked the gristle.  I could chew that for the longest time and actually thought it was good.  Amazing how that worked!  Today I only eat chicken breast.  If I cook a roast it better not have any gristle in it.

So to this day I do not eat apples in any cooked form.  I do not like to smell them cooking and so I do not cook them.  I eat them raw and only when they are nice and crisp.  Needless to say, I have given up the Carp for Alaskan wild caught Salmon and the only fowl on the farm here is the geese and they are not going to be eaten.  I steal their eggs and make them into noodles.  That is my idea of birth control!  Chicken breasts is the only part of the chicken I buy or cook.  No feet for me!

I look back on the hardest times and I can not help but realize that my mother had to be the strongest woman in the world.  She took nothing and raised us kids to be functioning members of society.  She took in laundry and cleaned houses to put food on the table and clothes on our backs.  She made me a teal corduroy coat when I was in fourth grade and Lord only knows where she came up with the fabric.  I wore that coat longer than I should have because the kids finally began to tease me, but it was mine and I loved it.  When I hear Dolly Parton sing "Coat of Many Colors"  I always think of my mother.  As I get older I realize everything makes me think of my mother.  The missing her is as bad all these years later as it was the day she passed.  I do not think one ever "gets over" the death of our loved ones, we just learn to live without them and I am now acutely aware that my kids are probably walking in my shoes.

It is called life.

Super Bowl Sunday....and that affects me how?

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, Super Bowl Sunday meant something to me. Oh, and so did fishing, skating, and the sock hop in Convention Hall back home in Kansas.  That was probably the best year of my entire life.  I had a boyfriend at the time named Corky.  Now back in the day "boyfriend" meant something different than it does today.  It meant he was a boy and he was also my friend.  I have to be upfront about Corky.  He was a dancing fool and the two of us won every dance contest we entered.  Remember years ago when Dick Clark had American Bandstand and it was in black and white?  That was us.  Corky would flip me over his back and I could land on my feet and never miss a beat.  I can replay those days in my head and feel young again.
But alas, the days of sand and shovels are far and away gone. Corky is but a distant memory and the sock hops of those bygone years are not related to this old arthritic body because if anyone threw me in the air now I would break every bone in my body when I crashed to earth.  However, the best part of growing older is the  memories, because they get better every year.  I think we won all the dance contests, but I have no little trophy's to prove it.  I can still hear Fats Domino, Chubby Checker, Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins.  My feet still tap to Blueberry Hill, The Stroll, Heartbreak Hotel, and Blue Suede Shoes, Rock Around the Clock and Chantilly Lace.
It is the same moon up in the sky and the same sun shining in the heavens, but it is different.  I was amazed when we put a man on the moon and my heart still aches as I see the Challenger explode with the astronauts on board.  The kids today can read about history, but they can not feel it.  They can celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr., but they can not know the shame and disgrace of "seperate but equal."  We knew when they called it that what it was...discrimination pure and simple.  White dating black back in those days was a death sentence for sure.  My mother lived the dust bowl years.  My father lost 2 kids to dust pneumonia.  I know it, but I don't feel it.  When I was born we were at war.  Today we are engaged over seas, but is it war?
I grew up with an outhouse and now I do not think they exist.  I grew up in the time of polio, chickenpox, measels and whooping cough.  I had a friend in an iron lung.  She died.
I never went to a dentist and had my tonsils out when I was 10 years old.  I was sickly and bled out my ears when my tonsils were infected.  And I wanted to be a missionary.  I wanted to go to Africa and take care of the poor starving people.  That never happened.  Do I have regrets in my life?  Many.  Can I change an iota of the past?  No.
So some times I get melancholy and sad.  Does it stop me?  No.  As I look back down the long road behind me and the short road ahead of me I often wonder if God gave me the chance to change any one thing along that long road what it would be.  I have my answer.  Nothing.