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...