Meanwhile, back at the ranch!

To say my life here on my little acre is boring would be an understatement.  It seems like there is always something going on...well, not during Jeopardy!  Everyone knows what happens to me when I set back in my recliner with the cat on my lap and pull an afghan up over me so I do not get cold.  I watch Jeopardy! at 3:00 and again at 6:30.  Sadly, I have yet to see a full half hour.  If I manage to stay awake it is imperative that someone call  to ask just one quick question.

Now yesterday, I stopped at Big R to buy goose food since there is a storm coming and I do not want the geese to miss out on a meal and I hate unloading 150 pounds of feed in a blizzard.  So, I pulled into the back acre and started in with the first bag.  You should know, the neighbors have a Billy Goat Gruff with big long, curled horns.  He does not know where he actually lives so he spends a lot of time ripping things out of the ground on my side of the driveway.  As I started into the shed, I had to bump him with the feed bag to get inside.  I emptied that one, chased him off and grabbed another only to repeat the same scenario.  I do not even like goats and that is why I do not have one.  Third bag was tossed on top of the barrel and the goat chased off again.  I drove out and closed the gate behind me with him glaring at me from his yard.

To make a long story short, I got busy doing something and it was almost dark when I went to put the geese up for the night.  I let them in the outside wire enclosure and they were acting funny.  Since they usually do, I did not give it a second thought.  Then I remembered I needed to open that third bag and dump it so I opened the big door and took 2 steps inside and stopped.  Holy mother of God!  Inside the shed was dark and I caught a glimpse so something out of the corner of my eye.  It was big!  It was not a goose!  It was that damned goat curled up in the corner of the shed.  He was settling in for the night.  In order to get inside the shed he had to squeeze himself through the little door I have in the side of the shed designed for a much smaller animal.  Even the geese have to duck their heads to get inside.  Dammit!

Luckily I have a very good flashlight, so I went over to Mr. Goat and nudged him while shining the light on his path to freedom.  He could have cared less.  So I got him by one of his horns.  It became increasingly clear that he did not want to go home.  I finally got him out the door and that was as far as he wanted to go.  So I went next door to the house he actually lived at.  Cory came with me and between the 2 of us with a hand on each horn, we got him into their yard.  It was clear also that in the leap over the fence into my yard, he had hurt his back leg.  So I missed Jeopardy! at 6:30.  Dammit!

So, Michael brought up the subject of gardening a few days ago and I explained that I would not be doing that this year.  Why?  It seems that the last few years I have had a snake infestation.  I do not know how many times  there was a snake in the goose house.  I reached my limit when I was harvesting my zucchini and as I reached to move a leaf, I saw a snake curled up under it.  Centipedes love my basement.  Wasps build their little nests in the corners of my deck.  Spiders watch me from the shadows.  Farm living is just no longer conducive to my lifestyle!  I want to be where the lights are shining in my window and the jukebox is blaring from down below.  Well, not really.

I do love my solitude out here, but there is a lot to be said for the wild life that makes itself at home here on my acre.  I realize goats, spiders, snakes and centipedes are not exactly wildlife, but you do remember how the foxes devastated my duck farm.  But yesterday at the Big R, I saw my first signs of Spring.  They have three tanks full of baby chickens and they are so damn cute.  Maybe if I had chickens they would keep the snakes away.  I know they eat grasshoppers.

Something to think about.

Is it my turn yet?

Yesterday I took an afternoon and played Scrabble with a friend and his sister.  They are both very intelligent and loving people (Would you expect me to spend time on a Saturday afternoon with anyone who is not?)  To make a long story short, I got my little ass trounced royally.  I must say they were very gracious winners which in my world is a rarity.  It was nice.  I have not played a game since I played Dominoes with Bill Brown a couple years ago.  I beat him and never went back because I was afraid he would return the favor!

On my way home from town I stopped at another friends house.  This was not so much fun, but nonetheless a very satisfying visit.  This lady has always been open and loving and in her final hours I should have expected no less.  She smiled and actually beamed as I told her I loved her and wished her a peaceful crossing and a happy reunion.  As I kissed her goodbye she smiled the brightest smile I have seen from her in a long time and it came from the bottom of her heart.  I am going to miss her more than I can say, and I hope she will pop in on me from time to time in the hallowed memories of my mind.

As the angel of death (no capitals ) hovers quietly in the corner of yet another of my friends, I can not help but wonder when I will get my turn.  I have attended many of these and I have to say this lady is the picture of grace and never have I ever seen a person more ready to go.  Oh, Lord that I can be that accepting when it is my turn.

I look back on the shambles of my life and can not believe some of the crap I am going to have to answer for when I knock on those Pearly Gates.  Those of you who know me now only think you know me.  My mother always said "Your never really know anyone, you only know OF them.  You know what they let you see."  But here is the kicker on that:  I have let people see my kind, loving, caring side so long that I have become that person!  Who would have ever thought that the little girl growing up on Strong Street in a run down shack with an outhouse in the back  and no running water would ever be a respected member of any thing?  And yet, here I am!  When my sisters came for Kenneth's service they did not stay and visit.  (The largest chapel at Imperial Gardens was full and people were left outside.) They went home the same day.  The sole comment made was "Louella has a life out here that we know nothing about."  And that sister was right.

I do have a life with friends and acquaintances and respect from my peers.  That is something I never had in Kansas.  I was always just Louella, Chris's daughter.  Louella, Donna's sister.  Bob's cook. Some body's mom.  Some body's Aunt.  I guess that is good, but this is better.  Now that I am old, I can be selfish.  I can play Scrabble on a Saturday afternoon.  I can sleep through Jeopardy!.  I can have a sink full of dirty dishes.  I can smell the roses and kiss the wind.  I can pet my cat and dream of all the things I am going to do someday.  Who was it that said, "Of all the things of mice and men, the saddest of all is what might have been."?

I am not quite ready for the Angel of Death or the grim reaper, but when it comes, and it surely will someday, I will embrace the trip.  It is some place I have never been and I think it is just over the rainbow.  There I will see my loved ones and it will be wonderful!  I will get to meet Mother Teresa and Martin Luther King, Jr., Hank Williams, and all the people I have admired and loved for so long.

So enjoy my blog while it is here!  Hug your children.  Pet your dog.  Sing in the shower.  But most of all, get your house in order.  If you hurt someone, tell them you are sorry.  If you love someone, tell them.  Yesterday is gone and tomorrow never comes!

Peace to all!  

How do you eat an elephant? One bite at time!

I live in a 2400 square foot house.  I live all alone.  Every thing in this house is mine.  I have 2 floor looms and enough fiber to cover this acre of ground.  I have never thrown a magazine away.  House plants thrive every where.  2 couches, 2 recliners, 9 sewing machines and 64,000 yards of fabric.

I have a garage that is big enough to hold a full size commercial gravel hauling truck and trailer.  I have a tin shed that holds a full size car and 7,000 jars as well as a heavy duty rototiller, high wheel weed whacker, lawn mower and 7 weight sets without the bars.  Not to mention enough bug spray and weed killer to annihilate  half of the county.

My problem is this:  I want to sell everything and move into a small, one level apartment in town.  So where do I start?  I thought downstairs would be the place.  No.  All that fabric and machines I use.  The next level up is the weaving room and if I could just sell those 2 looms, but then what would I do with all that fiber?  And I make stationary.  I need that stuff.

Next comes the ebay/sales/spare bedroom/storage area and toy room.  Are you getting the picture?  At one point I decided that the only hope was to just drop dead and let the kids sort it out, but I could almost see the burning pile out back and them throwing me on top so I could enjoy my treasures throughout eternity!  But then this morning I seen a shared post that hit the nail on the head.  It was shared by Margaret Velveteen and it hit home with me.    OK, I tried to copy and paste and that is not working for me, so I will give you the gist of it.

"Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly...because doing it poorly is better than not doing it at all."
"Do things halfway.  Now you are doing 100% better than you were before."

Now what I take from this is that all my setting around procrastinating is getting me now where.  I have been in the "sell this damn place and move into town" mode for a couple years now and absolutely nothing has moved one inch!  So, the Patty daughter has been here for a few days and we have talked about this.  Well, I have damn near talked it to death, so today is the day that I am going to start eating that elephant!  And every day, I am going to take a bite out of it and some day (The good lord willing and the creek don't rise!) I will actually be able to look around and see bare floors and empty walls.

I am going to be just like that little ant that moved the rubber tree plant!  I have high hopes!  High apple pie in the sky hopes!  Whoops!  There goes another rubber tree plant!

Course you know I am as full of shit as a Christmas goose, don't you! And I may have had a sip or 2 from the vanilla bottle!  But I guess the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.  Wish me luck, because I am going to need it.  Come this fall when the leaves start to fall you are going to see that "FOR SALE" sign in front of this house or I will know the reason why.

And does anyone want 8 very old geese?  They are free to a good home!

But can I really know you?

I woke up this morning to the realization that something a friend told me many years ago should be my mantra.  I had once more been disappointed by someone I trusted and I said, "I really thought I knew him better than that."
 
To which he replied, "You never really know anyone.  You just know of them.  You know what they let you see."  And he was right.

I deal with many people, some more closely than others.  We talk and with some of them, we talk for hours.  We share secrets.  We share our inner most thoughts, hopes and dreams.  Do we really?  As I look back over the trail behind me, I am  astounded at how many of my friends have only let me see the outer veneer that covers their tortured soul.

We are placed on this earth by some divine plan to live our lives, hopefully, in peace and harmony.  Some of us have more peace and harmony then others, I have found.  It breaks my heart when I lose a friend to suicide.  Suicide is defined in the dictionary as "the intentional taking of one's own life."  It does not tell us why.  And yet the why is the first question we ask, isn't it?

And we search our memory and we recall the relationship we had with that person.  At least I do.  I remember the last time I saw him.  Right here at my table not very long ago.  He was a computer genius and he worked really cheap for his friends.  He loved cookies and I had his favorite kind.  I will make them again for his memorial service.

We can read all the psychology books and watch for the signs, but we never see them.  Is it because I let my guard down, or because the signs were never there, or did I just not want to see them?  Hind sight is 20/20 looking back, isn't it?

Many years ago when I was a Senior in high school I had a friend in Stenography class whose name I can not recall right now.  He went home one afternoon after school and hung himself in the garage.  Were there signs?  I never saw them and looking back I still don't.

Kenny and I had a friend 30+ years ago.  Kenny was working in Denver and was gone all week, leaving me alone.  He called every night and this friend knew that.  He would show up every night and set at the counter and drink coffee and reading truck books.  When Kenny called, he would talk to him for a few minutes and then he would leave.  It was never a conversation, really, just a "hello how are you?"  One afternoon he went home and put a bullet in his brain.  We never saw it coming.

So as I set here contemplating another memorial service I wonder about the very act of suicide.  No one ever says, "Well, I am just going to put my head in the gas oven and be done with it."  That would make it too simple.  So I shall do what I have always done, put one foot in front of the other and blindly go where I have always gone.  Maybe today I will make a difference to someone looking into that abyss.

Maybe not.

Some times my mind takes a turn.

 I remember when Duane and I lived in Glasco, Kansas.  At the time we only had Debbie and we lived in a large farm house on the outskirts of town.  At the time he was stealing walnut trees on the Solomon River just west of town.  Since he had a wench truck and chain saws it was a rather easy job.  Drop the tree, remove the limbs, wench the trunk and drag it home.  The buyer would come by the house and load it on his trailer.  Then he would hand Duane cold hard cash so it was pretty good money. 

It was winter at the time and the business of trimming trees was pretty slow, so it was pretty much catch as catch can as far as paying rent and buying groceries went.  He had wine fermenting in the root cellar and plenty of tobacco for “roll your own cigarettes.”  We did have a black and white television so we were not without entertainment.  Jeopardy was the game show of the day.  It was not hosted by Alex Trebec and I think the money amounts ranged from $10-50, but it was entertainment nonetheless.

Most of the entertainment consisted of trying to find something edible to eat.  Duane shot a lot of Doves that year.  Course it takes a lot of Doves to make a meal.  Fishing was also good on the Solomon river.  In central Kansas we caught a lot of catfish and Bass, but the Soloman had scary fish.  Pete pulled out a fish that looked like a snake which scared him and he beat it to death with a piece of wood.  We found out later it was a Gar.  Pete also killed a rattlesnake on the back porch late one night.  That scared hell out of me since I had just returned from getting the diapers out of the car.

There was a feed store in town and for 25 cents I could buy an old hen.  I had not cleaned a chicken in my life but I had seen my mother do it so I knew what had to happen.  First I had to put a big bucket of water on to heat.  Duane returned home it the old hen.  Her legs were tied together and I instructed him to chop of her head, which he did.  I dunked her in the scalding water just like I had seen momma and grandma do.  To my amazement the feathers pulled off very easily and very soon there were none left.  I lit a paper like I had seen them do and singed off the hairs that remained.  Then it was time to clean out the inside.

I was not very happy to slice through her abdomen and then reach inside and pull out all her innards, but I did it.  When she was as clean as she needed to be, I put her on to boil and then turned her to simmer.  My 25 cent chicken turned out to be a very good meal.  We bought a package of noodles in town for 15 cents  and ate for 2 days on that one chicken.  Course the coon dogs got the scraps and the bones.  Now the coon dogs and that business was a whole nother story. 

Duane and his brothers would go coon hunting with a man who lived a few miles away.  I never went, but he was quick to tell me how the dogs chased the coon, treed the coon and then ripped it apart when it fell to the ground and they killed it.  Now when he brought home a coon for me to clean and cook, it was a whole new ball game.  No way was I touching that to clean it, or cook it and I sure as hell was not going to eat it.  I would rather eat the barn cat and that was not happening either!

I do not know how long we lived in that farmhouse in Glasco, and I do not know where we went when we left there.  Surely some where better.  Funny how somethings just come into our minds.  Glasco was that way.  I know Duane made wine there.  I know Maudie put gas in the diesel truck.  I know that is where I enrolled in a writing class and Duane bought me my first typewriter.  I know I was pregnant with Patty when we left Glasco.  I know there was a championship boxing match that lasted only a few seconds.  I think it was Cassius Clay and somebody. Or maybe Sonny Liston, or lord only knows.

Sometimes when my memory fails me, it is a good thing.

I used to have a family.

I came across this picture the other day.   I am the first one  on the back row.  I used to be young, believe it or not.  Mother is in the middle of the back row.  I probably miss her more then you can even imagine.   The last one on the back row, is my older sister, Josephine.  

The lady in white on the front row, is sister Mary Shea.  Donna Bartholomew is in the center  and hiding behind her elbow is the youngest sister, Dorothy Anderson.  It is sad to say, but there are only 2 of us left.  Donna and myself.  We were ranging in age of oldest to youngest, Josephine, Me, Donna. Mary and Dorothy was the baby.  

How I managed to survive while my younger sisters did not, will never cease to amaze me.  Growing up, I smoked like a train and drank like a fish.  I went through husband like they were disposable items and for the most part they were not necessary to my survival.  I had 5 kids with the first husband so he stands out in my history as one of the few I could actually tolerate for more than a few months.

Josephine had married very young.  Now when I say very young, we are talking 13 or 14 years old.  She married a man twice her age and if that had happened in this day and age, that man would be in prison for a little thing called statutory rape, but back then, the sooner you married the girls off, the less mouths you had to feed.  Not excusing it, by any means, but at the time the legal age for a girl to marry was 16, with most states being younger than that.   I think Mississippi stayed at 13 and was the last to be raised to 16 and then 18.   So Josephine was not really a participating member of the family dynamic that I grew up in at the time.  She was however, an active member, just lived somewhere else.

Dad died in February of 1965 and Jake died in October.  Many years passed and then Mother was the next to go, followed by Josephine and then Mary and Dorothy.  So all that is left is one sister and maybe some cousins.  No Aunts or Uncles and I guess there are nieces and nephews, but I never see them.

I have been asked a few times why I do not move back home.  Back home?  I have been in Pueblo, Colorado for over half of my life, so I pretty well call this home.  But in all fairness, this world is not my home, I am only passing through.  There are songs written that say that.  My family consists of people I meet on the streets and in back alleys that are seeking something that I can give them.  Usually it is just a kind word, but sometimes it is my coat.  My church is my solace and my refuge, but if I did not have it I would still be here.  The homeless and the down trodden are my family now. When I lay down at night I hear a lonesome train whistle from the railroad that runs through Nickerson, Kansas.  I hear the cougar scream from the river.  I see my brothers eyes and I feel my mothers breathe.

It is only in the far recesses of my mind's eye that I will ever be home.

Scared shitless in the mortuary.

I used to babysit for a couple who ran the mortuary in Nickerson, Kansas.  Their name was Lamb, as I recall and they had 4 or 5 little stair step children that all had names that started with the same letter.  I could be wrong on that, but I do not think so.  At the time of my babysitting career they lived on the upper floor of the mortuary.  On my very first night of babysitting, Mrs. Lamb gave me a tour of the apartment.  This included the room where the caskets were stored.  The caskets were, of course, empty.  She did share with me that the one casket downstairs was not empty, but not to worry because the man who actually owned the place was receiving visitors while they were gone.  There would be no need for me to go downstairs.  Thank you, Jesus!  I was most happy to learn that.  Being of a tender age of probably 13 or 14, I was not experienced in dealing with dead bodies and in all fairness, I was not real excited to enter that phase of my life.  Plenty of time for that in the future.

So I tucked the babies into bed, read them a bedtime story and went into the living room.  I did up a few dishes in the sink and then decided to turn on the television.  I hoped I could actually watch something, sine television was fairly new back then and we did not actually own one at home.  There was a small thunderstorm passing overhead, but the television sprang to life in spite of the interference.  The announcers voice was very serious.  "We interrupt the regular programming to bring you this special bulletin!  The earth is being invaded by another planet!  This is happening as we speak.  I can see the forces running through the streets.  We are under siege!  Do not leave your homes!"

I snapped the television off and went into panic mode!  What the hell!  I was in charge of these kids and their safety and the damned aliens were at the door.  I was not ready for this!  I was not even old enough to know what a damned alien was!  At that moment the phone rang and I picked up the receiver to hear the man downstairs also pick up the receiver and say to his wife.  "No, the electric is still on here, but I will come right home.  See you in a few."  He broke the connection and my mind began to fill in the blanks.  He was leaving and I was going to be alone with a dead body, 4 kids, and aliens running wild out side in the rain.  Great!  And almost on cue, the lights flickered and the world went dark.  My mind could not grasp whether the storm made the lights go out or if the Martians had flipped a big switch some where.

I could not call my mother, because the phone was now dead.  The kids were asleep and there was a body down stairs just waiting to come up the stairs and do God only knew what with me.  On some level, I understood that dead bodies did not move nor do things, but on another level, this one was capable of damn near anything!  I did resist the urge to wake the little Lamb kids up so I would not be alone.  I think fear held me completely immobile.  I did learn to pray that night.  I learned how to fall on my knees and dedicate my life, should I survive the night, to the most holy God.  I think I may have even recited the rosary, what ever that was.  There was not even a Catholic Church in Nickerson, but I was a Catholic that night.  Well, maybe not the whole night but for the 17 minutes the electricity was off, I was totally in God's hands and I was very pliable putty, I kid you not!

With the flickering of the lights when the electric was restored, I was once more the capable babysetter.  The kids had not even changed postitions.  I heard the door open and heard the man return downstairs.  Very soon Mr. and Mrs. Lamb returned.  They had been at a friends house and watched the program that I had watched.  They were amused and thought it so clever to present it as a real life event.  I secretly wondered about their sanity.  But Mr. Lamb took me home and paid me my fee, so life was good.

That little episode occurred probably 63 or 64 years ago, but it is as clear in my mind as the night it happened.  Soon after, the Lambs moved out of the mortuary and opened their own funeral home.  I do not remember if they got another babysitter or if she just stayed home with the kids.  A lot of my memories are not real accurate and some are non existent, but life went on back there on Strong Street in spite of it all.  It was many years later that Kenneth and I were in a campground some where in the mountains, and I saw a camper with a Kansas flag.  On a whim, I knocked on the door and to my utter amazement, Joanne Lamb opened the door and she remembered this little Bartholomew girl.  She and Jack were retired, of course and she filled me in on all the kids.  Of course, it all went in one ear and out the other, but it was a beautiful hour or so that took me back in time.

It is little things like remembering that keeps us all young and vital.  How sad when we have no memories.

One more year is nearing a close.

Another year is about to go in the history book that is my life.  Kind of sad.  Gives new meaning to that saying I have always had, "When you are over the hill you pick up speed."  I used to make a list of all I wanted to accomplish during the coming year, but I have now decided to settle for making a list of all the things I did not get done.

#1. I fully intended to have the world's largest rummage sale and empty my house of all the hobbies I have accumulated over the years.  I did get a lot of the stuff moved out to the garage, but that just makes it mouse food.

#2.  I intended to take down the bore infested Apricot tree behind the house and prune the Choke Cherry bush so I could walk through the yard.  I also intended to remove all the Elm trees that are embedded in the fence line.  None of these thing happened.

#3.  I wanted to list the house this fall and be moved into a little place in town by the first of the year.  It is now the first of the year and here I set.

#4.  When I saw none of the above was happening, I settled for making candles for the homeless, which is also not happening.  I did make a quilt, but that is about all I got done.  And I did pile a bunch of stuff in the dining room to move out to the pile of crap in the garage to put on top of the other pile of crap.

Maybe I need a trainer.  You know someone with a whip to come in and crack it over my head and see how high I can jump.  Sadly, even that would not move me.  I do occasionally think that the perfect solution is to just set here and do nothing.  Some day, with a little luck, I will quietly pass away in my sleep and surely someone will think to check on me and there I will be.  It is at that point that all this crap will become someone else's problem.  So I have words of advice for whoever gets stuck with that job.

Put a big sign on the front door, "Worlds biggest junk sale.  Make an offer."  What ever they offer, accept it.  Throw all the money in a box and divide it up with each other.  What doesn't sell, send to the dump.  I do have a will.  That is one thing I did do.

So, now I am starting another day of futile attempts at getting something done.  Wish me luck.

Time flies when your heart is breaking.

I do not know when I met John Tenorio.  I woke up this morning trying to figure it out.  It was after he left Albertson's,  I think and about the time he was coming out of a long term relationship.  He was in need of a non judgmental friend and Lord only knows just how non judgmental I am!  At the time I was doing the second Tuesday of the month luncheons and John had 2 good legs.  I was dating a little (6'2") biker fellow who owned a home just a couple blocks from the place we held our luncheons.  That worked well.  I could feed the clients and then take him leftovers.  Men that tall need lots of food.

To say that John and I were instant friends would be very misleading.  I had been doing this for years and all at once I had this snot nosed kid telling me what he wanted for lunch.  Since I had to lug everything into the building and up the elevator and down the hall, I thought he was just pretty demanding.  I explained to him that I was old and that crap got heavy, so he better just get his fanny there early enough to help with the carrying.  He agreed.  And he actually helped.

John was a born leader and I was a born doer.  World AIDS day is December 1 and by the time John showed up the AIDS Quilt was conceived and becoming part of the service.  Sometimes we were at  PCC,  the University, or the Arts Center.  He found sponsors and pulled Pueblo Community Health Center into the mix.  He found sponsors to furnish refreshments.  My job was taking care of the quilt and I was good with that.  He finally met with the powers that be at Rawlings Library  and found a permanent home for our December 1 service and the quilt now hangs on the 4th floor for part of November and most of December.

Days flow into years and years fade away.  John and I had our share of disagreements and life went on at my house.  My friend passed away  on July 13, 2012 and I started volunteering at Hospice.  It was in that time period that John got a sore on his foot that would not heal.  He went into Parkview Hospital and after a few weeks it became apparent that he would lose his leg.  Now what do you say to someone who is in that position?  I had no words, but thankfully John did.

" It is no big deal.  They cut it off right here and then build me another one that snaps right on, good as new."

Somehow I could not picture this, but John said it and that is how it went.  Off with the old leg and on with the new.  Little rehab and next thing I knew I was sewing a sock for an artifical leg.  One sock.  Stretchy with skulls or something.  John never missed a beat.  He never used crutches, because they slowed him down.  He became an activist for everything he believed in from Native Americans,  HIV/AIDS, Health care for all, Food Labeling, Black Hills Energy, Migrant Workers and Lord only knows what else.

We talked every day.  His kids got older and graduated and began their lives.   John became a grandfather and was so proud of his little family.  He talked to brother Len in New Zealand every day.  Every day.  Sometimes he and I would be on the phone and he would say, "Oh, there is Len!" and we immediately broke our connection.  They talked for hours!

I became known as John's other mother.  I was good with that.  My kids were good with that.  I knew John was tired a lot.  I knew he was due for a kidney transplant on December 17.  He just didn't tell me or anyone else how bad it was.  I am sure he knew he was rolling loaded dice, he just did not want to worry us.

And so this morning, I look back down the road I walked with John Tenorio and see all the signs that were there.  He was my friend.  He was my confidante.  He could have been my son and he was on some level.  I miss him.  I miss him every day.  I am going to spend today letting go as I turn this page of my life and close the chapter on John.

I know some of you will read this and want to reach out and comfort me.  I would ask that you not do that at this time.  Today is my day of letting go and it is just between John and I.  Thank you.

Happy Thanksgiving or the pilgrims progress.

Thanksgiving is once more upon us.  Time to bake the old turkey and laden the table with food.  Time to be grateful for all the bounty we possess.  Thank God for our big warm house and the car in the drive and the money in the bank.  Yep.  Got lots to be thankful for as we count all these blessings.  Well, unless of course you are an Indian!

Oh, wait, I can not call them that anymore.  They are now known as Indigenous People.  Indigenous is defined in Webster's dictionary as "originating in and characteristic of a particular  region or country."  It is interesting to note that the next entry is indigent, which is defined as "lacking the necessities of life because of poverty."  See how that works out?

Back in the day when I went to school in Nickerson, Kansas, we were taught about Thanksgiving.  The first Thanksgiving was in 1621.  Seems the land was at that time populated by Indians.  They roamed free.  They rode horses and hunted the buffalo.  They made all their own tomahawks, lances, saddles, blankets, moccasins, cooking utensils, clothes, and on and on.  Everything they needed and used was made from the land.  The Pilgrims wanted to celebrate their first harvest in this new land and for some reason beyond the grasp of my small mind, the Indians wanted to help.  I think they felt sorry for this "ragtag" lot who were struggling for survival and brought food to them.  Lordy, it went down hill from there.

I do not remember dates and times, but it was not too long before they began to expand westward and the Indian lands were no longer Indian lands.  Treaties were made and treaties were broken.  White people killed Indians and Indians killed white people.  A railroad was pushed across the plains and buffaloes were in the way so they were slaughtered taking away the mainstay of food, shelter, and tools.  Indians were pushed to reservations, and then moved.  Study your history.  If you can look at it objectively, you may note that we came here and virtually shoved the Indians into corners.  I wonder if I went today to Jamestown or the Dakotas and set a table out with all the amenities of Thanksgiving, if any of the Indigenous  would come.  As a member of the white race, with German, Irish, French, and English blood running through my veins, I rather doubt it.

I do know one thing and that is even today we are still screwing the Indigenous people.  We want a pipeline across their sacred tribal lands and our leaders ram it through.  The deer and the antelope are gone.  The buffalo are cornered.  No doubt there is a Walmart in the heart of the reservation.  I remember 55 years ago when I worked as a barmaid, it was illegal to sell beer to the Indians that worked on the railroad.  They might go crazy and scalp us!

I have granddaughters who have Southern Ute blood in their veins.  They sometimes go to the reservation and take part in the heritage celebrations of the Southern Ute.  They are beautiful examples of humanity.  I would love to go with them some day, but I may be too old to make it over that pass again.  Who knows.

So when you carve your turkey and thicken your gravy, before you cut your pumpkin pie, pause for just one moment and think about how you got into your big house on the hill and thank your God, that the first Thanksgiving was not the last.  Go outside at night and try to imagine, as you look up at the star filled sky, what our world would have been like had the first natives of this land not taken pity on a bunch of pathetic, starving pilgrims  on the banks of the new world.

Then tuck your babies in their beds and go put your good dishes back in the cupboard and lay down on your featherbed, secure in your white heritage.

Lou Mercer Words of Wisdom: Liz's Cafe in Bessemer is where I met Delores.

Lou Mercer Words of Wisdom: Liz's Cafe in Bessemer is where I met Delores.: My God!  I do not remember how many years ago it was that I worked there!  I was divorcing husband #3, working days for husband #3, and goi...

Liz's Cafe in Bessemer is where I met Delores.

My God!  I do not remember how many years ago it was that I worked there!  I was divorcing husband #3, working days for husband #3, and going to school nights at National College and working on a degree in Accounting.  OK.  It must have been about 1981 or 1982 that I graduated, so it must have been about 1980.  I could not make ends meet on an office managers salary, and I was attending school from 6 PM-9PM,  so that left little time for a part time job.  Liz's was a booming little cafe in Bessemer on the corner of Evans and something.   I think Dorothy and Frank were managing it at that time.  They needed a waitress from 12 midnight to 5:00 AM.  That worked perfectly for me.

The kids were asleep when I left and asleep when I came home.  I slept when I stopped and existed for the weekends when I could sleep until noon.  A schedule like that is not for everyone and I could not have continued indefinitely,  but it worked for a while.  Back to Delores.

Delores was an illegal immigrant who washed dishes in the kitchen.  She did not speak a word of English and did not come out of the kitchen for fear of being seen.  There was also another lady there in the kitchen and her name was Mary.  Mary was born here, so she was legal.  Delores, Mary and I became good friends at work.  When I wanted to converse with Delores the 3 of us would set down and Mary would be in the middle.  I would speak in English, Mary would interpret to Delores language and then interpret the answer back into English for me.  Mary was good!  Sometimes she would screw up and then we all three would laugh like a bunch of loons.  Now here is the moral of this story:

I never knew where Delores lived.  I never met her family.  She only existed in that corner booth for a few moments early in the morning.  She lived in the shadows and when the sun came up she was gone.  I often wonder about her and I can see her in my mind.  She will be forever young.  What I do not understand and never will, is why it has to be that way.  I do not know where she came from and I do not know where she went.  For some reason, I think she returned to Mexico.  I can still see her in my mind.  Delores lived in fear that she would be "caught and deported."  Why she was not here legally, I never knew.  That was a long time ago.

The point I am making is this;  She worked hard.  She spent her money in our country to exist and sent money home to her mother in Mexico.  Is that bad?  She had come here for some reason and her life touched mine, but it did not end there.  That was almost 40 years ago and I am still involved in the shadowy world of illegal immigrants, or maybe they are not illegal.  I think they are here legally, but afraid none the less.  I make regular trips east of town to visit my little friends that live out there.  I do not ask for citizenship papers.  I don't care.  They are my friends.  They live in the shadows and work in secret. 

Now we have kids locked up and parents looking for them.  And we have a caravan headed for our borders containing lord only knows how many men, women and children fleeing from drug cartels that are sacking their homes and killing the residents, raping the women, beating innocent children to death and more atrocities.  They are seeking asylum in our country.  And how do we respond?  They will be met at the border by OUR National Guard and turned back.  These guardsmen are under orders to shoot them if they try to enter.  WTF?

I am sorry, is this MY America?  My Grandfather came to this country 120 years ago when he was 9 years old.  I am a third generation immigrant.  When my grandfather came here he was just one of the huge family of Johann Haas.  Germans.  They came with Bibles in their hands and a fire in their bellies.  They walked the hall at Ellis Island.  They could have been from Mexico, just as easy.  I am proud of my ancestry and had they crossed the Rio Grande in the middle of the night, I would still be proud of them.  This is America for crying out loud!

I pray that when I stand before the throne of Christ and he judges me that he will not hold the behavior of my government against me.  I am not sure what I should be doing.  I can not change the course this country is taking with walls and tent cities for helpless children who have been separated from their parents.  I can not stop my government from trading bullets for rocks, but I can make my voice heard.  At least I think I can make my voice heard.  How long will it be that even my voice will be silenced?  How long will it be before we will be watching the parade and putting our right hand in the air and saying "Heil!"

Our country is divided on everything and the elite are lining up and Armageddon is on the horizon. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.  Our government is made up of a bunch of selfish aristocrats who will draw a paycheck for the rest of their lives.  Until we can get our government under control, we are doomed.  It gives credence to the adage, "You can send an honest politician to Washington, but you can not get him/her back." 

  I am sorry that so many do not grasp the reality of what is happening. 
 

Finally I am in touch with real time!

Set all my clocks back one hour last night before I went to bed and I woke up at a decent hour and felt like I was back in the real world.   It is 6:00 AM and I have been up over an hour and now the sun is coming up.  When I go to pick up baby at 7:00 AM the sun will be fully up and the geese will be out looking for whatever it is geese look for all day.  Why can't we just leave the damn clock alone?

An old Indian Chief said it best when he said, "A white man is the only one who thinks he can cut a foot off the bottom of the blanket and sew it on the top of the blanket and thinks he has a longer blanket. "  Hit the old nail on the head there.

We still have the same amount of daylight hours as we did yesterday, the only difference is the daylight starts a little earlier which means kids go to school when the sun is up and get home as it is going down.  To me it means I can let the geese out before I pick up baby and start my day and that eliminates having to make a trip back out here to let the geese out before I start my town stuff.  I can just stay in town and  "gitter done!"  It also means I can close them up while the news is on and I don't have to miss crucial questions on Jeopardy!

So, now life is good here on the farm and shall stay that way until the powers that be deem it necessary for me to go back to the other time which I do not know which time is the time it should really be the real time.  Is this daylight savings time, or was the one we just ended the daylight savings time.  The government should understand that all of us are getting older and while change is inevitable, some things should be left alone.  My little mind is having enough trouble understanding what day it is anyway, without having to remember that while Arizona does not observe daylight savings time, I do not know what time I am on.  Is my time and Arizona time the same now or were we on the same time yesterday?  It is a very good thing that I do not have to conduct a lot of business with anyone in Arizona.  I do have friends there and I could ask them what time it is.  Maybe I will go do that now!  Then  I am off to pick up baby on this Sunday morning, which I do not usually do, but there you go.  No problem for someone who does not even know what day it is anyway!

So, Merry Thanksgiving to you, or Happy Birthday, whatever day it is and whatever time it is in your world! 

And she never left his side.

This morning at 7:00 AM I was setting in a parking lot at 4th and Abriendo waiting for my son to arrive with my grandson.  53 years ago at the same exact time I was setting in a motel room with my husband, waiting to go to McPherson Hospital, in McPherson, Kansas to see my brother, Jake.  Jake had been in an accident the day before and mom had called to tell us to come.  We left the kids with Duane's sister.  Debbie was 3 years old, Patty was barely  2, Dona was 1 year old the day before, and Sam was 26 days old.  His sister was a brave woman.

We had arrived in McPherson late the night before and gone to the hospital.  My brother was propped against pillows and covered with a sheet across his body.  He did not even look hurt.  He did, however, continually kick his right leg and emit a moan.  Mother said that the doctor told her he was trying to stomp on the brake.  The last thing he would have seen was the side of a loaded gravel truck as Johnny ran the stop sign.  Johnny was down the hall in the same condition as Jake.  There was no hope for either one of them.  There was too much damage; too many broken bones to set, and to many internal injuries to even assess them all.  At the moment Johnny's last name eludes me, but it will come as all the memories of that time visit me from time to time.

This was my brother who had set with me beside a car battery and a radio listening to the Grand Ole' Opry from Nashville, Tennessee.  This was my brother who had written all the letters from Aschaffenburg, Germany when I was 15 years old.  This was my brother who dared to tell my husband, "You hadn't ought to hit her like that."  Of course that just got him some of the same.  This was my brother who had a new baby 6 months old and had been attending church.  This was Uncle Jake to my kids.  This was a broken human being that did not even know I was there.  And my mother set beside him holding his hand.

She talked of emptying the other bedroom at the house and setting it up as a room for Jake, just in case he lived and could come home.  She knew how severe the brain damage was and that he would be a vegetable and would need constant care.  She would quit working and stay home and take care of him.  For the first time in my life, I saw a mother's love in action.  A mother who would give up everything for her child.  My father had died only 8 months earlier.  His passing had made no impact on me, but seeing my brother so small and helpless was about to be my undoing.  So we stayed a little longer and then mother sent us back to Hutchinson to rent a motel room.  We would be back in the morning and she could call if anything changed.

We rented a little rat hole room and called and gave her the number.  In only 4 short hours the phone rang with the news.  "Jake is gone.  I will see you at the house."  I can not go into what went on in that motel room when I hung up the phone.  There are some memories that are so terrible they can not be erased and some hurts so deep that they will never heal.  I will just say that Duane was very upset and took the loss of my brother very personally.

So for 53 years I relive the Halloween of my brothers death.  My husband and I were married on October 30, 196?,  Dona was born October 30, 1964.

Guess what I am trying to say, is today is a bad day in my year.  Probably going to survive once more, but just be patient with me today.  Halloween pretty much sucks for me, but it passes.  Every year it passes.

So, life is mostly good.

Now I realize my mistake!

Fifty years later, I see my mistake!  Well, it is way to late in the game to correct it, but I can look back on it and laugh.  Trust me, there are not a lot of mistakes that are not funny, but this one is.

Let me set the scene.  I had divorced my first husband and my 5 kids and I were living in the 5th street house.  I was working at the Red Carpet Restaurant.  I was dating a long legged guitar picker who was in a band that played around the county.  He was not the brightest bulb in the box, but he was a warm body and while he still lived with his mother and father,  he was a step up from nobody.

Christmas came and of course gifts were exchanged.   He arrived with his arms full from himself, his mom and his sister.  By the time the unwrapping was over, all the tags were lost.  I do not remember what all was in the pile, but I did know the tags were lost.  So here I set with 3 pairs of sturdy cotton underwear, a pair of electric scissors, and a new Bible and a study guide and tags that said, mom, sister and boyfriend..

 No clues.  All three gifts could be referred to as they.  The scissors were pink, the underwear were white, and the Bible and Study guide were black.    I was sure his sister had given me the Bible.  Which left him giving me cotton underwear which made sense because I needed new underwear and had remarked that I would buy some just as soon as I got my Christmas bonus.  He did not remember who sent what, so when I called his mom to thank her for the gift I was vague.

"Oh, thank you so much.  How did you know exactly what I needed?"
"Well, I thought they would come in handy.  I hope they are the right color.  They had several choices."
"Of course!  That is always a safe choice."
"They looked pretty durable so I got those."

For some reason, by the time the conversation reached this point, I decided she had given me the electric scissors.  I would go with that.
 

Then she said, "Well, I hope you make good use of them."
"Yes, I think I will use them tonight!"
"Good idea!"

Looking back, I could have said, "Listen, your dipwad son lost the tags and I have no idea what you gave me, but I am sure it is nice whatever it is, because I know you bought all three and just put their names on the tags."  But I didn't say that, did I?  Hell, no.

I was always a little sad, that she never became my mother-in-law, because I think I could have grown to like her.  But it was not to be.  It was a few weeks later I saw his sister and she asked how the scissors cut.  Aha!  She sent me the scissors.  That meant his mom gave me the Bible.  Since I could not keep my finger off that phone I called her to tell her how much I was enjoying her gift and how confident I was since I was using them every day.  She seemed a little strange after that conversation for some reason.  I thought she would be pleased that I was studying the Bible.

And then I decided to actually wear a pair of my new underwear.  When I opened the box and took out the top pair a gift tag fell out.  It said simply "Delores"  (or what ever her name was).  And then I remembered our conversations.  They took on a whole new meaning.

Our friendship seemed a little strange after that.  Not long after that the guitar picker wandered off in search of some big boobed woman with no kids and who liked to set it the bar and listen to him twang away on his guitar.  I moved on, but that Christmas has always lived in the back of my mind.  It is nothing I talk about but it still pops up in memory every now and then.  I am sure his mom is no longer alive so I can write about it now.  He may still be around, but who knows?  The whole thing is just one of those things that transpired and then was gone.  It was important at the time, and in hindsight was really nothing at all.

Just goes to show you that sometimes what really wasn't stays in memory and becomes just that, a memory.

Happy Birthday Delbert Leroy Bartholomew!

DELBERT LEROY BARTHOLOMEW

10/5/1937-10/31/1965

Some where I have a picture of my brother Jake in his Khaki pants and shirt.  Lord only knows where that is in this computer.  So this one will have to do.  In this picture, I am the only one left.  I worshipped my big brother; my big sister, not so much.  Jake was my hero.  I would like to say he was a lot of things, but he wasn't.  

This picture was taken before he sneaked up and goosed the horse which kicked him in the face leaving him with a scar he carried to his grave at the age of 29.  He ran away to the Army as soon as he could forge a birth certificate that would get him in with mothers signature.  He went to Aschaffenburg (sp) Germany where he and one of his friends managed to wreck a motorcycle and get sent home without a dishonorable discharge.  I was 15 when he came home. He fell in love and may or may not have married the girl, but they did have a son.  I fell in love and began my family and we sort of drifted apart.  Then he fell in love and may or may not have married that girl, but he did sire another son.  

To make a long story short, Jake was in a wreck on October 29, 1965.  He died on Halloween.  Dona Marie was one year old and Sam was 3 weeks.  Somewhere out there in this big world my brother left 2 sons the youngest being 9 months old when Jake died.  I have often thought of trying to find them, but I am sure they have lives that would just  be better left as they are.

So, if I seem a little flaky in October, just bear with me.  It will all sort itself out someday.

Never let your right hand know what your left hand is doing.

Words from my mother.  And taken as a sentence sound kind of cryptic, but explained by my mother, they made perfect sense.  Most of us are giving people and will share what we have with those who have less, or those who are in need.  At least I like to think that is the case.

Most of you also know that I would give you the shirt right off my back if I thought you needed it and I like to think you would return the favor and I am sure you would!  So what is this all about anyway?  What does it have to do with not letting one hand know what the other hand is doing?  I will tell you.  It has come to my attention that some people are watching their hands a little to closely and maybe not letting go of what they give to another.  I do not want to become one of those people.  As an example, if I meet a man on the street and he is cold, I will give him my coat.  At that point I will walk away.  I could hide around the corner to see if he maybe sells it and then goes and buys a beer, but I would never do that.  I have given it to him and it is his to do with as he sees fit.  Ideally, he will use it to keep warm which was my original intent.

Maybe he has a friend who needs the coat more than he does.  Maybe he will wad it up and set on it so he does not get in the mud.  Who knows the fate of the coat at this point.  What I am trying to say is that as Christians we are often moved to do things and give things.  When this happens, we must let them go, and walk away.  I recently learned of an instance where someone had given something and it was sold.  The giver was hurt that this had happened.  Oft times when gifts are given to charities they are then sold and the cash used for other things, like gas bills, groceries, or medicine.  Maybe school supplies for migrant children.  Maybe that shawl you knitted and gave to the nursing home and pictured a little old lady keeping warm on a cold night ended up in a silent auction.  Or maybe the director took it across town to someone who was freezing because the heat was turned off in their apartment.  Or maybe someone who did not need it at all, sold it and did go buy beer with it! 

I guess what I am trying to say is this:  If you give it away, then give it away.  Let it go.  We have to do our part in trying to make the world a better place, but we can not do it all.  If you give something to someone, it is not yours to control.  Let it go.  And if you think that person abused your gift, then next time give to someone  that you think will do better with your offerings.  You could go to the person who offended you and talk to them.  "I gave you such and such and I think it went to some place I did not intend it to go."  Let them tell you what happened, but you should know that discussing it with anyone who will listen is only casting doubt on yourself.  And that is where the not letting one hand know what the other is doing comes into play. 

Take your gift.  Lay it on the alter, or place it in someone else's hand and walk away.  It is not yours anymore.  Your heart is not burdened with worldly goods.  Forget about it and move on to the next person who is in need and you will be wiser for it.

Just some thoughts this morning.

Lou Mercer Words of Wisdom: Grocery shopping has sure changed from 1950's.

Lou Mercer Words of Wisdom: Grocery shopping has sure changed from 1950's.: Back when I was 12 years old Flemings grocery store  and Berridge IGA (?) had contests.  IGA was for a trip to St. Louis and when you bough...

Grocery shopping has sure changed from 1950's.

Back when I was 12 years old Flemings grocery store  and Berridge IGA (?) had contests.  IGA was for a trip to St. Louis and when you bought something you had so many points to vote for the contestant of your choice.  That contest was won by Irene Reinke.  As a general rule, we did not shop at IGA because that was the store the "rich people" shopped at, so mother did not vote for Irene.

Flemings had a contest where you turned in labels from cans of a certain brand of food.  I stood outside the store and pushed for people to buy that brand, then save the label and I would go by their house and pick the labels up and put them in my stash.  Now, the city dump was different than dumps are today!  The powers that be would designate a place as the city dump and if you wanted to dispose of something you took it there and threw it on the pile.  People also went there to paw through the "stuff" and pick out good stuff.  My idea of good stuff was labels from cans, which I tore off and took home to my stash.  My stash grew bigger every day as I waited for the closing day when I would turn them in to be counted.

Now there were 2 prizes in my contest.  One was an English Racing bike which was for a boy which meant it had the bar across the frame.  Girls were open in that area.  The other was a radio.  I had my eye on that bike and nothing was going to deter me.  When the day arrived I took my labels in to be counted and I had almost 3 times as many labels as the boy who came in second place.  In all fairness, he was livid.  He had been beat by a girl and now that girl walked away pushing a boys bicycle while he stood there with a stupid radio.  Yes, I pushed that bike all the way home.  My sisters were so envious.  I pushed it around the block.  I pushed it into town and pushed it home.  I never had ridden a bike before and when I tried to stand with my feet on either side of the bike, it was not happening.  That damn bar was higher than my crotch.  But at no time did I think about trading it for the radio.  I just let that boy eat his heart out as I pushed it past his house.

And then the tires went flat because there are a lot of goat heads on Strong Street.  Mother could see no reason to have the tires fixed because it was apparent by this time that I would never ride that bike.  No one ever rode it until I gave it to a boy named Johnny Isabel who lived in Hutch and I do not remember how I knew him or why, but I  made a deal to sell it for $5.00 which he never paid me, but there you go!

Back to the grocery store, we always shopped at Flemings.  They had a locker plant inside the store where one could rent a small freezer to store extra food that was not canned or dried.  Things, like meat.  Not that we ever had meat, but if we did we could have rented a small cubicle, which we never did because meat was a rarity at our house.  Well, Jake would get a rabbit now and then, but not worth renting freezer space for the short period of time it took to go from dressed meat to the table to digested and forgotten.

There was a barrel for dried beans, onions, potatoes and such item.  You put what you wanted in a brown paper sack and took it up and had it weighed.  We were always careful with the brown paper bags because they were reused over and over.  Milk bottles were refilled.  Pop bottles were returned for a deposit that had been paid when the pop was purchased.  Lots of times we walked the ditch along the highway to find bottles that were discarded by people who were too lazy to return them to the store.  Seems like the deposit was only one or 2 cents, but it was free money and we could buy candy at Engle's store.  The display case there was filled with boxes with tops removed.  We pointed to which ones we wanted and the items were placed in a small brown paper bags.  A nickel was usually over half a bag.  As kids we never worried about "spoiling our appetite"  because evening meals were few and far behind at our house.

Don't get me wrong, poverty sucks.  No food sucks.  Wearing "hand me downs" sucked.  Walking every where was a pain. Easter was the only time we could ever hope to have anything extra and that was Easter Eggs.  We had chickens that were laying hens so eggs were fairly easy to come by.  Sadly eggs were either sold or cooked into something that could be shared among the 8 of us, but at Easter we got a whole egg and sometimes, if times were good, a chocolate something that resembled a rabbit.  I will go on record as saying my mother tried harder than anyone else in the world.  She went to clean houses every day and never asked for anything in return, except that us kids were fed.  She paid the lady up the street 50 cents a week to babysit the little kids.  Dad hung out at the pool hall, but as long as he was there playing dominoes, he was not home screaming at us to shut up.  No television back then, so creeks and haylofts and the cemetery  were our playgrounds.

Damn, I miss that life. .When I can not sleep at night, I run up and down Strong Street.  I spy on Hank Windiate(sp) and Jake Smith.  I listen to Rudolph Reinke singing in German as he did his chores.  I see the chickens scratching in the dirt for some hidden scrap.  I watch Joe Hedrick roping calves over on the corner.  But mostly I just watch for my momma to come home.  I have quit waiting for her and now anticipate the trip I can make to see her again.  I want to see her hazel eyes and hold her thin, long fingers.  But mostly I just want to see her smile when she comes to meet me.  And yes, momma, I am bringing the tomato soup made the way you like it with home canned tomatoes and milk.

This post should be titled "Inside the mind of a madwoman."  I woke up this morning thinking about today being Jiriaya's first day in daycare/preschool.  Then my mind moved to a grandson who is estranged from his kids and they are being raised by my daughter, his mother and how sad that was.  And then I flashed back to my teens when my brother and I got drunk on rot gut whiskey and red Kool-Aid and how I can not drink red Kool-Aid to this day.  Then I flashed to the next time I got drunk on wine.  I was divorced and living in Hutchinson, Kansas and working at the Red Carpet Restaurant as a cook.  That hangover lasted 5 days.  Now, the point of this post is for those of you who think I do not drink and that butter would not melt in my mouth.  You are wrong.  What I want you to take away from this is several things.

Liquor by itself is not bad.  Liquor in small does is probably alright, but liquor in some peoples hands is like a stick of dynamite in a gunpowder warehouse.  It is not good.  Both of these hangovers are burned into the deep recesses of my mind.  Let's face it, when you can remember a hangover that happened 40 or 50 years ago like it was yesterday, that is a hangover from hell!

I have been married several times, as most of you know.  And the majority of those men were alcoholics.  (Mother always said that the difference between a drunk and an alcoholic was that the alcoholic had to go to those damn meetings.  So with that definition in mind I must rephrase that to read that most of those men were drunks.)  Henry was not, he was just a jerk.  Kenny was not and we were together 20 years when he passed.  He must have made an impression because I have only dated one man since than and that relationship was strictly platonic until he passed.  He did kiss me a couple times, but I am not sure why. Then I hung out with a younger man who took me hiking and things like that, but that one petered out without even a handshake.   And I am not sure where I am going with this, but bear with me.

Oh, I know.  I have now been wide awake for one hour and 49 minutes, drank half a pot of coffee, gone from preschool to hangovers to death and am now thinking about the 2 half sheet cakes that are down in the freezer waiting for me to finish frosting them, but I had a thought when I got up of something I wanted to impart to you, so let me think what it could be.

Oh, this is to my daughter who is raising 3 grandkids and to the father who is letting her.  And to anyone else out there who thinks walking away from responsibility is a good thing.  Thinking drugs are the answer.  Thinking other peoples feelings do not matter.  There are several things I have learned in life and one of them is that God will never give you more than you can carry.

So when I walked away from a 10 year marriage with my kids in the back seat of a 1959 Chevy and all my belongings in the trunk, I was scared to death.  I knew my mother would not let me live with her very long so the first item on the agenda was to get a job.  Easier said then done, but I walked into Skaets Steak Shop where I had washed dishes before I married and told them I was an experienced waitress.  If you lie with a straight face and do not waver, people tend to believe you.  And thus began my career in the restaurant business.  I held my little family together that way.  And now years later I see history repeating itself.  You all know that my youngest son is an adopted grandson.

My hat is off to my daughter who is now the security of 3 kids that belong to her son.  For whatever reason, sometimes people take a wrong turn and sex and drugs seem to be more important then the kids at your knee.  Selfish wants replace love and family.  Temporary feel good moments replace the fulfillment of the children we sired.  And someone has to step in and pick up the pieces.  My daughter and her husband are doing that.  Not because they want to, but because they do not want to see her grandkids separated and placed in foster homes.  I did one kid, but she is doing 3.  So that makes her 3 times the woman I am.  Daddy pops in long enough to make noises that sound like he might actually step up to the plate, but then he doesn't.  The kids do not understand that.  But my daughter does and so does her husband.  So they are the security  for the kids and some day it will all work out.  In a perfect world the Daddy would get a job and set up a home for the kids.  And maybe the mother would do that.  Right now it looks like that is not happening.

So while I may know how things should work, they don't and there is nothing going to change anyone's mind so I guess I will just call it a day and go tend to my own knitting, as mother used to say.  It will all come out in the wash, or not.

There is more than one way to skin a cat.

I woke up this morning with the cat on my head.  Naturally, the first thought in my mind was one of mother's famous sayings:  "There is more than one way to skin a cat!"  Now let me go on record as saying, I have never skinned one; nor do I ever intend to do so but I have been known to flip the sheet so she flies off of me and onto the floor.  Trust me, she does not stay there.  I have had a lot of cats in my life and everyone of them has been devoted to me.  Well, mostly.

All of my cats have been Calico cats and so they were females, because all Calico cats are females, or so I have been told and it has been my experience.  I did at one time, have a male cat named Boots and I do not think he liked me at all.   He was a gray and white striped cat.  He was pretty much Kenny's cat.  I think Kenny always wanted a cat, because at one time he got a white Spitz dog and named it Kitty.  That dog did not stay with us very long and moved on to someone who actually wanted a white dog.  Except for that dog from hell, all animals that find their way into my home are here for the duration.  If you doubt my sincerity, you might want to take a look at the 8 geese residing in my back yard.  I do not even know how old they are.  My guess is about 16 or 17 years old because I got 3 geese when Bret was a wee lad and he now has a wee lad of his own.

Now I have Icarus.  I know Icarus was the little boy in mythology whose parents gave him wax wings and he flew to close to the sun and they melted, but I did not name this cat.  He was named by Sherman who liked the name and did not think anyone else was smart enough to know who Icarus was, but there you go!

But back to this cat skinning business.  Many years ago when I was in grade school and the body still bent, we had a Jungle Gym on the playground and one of the favorite things to do was swing by our arms  on the bars then do a thing called "skin the cat" which entailed pulling our feet up putting them behind your head and sort of turn ourselves wrong side out and then drop to the ground without breaking your neck.and not totally dislocating your shoulders.  As I write this, there are many things flashing through my mind.  One of which is the knowledge that we wore only dresses back in those days so when we were swinging on the bars and when we were turning ourselves wrong side out the perverted little boys were all setting on the ground watching us.  Holy shit!  How damn stupid were we?

Or were we naïve?  I am thinking naïve fits the bill a lot better.  I like to think that the days of sand and shovels were also the days of innocence and freedom. I do not know when the innocence ended for me.  Seems like about the second year of high school.  That was when I became friends with a girl named LaVeta.  Her dad made home brew and I really liked that.  She taught me how to shop lift.  I learned to dance.  I learned to smoke.  Life was good!  I dropped out of school in my senior year.  I ran away.  I broke into a gas station and stole the money out of the cigarette machine.  I had friends and what friends they were!  Sadly none of them showed up for court.  But on a good note, my downward spiral was ended at that point and I became a functioning member of society.  It was not until many years later that I became a respected member of the human race.  Which brings me to the lesson for the day.

"That is water under the bridge."  Been there.  Done that.  Sometimes the water under the bridge is low and just amounts to a stagnant puddle that just breeds mosquitoes and other vermin.  But that a clean rain falls and fills the creek and the puddle is gone.  Water under the bridge.  You can look at it and move on because in due time the cleansing rain will wash it all away.  Or not.

Even the mud puddles are different here in Coloradol

It rained the other night and I have to confess, it scared hell out of me.  Seems like when I was a tot back in Kansas, rain was more frequent and softer.  In Colorado, it seems to be either feast or famine, so to speak.  We lived about a mile from Bull Creek and it always had water in it, but when we got a good rain the little Bull Creek became a raging torrent and overflowed it's banks and came up the highway clear past the sand pit and almost to our corner.  I remember wading up the highway and the crawdads scooting away from me.  The scoot backwards, you know.

Strong Street was dirt.  Well, all the streets were dirt in that area.  Mostly the dirt was soft, but when it rained it would have puddles standing on it.  (Having a little problem here with proper English.  Do the puddles stand IN the road or ON the road?  Since they were on the road that sounds right, but since the actually were a part of the road they could be in the road.)  You choose.

Any way, after a rain the puddles were there and the sun shone brightly on them.  Now I am sure some of the water seeped into the earth, but it took a while and I remember seeing pollywog's swimming in the water, but it could have been mosquito larvae.  Who knows.  There is something so primal about wading in a mud puddle, that it defies description.  To feel the cool mud ooze between my toes was second only to walking on dried mud.

I do know that eventually the water was gone and the sun beating down on the puddle would cause the silty dirt to dry and crack.  The cracks would the curl on the edges and separate.  If I could be really patient, the sun would continue drying and then I was left with a big dried out patch of curled up mud.  The happiest memories are in the remembering, and I can still close my eyes and recall walking very slowly across the dried up mud in my bare feet.  The fragile mud curls made only a tiny crackle and I would walk slowly back and forth to be sure I mashed them all.  I have not had an experience like that since I left Nickerson.

Mud in Nickerson was also good for making mud pies.  The mud held together because parts of the road had clay.  My best friend, Barbara had a brother who nicknamed me "Mud Pie" and that name stuck until we went to high school.  Just happened to remember that.

The reason I am thinking of this is after our rains, there is a place in my driveway that water stands in for a short time.  I was looking at that yesterday, and the quality of the mud is not the same as Nickerson.  And for some reason, I do not see it making the curls like Nickerson mud made.  I suppose there is more gravel in my driveway.  Nickerson was sandy, hence the Sand Hill Plum Jelly that the Amish make and sell.

So as I start my day today, I will put on my shoes and socks and not even look at that puddle over there.  Some things can only continue in our memories and the days of sand and shovels and mud pies are over and are best left in the far recesses of my mind where I can use them as my safe place when life becomes too tedious and I need to escape.

B & D Carryout helped raise my kids.

Debbie and I were talking today about how parents do not always raise their own kids and it turned to my early years of being a single parent.   I know I was working at the Red Carpet and I was off on Sundays.  Through the week I worked the morning shift, came back and helped through the supper rush and then went down on South Main to sack bread at the bakery.  When you maintain a schedule like that, days off are a definite luxury so it was important that they be savored.  Now I have to say I was not very good at attending church, but I made sure the kids got on the bus every Sunday morning for their religious training.  But Sunday afternoons were special.

The fishing poles were always in the trunk of the old black Ford.  There were no such things back then as car seats so the kids just piled in wherever they fit.  They climbed back and forth across the seats, hung out the windows and generally just made a nuisance of themselves.  Of course they were hungry.  They were always hungry.  They were always hungry, always thirsty and always needed to pee.  It was all just part of the living thing back then.  They were kids and that was all they knew.  But any time we had a little time to kill and a little gas in the car we were good.  Gas was like 20 cents and the Ford could go 20 miles or more on a gallon of gas, so life was golden.  The only thing the old car lacked was an actual floor board on the drivers side.  It had a lot of floor, but it was mostly holes.  Well, no radio and no heater or windshield wipers, but it ran and that was what mattered.  Well, stopping mattered and the brakes worked most of the time.  I guess it was a way to get to the B & D Carryout out on fifth street where dinner awaited us.

Now keep in mind that coffee was 20 cents a cup and a hamburger at McDonalds was 19 cents.  At B & D Carryout I would purchase 8 hamburgers and French fries.  The bottom of the box was covered with French fries and then 8 hamburgers were placed on top of the French fries.  Each hamburger had a pickle slice and a squirt of ketchup.  That was it.  For this I paid $1.00.  Try and feed a family of 6 for a dollar today.  Not happening.  You are probably thinking that those were some damn little hamburgers, but you would be wrong.  When a rag tag carload of people are off for an afternoon of fishing and playing in the sand, there is no better meal to be had and the memory of those afternoons will some times pop into my mind at night and make me so homesick I cry.

How I would love to turn back the hands of time and be given another chance at raising my kids.  There would have only been one husband and father and there would have been college funds.  No home made clothes and no hand me downs.  There would have been a bedroom for each kid with a bed and sheets and blankets.  There would have been a puppy and kittens.  I would have read them stories and taken them for walks in the park.  We would have filled the pew at the Presbyterian church on Fourth Street.  And there would not have been a B & D Carryout.  Of course there would not have been fishing trips either.  So would the trade off have made that much difference?  Do my kids enjoy life because we went fishing  or would they have been better off going to college?  It is all irrelevant now.  There is no going back, so I guess I will just try to remember it as good times.  I am old enough now that I can get my fishing license for $1.00 at Walmarts.  I bought a new rod and reel and a new tackle box, but for some reason, they have not been taken out of the shed.

Mother said it best.

When we were kids on Strong Street, life was so simple.  In the winter we filled the water buckest and set them close to the wood cook stove in the kitchen so they would not freeze.  When it snowed it snowed and if the snow was deep Mother sent Jim Davis to the school to walk home in front of us so he could break a path for us.  Dad couldn't do it because he was busy playing Dominoes at the "Recreation Hall ( which was another word for "Beer Joint") in town.  Back in those days cars only had rear wheel drive which was the precursor to front wheel drive or all wheel drive.  Let's think about that concept a moment.

Rear wheel drive meant that all the power was in the back axle and the steering was in the front axle.  So basically, a car was propelled from the back and steered by the front.  Only time you actually had control of where you went, was when you went backwards.  OMG!  Isn't that how life is lived?  It sure is!  How many time have I looked back and thought " I should have done that differently!"

Which calls to mind several things my momma used to say and I could not understand them back then, but as I gain in age and wisdom, I am actually getting pretty damn smart.  There are 2 that spring to mind today for some reason.  The first one is  "As you sow, so shall you reap."  And the second is  "Sow the wind and reap the whirlwind."  I was naïve back when she would tell me this.  She explained it to a nine year old girl in simple terms, "If you want to eat a tomato, you have to plant a tomato.  You can not plant a turnip seed and get a tomato."  That was simple enough back then when eating was the most important thing in my young life.  And later when I was married to the "love of my life" I could not make the correlation.  That saying had no meaning in my life through the next 4 husbands either, but now that I am on the down hill slide, I can see it all very clearly.  Whether it has been the roughly 45 years of learning that has been drilled into my head or just the culmination of life that woke me up, I do not know, but here I am dispensing wisdom to anyone who will listen!

So let me explain the "sowing of the wind and reaping of the whirlwind" as I understand it today.  During the Vietnam War years, I waved my flag and demanded they "bring the boys home".  You see how that worked out for me.  When the powers that be decided to end it, it ended.  Gay rights came and I waved my flag.  AIDS hit the scene and I demanded care.  Martin Luther King, Trayvon Martin, Civil Rights; it was always something.  Now it is immigration and ripping babies away from mothers that has me stirred up.  Always demanding.  Always thinking my voice matters.  But does it?  Probably not.  I am on facebook, but I do not appear too often, because when I do I piss somebody off.  Mostly I defend as a "Libitard", but occasionally I get personal.

My last marriage taught me all I need to know about living a peaceful existence.  He respected and trusted me, and I returned the faith and trust.  He was my friend.  Sometimes he would need to remind me that I could not save the world and that Don Quixote tilted at a lot of windmills in vain.  I no longer have Kenneth as my rudder, but I do have my faith.  Social Justice is my thing and I pretty well stay away from people and their personal problems.  I adhere to that "Do not judge me until you have walked a mile in my shoes."

Trouble with the husband?  That is between the 2 of you and as long as it remains only the 2 of you, you have a chance.  I guess you could put it on facebook and let people vote on it, but when it is all said and done, it is between 2 people.  I equate facebook to the whirlwind and the poster as the sower and reaper.  I guess life could be simple if both parties were to post the saga as they perceive it in their mind.

"Geraldine does not fix meals I like.  She is always on the phone.  She is lazy.  I have to clean house.  She loves the dog more than she loves me."

"George   doesn't like the same food I do.  He is always wanting to talk when I am on the phone.  He is lazy and does not clean up after himself."

These are little things in themselves, but they become bigger than the whole.  George and Geraldine have planted little seeds.  Each one is harmless in itself, but as they lay in the ground festering, they become all consuming.  They do not discuss them, just water them with words and watch them grow.  And then comes the day of harvest.  The gentle breeze of yesterday is now the whirlwind of today.

Mother said other things also.

"Clean up your own house before finding fault with the neighbors house."  (Am I blameless in this or did I do something selfish?}

"The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence."  (Ever watch a cow standing in knee high grass and straining at the fence that separates the 2 fields?)

"Try to get that toothpaste back in the tube."  (When hateful words are hurled there is no getting them unsaid.")

And of course there is the Golden Rule!  "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."  and let me end this with what my oldest daughter says:  "What doesn't kill you, will make you strong."

Death is final.  There is not compromise after that.  The dead one inevitably wins because they got in the last word.

Just some things I am throwing out there today.  Take it or leave it.