ON AGING

Photo: "Skitch Aging"
By Skitch

THEN & NOW:


Though there's certainly a lot of truth to the idea that growing old is not for sissies, I've actually liked life more as I aged. My thirties were better than my twenties and my forties are better still. The only things I don't like about being older is the aches/pains, the health issues, & I have struggled with the empty nest thing. I miss having little boys around, but my guys have turned into these grown men that I couldn't possibly live without, so what's a mom to do? 

Maybe it sounds like I dislike a lot of things about being older, but the list of things I do like is longer. I like being wiser. I like being more self assured. I like knowing myself & others better. I like who I am more & that makes a BIG difference in my world. I like the fact that Olin & I get along better as we go along, each year seeming a little more romantic, a little more hopeful than the last. I do hope we live to see our golden years and that they turn out to be as golden as they are hinting they could be.

Don't get me wrong, I've certainly got my hard times, like everybody, but all in all things are good. I have a total of 15 people now that I love with all my heart but they won't or can't (because their parents won't allow it) even speak to me on any regular/dependable basis, or at all, period! I've suffered pretty hard with depression due to that, especially this last year. It seems that load is getting heavier all the time. My health is spooky sometimes, and I don't think I've ever had a job that I disliked more than the one I have now. But I remain acutely aware that things could be so much worse. We (even those I love that will not speak to me) are on the right side of the dirt, and as long as we are alive hope exists that some day they will decide to help me nurture relationships that are close and loving as we once had, or in some cases - as we should have had. Our health is overall great (no one is dying with cancer or even struggling with M S. etc) Olin and I get along wonderfully and my sweet, intelligent, healthy sons love me. Who am I kidding? They adore me! My parents are 81 & 75 and still doing fine in their own home & blessing me with their insight & their love. I asked my mother what I should think about the fact that I have so many people that I love that won't allow me to be in their lives. Her 75 year old wisdom? "They're looney!" I have 3 incredible sisters (two by birth and one by adult un-offical adoption) that would help me hide a body if it ever came to that. And I've got caring friends aplenty. So, not only is the glass definitely half full, but my cup runneth over!

When I was about 14, I read two books called, "The Pigman" and "The Pigman's Legacy". Both were written by Paul Zindel. In the Legacy book the kids took a test that went something like this:

Close your eyes and imagine you're walking down a road...what does the road look like?
You're walking down this same road and you find a key. What does the key look like? What do you do with it?
You're on the same road and you see a cup. What does it look like? What do you do with it?
You're still on this road and you get to a tree. What does the tree look like? What do you do when you get to it?
Finally, you're walking along, and you get to a wall. The wall goes up eternity, down eternity, left eternity, right eternity, and forward eternity. What do you do?

Now you: Close your eyes and imagine these happenings and discoveries one at a time. Then come back to the blog and you will be able to know things about yourself that you might not have known before...

Come on! Don't be a spoil sport!
Do it now!

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Okay, the road represents your road of life. The key is your key of knowledge, while the cup is your cup of love. The tree is a symbol of your sex life, while the wall represents death. Your imaginings tell you much about your attitudes on these subjects.

When I took this test my road was a little dirt road, gently winding, with green, shady trees. The day was summer and gorgeous, a perfect temperature thanks to the shade. The path was full of filtered light and the air rang with birdsong... This reaffirmed that I loved life!

My key was a skeleton key, ancient and weathered but beautiful. I knew it was extremely valuable and I would need it later on, so I put it deep in my pocket for safe keeping... I knew I valued knowledge.

My cup was tin and shiny, so functional and yet so pretty. I loved it instantly and thought it the best cup in the world. I held onto it in case I ran upon a stream and was thirsty... I knew I loved love.

My tree was a weeping willow. A great hulking thing with strong branches you could swing on. So, I played on the tree... I was a virgin at the time but apparently sex was going to be a fun game for me!

When I got to the wall that could not be walked around, or dug through or under, or climbed. I calmly turned and walked along it. I had no more desire to see what was on the other side than I did to see what was along the wall further on. I didn't entirely trust the idea that it was impenetrable and thought I might find a door or an opening of some kind. Or perhaps I would find more beauty and adventure along the wall than I'd could ever find on the other side. After all, right here along the wall was a field of multicolored wildflowers. The prettiest sight yet. ... Then I knew not only that the adventure of death would not frustrate me but that my "golden years" would truly be just that. And, though I have feared death, I have not feared growing older since that day. If I am blessed enough to make it to old age, I am certain I will be one cool (as we said in the 80s) old lady! Come on, walk down this pretty path with me. You can be a cool old lady too... Or cool old gent, if you prefer.

FURY IN THE FAMILY

Photo: "FURY!"
By Skitch

THEN & NOW:


Both my parents came from dirt poor Appalachian homes, both were small in size, even for their era, and both of them had tempers that put the fear of Fury into, to date, anyone that's ever ran into it. It is for a reason that the people of the Appalachians are labeled "rednecks." Fury tends to make your neck and face red.

My Dad says they used to call him "Redneck" and "Irishman" because his neck was actually red all the time and his temper was infamous. My mother, who came from a family with more than one child molester said one of her older brothers once told her that he "bothered" her sisters and not her because when she was barely more than a baby she chased him out of the house with a poker for some small offense that he could not even remember. My mother didn't remember any of the event but her response was, "Good. I'm sure you deserved it."

I've seen my dad beat a horse nearly to death and by the time I came along (a "surprise" late baby, nearly a second family all by myself) he had mellowed and learned a great deal about controlling the temper that had once controlled him. Today he is one of the most gentle, calm, self sacrificing people you could ever meet. "Humble" that's the perfect word for him now. People who knew him only in his later years would never believe that he used to have a temper that raged like a bonfire. He gives his God the glory for the passive man he is today, saying that only after he "was saved", as they call it, and prayed about it long and hard, was he able to rope in the Fury that had once dominated a large portion of his life. I was seven when both my parents were saved and baptised, and suddenly church, which I'd rarely been to, was a three time a week event. It was mere months later that someone rear-ended my dad's pick up truck with Mom, Sandi, and me along. (Daddy was the family's only driver at that time). I remember that Dad said some frustrated words, wondering how the guy could have missed Dad's turn signal. I remember he leaped from the truck, pulled the seat forward with one angry motion, though we were all leaning on it, and pulled out a lug wrench. He headed to the car behind him with my mother pleading loudly for the guy back there that had no idea that a furious Irishman was heading his way with a weapon. I watched in the big mirror as Dad made it to the end of the truck bed, stopped, swore, and returned with the lug wrench. He opened the door and almost mechanically placed the lug wrench back where he had found it. I thought my mother's pleas had gotten through to him, and I'm sure they helped, but it turned out that Dad had been thinking right away that the guy behind him could have killed one of us, Dad's "girls" or his much loved wife, and he wanted to beat the hell out of him for flirting with that possibility. But as he reached the end of the truck bed, the "still small voice" that is our conscience or the voice of goodness, or God, if you will, spoke to him. Telling him it was just an accident and the family was okay, and to put up the lug wrench. God certainly saved some guy a world of agony that day, and it's the last time I remember seeing my dad in the grip of Fury.

I don't know if my mother was a harder nut for God to crack or if she had just been through so much that He let her keep her Fury for those times when she needed it, but whatever the reason, she held on to it much longer than Dad did. I have not seen her temper flare in over a decade. Though Dad was more famous for his temper and has been known to do a lot more damage to people and things, I have seen my mother in the grip of Fury many times since the day Pop last truly battled his. She rages, and spits, and practically foams at the mouth. She will not hesitate to say the cruelest things she can pull out of her arsenal. I've been the recipient of her temper many times. It is a fierce and fearsome thing. If I were not her beloved child I have little doubt I would have been in fearful danger. As it was, I was slapped repeatedly as a teenager. My mind would get so rattled and foggy that I would lose count of the blows.

My oldest sister Sandi seemed to inherit all the calm our parents lost. I have seen her angry less than a handful of times and the worst thing she does is cry and maybe stomp her feet a little. It skipped right over Sandi like a flat pebble on the surface of the water but it landed squarely on Lila, and then ten years later on myself as well.

Lila has shot rings around people, chased them with a gun in her hand, and chased a grown man with a cinder block held over her head because she had every intention of slamming it down on his. If the heavy thing hadn't slowed her running and allowed him to get away from her, she would probably still be in prison for murder. I have taken guns from her and I've been unable to wrest some from the strength of her anger. You don't actually touch the gun if you want to take it from her, you appeal to what's left of the reason in her brain if you can reach it. So you are wresting the gun from her will, not her hands. To attempt to wrest it from her hands would only get you killed, adored little sister or not... Don't go there.

As for myself, my Fury has a name and it is Ella. When I was a very small child I wanted to be big and important. I wanted to be strong and safe. I had a toy elephant named Ella and I thought, in my little girl head, "If I were a big, strong elephant people would leave me alone. I would be safe, always." I was very young and naive to think so, but that is how I thought. I wanted to be "Ella". And so my lost temper now had her own name and began to develop her own personality. I can remember the first time I completely lost my cool in front of people that were not family. I remember the wariness in their eyes, the fear that was hiding right behind a veneer of disgust. I remember thinking that I didn't care if they feared me or hated me, as long as they left me alone. The fear actually fed me. Every time they looked at me with such caution in their eyes, I felt powerful, safe, and in control. So, I began to loose Ella on the masses whenever I felt unsafe and there were no authority figures around. It is amazing how many fights you can avoid by seeming insane. It is amazing how many fights you can win by being on fire with Fury. Sometimes Ella would yell, and scream, and call someone names that other children did not dare to utter in whispers behind closed doors. The opponents would back down, and that was the end of that. Sometimes she had to put her money where her mouth was and "pull" someone "bald headed," or "take a bite out of the soft skin on the inside of your thigh," or "take that stick away from you and beat you with it." Only once did I black out and not remember part of the fight. More than once I was pulled off of some poor unsuspecting fool that did not realize that a small person with a large dose of Fury is more than a big person with a desire to bully can handle. Mostly, those people were boys. I cannot tell you how many physical confrontations I've had with males, but I've had three actual fights with females. One of which I was pulled off the girl because I had started bashing her head into the floor and it was becoming obvious I had no intention of stopping. One of which I managed to rein Ella in and walk away because the girl was pregnant and I knew Ella would probably kill the baby if I did not keep control, so I had never completely loosed my Fury. I lost a tooth in that one and I'd earned it. It is the only fight I've been in that I started and one of two that I truly regret. The last one was a fight with my sister Lila, which I also regret. This fight was like a clashing of titans. It was carried on in three places. It included nearly having a car accident, having MY face imbedded in gravel, and both of us rolling over a briar and bramble filled mountain. It left us bloody and bruised, and my sister Sandi crying and stomping. It was the only fight any of us girls ever got into. You couldn't pay Sandi to fight and Lila and I learned that time that we frustrated each other a lot with our equal tempers, but the main reason it was the only fight we ever got into was because of our mother: She told us both, "I have never been ashamed of my girls, but today I am ashamed to my bones of both of you! You are SISTERS! You fight FOR each other not WITH each other! How does this reflect on your parents? Did you even think one thought about that?" (I had not.) She ended with, "I am not speaking to either of you until you apologize to each other and put this behind you NEVER to happen again!" My mother was not a perfect mother, but she hit the nail on the head pretty often, certainly that time, and I have never since forgotten that I fight FOR my sisters not WITH my sisters.

Of Lila's children only Shana seems to have inherited the temper and both of my own children fight a version of the rage. Shana put someone in the hospital once and pulled a nurse through a hospital by the hair on the poor woman's head. My niece thought the nurse was ignoring my other niece, Shana's very sick little sister. Cory has mostly hurt himself with his rages, and while I am glad he's not hurt others or been jailed himself for it, to see him hurt himself was possibly more painful for me than for him. Any time he wants to hurt me, all he has to do is hurt himself. I worry so much about his temper. His Fury is huge and wild, frightening, even for me, who has been surrounded by and filled with Fury until I became an old hand at tempers. Liam seems to have the patience of a saint, but if you push him far enough he blows up like a volcano. I had to lock his collection of knives and swords up for two years when he was in his early teens. The child that I'd seen angry less than a handful of times, become so enraged with his brother that he charged at him with a sword. I was shocked and frightened. I kept asking myself what would have happened if I had not been home. I had long hard talks with both boys and Liam's collection went into my locked trunk for years.

Like Daddy, Lila has a great deal of control over her temper now. It would shame her to read the words I have written about her as she is sure that God wants her to turn the other cheek. She's a different person now and so is my Dad, and so am I. We've all learned to control the beast inside us. When I was sixteen I decided that God did not want me to be an uncontrolled ball of anger. I made the mistake with my sister and with the pregnant girl and it was like life said, "Hey girl, rein it in." I began to work on keeping my cool, and turning the other cheek, and loving not only my neighbor (because as Jesus said, anyone can do that!) but also loving my enemy. Over the years I have evolved from a redneck drama queen to a pacifist. I am ashamed these days if I let my temper control me instead of the other way around. I am ashamed of the "redneck" label that I, for years, deserved. And yet,  I am not shamed by the Fury that my family has fought. For one thing, "fought" is the operative word there: Dad, and for the most part Mom, Lila, and myself have FOUGHT our Fury! We saw the bad side of it and we waged wild wars against it! And just as you learn from all pain and every battle, we have gained an insight that we would never have had if we had not been forced to subdue the dragon inside our own souls. We have sympathy for others that fight the same sort of battle. We can give advice to the next generation of Rednecks. And let us not forget, we won our wars! That in itself is something to be proud of. Conquering a huge temper is no small feat. For another thing, there was a time and place when we needed that anger, when it kept us alive, or sane, or in control of our own lives -- if not in control of our own emotions. My mother's temper saved her from additional and horrible abuse as a child. Fury saved my father and myself from being bullied. It saved my sister and myself from being beaten down in difficult abusive marriages. Fury has been our friend as well as our foe. And now, knowing how to control it, we can keep the friend and throw out the foe. If ever I or someone I love is attacked, there is the possibility that being able to tap into a wild anger that frightens any sane person may come in handy. For now, I am glad to be thought of as a hippy. Make love not war. I am often told I am "one of the sweetest people" that many of my friends know. But I know that Ella waits. I know that just below my calm, middle aged demeanor resides a hot and formidable Fury, I know that conquering her taught me a lot, and I know that she will be there for me, if ever I need her.

MIRACLES & HAPPENSTANCES

Photo: "Liam and the Sea" or "A Million Miracles"
Photo taken by spousal unit
Photo framed and named by Skitch

NOW:



The spousal unit believes that miracles are things that science cannot explain. I believe that science is a miracle.

The way I see it you either look at this world and you buy into the idea that it's a creation and therefore there is a Creator or you by into the idea that one happenstance after another occurred to create this multi-verse, our solar system, our sun, our planet, energy, Life, water, soil, nutrients, plants, animals, humans, all our functioning organs including our incredible brains and our marvelous immune systems, our emotions, our sense of self, and more. Each of these holds coincidence after coincidence, if you go with the idea that it just "happened". I don't know about you but I find that harder to swallow than the idea of a Creator. I think one coincidence after another would be more of a miracle than one Higher Being, and I have never known of anything creating itself, or of something being created from nothing. But I do think that either way you slice it you're looking at miracles. Life is a miracle. Love is a miracle. Every drop off water in the sea, each speck of light in a sunset, every human on Earth is a miracle. A bee is a miracle, and so are his wings, and the pollen on his legs, loads of little miracles inside little miracles.

I was deep in thought about miracles the other day; I was counting mine. I don't just count blessings, I count miracles. I was born with my navel cord around my neck it is a miracle I survived. When I was a baby my father left a coal mine just prior to it collapsing because (he remains convinced) I came into it and kissed him with my little baby kisses. My father was told by a doctor that he would not live to see his children grown and now he has lived to see many great grandchildren. Soon he may have a great great grandchild because he has great grandchildren that are adults in loving relationships. My oldest sister was told by doctors that she would be in a wheelchair by the time she was 30 years old. She is 58 years old now and still getting around on her own steam. The very night that I prayed to God and told him I was ready for a baby, I became pregnant. A few weeks later I prayed to God that my morning sickness go away and it did. My father once had bleeding ulcers. He fell over in the bathroom and blood gushed out of his mouth. The doctors put a light down in his stomach and saw multiple bleeding ulcers. They had to give him several units of blood to replace what he had lost. My sister told the whole family that night, "We are praying for a miracle- nothing less." The next day the doctors at the bigger hospital Dad had been transferred to for surgery put another light into his stomach and there were no ulcers to be found. Just recently, my father was told that he had Macular Degeneration, that nothing could be done to improve his sight, and that he would not be able to continue driving. After a few months of prayer, Dad went and renewed his driver's license. When he went back to the eye doctor shortly after that, the doctor checked Dad's eyes, checked Dad's records, checked Dad's eyes again and said, "You DID have that! I remember!" My dad is still driving.

I was thinking of all these and many other miracles that I have seen.  And I prayed to God about the people that do not love me that I feel really should love me because I love them so much, and I strive so hard to be good to them. I told God that I was tired of feeling so alone in my pain, of being unloved, ignored, sad. I prayed for a miracle - nothing less.

The next morning my sister called me. She has not called me in ages. We see each other at my mothers and I sometimes call her, but this was the first time she had called me in months upon months. She told me that I have been on her mind and that she had a dream about me. She encouraged me to continue loving people and doing all the good that I can do. She talked to me about God and being patient for miracles. She reminded me of the very miracle of my father's bleeding ulcers that I had thought of the day before. She told me we must be patient and wait for our miracle. But I knew that she and her words of encouragement and kindness WERE my miracle. I was not alone in my pain. My miracle had arrived. Others would follow.

That evening I received a short note from one of the people that I love and miss so very much. There were several photos attached. That was my second miracle when I had asked for only one.

If you believe in Happenstance then nothing is a miracle but everything is unbelievable. You are setting aside and honoring the idea of happenstances stacked on coincidences stacked on happenstances. To me, nothing is less believable than that.

If you believe in God then everything is a miracle and everything is believable. I believe in God and I believe in miracles. I think that sometimes they come in surprising forms. Still, if you believe in God and you believe in miracles, you will see them. Keep your eyes open, watch for your miracles, and do not buy into the God of Happenstance!

WHY I WEAR POLKA DOTS TO FUNERALS

Photo: "Polka Dots and Funerals"
By Skitch

NOW:

Journal entry
On December 29th I lost a very dear friend named Laura. She left unexpectedly, younger than death usually likes them, just a bit older than me. I was floored, angry, and so sad. She was loving, funny, humble, and charitable. How can it be that people with so much to offer are taken from us when they could have stayed and continued making the world a brighter, better place for decades to come? How can it be that people that sit on their couch absorbing television, drugs, and nicotine and only getting involved with others long enough to spread hatred and lies are left to carry on? I have no answers, a few guesses, but no answers. Maybe it's all completely random and we're on our own. Maybe we chose the game and God sits back and watches us play it. Maybe Laura was saved many years of pain and heartache by leaving now. Maybe. I have no answers, but I have a plethora of questions. Why her? Why now? When me? Where do we go? Anywhere? Nowhere? Everywhere? Are we alone? Loved? Watched? Hated? Ignored? Is there a purpose to all this? Is there a plan? Are we nothing but animals, for if so we are a pitiful lot. We're an infestation that destroys it's host. If we are animals we fall, in my opinion, to the bottom of the worthy list. Even cockroaches don't destroy the planet. Even flies don't wage war. Even mosquitoes feed frogs.

All the dozens, maybe hundreds of questions, make my head spin and I fall back on instinct. Instinct tells me that everything around me is part of a creation and creations have Creators. Instinct tells me that I am loved and that life is beautiful, that humans are given the ability to make art and to see their own mortality and individuality for a reason. Instinct tells me that irony and karma are part of a plan, part of The Plan. Most of us learn more the first decade of life than we'll absorb the next three. As a child I was convinced that I had always existed and that I always would. I didn't know where I had come from but I had this feeling, this belief that I did come from somewhere, not from nothingness, not from nowhere, but from somewhere. I could absorb language, social rules, ABCs & 123s, body language, and stories on top of stories. I took most of what I was told at face value, except for three things: I did not buy into the idea that I could stop being, and I felt intrinsically that The Easter Bunny and Santa were stories told as truths. That didn't bother me though; I still believed that the world was full of magic and mysteries far greater than a fat man riding flying reindeer. I was acutely aware of Miracles, of Magic. I never felt alone. I never felt unloved. I was not the least bit afraid of death, as it was inconceivable to me that I would Stop, that death could end me. I've felt all my days like my life was the movie of the week and one day God and I would watch it. When first confronted with death, I asked, "Where did it go?" It was obvious to me that the chicken wasn't in it's skin anymore, so where did the chicken go? I now trust that, in many ways that kid that I was knew some universal truths. I fall back on her instinct when I'm overloading my brain with the questions she didn't deem worthy of her time. She did not ask, "Did it go somewhere?" She asked, "Where did it go?"

Most of the cultures on this planet have come up with their own ideas about Creation and God. I think this is because people can remember being that child that was not afraid of stopping because stopping was not possible. That thread, I think, connects us and leads most of us to fill in the blanks and flesh out the colors that we are not sure of, so we come up with different versions of God, but we come up with God nonetheless. My hero and peer Voltaire told us, "If God didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent him." I concur but will add that, in many ways we have. 

I have the funeral to go to tomorrow. I will wear the same black and white polka dot dress that I have worn to every funeral, and many festive occasions, and several ho-hum-but-blessedly-normal days over the last five or so years. I wear it because, to me, it makes a statement about death. It reminds me not to take it too seriously, to view it with my polka-dot-loving child's eyes, to remember that though it is dark and somber there are many questions, many mysteries, polka dotted throughout. It is like a silver lining on a black cloud, though the lining is peppered. I've even done my nails up to match. It's extra meaningful for me this time because the very last time I saw Laura in person she was wearing black and white polka dots and I admired them aloud. I like to think that she too was in touch with the polka-dot-loving child inside herself. I like to think that, had the shoe been on the other foot, Laura might have worn something similar to my farewell party.

This is what I wrote about my friend the day she died:

Laura being taken away by death so young is like going out on the coldest, darkest night of the year, finding some homeless people huddled around a warm flame, and stomping that fire out. The general consensus would be, "Hey! What are you doing? We need that!" 
I always imagined our little group growing old together. Laura would have made such a cute and effervescent little old lady. It was easy to believe she would have been busy making a difference for all the whippersnappers around her. And now I'll never see it. The world needed it, but we'll never see it. Sometimes life makes about as much sense as a bug full of blenders. But here I am, holding on until I find out what Laura now knows. What's next!? Until then I'm going to be a bit of an outraged bum. I needed that fire!
You will be sorely missed my sweet, joyful, friend. Light up that next place like you lit up this one. We saw you!

A HARD AND HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVE

Photo: "Winter 2013"
By Skitch

NOW:

Journal Entry

Tonight I saw my grand kids. I was in a store, just placing items on the counter to be rang up, and then I saw that the mom and two kids in front of me was my step-daughter and my grand children. I waited to catch one of the kiddos eyes. Knowing that my step-daughter would not meet my gaze, would not smile at me, or say hello, I focused on the little ones. When my grand daughter looked at me I smiled and said, "Merry Christmas. I love you." She looked away quickly, and she and her mom and brother, finished with their shopping now, left in a hurry. I thought perhaps she had not heard me. I called after them, "Merry Christmas. I love you!" They rushed away. I must admit it knocked my heart for a loop. I've been through it before, people that used to love me, that I still love, ignoring me. But somehow I thought these innocent and bright eyed little guys would always love me and respond to me with joy, whether their mother liked it or not. My heart was broken, but I tried to hold back the tears. The clerk looked at me oddly, no doubt wondering why I was calling, "I love you," at complete strangers in a check out line. 

I made my purchases and got outside before the first tear fell. I cried through the three parking lots I had to cross to get back to my car. At first I wondered, "Could they really have forgotten me?" No! Surely not! "What did she have to tell them to get them to ignore me?" I was suddenly so miserable that I just wanted to go home and cancel Christmas. Worse, I wanted to go home, and crawl into bed, and not sleep, and not think, and not eat, and not drink, and not breathe. But I knew, because I've been down this road before, that not breathing is not an option. I cannot ever put those that do love me through that. I cannot ever give the signal that giving up is acceptable. 

I almost called my husband, but I didn't want to bring my sorrow into his world. He is out of town, working on a car for our oldest son, giving everything he has to give (time, money, energy) to one of our children. I did not think I should share this pain with him and distract him when our son needed him. I started to call my sister, who is going through such similar pain with her own family, and then I imagined her happily spending time with our parents. I did not want to rain on that parade. My middle son was at work in a store nearby. I thought, "Maybe I'll just go talk to him." Liam is an adult now and very understanding about pain. He always says the right thing to put life into perspective. But he was working. I thought of my oldest son who also gives sage advice and manages to make me see the world at a new and better perspective. But Cozy was working on the car with my husband. No way to contact one without alarming the other, and they were busy. My best friend Mary was at work. I took a deep, painful sigh. Suddenly I felt the need to hash this out for myself. So, I went through, in my mind, what my husband might say, what my sister would likely tell me if I were to call her, what Liam, and Co, and Mary might advise. I wiped the tears from my face, and I realized that what my step-daughter may have told them did not matter, if they had forgotten me even that did not matter. What mattered was that I do not forget them, and that I survive this pain, and all pain, with every bit of strength and dignity I can muster. I knew then that I could look at this two ways: 

"My Christmas is ruined because it's painfully clear now that even my sweet, and innocent, and joyful grand kids have been turned against me."

OR

"The best gift I got for Christmas 2013 was a peek at the two kiddos dearest to my heart. I got to see my grand kids that I haven't seen but once in the last two years. What an unexpected Christmas blessing!"

I think I'll go with door number two, and I'll be grateful for those two precious children that I will love with every beat of my fierce heart, and be grateful for all those that are subject to my stubborn adoration, and for the ones that see my love as something to be sought instead of shunned (what blessings, what miracles they are!) and be grateful for those I could have called but didn't. Just think, their good advice has been there for me so many times that I can just about guess what they would say. Time after time, gift after gift, their words and encouragement have been there for me.

Merry Christmas to you and yours. I hope you are as blessed as I am.

WHY I WRITE.

Photo: "Skitch Writing"
Taken By Spousal Unit
Edited By Skitch

NOW:



     Sometimes you just have to have a good cry. Two nights ago I had one. I started thinking about how a writer is a lot like a prophet: “Truly I tell you,” he continued, “no prophet is accepted in his hometown." Luke 4:24
     
     I've always wanted others to hunger for my words, and I've long felt that they would. But, quite frankly, to those who know me best, my writing is of little interest. I used to keep my journals locked up. Now that's a bit of a joke. No one bothers to read my words, not even those secret ones I write to myself. For a while, thinking of that upset me greatly. As I confessed, I had a good cry over it. I wondered why anyone would ever read my work when those nearest and dearest to me could not muster much interest. If those who LOVED me did not hunger for my work how would anyone ever? And this is not just a person or two. This is across the board. My parents, spouse, children, sisters, best friend, cousins, etc show little interest in my writing. The only exception being my sister. She not only read my novel, she helped me edit it. But she's shown no interest in anything since, and that was many years ago. A few cousins and friends also read it but they've largely done the same. And I was hurt about that, for a time. Then I realized that when people knew me less they found me more interesting. I've published several poems and some short stories. These are the exact same poems I had to practically corner people and force into their ears, the same short stories that I received mostly criticism for when I read them to the those closest to me. A writer is not accepted in his hometown. 

     I think it has something to do with the idea that writers are arrogant. The general consensus seems to be that if you dare to write something down on paper and expect others to listen to it or read it and (God forbid) like it then you are, as my people call it, "putting on airs" or "getting above your raising". It is the same idea that made being a writer such a frightening prospect in the first place, the same thing that inspired me to hold that secret dream deep inside me like a hatching robin's egg. And yet, the fear of it kept it alive as well. I went after the adventure of writing, in part, because it's important to face your fears. Nothing scared me more than admitting to a dream that big; nothing was any more terrifying than bleeding my introverted mind out on that blank piece of paper for anyone and everyone to read. I often don't know what I'm doing or what to expect in this world, but that time I saw the good cry coming. I was right to be afraid. It is a painful, lonely world, the writers world.

     People read my writing. I know they do; I can see the stats. It's not my friends and my family usually but some stoic Russians bend over these words and try to understand the thoughts and feelings of a writer that is not from their hometown. And one day, I hope that my sons, or their children, or my great grandchildren, or one great-great-great grandchild brought to me by blood and/or a lovely adoption will take an interest in these words, in the mental meanderings of someone that loved them before they were born. And so I write. I write for the Far Reader, the Far Russian, The Far Child, and for my own peace of mind . I write to boldly face who I am, to know me. I write because I must face my fears. I write because if I don't I'm miserable. 


     Did I share these fears and this horrible writers arrogance with you because I like to whine about how my friends and family aren't interested in my work? No. Was it because I like to be afraid and I enjoy "putting on airs"? No, I share this with you because I'm a writer, because I'm miserable when I deny my fingers the pen or the keyboard. I share these words because somewhere, someday, someone will read them and say, "Yes, I must write. No matter how foolish they think I am, no matter how much they criticize my work, no matter how many good crys it has brought me, I must write!" I share this so that person will know: Those around you aren't going to give you the support you crave; you must give it to yourself. If you are a writer, if you have chosen this lonely world, or it has chosen you then write for yourself, for your far children, for the stoic Russians, to face your fears, to keep from being miserable. Find a reason -- or ten -- and write!

I WENT TO A FUNERAL LAST NIGHT: Unloved III (Dream Journal)

Photo: Skitch at a Film Funeral

NOW:

Dream Journal


    Last night, I went to a funeral. I was sitting alone and feeling the loss of a loved one, but for the sake of the gone-one, and for the sake of the living, and for the sake of goodness I was trying to keep my thoughts on the living and the suffering, specifically on my niece, Tanya. She was sitting in an isle of pews that ran in the opposite direction from the ones where I was sitting. I glanced her way now and then, wanting to offer comfort and wanting to avoid offense; it was a fine line I tried to walk. I knew the chances were good that she didn't want my comfort, but I wanted to be there if/when/the second she ever did.

    Once I looked and she had her son Riley sitting with her. Riley has never had the time or the chance to bond with me. He was very small the last time I was allowed to interact with him. He always treated me like a visiting relative he didn't know, which was exactly what I was at that time. No one bothered to tell him I was also his biggest fan, that I loved him to the bottom of my deep heart, and that I thought his skin felt better than anyone's in the whole wide world. No one besides me, that is, and I think he didn't believe me. Now he shows fear when he sees me, if he recognizes me. I'm sure it's fear of disappointing his parents by interacting with the "enemy", but fear it certainly is. I did see him in school once and say hello. He responded and there was no trace of fear in his face, but he didn't know who I was. He didn't even recognize me. To be unknown by those you love... it is an odd thing. Once he knew who I was the fear came into his eyes and he turned away without a word. This time he knew me and the fear was evident. I tried to smile at him but he would not meet my eyes.

    I concentrated on the service a while, and when I looked back Max was sitting with Tanya where Riley had been. Ri had moved to sit elsewhere, probably with his dad. Max is another of my great-nephews but he is Tanya's nephew, not her son. Max and Riley are nearly the same age, but Max has had four years to get to know me better, four years that Riley and I were denied. More importantly, he's had encouragement in getting to know me. Many of the people he already knows and trusts, his mom, his dad, his "Nan" have said to him in their actions, "Here is Dee Dee. She loves you. You can believe her. You can love her back. You are Family." Max loves me. He knows that I adore him to the bottom of my deep heart. He knows that I am his biggest fan. I call him "Hero" because he is just that. My Hero. He knows that I think it's marvelous that he did nothing more than scowl until he was about three years old and then he rather suddenly turned into one of the most cheerful, loving, selfless people on the planet -- just as his mother had done before him. Max has been very sick lately. He has been in and out of hospitals, in a lot of pain, unable to eat properly. His digestion is just not working as it should. I've been concerned for him. Max met my eyes, smiled back at me, and in his smile I saw an apology for all the pain, and apology for how much Tanya and Riley were breaking my heart. I was struck by the difference in my relationship with these two great nephews, dealt a blow with the realization of all the time I had lost with Riley. When last I held Ri both he and Max were unsure of me. Now Max knows and loves me. I smiled as bravely as I could at him, then bowed my head and tried to hide my tears for my lost time and memories with Ri.

    When I dared to look back, Tanya deliberately caught my eye. She pointed to the woman sitting beside her and mouthed with force and defiance, "This is my lover!" My first thought, I confess, was, "If she were inclined to, Tanya could find prettier women than that lady." I was immediately ashamed of that idea. If Tanya liked or loved her, that was all that mattered. And many years on this Earth have taught me that pretty on the outside is not as important as pretty on the inside. I mouthed back, "Good. I am happy for you." And I smiled. At that same moment, my mind was asking me, "Why is she telling you this now? At a funeral? In a crowded church? Why does she seem so defensive? Is she trying to shock you? Hurt you?" As my mind asked me these questions I watched Tanya's face register surprise and then deep uncertainty. She dropped her gaze. I did not know if the woman were her lover, probably yes, but I did know that she had chosen here and now to tell me this because she had expected it to shock and maybe hurt me. I then grasped on an optimistic thought, "Is this why she keeps such distance between us? Was she also or even mostly fearing rejection all these years? If so, would she come around now that she sees you love her regardless?"  I wanted to shout across the church. "You can love anyone you want and I will support you. I will always love you!" But I too dropped my head.

    After the sermon everyone got into cars to drive to the burial site. It was cold and everyone was dressed in coats and boggins. We were outside on a hill and trees lined the road and were peppered about in front of the church. Tanya and her friends pulled a car over beside mine, and suddenly another vehicle came sliding sideways in front of us. It passed right by the noses of our cars, picked up speed as it went down hill, hit the tree line hard, broke through several small tress, and rolled over the hill. The road was a solid sheet of ice. Tanya said, "Dee Dee, jump and roll." I looked at her face and saw that she had surprised herself. She was torn between helping me and regreting the warning she'd already given me. My car, which was in park, began to slide sideways. I jumped and rolled and it went down the hill alone, driver's side door open, and crashed near the other one. I knew Tanya's car would do the same. "Jump and roll!" I told her and all the occupants of her car, I could see Max and Ri and several other women and children, but no one moved. They seemed paralyzed with fear. I knew I could not get them out of the car in time! It started sliding as I realized that. I was between it and the bottom of the hill. I turned, ran just a bit, fell on my bottom, and slid down the hill deliberately and as fast as I could. I narrowly missed plowing into a huge tree, and immediately fought to get myself behind it. There was a dip in the ground behind it, deep. It would protect me even if the tree went over. Tanya's car hit the tree before I was completely into the hollow, and I watched as the roots shook but held. I fought my way quickly back up and around to the car and saw the occupants all seemed shook up but largely unhurt. The danger now came from another car crashing into thiers. I said, "Tanya, come here!" But she huddled in a corner away from me. Another car was sliding down the hill. One of the women in Tanya's car came toward me and allowed me to help her out and to the ground which was about three feet lower than the ground where the car's tires stood.  I unloaded a few more of the women and girls and helped them hide in the hollow behind the tree. I kept calling for Tanya, Max, and Riley but they would not move. They all huddled together in the fartherest corner of the front seat. The car that was sliding down the hill narrowly missed us and landed further down, but I could see other cars sliding our way. They would not all miss us. I kept pulling women and children from the car, but Tanya and the boys would not move. My plan was to get the other people out of the car and then go into it myself to get my family. The women in the hollow were allowing the children to fall in the hole in a frightened heap. "Help them down!" I yelled. "Help them to you as I get them from the car! Then keep everyone back as far as possible." I was wanting to both keep the passage to safety open and get the survivors further back in the hole where they would be safest. Two of the women came over and started helping others down and directing them to the back of the hole. They took the little ones I was handing down. More people were in that car than I could have ever imagined, and still I could not make a way to Tanya, Riley, and Max. They needed me and I could not yet get to them.

    I awoke and started crying.

    This morning I added to my morning ritual of prayer and rejoicing. Between "The Lord's Prayer" and "This is the day the Lord hath made, let us rejoice and be exceedingly glad in it." I cried and I asked of God, "Father I cannot get them out of that car, but You can. I cannot steer the other dangers from them, but You can. Please wrap Tanya in your loving hands, let her know that You love her always and forever, no matter what. And then please let her know I love her too, always and forever, no matter what.

    "Please wrap Riley in Your loving hands, let him know that You love him and that everything will be alright soon. Please take the spirit of fear from that child. And please let him know I love him too.

    "Please wrap my Hero in Your loving hands, remind him that You love him. Please heal his broken little body, and take away his pain. And please tell him I love him too.

    "And Father God, please delay the funerals as much as You can see fit to. I do not know who was in that casket. I do not want to know for a long long time. I thank You, and praise You, and I love  You, for what You have done for us and for what You will do..."