Amidst the Mysts (The Bridge2)

The man was sweating lightly, feeling trembly. He remembered.




He remembered.       


He had been walking from the shop to the farm, where his son was to bring him his lunch. His wife always wanted him to have something fresh, and since he liked her cooking, that was fine. He never knew what combination of his children would show up, and he usually made bets with himself on who and how many it would be. Since school was back in session, it was usually just one or two of the older boys.

He had stopped to check out the balsams – something wasn’t looking right about the three year olds. He didn’t see anything – no insects or growths, and he made a note to have Jamie or Jon to check the soil. They may have been placed too closely, now that they had grown and spread out. They didn’t look crowded, but you couldn’t a;ways tell by looks.

Ne bent a needle, and put it to his nose, then grimaced at the sharpness the scent sent through him. Oh well. He’d best get to the office at the Farm, and get his lunch. That should fill up the hollow place that was starting to ache.

It had been a long and busy morning up yonder.

He ambled on, passing into the spruces. They were his favorites, for shape, for scent, and for color. They were ready for harvest this winter, and he was already getting gentle inquiries for bigger orders. His brothers still thought people were crazy to buy cut trees to take into their house until they were fire food, but they were renewable and profitable, if only for about three weeks a year. But what a profit!

Whew! There was the office! Sure seemed like it had taken a while to get there today. He was exhausted! But then, he hadn’t exactly been in a hurry, and he couldn’t be late since his lunch wasn’t there yet.




By the time he got to his desk, he was sweating lightly, and trying to remember what he had been lifting up yonder the was making his shoulders ache. Probably cases of books, although he didn’t remember any specifically. It was just something that usually happened when he was there.




He sat at his desk, literally pushing papers from one stack to another. There was nothing that needed immediate attention. Nothing that really needed his attention at all, besides maybe soil samples from around those balsams. Jamison could take care of that. He wrote a note so he wouldn’t forget, then smiled as he heard someone approach whistling

It was Jamie. He’d know any sound that boy (young man, not a boy for a while now) made anywhere. And it sounded like he was alone, too, which was rare enough for either father or son, let alone both of them.

He stood up to greet Jamison, – and was forcefully thrown backward. By what, he didn’t know. Just that it was sudden, it was strong, and it had pushed him hard enough to topple him and his chair.




And then he was walking through the woods, following or seeking the sound and source of indescribable music.

As if the clear crystal air itself was singing, without words. Vibrating with sound. High pristine notes, low deep chords that could be felt maybe more than heard.

The harmony was perfect.

No, the harmonies were perfect.

Invisible strings strummed by invisible hands.

Notes, tones, and chords from the air itself, no words but those perfect harmonies.

He had to find the instruments and the music.




And so he had come to the bridge, with its singing, playing cables, but no song.




There were people coming and going on the bridge. Some ran forward to meet joyfully those waiting, some came away quickly from the bridge, eager for their next best thing.

There were people – masses of people, standing alone or in groups all along the bridge. Some were saying ‘hello’ and some ‘good-bye’ and some nothing at all, just watching.

Was there someone watching for him?

He slowed his walk forward to search the crowd. He saw–

He saw many faces, of different degrees of familiarity. Former co-workers and employees, never quite forgotten, but never a whole portion of his life. Casual friends, old acquaintances. He saw them, and they saw him, but any greeting or recognition was that od “used to be.”

He saw his mother (as beautiful as she used to be) and his father (as strong and sturdy as he had used to be) and they both smiled and waved to him, but they were surrounded by children (unborn and stillborn and too-early born, and too shortly living siblings?) and he could see that they –all of them – were content.

Happy and content, not sure why they were at the bridge just now, but they were together and so they were happy. They were there for him, but they were not waiting for him.

His eyes searched the crowd, looking and looking for someone looking for him, and there was no one there of that description.

He was approaching the Bridge, and there was no one there for him.




It was then, just before stepping away from the ground onto all bridge, that he became frightened, and turned and ran.




He would NOT go to where no one waited for him. They would be waiting for him to get home. His son was bringing him lunch. How had he come to this bridge? Why was he here?

This was not his place.

Definitely wasn’t his time to be here or – someone (did he know who?) – someone would be looking for him, waiting, if this was where he was supposed to be.




He took fright and he ran.

He had run and run and run, until he ran into the fog, and the more he ran the thicker the fog became and the more lost and alone he felt, until he had stopped to catch his tortured, ragged breath by leaning his hand against the tree trunk while he tried to solve his mysteries.


He opened his eyes and knew his truth. He had been the one looking for someone. His friend of many years. His lifetime friend; his forever friend.




The friend who had been beside him all along, but that he could only see by going into the Mysts.

His life, and his friend, were here.

His life, and his friend, were now.




The bridge faded, for a time, until time,into the fog, until the only thing before his eyes were the fog through the trees, and Love.

Amidst the Mists 7

He was still in the bed, but sitting up more and better. 

In other words, he was getting bored. 

Tonight, for several rare minutes, he had been alone, while voices and doors

and all the sounds of a full busy household sounded around him.

He watched out his extravagant window as the darkness fell, long and slow,

and the mists gathered off the lake and wandered down from the treetops. Winding,

whirling, dancing. 

He thought of the clean living smell, and wished he was out there once more.

“No, you don’t,” a voice said next to his ear and he looked around but no one

was there.

“You aren’t here, go away,” he said crossly.

“Now how can I go away if I’m not here?”

“I don’t know how you’re here when you aren’t here.”

“Temper, temper.”

“Oh shut up!”

His wife looked into the room. “Do you need something? Are you talking

to me?”

“No. Just – just talking, I guess.”

“My silly man,” she said, came in and kissed him on the forehead and

adjusted the covers around him, like he was one of the children. 

“Don’t,” he ordered, but then caught her hand before she could retreat. 

She waited. 

“Do you s’pose, ” he said hesitantly, “that I could sit in the window?”

“With night coming on? Do you think that’s – safe?”

“If it’s not, I have more work to do on the window. Besides, night air being

sick isn’t true.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah. I do.” He turned her hand over and studied it, then rubbed it softly. 

They were silent together, then she sighed. “Jesse and Jonny

are still here. I’ll send them in to help you.”

“Alright.”

“You have to let go of her hand,” the voice beside him advised him. “She’ll

stand there all night letting you hold her hand.”

He sighed, and let the hand go free.

Amidst the Mists 6

He was back in the bed, back in the bedroom. 

It wasn’t hot and steamy and there wasn’t so much noise or people

coming and going. It was a pleasant place to be.

And he didn’t feel bad. 

He was propped up on pillows, his hands folded across his chest

(that was a tiny bit unnerving) He was breathing easily and nothing hurt

especially.

He opened his eyes. The room was filled with muted sunshine pouring

through the large window facing east. Muted because the sun was overhead.

He’d built in that window to watch the sunrises over the mountains and

across the lake. The time and trouble he’d had installing all those panes of glass!

It had been such detailed work, but he had never been sorry about the time and money spent. 

It was a perfect way to start the day, especially in the Dark Time

that was winter. 

There were a couple of children playing some game on the floor. Marbles

maybe. Young, still wearing baby gowns. Couldn’t tell if they were boy or girl

or both.

Right now he couldn’t recognize if they were his children, or his grandchildren, or

maybe one of each.

Closer to, beside the bed, a tall young man with dark almost curly hair was

stretched out with his feet propped up on a second chair. He was dressed in a fancy

suit. A party suit, not a funeral or church suit. Wouldn’t be suitable for a business

meeting, either. 

For a moment, he was puzzled that there was only one of the fancily dressed

young man there. Then he remembered that that was an okay thought, because

there really were two of him. His identical brother had been growing a beard the last he

remembered. (He wondered how that looked.)

The fancily dressed young man had a baby on his lap, a small one. An infant.

  He wondered distantly who had been expecting before he went running through

that fog curtain. 

The young man was talking to the baby, in a cheerful soothing voice,

threatening it with all sorts of dire consequences if it dribbled anything, from either

end, of any color or texture, even see-through, on his suit, which had been

ridiculously expensive and he’d probably never get another one like that. 

The baby gurgled and waved its hands, which were mittened.

The young man laughed back and continued making threats in a light tone

in his pleasant voice. He was now telling the infant about his adventures and

strategies that had got him his suit, which Pops insisted was a ridiculous expense.

How he’d like to continue that debate, hopefully with a lot less temper.

Not, the man in the bed noted, to not have argued about it at all. That was

honest, anyway. Funny how the young made such a fuss over clothes. He’d never

done that.

    In fact, until he married, he had been satisfied with off-the-shelf clothes that had

never fit properly. They were good enough.

“You’d think,” the young man informed the infant, “that Pops never had

tailored clothes in his life. That’s probably why he doesn’t know it's worth the price.”

The man in the bed raised a hand. “Jamie-my-son,” he said, and was pleased

at the sound of his voice. It didn’t shake, it wasn’t a whisper, and it wasn’t shrill.

The younger man turned and stared at him, his light blue eyes opening wide.

“Pops? Are you AWAKE?”

“Don’t call me Pops.”

The younger man leaned forward and pushed a button that had been wired

into the bedpost. It created a loud buzz outside of the room.

“You couldn’t wait til I was dead to bring in your electricity?”

“Oh, you were dead. You’ve died a few times, Pops. Last week or so, you’ve

been – mostly asleep.”

The room was suddenly crowded with people, and they made a heck of

a lot of noise. 

Too much noise, really. He closed his eyes while his son tried to explain what

had happened to the multiple family members who had come running when the

buzzer sounded.

“Don’t call me Pops,” he said again, closing his eyes.

The room erupted in laughter and cheerful, joking talk as he drifted back into

silence.

Somewhere In My Mind

 There's an 'understanding' that wandering through one's own mind is a bad thing. As children, as soon as we are indoctrinated into the education system, we are told to "quit daydreaming". We are discouraged from coloring chickens neon colors. Our off-beat rhythms are discarded because they "don't exist." (then how did we create them in the first place?) Music should have rhythm, tune, melody, and harmony -- never mind that our ears and our minds are filled with garbage trucks, tankers, revved-up motorcycles, children screaming, doors slamming, and many other types of discord.

Inside one's own mind is a place to be avoided. It can't be taught; it cannot be reached. One who lives in an isolated spot is an oddity, a weirdo, an object of pity and ridicule.

An outsider.

This continues through our growing-up years, and into our grown-up years, and sometimes we find ourselves trying to program our children into the same ruts and roadways of communal living. 

Because humans are social creatures, and without organization and codes of behavior, life will be chaos. Anarchy. Different.

Different.

As we age, though, we are "allowed" by society a little more room for vagueness, wonder, and wandering. 

***********

I used to think it was the saddest thing when old people would no longer recognize their in-person loved ones. When they call grandchildren by a (long dead) brother's name. When they ask where their spouse has gone. When they marvel and grieve at the same time at a child with a beloved's eyes. 

When they tell you to your face that they can't visit with you today because you and a sibling are coming to take them somewhere. 

So sad. 

But Now, as I age, and as I spend more time with my memories and my dreams of days and lives gone by, it doesn't seem so sad or bad.

I am spending time with people I love(d), and who love(d) me. In my mind, I am present with them, no matter who is at the door, or sitting with me on the porch, or by my bedside as I roam beyond my body's abilities. 

Besides, how can that fat old woman be my granddaughter? She's a little girl with bright eyes and curly hair that won't stay combed. 

And that guy over there, you can't fool me. That beard can't fool me. That's my brother, who went away decades ago. It's so good to see him again, and didn't he always like to make a fool of everybody with see-through pranks?

Now, there are some whose memories bring violence and fear and anger. They may harm themselves or others. They should be cared for as needed.

There are some whose only thoughts, if thoughts they be, are of pain and messes, and the failure of the body. They too should be cared for, and eased as much as is possible.

These, the ones with no peace and no escape, are the truly sad cases, and the most needy. Try to love them, care for them, and grieve as you must for the lost loved one, overwhelmed by too much today and no escape into either tomorrow or yesterday.

But do not grieve for me.

I am with friends.

I am with family.

I am loved.

I love.

And I am, finally and at long last, who I am. Lime green chickens and 9/8 tempo with lots of slam-bang-crash and an occasional screech.

I am me and I am happy here.

Somewhere in my mind. 

Time -- to Move On

My (rented) trailer is falling apart.
My furniture is falling apart.
My finances are falling apart.

Yes, my life is falling apart.

I don't know why.
I don't know how.
The how is kind of fuzzy, all wrapped in mystery and enigma.

But my life is falling apart.

Death seems a stalker.
Granted, I was not close to some of these people, but I knew they were there; that they were an added value in this crazy spiderweb of life, love, and relatives.

I won't mention names, because those who were close(r) may prefer privacy to mourn or even resent (perhaps rightfully)  my claim of a loss.
A dear friend before the end of the year.
Various acquaintances, because I and my peers are getting older.

Until summer hit and the family became involved.
An uncle on my dad's side.
A brother in law on my side.
A friend's beautiful young daughter. My heart breaks for this whole loving, living, and now broken family.
Another 16 year old in another car accident, driving her grandparents.  My heart breaks for them.
Another of my husband's brothers. There's one left.
Whoops, not anymore. They are all together now, these brothers. It's a strange place for them to be.
It's still so very strange, at times, that Rex just isn't.
And now they all just aren't.

Aren't in the other room.
Aren't down the hall.
Aren't down the street.
Are not just a phone call away.
Or a phone call to mutual kin.

Anyway, my life is falling apart in so many ways.
That means something needs to be changed, and the only things I can change are my own circumstances.

So, it is time to move on, however physically and financially impossible that seems to be.

I have already been added to waiting lists of 10, 6, 5, and 2 years.
I have left my name and number on many answering machines. (Only to have my phone go out of service due to the financial mishaps)
I circle ads in the papers and call.

And wait here and wait for Death's next strike at my already stricken heart.

Defense of Laundromats

I am living in a home with a washer and dryer.
Also with five other residents.
And then there are relatives and neighbors.

I can do my laundry here, of course.
Or throw it in with he family laundry. No one will protest. (At least, not much.)
But doing my laundry on my own means scheduling it when others aren't using the laundry facilities. That doesn't happen too often!  If I toss mine into the family mix, I don't have control over when what gets washed and I may not always know if an item is clean or not.
There's also an interminable wait while the first load is in the dryer still, but the second load has been finished for a while. (A long enough time for a line of roomies, relatives and friends to be forming -- and foaming at the mouth as their lives must Wait For Laundry.)

So --  I have been choosing the laundromat. They have double load washers (and dryers)
Everything can wash at the same time.
Everything can dry at the same time.
Only one loading of the washer.
Only one transfer from washer to dryer.
Everything can dry at the same time.

But yesterday I found the best reason yet for using the laundromat.
That wonderful place is air conditioned!

Yes, in 90+ weather, high humidity, living in a tin (aluminum) can (trailer) -- doing laundry at the laundromat can be a wonderful thing!  A perfect excuse to sit in air conditioned comfort  for two hours.

What can be greater than that?
At least so far as laundry is concerned.

DISRESPECT?

Tammy and Hazel, 1988

My stepdaughter Hazel died, heroin overdose. She was found, hospitalized, and on life support for several days.

No one told her sisters on her father's side that she was in the hospital, that she was dying, that she had died.

A friend of mine told me, and I had to tell them. (Disrespectful)

This is the sister that they -- all of Rex's family -- turned the town of Bethel upside down trying to find her so she could say goodbye to her daddy. When she got there she was more interested in zipping up her boyfriend's pants than spending time with her dad. They also just vanished from the hospital without telling anyone. We spent some time looking there, too. (Disrespectful on their part, don't you think?)


After the original news was published, Hazel was listed as the beloved daughter of her mother and her mother's 99th husband. (That number is hyperbole, not fact.)

Hazel's real father, who died without her presence, was not mentioned in the original obituary.

As if he had never existed

As if he had never been part of her life. (Disrespectful.)



I took our girls to her funeral.

If Hazel's other half sister, who in my opinion suffered the greatest loss, or her mother even spoke to my daughters, it was only in passing. (Disrespectful)

Our girls mingled, and my older daughter was asked why she was there; who was she to Hazel. (Disrespectful)
(And who the heck does that at a funeral, unless it's by invitation only?)



We sat in the back row for the service.

My daughter took her phone from her daughter (age 6) who had started playing music instead of a card game on it. She was holding it in her hand. She didn't think the child's choice of music was respectful or appropriate.

Bedamned if some blonde woman (NOT a member of the immediate family) didn't chew my daughters out about how "disrespectful:"they were for having their phones out! (Disrespectful)

I wish to hell I had known what Blondie was saying! I would have told her a thing or two about DISRESPECT! (Not to mention common courtesy and a side serving of 'mind-your-own-business.)

My girls had lost a sister, too, and were treated as if they came in off the street to get warm.

If that isn't disrespectful, what is?

Sick and Sad

I finally got a job, started it, was doing well enough to be offered extra hours and -- after I accepted the etra hours, I got sick. I went to the Emergency Room and got medicines and went back to work for those extra hour days.
Not the best plan, but I had said I would do it, so I did it.
But by the time the time was done, I was dragging, and went to the doctor.
Who put me off work for the next five days.

Who gets sick like that? Babies? Old people?
I am neither, although I often feel very, very old.
Being widowed, losing my caretaker role, being unemployed (maybe unemployable) are all aging factors.

Being free of caretaking, being employed, I hope will be freeing. Will restore some youth, some joy, some energy.

So, I got sick.
Boo!

Seems to be a family thing going on. A curse upon our house, or something bad written in the heavens. A  curse upon us!

One sister had bleeding issues back at Thanksgiving and ended up with a hysterectomy in April.
She is doing much better these days -- even has energy to take walks for fun.

Another sister, more recently, fell and hurt her back. It has just come to light that she actually broke a bone in her back. She's still walking and stuff, although it's been painful for her -- but the broken bone isn't even the cause of her pain and discomfort!
She is, ever so slowly getting better.

Bronchitis, even the ever-lasting kind, looks like a walk in the park (for fun) after those experiences.

I'll get better, too.

After all, it's in the stars.

Mamma, May I?

Sunday was mother's day. It was also my grandmother's birthday. Were she still alive, she'd have been celebrating 107 years.
When I was a kid, there always seemed a special magic to the day when Mamma's birthday fell on Mother's Day. I can't explain what made it so special, but I felt it.
I can say this, now, as a mother and grandmother: If any woman, ever, deserved to be born on Mother's Day, it was this woman. She epitomized Motherhood.
We'd have been lost without her, and a lot more neglected and abused than we were.  She fed us, she clothed us, she treated us, and she gave us a quiet place to go. She saw that we were awake and got to school on time. She had and kept a telephone.

I wonder, now, how she felt about the inadequacies of her daughter as a mother.Did she worry? Without a doubt. I don't know what her specific worries were, but she worked awfully hard to prevent our feeling too much of a lack.

Did she feel like she had failed as a mother? I don't know, but I think now she must have, at times. Wonderful woman that she was, I never saw it. But, dealing with my own faulty child(ren), I know she had to have had those moments, hours, and long-dark-night-of-the-soul nights over her faulty daughter.

But, whether in spite of this or because of it, she was there. Remarkably, outstandingly, always there. Even when she began losing her mind, even when she wasn't sure who she was with, she was there for us. It was startling to be informed that RuthE was going somewhere or doing something for her, when I was right in front of her, but -- BUT -- it meant I was in her heart and in her mixed-up memories.

That's love.

That's Motherhood.

Happy Mother's birthday, Mamma. We all still miss you and want you around, somewhere.

Some of us know that you are.

catching up

I've been busy this week. Like most weeks (or days, months, years)p, it's been a mixture of good and bad events, actions, and emotions
The bad concerns medicines -- prescriptions. Another time, I will post details about this battle. The writings I have done on the subject are more like rantings and I sound like a lunatic. Never mind that that's a good description -- I mean something different. But first we can't renew my husband's meds, and then it turns out I can't get mine, either. No one will say why. I don't have a problem with complying. Someone just needs to tell me exactly what I have to do to comply.

The good thing was being able to help my daughter. Supplied some of life's necessities while she is off work. I took her to the doctor. I took her to the store.I took her to the school to get Hailey enrolled in school. Hailey was mad when she wasn't allowed to stay at school.

Our new little man got to go for his first ride in Mammaw's red car. While we were in the store, I was pushing the cart and holding the baby. Tam came and rescued him from me, saying I couldn't do both. I had to laugh at her. I got him a bouncy seat that sometimes he likes and sometimes he doesn't.

Hailey came home with me from that day out, and immediately had me get out the calendar and show her when it would be library day and she could go home.
When she went home, she went all through her house and came running back to the front room crying. "My baby brudder is gone! He's gone!"Mommy and baby had gone out with a friend. It didn't bother her that Mommy was gone, but what heartbreak that baby brudder was missing!

Today I am again getting ready to go into battle, with doctor's offices ( foe me ) and government agencies ( for Rex ) and pharmacies and their assistants or techs. These people have been the most helpful to me in my quest, but they are powerless without orders.
Bolstered by Hailey hugs and baby brudders bounces, Mammaw is battle-ready again

Let us hope that this battle can be one, short of death.

Suicide -- Nature or Nurture?

Does suicide run in families?
Why might suicide run in families?

 

Some observers think that there may be a more accepting attitude in families where this has happened.Or that it is more tolerated as being something of a family trait.
This is what scientists call the 'nurture' effect. (Actually, I doubt scientists call it that among themselves, but it's the general population understanding of what scientists call it. They probably refer to it ad "Environmental Effects of X on Y")


There may be something to this. If the inevitability is accepted,does that make it acceptable?
If a child grows up being told how much he is just like the charming, entertaining Uncle Waldo -- such a card! -- will he grow up to be another Uncle Waldo?
What if, after the show is over and the lights have gone down, Uncle Waldo couldn't live with his image or his heartbreak -- if Uncle Waldo committed suicide, will Uncle Waldo's relative then get a free pass to do the unthinkable?

It may help the surviving family to think so. There may be an easing of grief and guilt by blaming it on family history.
Family history may be to blame that symptoms went unacknowledged.. The reason why no help was sought, because the story is more lively than the backstory. Because the entertainment has more 'body' than the ending.

But how much of that is Nature. Depression is a physically caused illness that affects the mind. Depression runs in families. So far as I know, specific genes have not been found, but there have been indications of gene markers, whatever they are.

I liken the nature of the disease depression to the disease diabetes.
If your family has a history of late 30/ early 40s young adults sinking into coma a coma, is it acceptable to shrug and say, "Oh well, he's just like Uncle Waldo"?
Of course not.
When the coma happens, or the despair -- it's time to look for medical answers. They do exist.
In the case of the diabetic, it's easily diagnosed and usually easily treated.
Depression is not as easy, but there are treatments and therapies. Just as the diabetic needs to adjust dosages and behaviors, so does the depressed patient.


But if the diagnosis and treatments can't be adjusted quickly enough, in either case, the  sufferer will die as a function of his disease.
Not because he is just like Uncle Waldo, but because he suffered from the same (genetically influenced) disease.

I suppose, like most things, it is a combination of the two effects. Not nature vs nurture, but nature&nurture. Plus individuality.

What I would like to do is to urge anyone with suicide as a family trend, is to learn and be alert to the signs of this disease (or any related illness). Don't watch and worry -- that would be enough to make a sane person crazy -- but be aware.

It's not just the family history -- it's the family future.

Welcome Warren

It's been a while. I apologize. One of the many new distractions was the birth of my grandson Warren Daniel Ruhstaller. He was born March 29. He's a tiny little fellow, especially since his mommy had got to be so huge in the last few weeks before his birth We were expecting at least a seven pounder instead of barely making five-and--half.

He looks just like Hailey, his big sister, did. My daughter says that she had the same baby twice. Looking at the pictures, if Hailey's picture wasn't in a beautiful multi-colorred dress, it would be hard to tell which child was which.

Rex hasn't seen him yet. We're hoping to get that organized, but timing  hasn't yet worked.  The baby has had dr appointments and wellness checks, Tam is trying to organize some type of support for her family while she's off work,   But new baby's are always a bit of a fuss, and always precious.
Now, days begin to settle back to normality.

Until the thunderstorms start rolling in.

Making Marriage and Family

Marriage today is a hot topic, with Supreme Court hearing different issues about marriage. Should same gender couples be allowed to marry? Should mixed race couples be allowed to marry? Should working class be allowed to marry out of their class.

More importantly, at least to me, is the question of whether individual sites or the nation as a whole determine who can marry whom. If your state has decided to accept it, can the Feds refuse?

 The truth is, they can. they made the decision to do so way back in the 1990s when the great US of A decided it no longer needed to recognize common law marriage, no matter what the states said. These marriages -- made in homes, not courts or churches,  made in private, not in public -- these marriages made after the effective date, are simply not recognized by the Federal government.

Also not new is the ability of one state to ignore a marriage legal in another state. Part of the Cultural Revolution was an attempt to consolidate divorce laws. Many people had to go and get their divorce in the state they were married in for the divorce to be legal. To this day, different states have different requirements to become divorced. Waiting period, legal separation, mediation, etc.

As you can see, the marriage question and Federal meddling is not a new issue.

Federal definition of a family is a newer consideration. In the olden days, families, even mixed and adoptive families, were a group of people who resided together in a private residence. 3 sisters could live together, or a sister, a son-in-law and an unrelated widow could be the Smiths or the Jones family. It wasn't a big deal to anyone -- until the government and the money-makers got involved. The insurance companies, who are my version of the Antichrist.
Once upon a time, an insurance company decided it didn't have to pay a survivorship policy to the unrelated widow who had "kept house" for decades.
Grief-stricken, old, possibly alone, and probably poor, she couldn't or didn't fight back.
Other avaricious industries took note, and began following that precedent. By the time someone was willing and able to fight, the precedent had become policy.

"Family" should be decided by proximal society, not by moneymakers.
"Family" should be defined by other family members, not those who don't know sense from cents.

March Madness

It's the media-popularized time of the year known as March Madness. Once again, despite war and accidents, despite car crashes and violent smashes, despite missing children and murdered mothers, despite life and death proceeding as always, the most important question on the public's mind is "How are your brackets?"  

Some media outlets are brave enough to query "What do you think of March Madness?" The only acceptable response is of course what great fun it is and how it is looked forward to since last April, I presume.

Oh, they will occasionally cite a negative response so that the rest of the world can chuckle and shake their head at whatever the poor sap is missing. 

March Madness used to be about cabin fever, when winter and being confined made us crazy to get out and just go outside and do anything. Or stay inside and commit murder. March madness was the grass growing and the sap flowing and life surging against the icy bonds.

This modern definition of the term is to stay sitting inside, huddled around (or worshipping at the feet of) an electronic device while watching others run and jump and play. The worshippers then scribble and draw patterns on paper. Sometimes this is for the privilege (?) of being right; often it is for the exchange of other pieces of paper, usually green.

March Madness indeed.

When the green is showing beneath sludge and snow, peeking out from odd corners,; 

when the sun pours gold upon all who venture out; when daylight outlasts the dark night' why does anyone WANT to remain huddled in allegiance to a radiant square? When the air is fresh and clean and by breathing in you can taste the tang of green-and-growing things, why does anyone want to remain in a place that reeks of months of confinement? When spring is in the air, it is madness indeed to remain in stasis.

 

Blacker than Friday

is 'Black Thursday'
is the early Black Friday sales.

I don't know which I despise the most.
Yes, I said despise. As in disdainfully hate, loathe, and dislike. ALL.

Years and years ago, back in the last century, Black Friday sales used to be FUN! Hurtling through the dark early morning hours to go to stores never worth going to at other times. Hitting the 4 am openers, and then the 6 am early bird stores. Buying gifts that could not be afforded otherwise.

It wasn't even too bad when the "Black Friday" thing became part of the annual routine. The sales weren't as spectacular -- usually they are ordinary mark-downs of last year's leftovers -- and the fun wasn't there because too much traffic was taking its place. Everybody that wasn't working was hitting the sales.

Even the hysteria of  'limited number of items' (because they are selling last year's no-sells) was somewhat tolerable from a distance. Stupid, but tolerable. No one should be assaulted over a toy.

Now however, the whole thing has morphed into blatant money-grubbing. The stores started opening late on Thanksgiving Day, then they started being open "All Day" on Thanksgiving Day.

This year the Black Friday sales all were 'leaked' early, and have been underway for at least a week. There's still a week before Thanksgiving.
I haven't shopped any of them, and there are stores I won't shop, even when it is actually time to do so.

These stores -- Target is one of them -- are making it mandatory for their workers to come in on the holiday day. Yeah, they'll pay time-and-a-half (maybe) but that isn't the point. To many people, especially minimum wage workers, time spent with family is more important than all the money in the world. At least for that one day that is supposed to be about appreciating who and what you have.

I have no problem with the stores being open -- if the people working there want to be there. I always wished I could go to work, maybe, after the meal and the dishes and the guests went home, and the only thing on tv is football games. I'd have volunteered.

There are people to whom Thanksgiving is yet another lonely day, and they'd work or not, however it works out.

And if a store doesn't have the staff to work that day -- that special, family holiday -- then they shouldn't open, or should perhaps only have some areas open (no coffee shop, no fresh-sliced deli, etc.) They should respect the employees who want to respect their families -- not drag them out and demand they deal kindly and patiently with rude and demanding people.

Yes, I categorize the precious customers that way, because for the most part it is going to be the greedy people out grabbing goodies. The "real" people will be at home with their families, especially during the early part of the day.

And if you do go out, after your family's festivities, please remember to thank those who serve you in any capacity. A heck of a lot of them are there because they have to be, not because they want to be, and that's just not fair.

Soothing Saturday.

What a day this should be. It's cooled off outside -- I'm actually wearing a sweater. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, with fluffy white clouds. There's food in the fridge and the cabinets, and there's a busy little girl with her colors sprawled on my living room floor. She's the sunshine inside the house.

It's been a busy week, and a fairly normal one, I'd guess. A mixture of good and bad, a look at some beginnings and some endings. Scary stuff sometimes, those glimpses into the future.

The most fabulous and the most  frightening was Hailey's birthday party. She turned 4, and such a big girl. She had an "Urel' (Ariel) cake, with Sponge Bob and 'Packrit' added to it -- don't tell Disney, they'll sue us. She had a lot of grown up family there, and the one cousin that we can provide her. He's nearly twice her age at this point. She has another cousin, on the other side, but she's too little as yet for celebrating at a party. Hailey would have been glad to see her, though. She fell in love with that baby while they stayed at Hailey's house.Hailey is definitely wishing for a sibling. (What does a 4 year old know?)

Tam had thoughtfully had the party at a facility so her dad could attend. The August weather, in a good year, is hard for him to take. This year, with all the heat and humidity, it's been impossible.


And it very nearly killed him. Not from attending the party, but by leaving. We opened the door to the parking lot, and the parking lot had been baking in the sun all day and especially all evening while we were inside. It took his breath away.

I am being very literal, and I am not exaggerating. Sheer willpower kept that man on his feet to the car and once in the car, barking like a seal, he used his rescue inhaler and gestured for me to just DRIVE! I wanted to drive to the closest hospital, but he just kept waving for me to drive -- get the air moving, that's what he wanted.

It worked. After a couple miles, we pulled over and I hooked him up to his portable oxygen tank and he made it home and hasn't had too much trouble since, but it was a frightening portent of things to come.


A sad commentary on things that are, as well. We had been talking a bit about taking a trip in September or October. A weekend trip, one day going, one day coming back. We had discussed who might go with us (as alternate drivers), how he could use his nebulizer on the road, costs, etc. The nebulizer, we thought, would be the big issue.

It's not. He may have saved his travels "Later" until they've become "Too late." But that's okay.

I'll enjoy him as he is -- that's the best way to love anyone. I'll enjoy him, and our daughters, and our granddaughter and any siblings-for-her that will someday make an appearance.


To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose... .
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance...
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;


For now we choose to laugh, and dance (metaphorically speaking), and we both speak and keep silence together. The time will come for the other stuff, but for now --


For now,  we DANCE.

Summer Family Fun.

Today, my sisters are going to a family reunion. It will be the first Schmidt family reunion since my dad died. (I think. I could be wrong about that.) It will be odd  to have his family there and he is gone, but life is a winnowing out process, and the sad truth is he wasn't the first to go.

We have lovely weather for the event today. The heat has backed off, the storms that reduced it to cowardice have moved on to vanquish elsewhere. The sun is shining, skies are blue with puffy white clouds. There will be trees and a lake and restrooms and paths and picnic tables and a playground.

A perfect day for a family to reconnect, however briefly.

It grieves me that I won't be there. I love some of my father's sisters, even though I haven't been around them for years. I love them although I know little of their lives and they know less of mine.

Saturday we will be having another family party. This one I'll be able to attend. This one I will attend. Good lord willing and the creek don't rise -- an apt qualification in this case, since the party is being held near Red Oak Creek in Ripley.

I'll see people there that I know, know of, and maybe a couple that I don't know. New victims to observe, new cadences to hear. All within the safety of a family network, and of course an easy exit in case of overwhelming anxiety.

First week of August is busy with birthdays in this family -- thank goodness they aren't all celebrated individually with parties. A person would be constantly on the run (although birthday parties would be more pleasant running than doctor's visits, hospital tests and trying to get prescriptions filled.)

There are fairs, too, and church festivals. It's my firm belief that the only reason it rained three days this week is because Adams County Fair was in progress. It will rain three days the last week of September, when Brown County Fair is in progress. That's just how it works in this part of the country.

Summer is a good time to catch up with everyone. The hard part is catching up with yourself and your own.
Having family is important, having fun is important too.

Having you is important to me.

Have fun and take care. 

As I lay dying (or so I thought)

Yesterday I thought I was entering my final illness, persistent cramping diarrhea. The pain was worse than childbirth (except for the actual birthing). The effects of dehydration were debilitating, as you can imagine. My sister and my nephew had both commented on bellyaches, so I thought there's probably just something going around, and it was nothing major.

As the day wore on, I changed my mind about that. If there had been gas in our car I would have had my husband take me to the hospital, even though I have no insurance and every test, every procedure, every help would have to be paid for by us. At that point (about 3 in the afternoon) even the IV for dehydration would have been worth the cost. Because I was afraid to drink anything, even warm water.

Instead, I went to bed.
While in the bed, I reviewed my life. It's the first time I ever did that when I wasn't contemplating suicide, so it was a novel experience in its way. The results of the review were more satisfactory this way, I have to admit, but there were some things not so satisfactory.
Of course.

I wished I had played more with my girls when they were young. More walks, more pushing on swings, more silly talk, more books read together, more time. Just more time to enjoy them. But pushing swings is boring after the first couple of shoves to get them going, and neither of my daughters had any great interest in books when they were young. We did walk, from time to time, and the walks nearly always had that 'special' air. I suppose that's a good thing. The regret over not taking enough walks is partly because it indicates a lack of special times, so if the times it happened were special -- well, there's just a balance there, so that one is probably okay.
I hope.

I wish I'd had more patience at some times in some of my jobs, but I have no big regrets over any of those. I gave every job I ever did everything I could, everything I had. Sometimes I didn't have much, and sometimes I hated the work, but I gave it my all. Sometimes my all was more, often less, but it was what I had and I put it into the work.

My writing? I have four completed novel manuscripts on top of the bookcases. I have three of those novels on floppies, which do me  no earthly good these days, but maybe somewhere, someday... someone. I have various writings here and there. It would be nice for my family if I could become posthumously famous, so that I'm not leaving my family nothing but a hole in their hearts.
I hope.

The good-bye letters I wrote a few months ago worried me a bit. I thought about tearing them up before I died, but decided I'd just leave a note with them. Don't remember if I dated them or not. Probably not. I wanted them to be generic, any time. I have letters written to Tracy and to Rex and, I think, to Jean. I haven't been able to bring myself to pout anything in writing for Tammy-and-Hailey. No good excuses for saddling her with my responsibilities, which she would be the one carrying the brunt of the load after the dust settles. No good excuse, no reason.
Anyway, I decided to just write a note, or maybe I'd get a chance to tell Jean before I expire in the hospital. "Hey, never mind those. I wrote them for Christmas last year, or maybe the year before."

It was a different thing to look back at my life this way, from this new angle. I didn't have no instant conversion to wanting to continue living in spite of all its pain, which I have seen happen. I wanted the pain to stop. I wished that I had done some things differently, but feel that I did the best I could at the time.

That's what we should all be doing. The best we can, with what we have. The what we have can be time, or energy, or even interest. Money of the lack thereof is a partial excuse, not a good one.

Be the best you that you can be.

Do the best you can with what you have.

Watch and work and learn and live.

Then,  you can contemplate death with equanimity. Is there any better way to live?