Deedee, Cut Adrift!

New Blog News

2010-12-29T22:53:00.001-05:00

Hi friends! My new blog is up and running now and I have started to post.
Here is the address: http://deedeehomeatlast.blogspot.com/

I hope you will all check it out and I will be thrilled to see all my followers.

Thanks for all your kind comments and I hope to see you soon at "Deedee, Home At Last."

Seems Like a Long Time...

2010-12-27T16:40:00.003-05:00

Hello, dear friends! Happy holiday season to you all. I have been away for far too long, and I miss all my followers and your wonderful blogs too. But I have been very busy with a new venture, and I have startling and wonderful news to tell. After 31 long years, Mac and I have finally bought a home of our own. We will soon be leaving "Catbird Heaven" and moving into our very first house, just a few minutes away. I have already named it "At Last!", for obvious reasons.

In consideration of this new beginning, I have decided to leave "Deedee, Cut Adrift!" behind and start a new blog: "Deedee, Home At Last!"
My son is helping me design the new look and I will start writing very soon, documenting the start of my new life... "At Last!" I hope you will all come with me on this amazing new journey.

Wish me luck - A Happy Christmas and love to all! - Deedee

Despoiled by Oil

2010-08-02T19:56:00.011-04:00

We all know the facts about the BP oil spill that occurred on April 20, after an explosion that took the lives of eleven workers. As awful as the initial incident was, it was to become infinitely worse; one hundred and five days later, it has been reported that over 200 million gallons of crude oil have spewed into the Gulf of Mexico, fouling the water, killing wildlife and damaging an entire ecosystem.
I can’t begin to articulate the horror and dread I feel as I try to process the news related to this tragedy.

Even though the damaged well is reportedly all but capped now, the terrible effects on our environment will continue to be on-going. While some recent reports tout the headline that the “surface” oil is now greatly diminished, anyone with a brain will understand that the toxic crude, as well as the poisons used to “disperse” it, have become deeply involved in the water column, and that the food chain of sea-life found in the Gulf has been seriously compromised. In addition to the poisonous oil gushing into the water these past four months, 1.8 million gallons of toxic oil dispersant has been sprayed over the surface of the Gulf by BP and now, toxic plumes thirty miles long and seven miles wide are churning under the surface of the Gulf. Many of the animal populations that live in this body of water will be tainted for the foreseeable future.

As much as I would like to do all that I can in this bad economy to support the fishing industry of our southern states, I have started to check my seafood purchases to ensure that they do not originate in the Gulf. My health and the health of my family and friends, is too important to put at risk by serving them seafood from the Gulf. Think this attitude is reactionary or too extreme? Then consider this: Scientists have confirmed that a toxic residue of oil and chemical dispersants have been detected under the shells of blue crab larvae sampled from the Gulf of Mexico. It is a fact that the great Tuna schools of the Atlantic Ocean have their beginnings in nurseries found in the Gulf of Mexico. If the tiny fish are exposed to the poisonous mix of oil and dispersant, they will not survive. Worried about consuming mercury from eating big fish? I predict you ain't seen nothin' yet. Canned tuna is now considered a staple in many low-income diets. I believe it will soon become an expensive luxury as the schools dwindle and the great fish become scarce.

Yesterday I sat staring out at Green Harbor from the south coast of Massachusetts, admiring the pale green sea. As I gazed at the gentle waves lapping the white sand, I thought of the plankton and krill drifting in the Gulf and wondered how this food chain staple, the foundation of all sea-life in the Gulf could possibly avoid becoming completely contaminated.

What about the manatees, dolphins, green turtles, jellyfish and sea birds that live or breed in the waters of the Gulf? We currently have no idea how these creatures will be affected. As the naturalist John Muir said: "When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world."
How much more abuse can this fragile planet of ours endure? The full extent of the fallout from this environmental catastrophe I fear will be felt by all of us for many decades to come. We've known since the seventies that our addiction to fossil fuels is a dangerous and ultimately doomed folly. When will we get serious enough about it to go cold turkey and get into rehab? The time is long past to develop wind, water and solar power. We have squandered four decades - how much more time will we waste?

Thank you, friends

2010-07-23T20:18:00.008-04:00

First, I'd like to say "Thank you" to my followers, who have commented and emailed me, concerned at my absence. I am fine; busy and overwhelmed in many ways, but in good health. I deeply appreciate your concern.

I have felt unable to write for the past few months. Ever since the explosion of the BP oil rig and subsequent environmental disaster in the Gulf of Mexico, I have been too horrified and grief stricken about it to write about it. I feel mentally paralyzed when I think about the ramifications of this disaster.

The thoughts that loom foremost in my consciousness right now, are those concerning the wildlife and the people living near the Gulf coast. I am distraught and sickened by the reports and images of oil-soaked birds, endangered sea mammals and ruined fishing grounds to even think straight when I consider what to write about it. I am literally at a loss for words. I keep trying to wrap my mind around it, but I can only register disgust and horror. I will keep trying to mash together some coherent sentences for a future post concerning this tragedy.

But I would be remiss if I didn't offer my sincere gratitude to those readers who reached out to me and inquired as to my well-being. My family and I are well, my job and everything else is going okay. I am working on revamping the blog and will be back writing soon.

Thanks again for your support.
Love, Deedee <3

Culture Club

2010-05-05T23:31:00.006-04:00

A few years ago, I received a gift certificate for a manicure. As I am a former hair dresser, nail services were a part of my job many years ago. Up to that time, I had never gone to a salon to have one myself. I held onto that piece of cardboard for several months before finally deciding to go cash it in and get my own nails done.

The salon that issued the certificate is located just a few miles from my home, and is owned, I was soon to learn, by two young brothers who were born in Vietnam.
All the employees of the salon are Vietnamese, yet they all claim classic, “American” names, such as Patricia, Daniel, Crystal and Terry. My tech later told me that none of them use their real names, as they believe they would be too difficult for customers to pronounce.

The men are slim and short, sloppy chic and fashionably shabby in their designer t-shirts, jeans and flip-flops. They sport black, puttied, faux-hawks. The women run the gamut from very young to grandmothers, some plump and cherubic, others waif-thin. All of them have almond eyes and dark hair. Some are fair skinned and others quite dark; all of them are beautiful.

The two young men keep a tight rein on the front desk and the telephone, exercising firm control over the flow of clients that come into their salon. They appear to want to keep the money in the family to the extent that they can do it. The day of my first manicure in their salon turns out to be a very busy one, so I am assigned to a girl they call Tina. Since Tina is the only one who is not related to the owners, she is last to be assigned new customers. Although her accent is heavy and she frequently chooses the wrong words, after the brothers, she is the one who has the best command of the English language. This makes her most desirable to the local women who are uncomfortable sitting in silence as a non-verbal tech buffs their nails. The two owners and their relatives appear to take notice of this fact with some resentment.

Tina is a diminutive woman. She is short and thin, with a wide, round face free of makeup, with dark eyes. Her hair is stick-straight, black silk, worn either down, brushing her collar-bone, or up in a plastic clip. She rarely looks directly at me, keeping her eyes cast down most of the time.

Tina is meticulous in the removal of excess cuticle, as I soon discover. My jagged, peeling, dried-out fingertips become smooth, even and perfectly glossed under her skilled ministrations. And while nail enamel applied by the other techs invariably chips after a few days, Tina’s paint job lasts nearly two weeks. I am hooked. I make a bi-monthly appointment. Soon, I forget how to apply my own nail enamel without getting it all over my hands. I feel nasty and unkempt if I don’t sit in Tina’s chair at least every other Thursday. The eleven dollar fee is a small price to pay to feel so good about my hands for two weeks. It is a small luxury that I cannot deny myself while I am working full-time.

Almost immediately, I notice that Tina is eager to try out her English on me. I discern that she seems to be using me to help her learn about the American culture and the language, and this delights me. She looks at me quizzically, and repeats phrases she does not understand back to me, for interpretation and explanation, and I patiently oblige. I find her almost painfully sweet and feel a fondness for her from our very first meeting.

For the next several years, I meet with Tina every few weeks. She is curious about all manner of things in my life, from what I do for work, to how much I pay for rent each month, to whether I cook each day, and what foods I prepare. In turn, I ask her about various things, and I learn what life is like in urban America for a young immigrant from south-east Asia. I am allowed a glimpse into a different culture, and in this, I find a gift.

She went to college back in Vietnam, and earned a degree in accounting, but here it is not worth anything, so she does the only other thing she knows how to do, working in the nail salon. I am privy to her difficulties with her aunt and twenty year old cousin, with whom she lives. I learn that she rises before dawn to cook all three meals for the day for the entire household. She buys the fresh ingredients daily, from Asian markets in the heart of Boston, before leaving for her hour commute to work in our suburb. She rides with another girl now. Because her young cousin needed transportation to get to his new job, she has given him her car.

I hear about her uncertainty as she considers a marriage proposal, and I endure the painful sense of longing that fills the silence after she tells me of the birth of her first niece, back in Vietnam. I feel her palpable sorrow when she talks about her parents on the farm back in her homeland and how much she misses them. I take note of the look that flashes in her eyes at the sharp sounds, foreign to my ears, that come from Daniel, one of the salon owners, as my allotted time ends and we have been sitting too long, laughing and chatting while my nails dry. She walks behind me and rests a hand on my left shoulder for a moment and thanks me softly each time as I prepare to leave after paying her.

Last fall, Tina left for a six month hiatus from the salon. She and her new husband were expecting a baby. My nail appointments dwindled down to once every month or so. The new manicurists stare blankly at me when I attempt conversation with them. One shakes her head desperately and barks a few syllables at a co-worker, apparently asking her if she knows what the hell I am saying. After that, I stare up at the flat screen T.V. on the wall and resolve to sit in silence until she finishes. I wonder when Tina will come back to the salon.

It seems none of the other technicians can match Tina’s skill. I am dissatisfied with my rough cuticles and the substandard polish applications, time and again. I even attempt to care for my nails myself, at home, with dismal results. Then one day I hear that Tina is back. I make an appointment for a manicure after work a few days later.

She is there with a new haircut and pictures of her baby son when I arrive. My eyes fill up with tears and my heart swells when I look at her little boy, so tiny and beautiful, with his dark, feathered head and precious little face. I have brought her a gift: a green and blue fleece blanket festooned with little animals and geometric shapes, and a matching crib sheet.

As she files my nails, she tells me a story about when she first came to this country and got lost in the city. She was walking alone to a new restaurant job in a strange neighborhood and stopped at a gas station to ask for help. Inside the station’s mini-mart grocery, several middle aged men were hanging out. Tina tried to get directions from them, but they couldn’t understand her broken English and laughed at her. An older woman came in to pay for her gas and heard their banter. When Tina left the store and went back outside, the woman was waiting. She implored Tina to get into her car, and when she did, the good Samaritan drove her to a nearby Vietnamese market where she knew they would understand her. The market’s proprietor then told her that, according to the woman who had brought her there, the men at the gas station had bad intentions and might have been planning to do Tina harm, had she not left the gas station with the woman. The store owner then gave her instructions on how to find her new workplace.

When she finished her story, Tina looked up directly into my eyes and said: “I tell you this today because I want to say that I was so surprised that your people here in this country would be so kind to me, and to tell you that I feel so grateful.”

I reflect on this in my heart, and I find there a wish, that every person who comes to this country might feel the same way as Tina. I find there, a deep conviction that the things that unite us all are much greater than the things that separate us.
In the final analysis, we are all citizens of the same planet. We are all children of God. We are all human.

Sunday Afternoon Movie

2010-04-18T18:49:00.009-04:00

I just finished watching the George Clooney film , "Up in the Air", via my cable company. I've been so busy lately, I have not had time to get to the theatre to watch a movie, so the "Movies On Demand" function of my remote is a welcome perk.
I'd heard this was a good film and the trailers looked interesting, so I thought I'd give it a try.

I must say, I found the movie profoundly depressing. Don't get me wrong, it was well acted by all the principal stars, an interesting viewpoint from which to tell the story and very well executed, but from the first few minutes, I found myself silently sobbing. Tears streamed down my face intermittently throughout the whole picture, at the depictions of middle-aged people being told they were no longer needed and had been let go from their jobs.

I relate to this pain on a visceral level. I know first-hand, the utter despair and sense of worthlessness you feel when being told by your company that they no longer need or want you as a part of their operation. I know what it is like to be dismissed one day, left with no recourse, after years of dedication and hard work. I remember lying awake in the early morning hours wondering how in God's name I would pay my bills and fill my hours. I have an intimate connection to this terror; I know it personally.

None of it seemed real to Ryan, the protagonist. He managed to keep the ugly reality of his work neatly compartmentalized, and didn't let it get to him. He was unscathed by the hardship and pain of the strangers that he was paid to fire. The tables were turned on Clooney's character, when his romantic foil, Alex, showed him that his emotions were just make-believe to her, as much a non-reality in her life, as the emotions of the victims of his cold dismissal services were in his. In the end, although he'd started to become a sympathetic character and I did feel sorry for him, I think he sort of got what he had coming to him.

The Decline of Catboy

2010-04-14T21:26:00.010-04:00

My male cat is now almost fifteen years old. Despite his geriatric state, he is sleek, active and animated most of the time. His glossy, black and white fur feels like satin, and his green eyes still shine. He is busy much of the time, watching the birds through the window pane, nibbling on my houseplants or dodging Rigby the dog, as she makes clumsy attempts to play with him.

He has always had a ravenous appetite, but last year he became insatiable, crying and begging for food immediately after eating his meals. He started following me around from room to room, wailing and reaching out to me with his giant, polydactyl paws, stroking the side of my face to direct my attention. Clearly, something had changed.

A trip to the vet revealed something that neither I, nor the doctor expected; Catboy has diabetes. The vet spent some time showing me how to inject him with insulin, which I must do twice a day, right after he eats his breakfast and dinner.
We bought him a special food for diabetic felines, which he ate with gusto at first. It was a case of large cans, but before the last ten cans were consumed, he'd rejected it completely. Back to the tiny, expensive cans that he had come to favor early in his life with us. A discerning gourmet of a feline he is, his birth in a dumpster aside.

His appearance has changed drastically in the past few months. The flesh has disappeared from his huge, multi-toed paws, leaving them thin and skeletal looking. His face is gaunt and thinner than that of a siamese. His spine protrudes from his back, the bones now prominent as he continues to lose weight.

Catboy’s life is approaching it’s natural end now- I know this. I have reached the mature age when romantic, overly sentimental notions of life and death have long since fallen by the wayside. I look upon the death of the body in old age as necessary and not something to be dreaded or staved off. All things must pass…It is the natural turn of events, but as it draws closer for him, I have been thinking lately about Catboy’s life.

If I had not intervened and left him to live his life as a feral cat, his life would have been much shorter. I have seen statistics that claim that a cat living outside has an average life expectancy of about three years. Feline Immune Deficiency Syndrome-the cat version of HIV/AIDS apparently rages through the feral population, and those cats whose owners let them roam out of doors are frequently exposed to it. Coyotes and fishers roam the backyards and vacant lots of suburbia, hunting small pets for food. Throw in speeding cars, ticks and fleas and the diseases they cause, and the outer world seems like a deathtrap for domestic cats. That’s why I have kept Catboy and Ceecee inside for their entire lives with me: for their own well-being.

But, what about the quality of that life? Would they have been happier outside? Chasing chickadees and bumble bees, rather than watching them from a window ledge, through a screen? Seeking out a sunny spot to sleep on the grass, rather than on my living room carpet? Climbing trees instead of bureaus? Would a shorter life outside have meant a more satisfying life for the cats, even with the risk of an early and perhaps violent end? Do I have the right to make this decision for them? These are the questions that nip at the edges of my mind now as I watch his decline. I think about these things, as I run my hand down his back and feel the vertebrae, now prominent, as the muscles and fat melt away from his bony frame.

I wanted him to be safe and sound, and that was the life I created for him, but he had no say in any of it. I wonder whether he resents me for keeping him a prisoner inside, even though my intentions were good. I believe I made the right decision. He has enjoyed a long life. I wonder whether he would say he has had a good life.
I sure hope so.

Update on Emery-Sunrise

2010-03-31T20:19:00.007-04:00

I want to let my readers know that Emery, the little lady that I wrote about in an earlier post has made some recent progress.

At the urging of several friends and aquaintances, she sought out a new doctor, who has assured her that he has options for dealing with her serious health problems. She has agreed to more tests to determine if she is a candidate for some new treatments that he has in mind for her.

She is faithfully wearing the scapular necklace that I gave her every day. In accordance with my instruction that it will only be effective if worn with total confidence of its healing powers, she has stopped agonizing out loud over her problems, and is making a strong effort to smile, breathe deeply and even laugh more than usual.

I watch her catch herself as she begins to think about saying something negative; she takes a deep breath, presses her lips together tightly, and smiles with determination.

She is reading a book today that another friend recommended. It's titled: Being Happy.

"It's a really good book!" she told me, with enthusiasm.

Things seem to be looking up for Emery. I think it is because she is now looking up.

photo courtesy of J. Choate, 2008

Seasons turning

2010-03-14T16:04:00.006-04:00

Well, it is mud season here in the great Northeast of the U.S.A. Winter's back is finally broken and we have tumbled into the rainy, raw month of March.

Last week when Mac, Rigby and I went for a late afternoon walk, we turned a corner and were confronted by a squadron of about a hundred blackbirds filling a dormant maple tree, squawking and jockeying for position on the bare branches. A little further on, another dark cloud of them, mostly Grackles, descended on the neighborhood. They are dark and mostly non-descript, while some sport pale, yellow eyes or deeply wedged, boat-tails. They are suddenly everywhere. The Swallows may not be returning to Capistrano with such faithful resolve, but the grackles have not let us down.

Now it is getting difficult to find the Juncos, the little slate-colored birds with the snow-white bellies that ply the ground under the hedgerows and patrol the weedy margins of the yard. Some folks call them "Snowbirds" because they seem to follow the cold. I saw one yesterday, all alone, looking as if he he was trying to find a flock to fly north with, now that these clacking, squeaky invaders had landed.

A big storm rolled up the east coast on Friday and had been soaking us with waves of cold rain all this weekend. Last night, gales buffeted the trees and rooftops throughout the night, and the Charles river has come up out of its banks today. Despite the seemingly nasty weather, I can feel the gray blanket of my seasonal depression lifting off my shoulders and something like enthusiasm for life budding inside me at my core. I feel like I am waking up from a soul coma. This evening's twilight will be the longest coming since last fall when we moved the clocks back. Last night the time sprung ahead again, and I almost forgot about it. I remembered just in time to avoid missing Mass this morning.

This afternoon, Mac came into the kitchen where I was concocting a savory stew for dinner, and announced that there was a Cardinal out on the top of the sycamore tree in the side yard, "...singing his brain out."
He wondered out loud why the bird seemed so happy, considering the weather we are enduring this weekend.

"It's because he knows that the best weather is coming now!" I said to him, as I dropped a handful of celery into the pot.
That bird knows the winter is over and he's full of joy because of it; So am I!

Frail fairy

2010-03-09T21:11:00.002-05:00

There is a woman I know who was a puzzle to me, until now. The first time that I ever saw her, I wondered at the way she approached me, tentatively, almost as if she was afraid. As she came toward me across the room, I was struck by her appearance. She was like a little bird, maybe four and a half feet tall, a delicate being with wispy hair, large moist eyes and a drawn face. Weighing about ninety pounds, she was trembling as she came closer to me that day that we first met. She made me think of a little fairy woman, fresh from some Celtic glade, leary of contact with mortals.

At first, I was impatient with her skittishness and lack of confidence. It took me some time to realize that Emery lives in dread. Emery is a prisoner of worry, anguish and despair, and drags those chains around with her every day of her life. She doesn't sleep much, although she is very tired most of the time and she is plagued by phobias. Finally, I've learned why.

See, Emery has been damaged. When she was born, she was frail and suffered from birth defects that required many surgeries and much isolation. Her family let her know that she was a burden on them. Her siblings resented the attention she got because of her physical limitations and hospitalizations. Her mother let her know she was a big disappointment and would never measure up to the other kids. Most horrifying of all, a trusted family member molested Emery when she was seven. She was a precious little child, sick, and nobody protected her. Everyone failed her.

Those who failed Emery aren't suffering now. None of them are are in prison paying for the things they did to her. They don't seem to be burdened with guilt for the way they treated her. In fact, her parents are dead now and those relatives who are still alive have abandoned her, and seem not to give her a second thought. They live in well-heeled comfort, while Emery struggles to make ends meet. They gather at family parties and enjoy each other's company while Emery sits with her little cat and cries on Christmas Day and Easter. They try not to think about her, because she's out of their lives, now that they have homes of their own and new families.

She's angry - very, very angry. Deep inside, her anger has started to fester, and now Emery has more problems with her health. Her stomach aches, her arteries are closing up, she has dozens of symptoms that defy explanation. She is terrified of dying young. Her eyes leak constantly, sometimes because she cannot help crying and sometimes, just because. She always clutches a tissue because of it.

Emery has been to counselors, but they don't help much, asking her how her week was and giving her the bill. Maybe she should find a new one, I suggest. Her doctor said there is nothing more that can be done for her serious health problems. Maybe she should get another doctor, I offer.

Now that I know Emery's secret, I am dedicating a little time each day to try to pull her toward the light. I tell her that a terrible past need not ruin a bright future. I tell her to breathe deeply and to eat. I tell her that she must realize that despite what she has been led to believe, she did nothing to deserve the terrible treatment of her childhood, and that she needs to let go of it, if it is ever to let go of her. I say that the past is gone, and she will only continue to be a victim if she accepts that role.

I bought her a blessed necklace to wear, and I ask her to have faith instead of letting worry consume her; I know that faith and confidence can heal her, and worry is the opposite of faith. I tell her to try to let go of her anger, because the ones who hurt her can't feel the pain of her wrath, but she can, and it's truly only hurting her more. I try to say things that will make her laugh.

It is up to Emery now to choose to reject her ugly past and resolve to be happy, despite all that has happened to her. I hope she can rise above it and find some joy in her life.

What devastation we humans can wreak on one another.

God, help me to be extra kind each day, because everyone I meet is fighting some kind of battle.

Strange Brew: The Mothman Mystery

2010-02-22T19:45:00.010-05:00

I like nothing better than to discuss and trade theories on crypto-zoology, UFOs, and all aspects of the unexplained with other curious minds. One of my new co-workers is a sharp, eccentric, funny guy who, like yours truly, is interested in the weird and the arcane. The other day at lunch, he and I were mulling over tales of a number of strange phenomena and our discussions harkened me back to some of the better books I have read on this type of subject. There exists for me, no tastier food for thought.

One of the weirdest, most unexplainable (in ordinary terms)cases of strange sightings, is the puzzle of West Virginia's Mothman. The late paranormal investigator, John A. Keel wrote the ultimate account of the happenings, a classic documentary of weirdness, from which a major motion picture was eventually developed: The Mothman Prophecies.

This book chronicles decades of sightings of a seven foot tall, brownish-gray being with leathery, bat-like wings and blazing, red eyes, reported by average folk in and around the town of Point Pleasant, West Virginia. As if being terrorized by a giant, demonic bat-man wasn't enough, at around the same time, these simple, church-going, working-class people also experienced multiple UFO sightings, as well as visits from the notorious "Men-In-Black", those odd-looking, humanoid types in rumpled, ill-fitting, three-piece suits, well known to those familiar with UFO lore, who ring the doorbell after you report that you've seen something strange. Various and sundry giant birds, Sasquatch creatures and other bizarre things also popped up along the dark roads of West Virginia in those days and still do from time to time.

To my mind, the best and most thought-provoking thing about Keel's master-work, with its exhaustive research and scrupulous regard for detail, is the theory he puts forth to "explain" this unexplainable wave of weirdness that has held a community in its' grip for decades.

Rather than being distinct, separate, strange phenomena, Mr. Keel seemed to think that all this weirdness is, in fact, the same thing...or at least, it emanates from the same source. He stopped short of postulating exactly what he thinks it is, or who (or what, exactly) is behind it all, but he hinted that it may be the fault of a lapse of the veil that separates the dimensions. He suggested that we are not being visited by the denizens of far-flung galaxies, in other words; they are here among us already, and always have been, along with big-foot, wolfmen, ghosts and yes, mothmen...we just don't perceive them except under special conditions. Those conditions were surely present in the hills of West Virginia in the late nineteen sixties, and in many other places throughout our world, before and since.

Having read extensively on spirituality, metaphysics, and a bit about quantum physics, I have come to understand that our visible, material world is far from the only "reality" that there is. I find these accounts fascinating and I never tire of hearing or reading about them; one person can hallucinate, one person might be crazy, drunk or lying, but dozens of otherwise reliable, sane and honest people seeing the same something that can't possibly be real? How is that possible?

John A. Keel passed from this reality on July 3rd of last year, but he leaves a legacy of intelligent, matter-of-fact investigations into the unknown, along with his paranormal classic, The Mothman Prophecies.

Office Politickin'

2010-02-08T19:38:00.008-05:00

It's been two weeks already at the new job. What a whirlwind!

Yet again, it seems that the most challenging part of this new assignment won't be the work at all, but negotiating the office politics. A dozen different personalities, a dozen separate egos, a dozen diverse, personal agendas to navigate around. Ah, but it keeps life interesting.

Because of hard lessons learned at my last two jobs, I made a decision weeks ago, before I even started in this new position, to keep a strong boundary wall up between myself and my new co-workers. I'm pretty determined to keep my inner life and my work life completely separate.

At my last job, I quickly made friends with a woman who was a few years my junior and seemed to be in about the same place in life as me. We had a lot in common and I quickly became fond of her. All too soon, I found out that she had betrayed my confidences and used me as a pawn to further her own agenda with others in the company. I vowed that the next time I had a fresh start, I would do things differently, and so here I am.

I am usually an open book. I try very hard to be "authentic"; what you see is pretty much what you get with me. I detest gossip and I don't engage in it, or repeat it if I hear it. I am generally very real and I try to say just what is on my mind, although I tend to err on the side of kindness and discretion.

But now I find myself choosing my words carefully and guarding my facial expressions so as not to completely give myself away. I'm willing to pass up new friendships in the interest of protecting myself and keeping my work life on an even and predictable keel. I am being careful not to share much about my personal life. I am trying to keep my opinions to myself,and maintain neutrality in arguments that may arise from day to day, keeping everything very much on the surface. I think that in the long run, it will prove to be the best policy.

My goal is to be able to stay above the fray, for better or worse, unaffected by the tide of feelings that, for me, always accompanies office politics. Although this means that I probably won't have deep, meaningful friendships at my new workplace, sadly, I guess it is just the price one has to pay to keep the work life sane.

Moments of Lightness

2010-01-24T16:28:00.008-05:00

I've been having difficulty putting together a post these past few weeks. I have resisted writing because I know that whatever I write now will be tainted by the darkness that is nipping at the edges of my life. The winter has taken it's toll on me. That, combined with three deaths now, in the past month.
Three wakes, three burials, the light of three lives now missing from this world, and as always, the cold and darkness of a northern January are weighing heavily on me.

Though we speak or exchange emails about once a week, I never really recovered from the loss of the relationship I once had with my daughter that happened as she approached adulthood. This grief is a constant pain that I bear, but never more so than in this dark season.

I know that my fascination with television shows like Forensic Files and Paranormal State probably contributes to my dark moods. It seems that these dark subjects are the only things that capture my interest in these gray days.
I've been reluctant to post something depressing or excessively negative; it feels self-indulgent and I know it doesn't do anyone any good. Who wants to read things that bring you down? So I decided to write instead about the moments of lightness that sustain me as I struggle to navigate this dark sea.

I thought I should write about the smell of the crysanthemums that decorate our church, and how the light looks as it filters through the stained glass above the altar. Or, the way the winter sun feels on my back when I walk the side streets of our town on weekend afternoons.

I have my husband, who is my best friend, to rely on. I have the knowledge that my children are healthy and employed.

Although they are growing old and their siblings are dying now, I still have both my parents.
I have all my brothers and my sister, their wives and husbands, my brothers and sisters in law, and their children, my nieces and nephews, who provide laughter, camaraderie and support.

There are the mourning doves that forage at the edge of the woods behind the barn, taking flight with a whistling flurry of wings when I appear. And the troupe of house sparrows that occupy the forsythia hedge next to our garage; how their gentle chirping lifts my spirits in the early mornings, as I walk Rigby out to the back yard.

Speaking of Rigby, I have only to see her smiling, brown, button eyes or hear her contented sigh as she snuggles next to me for a nap, to feel comforted.
Her sweet face and precious spirit is a constant and powerful source of grace in my life. Although they now require a lot of medical attention, my aging cats still have the ability to give and receive an enormous amount of affection.

I have the rising and setting of the sun, the colors of deep rose and amber and lavender mingling on the horizon, and the crescent moon, like a Cheshire cat grin, hanging in the western sky at night. I have the constellation Orion, moving from the south to the west, holding his bow, foretelling the coming of spring, making a promise.

I have coffee in the morning, hot, dark and rich, and cool green tea at night.

And tomorrow, I have a new job to start. For better or worse, it will be a new experience; God willing, it will prove to be a new source of satisfaction and fulfillment.

photo courtesey of J.Choate, 2008

It's been a long December...

2010-01-06T15:34:00.005-05:00

Wow, it's amazing how much time has slipped by since my last post! I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, so I don't do well in winter as a rule, and this one has been marked by two deaths in the extended family, to make it even more depressing than usual.
Now that the bustle of the holidays is over, I find myself looking at the clock each afternoon and longing for the night, so I can snuggle down and hibernate in my bed.
Things are about to be shaken up, though, because I FINALLY heard from the state about that job I interviewed for back in August. They offered me the position, and I have accepted it.

I will be reporting to a new job in a new office in just a few short weeks.
I am excited and a bit apprehensive. While I look forward to the shorter commute, the change of scenery and new experiences, I will miss the familiarity of this place I have worked for the past eight years. The new job is only a two-year position, but I will have the opportunity to apply for other state jobs that may become available. I had to take the risk of trying something new, but I hope I haven't made a big mistake. Only time will tell.

One of my resolutions for the new year is to get back to posting on a regular basis. I am also way behind on reading all my favorite blogs, and it is time for me to catch up. I hope you all had a lovely holiday season, and all the best in 2010!

freedigitalphotos.net

Our Son and Ben Franklin

2009-12-04T11:41:00.006-05:00

In 1982 my first child was born; a son. Being only 26 years old and having no experience as a parent, I was nonetheless completely undaunted. I was extremely confident in my ability to raise a child. I looked around me at all kinds of people with kids and was sure I could do as good a job, if not better than they had.

Some early milestones came late for our boy. He crawled and walked behind schedule, but I wasn’t too concerned. It was plain to see that he was a bright, happy boy and apparently healthy in every way. When he finally decided to speak it wasn’t one word, it was a sentence. As I unlocked the car door one afternoon, he looked up at me and asked, “Go bye-bye in da car now?” much to my astonishment.

One day my sister took him up on her lap to read to him. She had just bought him a new book, and as she turned the pages, she asked him if he would like to read it himself. She nearly fainted when he opened his little mouth and began to read out loud. He was a little over two years old. I’d always gone slowly and run my finger under the words as I had read to him, and I was aware that he knew many “sight words”, because he would point to signs and say, “Bus!” or “Stop!” or “Open!” as I pushed him around the neighborhood in his stroller, but that was the first moment that I realized he could actually read.

The first two years of his life were pretty happy and otherwise unremarkable. When he was just over three years old, we thought we’d better get him into nursery school to nurture his budding intellect and give him the opportunity to socialize with other children. That’s when the difficulties started. While the other children were coloring and playing with blocks, my son was writing full sentences on the posters that decorated the classroom walls, or hiding under a table, refusing to come out.

Our son was no longer the happy, rosy-cheeked boy he’d been. We had never had any problems with him at home, but once he got to school, it seemed he just could not behave. He hated school and had difficulty making friends. He had started to cry and pull back as we approached the door of the school each morning. He would beg me not to make him go in. It was a struggle just to get him inside the building every morning, and then the teachers would usually end up calling me after a few hours, asking me to come and get him because he was running in circles around the room and they couldn’t get him to stop. One day he was able to sneak out of school just before I was due to pick him up. He managed to make it twenty or so yards down the sidewalk next to a busy street before I spotted him.

At the urging of the nursery school staff, we brought him to Boston Children’s Hospital for evaluation. The teachers weren’t sure what was wrong, but they couldn’t handle him and thought perhaps the Child Development Lab at Children’s could get to the bottom of it. So began the long years of going from doctor to counselor and back again in an endless loop of expense and frustration. His I.Q. was tested and found to be just below what is considered genius level. They told us our son was gifted and all his problems, no doubt sprung from that fact. We took him to an eminent neurologist who came to the same conclusion. A child psychiatrist (the first of many) decided he had Attention Deficit Disorder. Another was sure he suffered from clinical depression. They prescribed medicines that seemed to make everything worse instead of better. Somehow, I knew that none of these opinions were correct.

Finally, when he was eighteen and in his senior year in high school, a doctor told me that our son had a form of autism known as Asperger’s Syndrome. I was skeptical, because I had heard so many wrong diagnoses in the past, but he wrote down the name of a book by Tony Attwood, and told me to look for it. I found it in a book store that evening and read it from cover to cover. I saw my son described on every page. It was a relief to know that we weren’t crazy – something really was different about our boy, but it was unbelievably frustrating to know that if we had gotten a correct diagnosis years ago, we might have been able to get him some appropriate schooling that would have helped him cope and adjust to it.

Asperger’s syndrome is a condition that is on the autistic spectrum. Some of the hallmarks of Asperger’s are the inability to make eye-contact or read facial cues, which causes social awkwardness, and the tendency to focus intensely on one field of interest to the exclusion of most everything else. Many have repetitive habits such as rocking back and forth when standing or sitting still. Aspies tend to be very literal, sometimes having difficulty understanding figures of speech and sarcasm. If you were to jokingly say: “I’ll kill you!” to a person with Asperger’s, it might make them fear for their life. Aspies have to learn things that neuro-typical people know instinctually, such as how to interpret body language. Many with Asperger’s have strong natural aptitudes in music, art or math and some are considered savants. It is now strongly suspected that Albert Einstein, Ben Franklin and Vincent Van Gogh all had Asperger’s syndrome.

My son is a talented artist and also excelled in math when he was in school. He struggled through the harrowing social mine field of high school, and attended art college for one year, and a technical school afterwards, eventually earning a degree in computer-aided drafting, but at least partly because of his difficulty in navigating the interview process, he has been unable to find a job in his field. He pays his bills with a part-time job at a convenience store and by doing freelance and commission art work. Last year, he decided to go to Japan by himself, much to our horror. He went and spent ten days in Tokyo, finding his way around the city by himself and having a great vacation. I thank God that he got home safely. He currently still lives with Mac and me, but yearns to have a place of his own. He has 3 friends, two of whom he met in kindergarten, but they are scattered around the country, so he spends his free time by himself.

Our son is not comfortable with the diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome and refuses to be defined by it. He thinks of himself as different, but not in any way deficient. In truth, there are more than a few doctors and other experts who now believe that neurological functioning is really a continuum and we are all spaced out along it, with the more typical people closer to one end, and those known as Aspies closer to the other. Maybe Asperger’s is really just a difference, not a disorder.

When he was a toddler, reading books and doing math, everyone was sure he would be an incredible success. All agreed that his talent and intellect would insure a bright future. It is still my hope that someday soon, someone will look beyond the eccentricities that hold him back and give him the chance he needs to shine his light on the world.

Something to be Thankful for

2009-11-24T14:27:00.005-05:00

In the spring of 1621, two natives were hunting near the beach at Patuxet in Massachusetts, now known as Plymouth. Samoset was a Wabanake and Squanto, a Wampanoag. The area was the site of Squanto’s former village, but his people had been ravaged by disease brought over from Europe by slave traders and the tribe had been wiped out.
Both Squanto and Samoset spoke English. They met originally in England where they had both traveled with explorers. In 1620 they had returned together to find only bones in the ruins of what had been Squanto’s village. The two men had since gone to live with another group of Wampanoags nearby.
Imagine their surprise that spring afternoon when they came upon a bedraggled group of English settlers living in Squanto’s former village. The first word alleged to be said by Squanto as he walked in to his occupied village and approached the strangers was, “Welcome.”

The English interlopers were in tough shape and would not have survived much longer. But Squanto decided to stay with them for several months, teaching them how to cultivate the plants they found in the new world, including corn which became their staple. He taught them how to tap the maple trees for sap. He gave them meat and furs, and taught them the medicinal value of some of the native plants as well. They learned to dig clams and other shellfish, and to use plants and animals from the sea as fertilizer for their crops.

By harvest time, the immigrants had much to be thankful for; they had been yanked back from the brink of disaster by the Indians. They now enjoyed sufficient food and new homes that the Indians had helped them build. Captain Miles Standish invited Squanto, Samoset, their leader Massasoit and their families to a celebratory feast of thanks. The Wampanoag men arrived with over ninety people in tow, as well as an abundance of food to contribute. The ensuing feast lasted for three days, and was a celebration of peace and friendship between the Wampanoag people and the English settlers.

The Pilgrims had escaped religious intolerance in their homeland and made a new life in the freedom of the new world with the help of the Wampanoags. Unfortunately, they forgot the hard lessons learned and began to impose their own religious prejudices on the natives. How terrible and sad that less than fifty years later, the settlers took up arms against their benefactors in King Phillip’s War. Squanto could not have imagined that his kindness to the Pilgrims would be the beginning of the end for the native peoples of North America.

As we celebrate all that we have to be thankful for this Thanksgiving, spare a thought for Squanto and the Wampanoag people. Without their help, the pilgrims would have perished and become a historical footnote, rather than the founders of a great nation.

In The Throes of Indian Summer

2009-11-10T16:34:00.005-05:00

Here in the northeast we are experiencing that rare weather pattern better known as “Indian summer.” There are many definitions of what constitutes true Indian summer, but what isn’t in dispute is that it is lovely and warm, comes in October or November, lasts for at least a few days, and follows a hard, or killing frost. Some variations say that it must precede the first snow, with temperatures of at least 70 degrees Fahrenheit, but I never depend on such stringent criteria to define my Indian summer. If the sun is out and the late autumn days are balmy and still, or stirred only by a slight breeze from the southwest, it is Indian summer for me.

This year, it came after the first snow, which happened a few weeks ago on a cold and miserable Sunday. That was a nasty day of big, wet flakes mixed with sleet and a cold rain. It coated the grass in slush, but dissipated by the following morning. It unfortunately coincided with me having to drive into the city an hour away to pick up seven arrivals from the corporate headquarters on the west coast who were flying in to Logan airport…bad timing, to be sure. At least I earned time-and-a-half wages for my efforts and was able to take a company car.

That day was like a distant memory this past Sunday, as the frost melted off the grass by mid-morning, and we reveled in the hazy warmth of a low sun and a warm, sweet breeze that stirred the mostly bare trees. Even now, a few days later, though the sun is weaker, it is still weirdly mild outside and I love it.

But it got me to thinking: where does the term “Indian summer” come from? I did a little research and found that its true origins may be lost in time. But there are some things we do know. In most parts of the northern hemisphere, there is a name for the warm weather that follows the hard frost. In Bulgaria, for example, it is known as the “Gypsy summer” or sometimes, “Gypsy Christmas” presumably because it makes outdoor living more bearable for those wandering folk. In Germany it’s known as the “Web summer”, because a certain type of spider weaves webs on the grass and Hungarians know it as the “Crone’s summer”, which refers to the medieval association with Halloween and witchcraft.

The oldest written reference to the term Indian summer was apparently in a letter written by a Frenchman, St. John de Crevecouer, in 1778. He describes, “…an interval of calm and warmth which is called the Indian Summer; its characteristics are a tranquil atmosphere and general smokiness”, referring to the common occurrence of haze in the warm meadows. But where do Indians fit it to the picture? Although no one seems to know for certain, it is suspected that many native peoples here in the United States had a habit of setting fire to the grasslands during this time of year. The smoke mingled with the haze, allowing them to be better able to sneak up on their prey when hunting. Other sources contend that northern tribes saw the warmth of the dry winds as a gift from the gods of the southwest desert; a reprisal of summer, just before the winter.

On Sunday, Mac and I took Rigby down to the shore with the thought of walking her up and down the sand, but it was so nice on the beach, we set up chairs near the surf and read for a few hours. It was like medicine for the soul.

I hate to see this beautiful weather leave, because I know it is likely our last reprieve before winter’s icy grip enfolds us. But for today, it is wonderful.

FreeDigitalPhotos.net

On All Hallows Eve

2009-10-28T16:27:00.012-04:00

Samhain is fast approaching. All Hallow’s eve, the feast that heralds the “dark-half”of the year. The bright season of summer has died, and we mourn as we face the approaching winter.

The autumn sun sets in streaks of gold and violet. Clouds trimmed in charcoal gray fall like a heavy curtain on the day. Herds of small, frightened creatures streak across the road in front of your car, stopping your heart for a second until you realize... they're only dead leaves whipped into a panic by the moaning wind. Clouds of blackbirds amass, streaming southward in undulating flight. Vines of bittersweet festoon bare branches with their garlands of red and yellow. Shadow beings move in and out of the treeline at the edges of the fields. The dying vegetation, the cinnamon smell of decaying leaves, and the bare tree branches like dead fingers, suggest that perhaps the author, Ray Bradbury was right: “Something wicked this way comes!”

Christian tradition marks All Saints Day, then a few days later, All Souls, a day of remembrance of those who have passed from this world. The harvest is in, the growing season ended, the leaves have died and fallen, leaving the trees bare. Long thought of as the season of death in many cultures, for the Celtic people, it marked the end of the grass, thus, the end of the grazing time, and so, the beginning of the slaughter. The people made great fires called bone-fires (bonfires) and burned the bones of the cattle on them. It is the harbinger of the Celtic New Year, the end and the beginning.

This is the time when the veil that separates the worlds is drawn back, and the inhabitants of the spirit plane and the faerie realm might move freely between them.

Once, long ago, I was a young girl balancing on the tightrope between the worlds of child and adult. I was almost too old for trick–or-treat; just old enough to be let out on Halloween night for a hour or two without adult supervision.
Giddy with freedom, I ran to meet two friends in the big field at the end of our street. On this All Hallow’s Eve, it represented a scary, yet safe enough place to greet whatever spirits might roam the night, as free as I was.

This field was a big part of my childhood. From preschool days, to high school, I wandered through it, my knees brushed by the amber grass. It was the staging area for neighborhood games of war, freeze tag and red rover. I also liked to sit there alone sometimes, thinking and watching the clouds form familiar shapes in the sky.
Tonight my two friends and I would go there to challenge whatever spirits might rise up to prowl the night.

Karyn and Pam were already there waiting for me in the darkness as I ran through the vacant lot and burst into the field. We passed around a cigarette, thrilling to the fact that we were almost grown, and out with no adults on the darkest night of the year, a night when evil might be lurking all around us. We spent some time gossiping as young teens will, and laughing loudly at our own jokes while the stars came out, and the night breeze ruffled the long grass around us. We plotted our route around the nearby housing development. Candy was for babies, but we would roam the neighborhood anyway, checking out the costumes and looking for our school mates.

Suddenly, there was a sound a few dozen yards away at the edge of the woods. Someone or something was moving through the leaves and into the field. I was suddenly frightened, not only of ghosts, but of some person with bad intentions. My parents had hammered it into me that there were adults that would harm a child, if they got the chance.
"It's nothing," said Karyn,"probably just some kids..." As I watched, the grass started to move, slowly at first, then faster, as if something large and low to the ground was moving up the hill, in our direction!

I was confused at first, because although I could make out the dim horizon, the shapes of the trees and the long blades of grass moving, nothing appeared to be moving them. There was a whispery sound as the tufts of grass shook and swayed. It was as if some invisible person was walking quickly through them, straight toward us! One of my friends gasped and that was all it took. The three of us ran screaming from the field and didn't stop until we were about a quarter of a mile away, back on the relative safety of the dark street.
"What WAS that?" Pam asked incredulously as we stopped and tried to catch our breath.

As I think back on it, I guess it could have been a big raccoon or opossum making it's way up the hill, hidden by the grass. But I prefer to think that perhaps it was a visitor from a different reality; a Samhain spirit or an Elfin traveler that passed through the thin veil into the dimension of living humans on that dark and shadowy Halloween night.

So light your jack-o-lanterns to keep the evil spirits at bay, and guide the friendly ones home...it's almost All Hallows Eve.

See the geese...

2009-10-19T20:19:00.006-04:00

I woke up today and found
frost perched on the town.
It hovered in a frozen sky
and gobbled summer down...
The warriors of winter
gave a cold, triumphant shout
All that stays is dying'
and all that lives is getting out
...See the geese in chevron flight
laughin' and a racin' on before the snow
They've got the urge for goin'
and they've got the wings to go
And they get the urge for goin'
when the meadow grass is turnin' brown
Summer time is fallin' down
and winter's closin' in.

-Joni Mitchell, "Urge for Goin'"

A few decades ago, Tom Rush of New Hampshire recorded my favorite version of this song, and for me it will always be the quintessential autumn song. It evokes all the melancholy feelings of watching nature sink down into hibernation for the winter. The wistful melody and beautifully spare musical arrangement complements the somber mood of the lyrics, setting the tone for late fall and early winter. It just makes you want to build a good fire, fill your mug with steaming hot coffee or tea, grab an old quilt and hunker down until spring. If you enjoy folk and progressive country rock, seek it out and give it a listen if you can find it.

Grace and Guidance

2009-10-12T19:27:00.003-04:00

Unless you believe that your life is an accident, that somehow a series of chemical processes is wholly responsible for your existence, you may from time to time seek Divine guidance.

I was raised Catholic and for many years, lived by the dogma and man-made rules that I thought defined my religion. It was not what you would call a “living” faith; more like an unpleasant obligation to fulfill. I didn’t get much out of it, and as I looked around me I saw that no one else seemed to either.

Eventually, I felt driven to embark on my own spiritual quest. Through my participation in twelve step programs, meditation groups, and the study of other religions, I gradually attained an awareness of a spiritual life I knew I had been missing. I was enlightened by the teachings of Buddhism and other eastern traditions. I learned from the Pre–Christian Earth mother religions and Native American beliefs. My spiritual life was enriched and informed by the writings of Khalil Gibran, Eckhart Tolle and many others.

The result of this search was that it brought me full-circle, back to the beginning and my own faith of origin, but I began to discern that there was a vast difference between reciting prayers and responses by rote and simply showing up at Mass each week, and actually attempting to live the faith, which is what I believe we are called to do.

I began to perceive that my God was not an old man sitting up on a cloud somewhere, but was more like a wind, moving among us, surrounding us and blowing right through us here on Earth. My God works in miraculous ways, through human beings. My God is loving, forgiving and welcoming. My God is part of me, and speaks from within.

In past times of indecision or strife, I have found myself either in church, or in seclusion at home, searching through scriptures, pondering the New Testament and the psalms, looking for a sign post on my life’s journey…which way to go? Looking back over my life, I see now with aggravating clarity, the forks in the road where I chose poorly. Hind-sight is twenty-twenty, as they say. Those were times when I depended on my own weak sensibilities and flawed judgment to make my decisions. I have come to realize, however, that there have been a handful of times, when I was so distraught and depleted that I asked for Divine intervention. In effect, I asked God to show me what the right decision was, or simply to make something happen with the caveat: “Your will, not mine be done.” When I look back now on the results of those times of “letting go and letting God,” I see with mild astonishment how right the path I chose eventually turned out to be. This is one way that I have come to experience Grace.

Farms Fading

2009-09-30T21:36:00.011-04:00

The town I live in used to be dotted with small, family farms. When I moved here almost thirty years ago, you could drive down Main Street and see herds of cows grazing in fields of timothy grass, red clover and Queen Anne's lace. It was a place of simple, pastoral beauty. There were several horse farms with riding rings and paddock buildings. Most of them are gone now. Some sit with "For Sale" signs swinging on posts in the yards, some are empty and all boarded up.

There was a dairy farm, with trucks that delivered fresh milk on dawn doorsteps, and a bustling little store. When my children were small, I would take them there on fall afternoons. We walked past pumpkins and cornstalks into the big barn where the cows were milked, and we spent some time petting their velvety noses. The milking machines clicked and whirred while the cows chewed their cud. The air was full of the sweet smell of hay, the sharp smell of manure and a hint of sour milk. The lowing of the big animals and the tinkling of their collar bells filled our ears.

My children and I would walk the length of the barn, trying to choose our favorite cow. The black and white one was the biggest. The brown one looked like she was wearing eyeliner. The black one was the kindest. If we were in luck, some of the cows had little calves beside them; the babies were the ones we loved most of all.

After our visit to the barn, we'd go over to the dairy store and buy a quart of chocolate milk to take home. It was a special thing, but I took it for granted. I guess I thought the dairy would always be there, but it's gone now.

The barns and tractors are still there, but the cows no longer stop traffic every evening as they cross the street on their way back from the fields. The store is permanently closed down and the milk trucks sit rusting in the yard and the driveway.

Just down the street and around the corner, on the route that Rigby and I regularly walk is an old house with a big, fenced-in yard. Years ago, it was a little farm. A nice old woman lived there, and she had a pony named Strawberry and a little brown donkey that was Strawberry's best pal. The two beasts shared a corral together, and my kids would poke carrots and apples through the fence for them on summer afternoons. Chickens and ducks wandered about, clucking and quacking, nibbling at the grass.

When the old woman died, some of her relatives moved into the house and the pony and the donkey soon disappeared. Only a few goats and chickens remain there now, and a pair of brown and white ducks that look like bowling pins. The ducks always manage to get out of their enclosure and they hurry down toward the road, side by side, looking almost as if they are attached at their shoulders, to have a look at Rigby and me when we come by.

The once brightly colored garden gnome on the doorstep is weathered and fading to gray, like the paint on the moldy clapboards of the old house.
The little goats stand on top of their wooden houses, calling out to be fed or for companionship. Their bleating echoes like the distant sound of children's voices.

There are a few farms left in town. One is a pig farm down in a valley near the corner where our town meets the border of three other towns. It is pretty well hidden though, and you never see the animals, but on hot days, if the wind is right you can sure catch a whiff of it as you walk through the parking lot of the supermarket.

Another farm still has a herd of Hereford cattle. Those are the ones in the picture above that I took last Saturday. They were lounging in the field, enjoying the warm day amid the asters and blue chicory flowers as I drove by.

I also took a ride over to the old dairy farm for the photo of the red tractor. I met a man in the field who had obviously been working. As he walked up the hill toward me, I asked if he minded me taking some pictures. "Not at all", came his reply, "Do you want to buy anything?" I told him I wasn't in the market for any farm equipment, just some pictures to go with my farm story. "Take all you want, then." he answered.

I have a great sadness about our loss of the small farms. Families can no longer sustain themselves by working the land, and the land itself is valued more for real estate, rather than for what it can produce.
But it must have been wonderful, to coax food out of God's earth and live in close symbiotic harmony with the animals, the farmers relying on them, as they in turn relied on the farmers. To live by the cycle of the seasons and literally reap the rewards of your own hard work must have been such a good, simple, and satisfying way of life. I'm sorry to realize that it is a way of life that seems to be passing into history; fading into the mists of time.

The Atlantic in Autumn

2009-09-22T21:07:00.009-04:00

Equinox today, the autumnal shift. The daylight is rapidly fading and the sun seems cooler somehow, as we tilt towards winter.

Last Sunday, Mac and I journeyed down to the sea for what may be one of the last times this year. The sky was a deep, cerulean blue, unmarred except by the yellow sun and a few airplanes. The atmosphere was so crisp and dry that the short, white con-trails the jets made dissipated rapidly, making them appear like distant comets, arcing above the horizon, following the curve of the earth. No clouds seemed to form at all that day.

Through the fringe of my half-closed eyes, I watched as sandpipers and plovers dodged the surf. Glistening, clear jellyfish dotted the wet sand between multi-colored stones and clumps of seaweed. Gentle, coke-bottle green waves rolled in to shore, breaking into cascades of lacy foam before retreating back out to sea. Cabin cruisers bobbed on the surface of the bay and white sailboats shimmered like ghosts on the horizon as we luxuriated in the warmth of the late September sun.

Rigby dug a hole in the shade of Mac's beach chair and burrowed into the cool sand to watch the ringed gulls strut by us, searching for scraps and picking at abandoned shells, amid the washed up strands of kelp.

Later, as we watched the sun sinking low over bay, I was transfixed by the flashing diamonds it created, spangling the mud left exposed by the ebbing tide. Suddenly, I realized there was movement on the mudflats; a billion tiny periwinkles were stirring all around us, wondering where the sea had gone, their shiny, wet shells catching and reflecting back the sun's light like little jewels.

There may be other days at the shore in the weeks to come, but I will probably not swim in the ocean again until next May or June. Instead, Mac and I will most likely spend the brief hours walking on the sand with Rigby, greeting other dogs and their people, wearing our fleece jackets and warm-up pants or jeans. This brings a big sigh, because as I may have mentioned, winter is very long in these parts.

FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The Orb Spider's Web

2009-09-15T22:41:00.007-04:00

We have a little friend spinning her web near our garage now. I looked her up and found out that she is an Orb spider. It's fascinating to watch her work, deftly weaving this beautiful web of hers.

The tall, feathery, green plume is one of the cosmos I planted from seeds that grew taller than me, but never bloomed. I fertilized, and Mac watered faithfully, to no avail. I never got even one flower out of the darned thing.

That's Mac checking out the evening's spinning session.

This is one busy arachnid. She's an accomplished hunter, smart enough to set up right under the garage light where there is no shortage of small flies, moths and beetles that visit and fall victim to her trap.

How amazing that such a small and seemingly insignificant creature can create something so complex and sublime, a thing of beauty that serves such a practical function. Nature never ceases to amaze me. The more I contemplate the natural world, the more awestruck and humbled I am by all it holds.

A Time of Transition

2009-09-05T10:08:00.010-04:00

The hot, humid days seem to be past us now here in the northeast U.S. and Fall is fast approaching.
This is and has always been a time of transition for me, never more than this year. Within the past couple of weeks, my daughter has moved away from home into the city, and I have started a new job.

Yes, my youngest is all grown up now. Mac and I helped her move into a fourth floor walk-up in Boston, something I don't recommend if you have a weak back. It was quite a trick getting her bed, dresser, desk and a futon up a rickety, creaking staircase in the 90 degree heat and high humidity. To add to the indignity of it all, I came out and found a forty dollar parking ticket on my car for parking next to her building (resident parking only - how ironic).

Last week my girl had her first solo business trip, and she handled it like an old pro, booking a last minute flight and hotel, and renting a car to drive around Washington D.C., Baltimore and Virginia, all on her own. We are very proud that she has grown into a capable and independent woman. Our nest is not empty though. My son who is a few years older still resides with us. Despite having a degree in computer-aided drafting and being a talented artist, he has only been able to find retail jobs which don't pay enough to enable him to get his own place, which he would dearly love to do. So he and Rigby, and the two cats keep our place from being lonely.

As for me, I have been thrust back into the world of 9 to 5, planning what to wear, racing around trying to get ready in the morning, multi-tasking and scrambling to get all my work done, wolfing lunch at my desk while answering phones, and responding to a booming voice constantly summoning me. I've been teaching myself to use new software programs and do new things with old ones. So far, I really like it.

The one draw-back is that I have discovered I was actually bringing in more income while home on unemployment. This is due to the fact that President Obama's economic recovery act was paying 65 percent of my health care insurance while I was out of work, and the governor's medical security plan was picking up the rest. Now that I have taken a 25 percent pay cut in this new position, and again have to pay half of my own insurance premiums, I am making substantially less than when I was on permanent vacation. Something wrong with that picture, eh?(Please, can we have real health insurance reform now?...please?)

Then last week, another complication arose. Back in May I applied for a state job. Since months had passed and I hadn't heard anything, I assumed they had long since hired someone else for the job. I guess I underestimated the plodding pace of state agencies, because a few days after I started my new job as Executive Assistant to the President of my current company, I got the call; they wanted to interview me.

To make a long story short, I went for the interview and although I felt like it went well, I think they must be considering a lot of other people for the job, many of whom are probably much more qualified than I am. I went to a vocational post-secondary school instead of college and earned a hairdressing operator's license, not a degree. I believe my personality and a lot of luck earned me my past two jobs in administration. Although eighteen years of experience must be good for something, I wouldn't be surprised if I am not one of those being seriously considered for the post.

In any case, it could be a long time before I hear anything from them, being that it is a state job. If I do hear from them, that will open a whole new can of worms for Deedee. Stay tuned, my friends!

Let the Dream Never Die

2009-08-26T19:35:00.012-04:00

Why is it that I feel such a loss today? It is because those of us in the working class of America have lost a champion: Senator Edward M. Kennedy. It is because I’ve always felt an affinity to the Kennedy family, being born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts of Irish, Catholic stock. Maybe it is also because I grew up with his family. I have never known a world without the Kennedy brothers in it.

Now that the “Lion of the Senate” has passed on, who will be there for the rest of us…the disenfranchised: the elderly, minorities, women, children, the disabled, the mentally ill, the working poor? Who will fight the good fight for us in the senate? Who will be our knight in the war for equal rights and quality, affordable health care? Who will be thinking about the day to day cares of the working families of America, while walking the hallowed halls of Washington? Who will stand up for affordable housing and quality education for every American? Who will fight to be sure our troops have the equipment they need? Who will stand up for the common man and woman?

There are those who will choose to recall the dark chapters of his life. Some will mention the assassinations of his brothers, John and Bobby. Others will bring up Chappaquiddick, his failed first marriage or his other scandals and indiscretions, his human failings. Some will choose to remember these things.

But I remember this: He was raised in a rarified atmosphere of privilege and plenty. He could have lived a life of quiet comfort and opulence. Instead, he chose a life of service. He devoted himself to fighting for the rights of those less fortunate. For that, I will always be thankful.

Let the dream never die.

In a New York Minute...

2009-08-18T08:50:00.007-04:00

...Everything can change!
I got a phone call yesterday from the President of my old company (the one that cut me adrift last December.) It seems he is suddenly in need of an executive assistant and he wondered if I would be interested in the job.
There is only enough funding available to pay me through December and after that, I may very well be cut adrift again, but he said if business continues to improve there may be something available for me elsewhere in the company.

I may have to change the name of my blog to reflect my new status, but I will still be here, writing and reading as often as I can.

I start tomorrow...full time, nine to five. Today is my last day of summer freedom so I'm off to squeeze as much into it as I can!

Let the new adventure begin!

FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Things I learned this summer

2009-08-15T10:51:00.004-04:00

• If we all communicated like dogs, without speech, we’d be a whole lot happier.

• You can still love a family member, even while wondering where the hell they came from.

• There is a big Caladium plant that looks exactly like an elephant’s ear. They call it Elephant Ear.”

• Some people truly don’t want what’s good for them.

• Sometimes when you shave a dog, it becomes an entirely different color.

• You can love, care for and devote yourself to someone for years, and they can still show you disrespect on a regular basis.

• In our woods there is a yellow, pitcher shaped wildflower, of the Impatiens family that’s called “Touch me not”. When the flowers are peppered with orange spots, it’s called “Spotted jewel weed.”

• Some people will try to make you doubt your own five senses and your own good sense.

• In Florida, it seems like just about everyone owns a gun.

• In New England, it seems most people don’t.

• The forests of the Berkshires are filled with little, red amphibians that are called “efts”.

• Some people would rather believe anything than believe the truth.

• Cats don’t hold grudges.

• Even smart people can get duped.

• In a New York minute, everything can change.

Midsummer's Dreaming

2009-08-06T22:00:00.009-04:00

High summer. Although I could do without the mosquitoes and high humidity, this is really my favorite time of year. On sunny days, dog-day cicadas hum in the trees from noon until dusk. On cloudy days, gray tree frogs take over the chorus. Usually by this time of the season, the grass has turned brown and crunches underfoot, but this year we have had more than our share of rain, leaving everything green and lush.

There is a certain smell in the air now, especially at night. The trees are long past the blossoming stage, their flowers withered and blown away, and a new fragrance wafts through the yards. It's the smell of skunk cabbage and cut grass, vegetable gardens and clean sheets hung on backyard clotheslines. It is the fragrance of ferns, mushrooms and muddy riverbanks. It's the warm smell of summer in the Northeast.

Birds and dragonflies dart in crazy trajectories through the airspace of Catbird Heaven, and cottontail bunnies graze in the late afternoon on the clover and dandelions, while tufts of lacey, white cloud drift lazily across a deep blue sky.

Often, if I have a few free hours, I go for a short drive to my parent's house and I float on my back for a while in their small, crystal-clear pool, staring up at the branches of the oak trees that surround it. I watch the birds play tag among the green leaves, which are gilded by the mid-afternoon sunlight, and I admire the dappled patterns of light that dance on the water.

Last night, the full "Sturgeon" moon glowed pink as it hung low in the hazy sky. Snow crickets trill in the gardens after dark, and Rigby washes her feet in the dew that soaks the lawn at night and lingers into the morning.

I'm trying to take a little time every day and drink my fill of this season; to breathe it in and let it become part of me, so it will never leave.
I know that in the cold, dark heart of January, it will be nothing but a sweet and distant memory.

Cats in Love

2009-07-28T11:08:00.004-04:00

My Catboy is in love...with a piece of luggage. I caught him wooing the object of his affection this morning when he thought no one was around. I returned from a short trip to the Berkshires last night and left my Sportsac weekender, still packed, in the kitchen. This morning I found him embracing it with his entire body, both paws entwined in the shoulder strap, while ardently rubbing his face all over it and drooling.

My attention had disturbed him, though, and by the time I could get to my camera, the moment had passed.

I've seen him do this before to various other objects; usually a jacket, a pair of boots, or some other clothing item. Sometimes I suspect that he's marking my belongings with his facial glands to infer his ownership of me, but I'm not sure about this.

Occasionally, he stops suddenly and makes that funny grimace that tells me he is accessing the organ in the roof of his mouth that fine tunes his sense of smell. I've read that this response may be used when cats detect an odor that they interpret as sexual in nature.

If that's true, then something must have shifted after he was neutered as a kitten, because apparently, leather, flannel and ripstop nylon really turn him on!

Postcards from the Island

2009-07-17T21:59:00.011-04:00

Before I end this chronicle of my recent trip to Block Island, I wanted to share a few picture postcards that I picked up there. These beautiful scenes really capture the feel of the place.

This first one below is the view of Old Harbor you would get as you entered on a boat heading for the docks. The big Victorian Hotel on the right is The National.

Photo by Olya Evanitsky
©KW Cards 2004

This is the Old Southeast Light that sits on Mohegan Bluffs, site of a long-ago indian massacre.

photo by K.C.Perry

And North light, which sits at the northern-most tip of the island, just across Narragansett Bay from the fishing village of Galilee on Point Judith. This lighthouse was recently restored and it overlooks a seagull rookery.

photo by K.C.Perry

A typical view from the shore, looking out to sea.

photo by K.C. Perry

This view is from a hill overlooking the Great Salt Pond, with Old Harbor and The National Hotel in the distance and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

photo by Robert M. Downie

So its goodbye for now to Manisses, island of the little god. There are many more island stories to tell and I will journey back again in the future.

A Different Kind of Farm

2009-07-13T08:56:00.012-04:00

This is the Hotel Manisses, a 19th century Victorian Hotel that is one of the more elegant places to stay on the Block. Although I prefer a much more casual lifestyle while staying on the island (so does my budget), the gardens are a lovely place to have cocktails after dark. Featuring sparkling fountains, white, wrought iron furniture, and subtle lighting, it's like relaxing in a private little world of elegance. Late afternoon tapas and wine on the front porch is a favorite and affordable time too.

My favorite part of the Manisses Hotel is Justin's animal farm. Here you will find exotic animals like Llamas, fainting goats, camels, giant tortoises, emus, zebus and red kangaroos, as well as the usual barnyard fowl. Above is a photo of MacDuff, taken from the hotel's webpage. He was inside on the morning I visited last week, so I didn't get a shot of him. An enormous, but serene bull of the Highland Cattle variety, MacDuff is the king of the pasture.

I never miss an opportunity to stroll though the farm and commune with all of its residents.

If I were to come back in another lifetime and get to choose my life and occupation, living on Block Island and running the animal farm would be right up there near the top of the list.

New Harbor, Old Harbor

2009-07-09T21:31:00.015-04:00

There are two Harbors at Block Island. New Harbor on the Great Salt Pond is dominated by Champlin's Marina. Last Wednesday a thunder storm rolled through, late in the afternoon. The sky suddenly turned very dark and ominous.

Old Harbor is studded with Victorian-style hotels and gift shops of every description. On Saturday, July 4th, the Block Island parade lurched down Water Street to the delight of several thousand onlookers. Some highlights below. Some folks seemed to think they were at Mardi gras- It was a crazy scene on the streets. Check out the daredevil standing on the roof in the second picture. He was not a young kid and I had visions of him taking a dive. Glad to say, he eventually climbed down safely.

Next: The Manisses Farm

Life On The Beach

2009-07-08T00:10:00.011-04:00

Of course, my favorite part of island life is the beach. Here are some photos from my time spent on Scotch Beach during my trip to Manisses. You can click to enlarge for a better look.

Next: the harbors.

Island Time

2009-07-06T14:19:00.009-04:00

I've been in heaven for the past few days. I took the ferry twelve nautical miles across Narragansett Bay and landed on Manisses: island of the little god; better known these days as Block Island.

Back here on the mainland, dark clouds, rain and lightning have been the order of the day, weatherwise. But the Block exists in a micro-climate(only one of the many wonderful, magical things that define it)and from Thursday through Sunday, the sun bathed the powder-white beaches with heat and a sweet, glorious sea-breeze stirred the field grass in the green pastures that dot the island, surrounded by ancient cobblestone walls.

Although Independence Day weekend is certainly not the best time to go (I feared the village of Old Harbor might sink from the weight of humanity on Saturday, July 4th), opportunity knocked in the form of a generous invitation from my beloved sister and brother-in-law, and I never say no to island time. Luckily, the pretty home they had rented was a few, precious miles outside of town, in a much less populated area, away from the rowdy bars and the buzzing mopeds.

I'm preparing a photo collection and I will post it as soon as I catch up on my laundry and address some other real-life issues, now that I'm back here on earth. Stay tuned.

Icons Passing

2009-06-29T23:12:00.011-04:00

The old superstition goes that celebrities die in groups, and oddly enough, history seems to bear that out. Over the past week or so, we have all been made aware of the deaths of four iconic personalities. First, Johnny Carson’s beloved, comic wingman, Ed McMahon. Then a few days later, actor and cheesecake poster girl Farrah Fawcett, followed by the enigmatic and tragic pop king, Michael. Then, just yesterday, the news came down that pitch man, Billy Mays had died suddenly. While Billy may not be a “star”, not nearly as famous as the other three, he has undeniably been a larger than life fixture on cable television for at least two decades; with his unmistakable, booming voice and overly-dyed, black beard, convincing even the most skeptical among us of the merits of Oxy-Clean, Mighty Mend-it and the Awesome Auger. He is being remembered by those who knew him as a good man and an excellent husband and father, noble attributes that too many fail to achieve in these trying times we live in.

Whenever we hear of untimely death, it tends to force an uneasy examination of ourselves, and also of the human condition. We cannot help but compare ourselves to the deceased: our own age, health, lifestyle, and perhaps how close to the end of our own earthly sojourn we think we may be, as well as how ready we are(or, are not) to face that eventuality. The shocking, sudden finality of unexpected passing gets our attention in a way that few other events in life are capable of doing. This kind of reflection is a good thing, I think. In this fast-paced, over stimulated, information overloaded rat race world, taking pause for a little quiet self-examination is a rare and valuable occurrence.

The death among these four that has affected me the most is probably that of Michael Jackson. While “Thriller” and “Off the Wall” made my feet tap and my body sway, I cannot say that I would qualify as a big fan of his music. He was, undoubtedly, a genius in the world of music production and perhaps, even more so as a choreographer and performer. Those were not the things I thought about, though, as I watched him onstage, or in interviews.

Like so many others, I watched the Martin Bashir interviews a few years ago, just before Michael's indictment on the molestation charges, and again last night when they were rebroadcast. The thing I was most struck by was not his talent, his weirdness, his great wealth or his opulent lifestyle, but how very fragile and damaged a human being he was. It has been said that extreme indulgence in plastic surgery is a sign of self-loathing and it is easy to believe, looking at his ravaged countenance. There was no vestige of the adorable boy who sang “ABC” with his brothers. His hair, facial features, and even his skin color, radically altered, as if he had tried to destroy any remnant of that tortured, little person who had been forced to sacrifice his youth on the altar of fame. As he spoke in a gentle voice about the fear and anxiety of his childhood, growing up in a bizarre family under the alleged, violent tutelage of his father, amid the constant harassment and violation of the paparazzi, his psychic pain was palpable. His eyes, swathed in black eyeliner, still showed the intense sorrow of that young boy, beset by forces he never understood and had no control over.

He trusted Mr. Bashir as he had few others: enough to bring him into the sheltered world he had created for himself, and to speak candidly about his life and his personal demons. In the end, his trust was betrayed again when the interviewer seemed to turn against him after profiting handsomely from their association.

I have to say that I never believed the charges of child abuse and pedophilia that were brought against him. The mothers who accused him were, by most accounts, less than honorable people with nothing to lose and too much to gain by bringing convenient charges against a billionaire star. With a few, drooling lawyers thrown into the mix, the public feeding frenzy was on. Any chance of assumption of innocence seemed to go out the window for most people. “Yeah, he’s weird, he’s freaky looking, he’s filthy rich…he’s not like me and I can’t relate to him at all, so he probably did it.” Although the jury acquitted him, I think it’s safe to say that his reputation and his spirit were both irreparably damaged.

When I look at the photos of rooms filled with toys and life-sized statues of cartoon characters, I don’t see the tools of a conniving child molester; I see the trappings of a childhood imagined and longed for, but never experienced. He surrounded himself with children at play, because that is how he saw himself in his dreams. He was Peter Pan, the boy who didn’t grow up. His Neverland Ranch is a testament to the unfulfilled desires of a child spirit, cruelly grown into an adult’s shell, to yet have what had always been denied him: a happy childhood of innocence and wonder. He still longed for that safe harbor where loving parents would nurture and protect him, and help him to grow up strong. He didn’t understand the hard truth that innocence lost can never be regained, and that we humans are basically a mean, cynical lot, slow to understand and show compassion, but ever quick to judge.

These four people who have passed on in recent days were all icons, of greater or lesser degree: people who lived much of their lives in the public eye. They follow a long line of stars, now gone ahead of us, those such as Marilyn, Elvis, Janis, John Lennon, Marvin Gaye and Heath Ledger. We were privy to many of their personal trials and tribulations, as well as their careers and the bodies of work they produced. They were, after all, public figures, and we, the public went along for the vicarious ride: rubber-necking, applauding, laughing, salivating, and condemning…always, judging. Yes, they profited from their high-visibility careers. They also paid a high price for their fortune and fame.

If my fairy godmother arrived this evening, offering me wealth and stardom, honestly, I would decline it. If I could choose to have only the wealth while maintaining my comfortable anonymity, great...I have nothing against becoming rich, in fact, I have no doubt it would bring me great joy and solve most of my problems, while also allowing me to do a lot of good for others. But the freedom to live my life as I choose, without fear of being watched, followed and judged by the masses is more valuable to me than all the riches in the world. I think that very few of us could hold up well under the relentless glare of the spotlight. Living with the awful certainty of having one’s every word, every move scrutinized, second guessed and picked apart in the media is a cross that I for one, am definitely not willing to bear. In my mind, no amount of money could possibly compensate for that kind of existence.

Rest in peace (finally), Ed, Billy, Farrah, and Michael

Ceecee's Trauma

2009-06-23T17:47:00.018-04:00

Thirteen years ago, while I was working as a volunteer for a local animal shelter, I met Ceecee. She and her sister, white kittens with gray stripes on their heads, were found with their mother in an empty outdoor cage at a local zoo. Ceecee had a cranky streak, right from the start. The first time I held her, she was no bigger than my palm, but she resented my handling her, and like the feisty little cat that she is, she scratched me and tried to bite my thumb.

The shelter gave the two kittens all their shots and when the time was right, spayed them. When her sister was adopted, I decided Ceecee would come home with me and live with us, as long as Catboy accepted her, which of course he did. In fact he was ecstatic to have a playmate...and wrestling partner. She,on the other hand, was somewhat less than thrilled. Catboy likes to stalk her, jumping out and tackling her, biting her stomach until she screams. To him, it's all fun and games, but I don’t think she appreciates his idea of play. Still, they have grown together like an old married couple: bickering one moment and affectionately grooming each other the next.

The worst times for Ceecee are when she gets her claws clipped. This is definitely a two-person job. One person has to totally restrain her, keeping a hand under her chin so she can’t bite the lucky groomer. Each click of the clipper is punctuated by an unearthly growl and a scream that will surely set the hairs on the back of your neck to standing up.

Ceecee is not usually in a good mood. She has been known to bite the hand that feeds her.

Still, she has her moments. Sometimes, in the early morning or late at night, she likes to seek out a sleepy person and cuddle up next to them, rubbing her face and head against their leg or arm, asking to be petted. In this way, she expresses and requests affection.

My daughter has often opined that Ceecee is a “bee-atch” and a not-nice cat. I disagree. She may not be the friendly, playful, happy creature that Catboy is, but I defend her right to be who she is. She doesn’t feel the need to curry the favor of humans. She seems to be saying, “This is who I am, take it or leave it…after all, I didn’t ask you to adopt me.” And I’m okay with that. I love her, despite her disposition. I think we all deserve to be loved unconditionally by those closest to us, despite our dispositions, humans and animals alike.

A few weeks ago I took Ceecee to her annual appointment with the Vet, for her shots and a check-up. We have long been aware that she suffers from a heart condition, an arrhythmia. They recommended that we schedule her for a dental cleaning, so as to avoid a gum infection which could worsen her heart problems, and we agreed. On the appointed day for her cleaning, however, we got a phone call shortly after dropping her off, telling us that they’d decided not to do it and that we should come and get her. It seems her heartbeat was very erratic, and it was deemed too much of a risk for her to undergo anesthesia. I understood completely and brought her home.

When we got home, I noticed immediately that something was very wrong. Ceecee staggered out of the carrier and fell onto her side. When she looked up at me, I saw that while her right eye looked normal, the left one looked strange. The pupil was a tiny pinprick, and the lower nictating membrane was drawn up halfway. Her left ear was drooping to the side at an angle, while the opposite one looked normal. My first thought was that she had had a stroke. I noticed that there was dried, reddish fluid on the fur underneath her left ear. I called the Vet’s office immediately and they asked me to bring her back in.

The Vet who had seen her earlier that day told me that because her ears had needed to be cleaned, they had gone ahead and done that while she was there. She did not believe that it had anything to do with her current condition, or so she claimed. That was probably caused by a blood clot related to the extreme stress of visiting the Vet’s office combined with her heart condition, and nothing could really be done about it, I was told. This did not ring true. It didn’t seem likely to me, but hey...I’m not a Vet, what the heck do I know? I waited for a day or two, and when Ceecee did not improve, I called the office again, this time asking to speak with the head of the practice, a man who has been treating my animals for thirty years, and for whom I have the utmost respect.

He made arrangements with me to come, accompanied by a technician, to the house, so as not to further stress poor Ceecee. At this point, she had been hiding under a bed for two days, not eating, drinking water or using the litter box.

The house call resulted in a diagnosis of Horner’s or Haw’s syndrome which, as far as I understand it, is a form of facial nerve damage. It can be caused by many things, one of which is ear trauma. No one has admitted responsibility, but I believe that she was injured, either while being restrained during the ear cleaning, or by the cleaning itself, at the Vet’s office. She may or may not recover. She is after all, thirteen years old: a “geriatric” cat, by any standard. Still, I’m sad and angry. I feel guilty, like I have somehow betrayed Ceecee. She was okay before I left her in the care of supposed animal experts. I never asked that her ears be cleaned. She implicitly trusts me not to do anything to cause harm to her, and I took her to a place and gave her to people who did just that. I feel betrayed, too.

But, I know things happen. I don’t think anyone meant to hurt her. I have to believe that they had the best of intentions, and would go back and do things differently, if they could.

She has improved a lot since that first day. She is not giving up, so I’m not either. If I thought she was ready to check out I would let her go, but she has rallied. She’s walking better and has started to eat again. I spoon feed her several times a day with watered down canned food so she doesn’t become dehydrated. She has been too disoriented and unsteady on her feet to use the litter box, so she has been creeping silently over to a corner of my bedroom in the middle of the night and relieving herself. This wouldn’t be so upsetting to me if it were not new, expensive wool carpeting. Thank goodness for Bissel and Febreze.

People who don’t understand say things like, “Why don’t you put her to sleep?” or they make motions, as if they are pushing a hypodermic into their arm, while looking at me with raised eyebrows. They don't get it - why would I put up with such inconvenience?

I don’t hold it against them. I forgive them, because they know not what they do. These are simply people who have never known the grace and privilege of truly loving and being loved by an animal.

Art in Beautiful Downcity Providence

2009-06-19T21:17:00.030-04:00

I can't believe another week has screamed by! It truly seems like time is flying. I've been busy with my stepped-up job search, renovations in our apartment and sadly, caring for an injured cat. I will write a post about that shortly, but first; I have some photos of beautiful Providence, Rhode Island taken last weekend at the Downcity Art Festival that I want to share with you.

Here we are at the Downcity Art Festival on Westminster Street.

Gorgeous glass pendants

The city's resident hawk.
(We actually saw the hawk hunting pigeons later that day as we walked to a restaurant. He lives on top of one of the high buildings!)

Assorted paintings

Baubles and whatnot

Lovely stained glass pieces

Some funky furniture!

Cute Baby shoes

Colorful handmade clutches

The Balloon Lady

A happy balloon recipient!

Above it all

There is some beautiful old architecture in Providence. I'll feature more photos of it in an upcoming post. Hope you enjoyed coming "Downcity" with me.

Goin' Down City

2009-06-13T13:42:00.005-04:00

My sister, her husband, my little niece and I are heading south to the beautiful city of Providence, Rhode Island today for the DownCity Art Festival. It's a gorgeous, sunny day with temps hovering around 78F, and it should be a really good time. I am looking forward to seeing all the crafts, paintings and jewelry that will be on display, and of course, the people watching will be spectacular.

After the art festival, we'll find a good restaurant and have dinner before heading down to the river. There will be another Waterfire lighting this evening, so we plan to make that scene at sunset.

We have heard there will be a fire juggler tonight. Once last season the braziers were lit by this hunky guy with long hair, dressed only in black harem pants. He walked along the granite, swinging two flaming lamps around, lighting each basket with them; it is a sight to see.

Hope you all are getting out there and enjoying the weekend!

Land Of The Nipmuck

2009-06-09T18:36:00.013-04:00

The land that I live on used to be the homeland of the Nipmuck people. Ten thousand years ago, a group of Paleo-Indians, the ancestors of the Nipmuck traveled here from the southwest. They settled around what is now Worcester County, in south-central Massachusetts and lived in independent groups, eventually spreading into Connecticut and Rhode Island. In the beginning, the Nipmuck, or “fresh water people” subsisted by hunting the wildlife that roamed in what was then a sub-arctic climate. They crafted stone and wooden bowls and woven articles, and as the climate changed and the land warmed, they eventually evolved into an agricultural society.

The Nipmuck lived in peace for thousands of years, until the arrival of the white settlers. It is difficult to say with any accuracy how many Nipmuck lived here prior to contact with the Europeans because they were not a tribe per se, but a group of independent bands living in this area that were allied with powerful tribes such as the Pequot.

Some estimates put the number of natives in southern New England in 1614 at around 100,000. After King Philip’s War, the number was reduced to about 4,000. Those who were not killed, or sold into slavery fled from their homeland. Those who remained saw their cultural identities disintegrate as they moved into villages and their remaining lands were bought up by the government or stolen by squatters. The Algonquin dialect spoken by the Nipmuck people nearly became extinct. Today there are reportedly about 3000 descendants of the Nipmuck people remaining, but only a handful are fluent in the language of their ancestors. According to a story that the Boston Globe ran last Saturday, that may be changing.

The front page article detailed how the Nipmuck are struggling to revive their culture through the teaching of the language and the traditional songs of their people, and by retrieving lost artifacts.
Although they can do nothing to change the history that decimated their culture, they are taking steps to reinvigorate it, and I believe that is a very good thing.
There’s a state forest not far from my home that we like to visit sometimes. We bring Rigby and walk for hours through the woods, under a leafy canopy. I imagine the natives walking the same stony paths in the dappled sunlight, emerging in the open fields near the lake. I think about what it must have been like to live simply as stewards of the land, in peace and satisfaction. Then I think about what it must have been like to lose it all and to have your people scattered like chaff on the wind.
We walk back through the dark trees to the road and the sound of traffic and the terrible whine of leaf blowers and weed whackers. I slide in behind the wheel of my little Chevy tracker and for a moment, I mourn for the people and the beautiful, tranquil dwelling place they must have known. Their way of life and their world is gone forever.

Catbird Heaven

2009-06-02T17:38:00.008-04:00

Summer has come to our corner of New England. We are lucky enough to have full access to almost one acre of green lawn, which Mac maintains. This yard is ringed with trees and bushes, many of which, we have planted ourselves, over the twenty nine years we've resided here. It is a haven for song birds, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, wild turkeys and even the occasional deer and coyote.

I call the yard; "Catbird Heaven", because we have several Gray Catbirds that live in the bushes at the margins of the yard. On a sunny day, the air is filled with the sounds of their mewing, whistling and chattering. The musical, sing-song calls, that they intersperse with harsh, raspy, squeaking phrases can be heard all summer long in the little green world just outside our door.

Now, in early June, tiny, white, wild roses are sprawling over the raspberry bushes and small evergreen trees at the edges of the yard. Bittersweet vines wrap around poplars, as they climb toward the sun and Virginia creeper crawls over the field grass. Tiny, Ruby-crowned Kinglets, the smallest birds in these parts, except for the Ruby-throated hummingbird, ply the grass for insects. Male Cardinals and Robins battle for turf rights. American Goldfinches soar and dip on their flight paths over the yard, from the bird bath to the top of a maple tree. A pair of Garter snakes bask in the early morning sunlight near the barn doorstep, before starting off on their daily hunt. Chipmunks scurry from rock to garden, trying to avoid the gaze of my dog Rigby, as she surveys the landscape.

It's just another day in paradise...just a sunny Tuesday here in Catbird Heaven.

Fire and Water

2009-05-24T22:39:00.009-04:00

Once, there was a dark city. Three rivers ran through it, but long ago, misguided city fathers had covered them up, channeling them underground. When the city underwent a long-awaited renaissance, the rivers were uncovered. To celebrate the new life of the city and the liberation of its rivers from their concert shroud, braziers were erected in the river and filled with wood, to be set ablaze on summer nights while drums thunder and flutes play. Voices fill the night air with ancient sounding, harmonic chants that mingle with the trails of sparks that blow off the river. Gondolas ply the waters and people come from many miles around to join the residents of the city in the ritual that celebrates the rebirth of Providence, Rhode Island. The people call this beautiful primal rite “Waterfire”.

On Saturday evening, I was there at the water’s edge sitting on the cool granite walls of the canal with thousands of others waiting in anticipation of dusk. Then, at the exact moment of sunset, the sound of drums begins and rises above the water. A black skiff appears out of the shadows, carrying several black robed figures. With torch in hand, one of them sets the first brazier basket on fire and deep voices began a chant. They glide by, lighting each brazier as they go. As the river is lit up with the flames, the granite walls of the canal glow pink and the warmth suffuses us as we look on, sipping red wine and nibbling pastry. A gondola approaches, carrying a couple downriver. The gondolier wears a straw hat and a black and white striped jersey. He poles his craft slowly along aside the flaming baskets. Next comes a black skiff carrying a old man with long gray hair, and he is dressed all in white. He is handing out long-stemmed, red roses to random people who reach out over the water toward him as the deep, harmonic sounds of “Halleluyah”,by David Hykes boom out across the river.

The warm breeze sends a spangled ribbon of sparks cascading from each of the flaming braziers as my companions and I rise to walk along Canal Street, toward Memorial Park. There, at the dimly lit World War I monument is a group of statues that will come to life this night. We have to see for ourselves. Sure enough, there we find a gargoyle, a Viking and a few other marble statues. As we watch, they suddenly come to life and slowly begin to move, presenting onlookers with small scrolls containing oracles in exchange for dollar bills. The sound of “Nepalese Lullaby” by Neelam Shestha, floats on the night wind as we saunter down to Market Square and the Rhode Island School of Design. We are surrounded by a sea of humanity, all ages and races mingling on the granite waterfront. There are carts selling all kinds of food and drink along the way and the smells mingle with the aroma of the wood smoke from the river. Dance lessons, Jazz bands, origami artists and mimes are all part of the scene on various nights during the season. There is no admission charged; hundreds of volunteers and many more generous financial benefactors make it all possible.

Waterfire is the inspired, artistic concept designed by Barnaby Evans, to celebrate the rebirth of the city of Providence. It is an installation piece, and some refer to it as a sculpture. By bringing together the two opposing elements of fire and water, Mr. Evans found a way to draw the people back to the heart of their beautiful port city. The sublime and intricate architecture of the older buildings, and the glass, polished stone and steel of the city's skyscrapers are illuminated by one hundred bonfires and reflect back their light. An ethereal mood fills the city on the nights when Waterfire happens in Providence.

A Vivaldi piece ends and a traditional Navajo song begins as we stroll across the Washington Street bridge and move toward the car. The black robed figures in the dark boats will continue to feed the flames until midnight.

This was only the first of many magical Waterfire nights this year. My companions and I will be back many times to be a part of the ritual and behold the spectacle that is Waterfire, before it ends again in the fall.

What better way to welcome summer back to New England?

EMFs...What the Heck?

2009-05-19T23:30:00.004-04:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about EMFs- Electro-magnetic fields. It seems that a lot of the shows I’ve been watching on television, and many articles I’ve read lately refer to them. I’m not scientifically inclined and don’t pretend to know anything about this phenomenon, but it seems to play a part in every strange and unexplainable happening. Paranormal researchers use EMF detectors as they investigate hauntings, and UFO documentaries almost always mention them. Whatever else they do, they seem to precipitate weird events.

I became aware of the existence of EMFs some twenty odd years ago. Around that time, a friend of mine experienced a string of very strange incidents. The things that she told me may, or may not have had something to do with EMFs. I have no idea, but it’s an interesting story and something to ponder.

Lana was given a lot of land adjacent to the high tension electrical wires that run through a nearby town. She had a nice little home built there, on the edge of the woods. The house was a pleasing design, and the yard was nice and green. It was lovely, except for the presence of the steel towers and the constantly humming wires they supported looming nearby. She said she didn’t mind the high tension wires, but was a little concerned because she had heard about vague health threats associated with them. Lana had a small daughter, and hoped her child’s safety and well-being would not be jeopardized in anyway.

After they had lived in their new home for a few years, Lana confided that she could not seem to keep fish. She had a gorgeous aquarium in the living room, but the fish were constantly dying for no apparent reason. She had taken water samples for analysis and tried all sorts of remedies, to no avail. She eventually gave up and stopped buying new fish.

Around this time Lana noticed that there seemed to be a sort of vibration in the walls inside her house, and she assumed it was caused by an electro-magnetic field produced by the wires. She was concerned, but neither she, nor her child seemed to be suffering any ill effects. Then one evening she and her daughter were coming home, driving up the long driveway, when they noticed a strange, bluish glow in the front yard. As they got closer, they were surprised to see that the light seemed to be in the shape of a cube. She said that an opaque, glowing, blue cube was sitting in front of their house. How weird is that? Even weirder is the fact that they remarked about it to each other as they got out of the car , “Hey look at that blue cube… that’s really strange…”, before turning and walking calmly into the house and promptly forgetting about it until the next morning. Lana was shaken the following day, thinking about it and wondering what the heck she saw and why she didn’t examine it more closely. Her daughter also remembered seeing it, and described it exactly the same way.

Then there was the lost weekend. On a Friday afternoon, after her daughter left to spend time with her father, Lana laid down to rest. She was awakened suddenly by pounding on her back door. She was confused when she opened the door and saw her ex and her daughter standing there and asked why they had come back. It was Sunday evening, their weekend visit was over and Jim had brought the girl back home. Lana had apparently slept through the entire weekend.

Things got even stranger when her boyfriend Carl moved in. She related tales of her nightstand shaking violently in the middle of the night, the water sloshing out of a glass she had left on top of it. She told me of her abject terror when strange lights appeared outside her windows, and seemed to flow like liquid down under the window shades to pool on the floor beneath. During these incidents, Carl could not be woken up, no matter how hard she shook him.

She had no explanation for any of this, and I could sense her fear and reluctance to even talk about it. I believe she experienced something, but I have no clue what it was. The stories Lana related reminded me of things I have read concerning UFOs and paranormal phenomena. She felt it all was somehow connected to those high tension wires.

Lana sold her home and moved away when she remarried a few years ago. I often wonder if the new owners have experienced anything odd since moving in. I guess I will probably never know.

The Bear Whisperer

2009-05-11T22:12:00.005-04:00

For more than a decade, a California man spent much of his time living amongst the great bears of Southeast Alaska, in Katmai National Park. He became a celebrity of sorts, appearing on talk shows and as the subject of a Discovery Channel film. The book; Death in the Grizzly Maze, by Mike Lapinski, tells the story of this controversial man, and his untimely end.

Timothy Treadwell, dedicated his life to grizzly bears. Understanding and protecting them became his passion, and he spent twelve summers camped in the middle of their territory, tempting fate, and angering scientists and park rangers. He became a celebrity wildlife expert, despite the fact that he had no training as an outdoorsman, or education in biology. He wanted nothing else, but to be in the company of grizzlies, and he set out to become the “Bear Whisperer.”

Timothy was a blond, affable, surfer type. Hailing from Malibu, where he had worked as a bartender and a waiter, Tim was a self-described alcoholic and former drug abuser. He reportedly suffered from depression and possibly bi-polar disorder. He was also, by many accounts, a sweet, sensitive man, who experienced a life-changing turn-around, as a result of his time alone in the wilderness with the great bears of Alaska.

Each summer he set up camp in the heart of bear country, enduring the cold and the rain, living on sandwiches, while the mosquitoes feasted on him. He sat alone for hours, in the cold drizzle, surrounded by the enormous animals, making films that would both impress and enrage the wildlife community.

Early on in his ill-fated quest, Timothy developed a dangerously naïve attitude toward the bears, deciding that if humans radiated love to the bears, the bears would welcome our presence. He seemed determined to view the animals as friendly, anthropomorphic creatures, and he gave them names like “Mr. Chocolate”, “Downy” and “Cupcake”. Despite several close calls, he continued to push the envelope by regularly getting within arms’ reach of the powerful animals. He refused to carry bear spray, believing that it was an insult and a betrayal of trust to go among the bears armed in any way. Bear spray is an extra potent form of pepper spray, designed to discharge at high velocity and in a wide swath, capable of turning away a charging bear. Meeting with a faceful of this spray would also have the effect of discouraging the animal from approaching humans in the future, but Tim would have none of it. His belief and his message seemed to be that bears weren’t wild and potentially dangerous animals, but fun loving, friendly creatures. Timothy seemed unable to temper his love of bears with the healthy fear and respect required to remain safe in the wilderness.

Biologists and wilderness guides came to think of him as an eccentric, if not crazy, person and were outraged by his reckless behavior near the bears. Park officials repeatedly warned him not to get so close to the bears, and he promised to heed their warnings, but never did. What frustrates and confounds so many to this day, is why the Park rangers failed to take steps to ban Tim from the park, when it was obvious from his films that he was blatantly breaking all the rules set forth for behavior in bear territory. If they had, it may have saved his life.

On October 5th, 2003, Tim and his girlfriend, Amie Huguenard, were attacked and killed by a pair of grizzly bears in Katmai National Park. The following day, park rangers who were investigating had to kill the animals. Ironically, the man who had dedicated his life to protecting grizzlies, was not only killed by them, but also caused the deaths of the bears that had attacked him...a tragedy all around and one that could have easily been prevented.

The debate continues. Tim obviously loved bears and had the best of intentions. His films and his public persona served to educate the public about these magnificent animals. But while his fans see him as a hero and a wildlife protector, whose presence in the Grizzly Maze prevented poaching, some experts believe that his presence in the bears’ midst was simple harassment and a source of stress to the animals.

Mike Lapinski’s book is an excellent and balanced accounting of the tragic story.

photo by Phil Scofield

Lovely Day

2009-05-08T21:29:00.013-04:00

Today was a lovely day, and I thought I'd post a few photos of the yard and environs.

The barn.

The beautiful sky.

My favorite wildflowers, bluets.

My shady spot.

Long shadows in the afternoon.

Violets on the lawn.

Catboy watches it all from his window.

Have a great weekend, my friends!

Happy Birthday

2009-05-04T21:08:00.004-04:00

This is my daughter when she was just two years old. She just celebrated her twenty third birthday... How time goes by! As you can plainly see, she was a star even at that tender age.

Last evening, we went to a nice restaurant a few towns over and met with Mac's little sister for a birthday dinner. The three of us all have birthdays that fall within 12 days of each other, so we celebrated together. The food was excellent, and we even split a decadent dessert (The diet starts tomorrow...honest).
Happy Birthday, bunny!

Remembering the Neighbors from Hell

2009-05-03T13:16:00.015-04:00

I was musing the other day, about how lovely it is to be out in the backyard now. Things are quiet, except for the sweet twittering of birds, the rustle of the breeze and the occasional drone of lawnmowers. For many years, however, this was not the case.

Screams, cursing, incessant barking and bad, top forty music filled the air on our part of the street, every sunny day before the neighbors from hell finally moved away.

Things had started to go downhill when the girl who'd grown up next door found that she was expecting a child, and decided to move back in with her parents, who happened to be our neighbors. Along with her other baggage, she brought the father of her child with her and a backyard wedding soon took place. Within two years, they had two sons. Her parents had never bothered us in the least, but this couple and their sons were to become the bane of our existence.

Things weren't so bad at first. While the children were very young, the worst thing was that the couple screamed at each other frequently and for long periods of time. The sound of swearing and doors slamming was the norm during good weather. It almost made us appreciate winter when they stayed inside with the windows shut so we didn't have to listen to it.

They also had a love of placing a radio out on their patio in the summer, turning the volume up as high as it would go. The cacophony would continue all day and into the evening. They'd frequently go inside and forget about it, leaving it on, blaring away, to torture the entire neighborhood.

They also had a series of dogs during their nearly two decade occupation of that house. The poor animals spent most of their lives tied up next to the back door. The family would go out for the day or the evening and leave the dog tied outside all alone, to bark pitifully, for hours. The first one they had was given up for adoption after they found him too difficult to handle. The second met his fate in the form of a car on the busy street out in front of the house. The third simply disappeared one day, and was never seen or mentioned again. I've never understood why someone would bring a dog home in the first place, just to scream at it, kick it and ignore it the rest of the time. They never played with them or walked them. It was sad.

The real trouble began when the two boys reached school age. I remember an early incident when my daughter had just gotten her first "big-girl" bike. It was her birthday and she was outside, proudly showing off her new, pink and white two-wheeler with the flowered basket. Suddenly she ran into the house, crying. I got to the window in time to see the two boys heaping black mud onto the bicycle, which was on its side in the grass. From then on, it was an endless series of problems with those two boys. Neighborhood soccer games always ended in fights and tears, our house was egged, and the barn windows were broken too many times to count. My husband Mac started a golf ball collection with all the ones he found in the yard, or amid shards of glass on the barn floor.

We'd started out on friendly terms with them. We tried to be neighborly. I watched the boys before school and got them on the bus when the parents had to be to work early. When a big tree came down in their yard during a hurricane, Mac went over with his chainsaw and spent hours cutting it up for them. We did our best to be kind and cordial, but it became more difficult with each passing year.

A favorite game of the two boys was "army". It involved running and screaming through their yard and ours, with toy rifles and machine guns, pretending to kill one another. This happened almost daily and lasted well into their high school years. In junior high, they once again targeted my daughter, taunting her on the school bus, and yelling things at her whenever they saw her outside. When they were in high school, they started a campaign of cyber-harassment, sending her instant messages, pretending to be an anonymous girl who was supposedly dating my daughter's boyfriend. This continued until we got proof that it was them, and let them know about it.

Late one night, Mac was coming in from the barn and saw them with a few of their friends, and their father, huddled in the backyard, passing around a pipe. I'm guessing it wasn't a peace pipe ceremony. Another morning, just at dawn, Mac stepped outside and observed the father out in his yard, vomiting into the bushes. So this was the role-model these kids had grown up with. Meanwhile, the screaming and slamming of doors continued, only now the two sons joined in.

One fine summer day, I was sitting under a tree, reading in the yard. My neighbor was mowing his lawn, and he stopped to inspect some pine trees I had recently planted near the property line. He got down on one knee and was really studying them. He didn't notice me sitting in the relative darkness of the shade, a dozen yards away. He finally went back to his mowing, but the incident stayed with me. The more I thought about it, the more odd it seemed, and I finally went back there myself to look at the trees and see what was so interesting. When I did, I saw that the needles were turning brown and all the trees looked sick. There was a grayish-white powder packed around the base of each tree, and when I scooped up a handful, I was overcome with a strong, chemical smell. It was either a weedkiller or more likely, chlorine. Our neighbors had a swimming pool in their yard. As strange and unbelievable as it seemed, our neighbor had apparently poisoned our trees.

Then, I recalled how our rabbits had mysteriously died. We'd had three rabbits over the past few years, and Mac had built a beautiful wooden hutch for them, out behind the barn. All of them had died, one by one, for no apparent reason, although two of them had been relatively young. We just went out to feed them in the morning and found them cold and stiff. Now I had to wonder if my neighbor had poisoned our rabbits as well as our trees.

I called him on the telephone and casually told him that we'd inexplicably found chlorine in the soil around our trees, and I wanted to make him aware of it. I suggested that he make sure his pool shed and all his chemicals were safely locked up. I stopped short of accusing him. Wow! He had no idea how THAT had happened. He thanked me for alerting him.

It was about four years ago that the "For Sale" sign went up on the front lawn next door. The youngest son was graduating from high school, and having had enough, his mother had filed for divorce. His grandfather had recently passed away, and grandma put the house on the market. The neighborhood breathed a collective sigh of relief, as the moving van pulled away from the curb in front of their house that fall. A nice young couple moved in shortly thereafter, along with their little Shih Tzu. The neighborhood is peaceful again. It's a joy to be out in the yard now, enjoying the sounds of tree frogs and mockingbirds, just breathing in the calm. It feels like heaven once more.

It's a mystery to me, how people can live in such discord and misery of their own making, but obviously, some do.

The Sentinel Bee

2009-04-28T20:45:00.007-04:00

I took a break this afternoon, between walking Rigby and painting the living room to sit outside behind the garage for a spell. It was ninety degrees and sunny, with a cool, dry breeze. Beautiful, really. As they say so often up here in these parts, "It's not the heat, it's the humidity!" So true. I think it could be a hundred and I wouldn't mind it too much as long as the humidity was low. The sheets and blankets I hung on the line were dry almost as soon as I finished hanging them, and they snapped in the breeze, startling my little dog Rigby.

I was sitting in the shade with Rigby, just noticing how green and lush things are getting out there. We have a hedge of forsythia separating us from our neighbors to the west, and right now it is a riot of shocking, brilliant yellow. It's so bright, it almost hurts the eyes. The grass really needs cutting now, and I watched a male cardinal fluttering about in it. His bright red color was so striking against the new grass. Everywhere, the ubiquitous robins were hopping around, or singing loudly from the trees. I've heard that the first settlers named them after European birds with similar plumage, but that our American Robins are really thrushes, and would be more accurately called "black-capped thrush", or "orange breasted thrush". At this time of year, they are by far the most commonly seen bird on suburban lawns in these parts.

A robin suddenly started up an alarm call as I sat there, and I could see him calling from a low branch a few yards away. At first, I thought I was the reason for his distress, until I saw the big hawk rise up and flap away over the treetops. I haven't been able to identify him yet, but he is lightly colored underneath and is pretty large. I've never been able to get a good look at him, except from beneath.

Mac and I have both noticed that there is a big bumble bee that apparently lives underneath the eaves of the barn, behind the gutter. There's probably a bunch of them living in there, but we most often see this one huge, solitary guard hovering around the edge of the roof. It's as big as my thumb, it seems much bigger than other bumble bees I have seen, and the rear end of his body is shiny and leathery looking. It has a habit of zooming down and investigating anything going on in the yard. I don't know much about bumble bees, their habits, or how they live. I've seen them flying up out of holes in the ground, and I'd assumed they always lived underground, but this guy(or girl, maybe), seems very intent on guarding this spot under the eaves. Maybe it's a different kind of bee altogether. Today, the big bee sentinel suddenly appeared in front of my face. It hovered a few inches away from me and I had the distinct impression it was "reading" me...deciding whether I, or Rigby, might be a threat. I looked into those big black eyes and stayed still for a moment. It studied me for a few seconds, then dropped down for a look at Rigby. I was glad that Rigby didn't snap at it - she generally tries to eat any insect she comes across. It hung in the air for a moment longer, sizing us up, then buzzed off toward the barn, apparently satisfied that we weren't any cause for concern. I intend to do some research and find out more about them, because this big bumble has peaked my curiosity.

Legend Of The Fall

2009-04-26T19:11:00.004-04:00

Another sunny, unnaturally warm spring day here in the northeast. Mac and I were talking about going down to the shore today. Before I headed out to Mass this morning, I checked the forecast and found that the tide would be high right around the time we got there, and cloudiness, along with a potential for thunderstorms were also predicted. It's an hour and a half of driving to get there, so once we commit to going, there's no turning back.

In the end, we decided to wait for a more settled day and low tide so we could really enjoy the beach. Plus, we have so much to do around here. There's a lot of yard work still to be done, and we're doing the living room over. In order for it to look halfway decent, we had to tear out the old paneling and put up new sheetrock before painting. Today we stained the wood work and Mac sanded down the joint compound on the sheetrock seams. Tomorrow I should get to do some painting.

As I type this, Rigby is dropping her favorite ball on my feet every few seconds so I will stop and throw it across the room for her. She gets bored so easily!

So, back to the legend of the fall!

I drove home, late that night with my head spinning. Mac had been admitted to the hospital with a broken pelvis. My daughter was living away at school, and my son was working all kinds of different shifts, so Rigby was crated during the day. I'd called my sister from the hospital and she kindly went over and took her out for a walk. It was late as I drove home, but hopefully my son would have gotten home and was taking care of her.

My second concern after the well-being of my husband was financial. Mac is a self-employed contractor. He either works directly for homeowners, or with other builders, roofers and carpenters as a sub-contractor. If he doesn't work, he doesn't get paid. He can't collect unemployment compensation, as I am now doing. If he stays home, there's no money at the end of the week. Of course, he had no short-term disability insurance either, so this was not a good thing. Our income had just been cut in half. On the up side, it could have been so much worse. He could have injured his spinal cord and lost the use of his limbs. He could have injured his spleen or some other organ. He could have landed on his head and been killed. All things considered, he was very lucky. My daughter would be graduating in a month from the University of Massachusetts. I couldn't imagine that Mac would be able to be there. He'd be so disappointed to miss his only daughter graduate from college. I made up my mind that I would not let everything overwhelm me, and I would take it all one day at a time.

Those first days were grim. He was on a lot of pain medication and so he wasn't himself, to say the least. Sometimes we would talk and he would not remember anything of our conversations. I'd spend a couple of hours with him and he wouldn't remember me being there. The nurses had him up and were making him walk with a walker which seemed very wrong to me, and I told them so, but what the heck did I know? He told me through gritted teeth, that he could feel the pelvic plates grinding against each other, which I thought was a very bad sign. When the Orthopedist finally saw him, he confirmed that my suspicions were correct...he shouldn't have been up and moving for he first three days - it apparently takes that long for the bones to begin to knit together, and he could have made things much worse by shifting them around. I felt a lot better about everything once the Orthopedist took over his care.

Meanwhile, I continued working full-time and taking care of Rigby and the apartment, and I also took over all the household tasks that Mac normally did, like doing the dishes, taking out the trash and recyclables, and mowing the lawn. Although we rent here, taking care of the property, which includes an acre of yard, is part of the deal. My son helped me as much as he could, and my sister and her husband, as well as my brother, all lent a helping hand too. I was so lucky to have them living so close by. I came to really understand how difficult it must be, for people that have no close friends or relatives to help them in times like this. We all really need someone to rely on.

It turned out Mac is a really fast healer. After two weeks, the doctor announced that he was ready to go to a rehab hospital and begin physical therapy. I was concerned that they were rushing it, but they disagreed, and Mac wanted to get home and get back to his life. At fifty two years old, he had excellent blood pressure, was not on any medications (except for the pain meds, at the moment), and weighed one hundred and fifty pounds(soaking wet with all his clothes on). He was really in great health, except for his injury, which was healing nicely. They claimed he was ready, so off to the rehab hospital we went. Once there, he made excellent progress, and after ten days, they released him. He'd be walking only with a walker for a while, then he'd graduate to crutches. He had a home health aide scheduled to visit a few times a week, and a physical therapist would be coming by too. He'd be doing exercises on his own as well. The trickiest part, was that he would need help getting outside for fresh air, or to take Rigby out, since we live entirely on the second floor. I took six vacation days off from work so I could be there with him for the worst of it.

For the next two months, he hopped around in the yard on his crutches, played with Rigby, ate three meals a day(a real novelty for him), and watched "The Deadliest Catch" on cable T.V. so often, he soon knew every fact about Alaskan crab fishing that there is to know. By mid-July, he was back to his old self and was ready to climb up on the staging again, and so he did.

The only good thing about Mac being hospitalized, was that he couldn't smoke. He was a two pack a day guy at that point, but he was forced to quit, cold turkey the night he was admitted. It was wonderful to have him in the house at night, instead of outside or down back in the barn, smoking. But, it was too good to last. After three solid months without a cigarette, as soon as he could drive again, he drove to the convenience store and bought a pack. I was so disappointed, I don't think I spoke two words to him for at least a couple of days. He says he will quit again, but he won't say when. I thought he'd gotten the monkey off his back for good, but alas, it was not to be. He knows how much I hate it, but it's his decision, not mine.

That's the story of the fall. By the Grace of God, he had a full recovery, and we somehow survived it. Mac attended our daughter's graduation at the end of May, on crutches, but he was there, after all.

An Unhappy Landing

2009-04-25T21:46:00.007-04:00

Today was a day of record setting warmth here in southern New England. Temperatures hovered around eighty five degrees Fahrenheit. Trees are exploding with pink and white blooms, and the grass has sprung up, new and sparkling in a an amazing shade of green.

Rigby was panting, and I was drenched, as we walked around our usual route today. That little dog was in such a hurry to get to her water bowl when we got home, that she dragged me into the kitchen without waiting for me to take her leash and harness off. Even though it’s still April, today really felt like the first day of summer.

Today is also an anniversary of sorts. It was one year ago today that Mac fell off the scaffolding while he was roofing. I got his phone call around four o’clock while I was still at work. He sounded like his calm, normal self, but his first words were that he had some bad news for me… He needed me to take him to the hospital because he couldn’t drive… or walk.

Just outside my office door in the common area, some of the girls were setting out wine glasses. It was our custom to have a glass before closing up on Friday afternoons. I shut off my computer and grabbed my handbag. “I can’t stay…I need to go. Mac just fell off a roof and I have to take him to the hospital”, I babbled as I ran out the door, leaving my co-workers looking shocked and concerned.

I could see the white van in the driveway as I drove up the street toward the house. As always, there were about six ladders of varying size strapped to the roof. I saw Bart and Nash, Mac’s friends and co-workers, their arms linked, forming a chair, and Mac in the middle, being carried. I pulled up beside the van and jumped out to open the passenger side door so they could slide him in. All three of them were laughing and joking as they made their way over to my car. This was to be expected of tough guy roofers. Questions roiled about in my mind at that moment, foremost among them, “Why didn’t they take him straight to the hospital…better yet, why didn’t someone call an ambulance?” But, I already knew the answers. Mac didn’t want them to. He didn’t want anyone making a big deal over him. The staging had buckled, and the plank he was standing on gave way and he fell, landing squarely on his hip with a sickening crunch. His first thought was, "I hope my legs still work". They did, thank God, but he found that although he could move them, he couldn't walk. He was in excruciating pain. This had happened in the early afternoon. He didn't want to be a bother, so he sat and waited until the other guys had finished the job. That's Mac for you.

We started out toward the hospital which was about thirty minutes away. I was balancing trying to drive fast with trying to avoid sharp turns and bumps, because my husband’s yelling and moaning corresponded directly with the smoothness of the ride. I realized that he must have broken bones at the very least. He was never one to complain much, but he was obviously in terrible pain now.

About a mile away from the hospital, I grabbed my cell phone and called the emergency room desk. “ I’m bringing my husband into the emergency room”, I said to the nurse who picked up the phone. “We’re a few minutes away, and I need someone to meet us in the parking lot. He fell off some scaffolding and he can’t walk.”

“Sorry”, came the reply, “You’ll have to call an ambulance, we can’t come out into the parking lot. It’s against regulations.”
“Call an ambulance from the hospital parking lot? What?!” I was incredulous. No one was going to help us. I’d be damned if I was going to call an ambulance to get us from the parking lot to the front desk. And you wonder why your health insurance premiums are so high, my fellow Americans?

I pulled my car right up to the door of the emergency entrance, parked in the “no parking” zone and flicked on my flashers. I jumped out and ran up to the automatic doors, bolting inside. I told the first four people I saw that my husband was injured, he couldn’t walk and I was going to carry him in myself if someone didn’t come and help me. From behind the desk, the nurse in charge pointed out a fleet of wheelchairs in a corner, and I grabbed one and headed for the door with it. A young nurse took pity on me, and looking back over her shoulder toward the desk, muttered, “I’ll help you”, as she turned on her heel and followed me out. Somehow, the two of us wrangled him into the wheelchair.

Then began a long night of x-rays, examinations, scans and waiting… lots of waiting. At one point during the wait, I was astonished when a woman about my age, carrying a clipboard, entered the cubicle we were in. She announced that she had come to collect the one hundred and fifty dollar emergency room deductible on our health insurance. This was possibly the rudest thing I had ever experienced. Here we were, in the middle of a crisis, my husband obviously in pain, I'm distraught, and they want the money now. I was beyond irritated, but the woman’s kind demeanor and obvious empathy for our situation quickly softened my attitude. She was only doing her job, after all. As I wrote out the check, she talked about her children and asked about ours. Her gentle smile and soft spoken words were a comfort to me. She left after telling me that she would pray for a good outcome for my husband.

After many hours, a doctor came in and announced that Mac would be admitted to the hospital. His pelvis was fractured in four places, front and back. Unfortunately, since it was Friday, a orthopedist would not be able to see him until Monday at the earliest, but at this point, they expected Mac would be hospitalized for probably six weeks. Physical therapy would be required after that, of course.

Thus began the lost spring of 2008. The rest to follow...

Back To The Office

2009-04-23T18:43:00.008-04:00

I had been trying to stall. I tried not to think too much about it, but in the back of mind, I knew I had to go back to my office and test the waters. I needed to know what the climate there was, whether business had picked up at all since I’d been “Cut Adrift!” I initially told myself that I would wait until April first to start looking for a new job in earnest. Spring is the season when my workplace had always kicked into high gear. At this time of year, it was not unusual for me to go in an hour early, and still find myself in the office after 6pm each day, because there was so much work to do.
Surely things would be better by April, I’d assured myself, back in the dark days of January.

When last week came, I could wait no longer. I got up early on Thursday morning and prepared myself. I took extra time styling my hair and carefully applying my makeup. I donned pantyhose ( my most hated accessory), and dressed in my spring suit. It’s light green, and textured in a mossy cross-hatch pattern. I wore a dark pink shell underneath and accented the jacket with a sparkly pin studded with pink and green, fake jewels. Finally, I slipped on the dreaded high heels, cream colored patent leather. I am a girl who usually wears jeans and flats (preferably, flip-flops), so this was a foreign state for me to find myself in, to say the least. Truth be told, the suit’s a little small for me now, but it looked okay. I thought I looked pretty good and felt I would make a good impression.

I thought about saying I had a job interview in the area, so I thought I’d just…you know, “stop in.” I knew I couldn’t pull it off, though - I’m terrible at lying. I decided I would go to the unemployment office, which is pretty close to the office, to pick up a schedule of events. I would swing by the office too, since I’d be in the general vicinity. Besides, I had a book which had been loaned to me by the president last fall. “Pillars of the Earth” by Ken Follett. It’s a humongous tome, about nine hundred pages, and since I have the bad habit of reading three or four books at a time, I’d only just finished it. I could just say I wanted to return the book, since I was, sort of, in the neighborhood. Sounded kind of legitimate, and not too pathetic, right?

It was important to make sure my supervisor, as well as the company president were there when I went in. I scanned the parking lot for their cars and once I located them, I pulled into a space and shut off my engine. I sat for a minute and took a few deep breaths. I realized I was trembling and hoped I could keep it in check when I went in.

I was nervous at first, then I started to relax as four or five of my former co-workers came out to the lobby to see me. We stood around in a circle, chatting casually. Everyone acted glad to see me.
Then, as if he knew exactly why I had come, the president knitted up his eyebrows in that expression of sympathy and said; “Well, I wish I had better news for ya, darlin’. We’re only doing about half the business we should be now. We’re back to the numbers we saw in 2001.”

My heart fell. Nothing had changed. I made a little more small talk, then mumbled something about having to get going over to the unemployment office and I tried to move with some shred of dignity to the door.

It was hard to get out of bed for the next few days. I did, and I forced myself to go out and go through the motions of chores and errands, though I felt like a cinder block was sitting on my chest and a small, black cloud hung over me. I find it hard to reflect upon the day ahead and realize that I have no one to meet, and nothing of importance to do. The highlight of most of my days now is my walk with Rigby.

I realize now that I have to focus harder on finding a new job.

A Stunning "Secret"

2009-04-20T20:48:00.013-04:00

In 1975, I read a book that truly changed my world view forever. At the time, I was struggling with trying out a vegetarian lifestyle, not for health reasons, mind you, but because of a love for animals, in fact, a love of all living creatures. I had been raised on meat and potatoes. If beef wasn't on the menu for dinner, then it must be chicken. I was not enjoying my new diet.

My then boyfriend,(now husband) Mac, was an ethical vegetarian at that time and had been, for about ten years, refusing to consume anything; "that had ever been alive." By that, he specifically meant anything that walks, swims or flies. Anything else was fair game. Plants were not considered in his theory of alive things. Good thing, too, because at five feet, ten inches tall, he weighed in at only about one hundred and thirty pounds.

One day I took a stroll uptown and was browsing through the racks at my local library when I came upon "The Secret Life Of Plants" by Peter Tompkins and Christopher Bird. My thinking about what constitutes "life" and consciousness was about to be challenged in a major way.

The premise of the book was fascinating. What if plants possess a sort of consciousness, and can perceive their environment? What if they have an actual awareness of their surroundings, and of us? At first, it seemed too far-out to even consider, but then, I read the case that the authors had put forth, including experiments in which the leaves of various plants were attached to polygraph (lie detector) machines and registered reactions to water, a lighted match, music, and even human thoughts. The effect of the book on me was that I now have to consider that plants may be just as "alive" as animals, somehow aware, possibly capable of some kind of feeling, however different from our concept of such things as those feelings might be.

After reading the book, I gave up my vegetarian aspirations. My husband Mac started eating meat again shortly thereafter as well. If plants too were possibly sentient beings, or at least in some way conscious, how could I continue to eat them while eschewing animal flesh? How could I make the judgement that a bird or cow or fish was somehow more alive and thus, more important than a lettuce? And yet, we all have to eat something.

In the end, I decided that my approach would be to try to honor, respect and appreciate all living things to the best of my ability, and to eat from all food groups. I avoid the unnecessary killing of insects and "weeds" alike. It seems to me that "life" may be subjective, and the understanding of what constitutes "being" could possibly vary widely across the vast span of species found in creation.

I have also realized that I could not blame a carnivorous predator for eating me either, if I were ever to find myself in that situation.

Dandy Little Lions

2009-04-18T22:00:00.008-04:00

I’ve never been quite clear on what makes a plant a “weed.” Take the lowly dandelion, for example. It has a bright, pretty, yellow flower, When it goes to seed, it turns into a whimsical puffball, that when blown, sends dozens of tiny parachutes off on the breeze, the stuff of fairy tales. In my estimation, a boring expanse of plain, green lawn is enlivened by a sprinkling of the sunny, up-turned, yellow faces of dandelions. The leaves of the dandelion are edible and make a nice addition to a salad, and the flowers may be used as a garnish, or can be made into wine. In fact, all parts of this ubiquitous plant are edible and also have medicinal purposes.

So who decided that this useful little plant was a scourge to be eradicated? What is so terrible about it? I cannot imagine looking out on an expanse of green grass dotted with sunny yellow blooms and feeling an overwhelming urge to poison them at the nearest opportunity, but hey - that’s just crazy old me. We don’t appreciate all the wonderful things plants can do. There are probably plants being wiped out right now in some vanishing rainforest that hold the key to a cure for cancer or some other terrible disease. I think it says a lot about us humans and our damaged relationship with the natural world. We would all benefit by getting back to our roots, literally.

The worst thing I can imagine is spraying poison around your lawn or garden...think of the all the living creatures that will be affected. Birds, bees, butterflies, small animals and possibly children will be exposed to these toxic chemicals. Please don’t do it! You can reduce the possibility of dandelions taking root on your lawn by mowing high and leaving the clippings behind as mulch. Seeding any bare spots in the fall will also help. Pulling dandelions isn’t very effective, as the taproot generally breaks and the plant can regenerate from a small piece of it. If the thought of having yellow flowers on your lawn really angers or depresses you, you can try using vinegar as a natural alternative to chemical herbicides. Myself, I’d rather just enjoy them. A flower is a flower to me.
photo by David Beaulieu

Werewolves In Wisconsin?

2009-04-16T15:50:00.006-04:00

I've just finished reading a really interesting book. Linda S. Godfrey's, "The Beast Of Bray Road" investigates reports from Wisconsin of hairy, upright walking creatures that appear to have canine features. These "dogmen" or "werewolves" have apparently haunted the cornfields and backroads of southeastern Wisconsin for the past eighty years.
The sighting that inspired Godfrey to write her book took place in the fall of 1989, along Bray Road, in Elkhorn, Wisconsin.

Lori Endrizzi was the manager of a cocktail lounge called The Jury Room in Elkhorn. At 1:30 in the morning, while driving home from work along a desolate stretch of Bray Road, she came upon a strange sight. On the side of the road, apparently eating roadkill, was an animal, about the size of a man, covered in long, brownish gray hair. She described the creature as manlike, but with a head resembling that of a wolf. Rather than standing on all fours, it was kneeling, and using its arms and hands as a person would. Ms. Endrizzi noted that it had long claws and that its eyes glowed in her car's headlights. She later visited her local library to do some research and came across a drawing of a werewolf. With its human-like body and wolfish head, this was the closest thing to what she had seen that night.

A few years later, a similar sighting occurred. In October, 1991, Doris Gipson hit something with her car, while driving at night on Bray Road. When she got out of her car to look for what she hit, she was surprised to see a large, wolf-like creature running toward her. She barely made it back into her vehicle and pulled the door shut before it caught up with her. Gipson described the animal as larger and more muscular than any dog she had ever seen. When she arrived home and inspected her car, she found claw marks on her back bumper.

I find all these accounts fascinating, but for me, the most interesting and scariest incident related in the book was one dating back to 1936. Mark Schackelman was the night watchman at St. Coletta's convent just outside of Jefferson, Wisconsin. While patroling the convent grounds late one night, he came upon a strange sight. Atop a Native American burial mound on the property, knelt a hairy, upright being, clawing at the dirt of the mound. The creature fled as Schackelman approached.

The following night, Mr. Schackelman returned to the mound at midnight and again saw the creature atop the mound. This time, however, the being did not flee, but stood up on two legs and stared him down. The watchman estimated it to be roughly six feet tall and noted that it gave off a strong odor of rotten meat. Mr. Schackelman felt in fear of his life and began to pray. The beast glared at him, and uttered three syllables, which sounded like: "ga-da-ra", in what the witness described as a "neo-human voice", before growling and slowly walking away. When asked whether he thought the being was an animal or something better defined as "supernatural", Schackelman reportedly said: "That thing came straight out of hell."
Interestingly, Gadara was the name of the place referred to in the Bible, where Jesus cast a demon out of a possessed man who had been living among the tombs there.

The book is packed with recounted tales, legends, sketches and eye witness accounts of wolfish encounters in Walworth County over the years. It's a great read if you are intrigued, as I am, by the unexplained. I recommend reading it with the lights on!

The Knowing

2009-04-15T17:34:00.007-04:00

the knowing

for a long time now
I tried to deny him, and yet,
the hunter has followed me

I felt him on my heels
and I dodged and ran
as I crouched in dark thickets, I felt him coming
dark hooded rider
searching for me, only one step behind
I managed to elude him
time and again, but
yesterday I felt the arrow
pierce me
the old familiar pain
as when I was small, an orphan
bewildered and left in an empty room

the wound never really healed
only closed on the surface
proud flesh

he too has longed for
what others take for granted
birthrights
ghosts, fleeting and ephemeral
try as I might
can’t find my way out of
this empty space
then he said, with knowing:
"it’s hard to be what we are…the least".

copyright 4.15.09/ N.McIntyre

Come With Me On My Walk

2009-04-13T17:49:00.020-04:00

Hi, my name is Rigby. Wanna come on my walk with me? I'll show you around. Get your leash on and follow me!

These are some flowers in my yard.

I was trying to smell 'em, but they don't seem to have much smell.

Let's go down by the river, okay? This is the Charles River near my house.

Here's the brook that flows into the river. There's some ducks out in the middle.

This is a stone railroad bridge, but my friend Deedee says the trains have been gone for a real long time now.

This is me, checking out the brook. This part is where the muskrats live.

These are fairy houses. I've never seen the fairies, but I can tell this is where they live. It's a little ways down the street from my house.

Here's some more of those yellow flowers. These ones are a little different, but they still don't smell too much. My friend Deedee calls 'em daffydills.

Here's some blue flowers. They don't seem to have much smell either, but they're pretty.

Here we are back home again in my yard. Whew, I'm tired now. I'm gonna go in and have some cookies and a big drink. Thanks for comin' on my walk with me.

Peace and Love To You

2009-04-10T18:57:00.007-04:00

Here we are. It's Passover, and the first weekend after the full moon. According to ancient tradition, this Sunday I will celebrate Easter. This is a holiday of hope, renewal and rebirth, a time to honor the magic and mystery of the universe. For me, it is a celebration of life, of the rising from the dead, of life eternal, for energy never dies, it is only transformed. The darkness of winter surrenders to the bright spring. Light triumphs over darkness. So shall it ever be.

Whatever your beliefs, have a wonderful weekend. Celebrate the season of life and rebirth.

Ours At Last

2009-04-06T20:23:00.013-04:00

So now we had a puppy. The first and most important thing we had to do was house break her. We started taking her out every couple of hours. After only one or two accidents, she knew that she was to only go outside. Many of our other, previous dogs would wander around the yard aimlessly, taking their sweet time, which was not much fun late at night in the dead of winter, especially during an ice storm. Our yard is not fenced, and ours is a busy, main street, so letting her out alone was out of the question. But Rigby is a fast learner. Very quickly, she learned what we wanted her to do when we took her out to a certain spot in the yard. When we snap on the leash and go out to the yard she immediately goes to one of two spots and does her business quickly.

By the time she came to live with us, it was time for her to be spayed. She came from the shelter with a discount coupon, but the veterinary practices that would honor it were almost two hours away. The thought of spending hours waiting in some strange and distant vet's office, and then driving her home over that long distance, after her surgery, in an uncomfortable crate didn't set well. If I brought her to my vet here in town, I could drop her off in the morning and pick her up after work. Plus, she would need follow-up appointments. It just made more sense to stay close to home.

The initial surgery went well, but there were complications in the healing process. Her incision became infected and didn't respond very well to the antibiotics precribed for her. The scar was an angry, lumpy, scabby, red and brown gash running the length of her tender little belly. After several weeks, several prescriptions both oral and topical, and several office visits, the doctor made the decision to recut her abdomen and clean it up. I was devastated that she would have to go under anesthesia again, but it seemed necessary. I cried when I dropped her off, feeling that I had somehow let her down, even though I knew full well that there was nothing I could have done to change things. This time she healed up beautifully, and today you cannot even detect a line in the clear, pink skin.

As she grew, so did her hair. The vet told us she had hair, rather than fur and it would continue to grow. After six months, she had thick, wavy hair curling off her back and down over her eyes. Off we went to Petco for a haircut. She seemed to have a lot of terrier aspects about her, so we went with a cut similar to the kind given to Westies or Scotties. Now she had reached her optimum cuteness.

The next hurdle would be integrating her into a home ruled by cats. I held my breath at first, fearing that she would lose an eye to one of them. When she chased them, we squirted her with cold water, but it only worked if we were watching and could grab the bottle in time. After a few months, the war zone experienced an uneasy truce, but even today there are still skirmishes from time to time. At times, Rigby will bring her favorite toy, a squeaking rubber ball, and drop it at Cat Boy's feet, then stare at him, as if waiting for him to play with it. He responds by getting up and walking slowly away, but Rigby is undeterred. She will follow him, whining and poking her nose into his side until he tires of it and swipes at her.

Cat Boy has learned some valuable things from Rigby, most importantly, how to beg. Neither of the cats had ever shown any interest in human food before Rigby arrived. Rigby never begs at the table. She sits or lies quietly a few yards away until we finish eating. But when I am preparing food, she is at my feet waiting for something good to fall. Having learned by observing, Cat Boy now joins her, and the two of them sit, side by side, waiting for scraps like a couple of old hobo friends. Things are not as good with the other cat, Ceecee. She is cranky by nature and has a low tolerance for everyone. If the dog gets within a few feet of her, she starts hissing and her fur stands on end. Rigby cuts a very wide swath around her at all times.

After the first few nights, we decided that Rigby should have her own bed and sleep in it at night, instead of on ours. We brought a crate into our room and put a plump, flannel covered cushion and a few of her toys in it. It seemed pretty comfy, but she was very unhappy and cried most of the night. On the second night, we caved in. Luckily, she is small, so we are not too crowded, and I bathe her frequently. Now she begins each night tucked into a tight ball between us. After a short time, she stretches out and works her way down to the foot of the bed where she spends the rest of the night. We are her pack, and she needs to curl up with us at the end of the day. Mac and I are so used to it now, that we would feel something was missing if she were not there.

Rigby's assimilation would not be complete without training. She took beginner classes and quickly learned to sit, lie down, shake hands, roll over, stay, come when called, and a number of other skills. She is now in a second session and is the absolute star of her class.

Our only dilemma now, is what will happen when I am again employed full-time. When the weather is good, Mac works from dawn until dusk. My daughter is living here until the fall, but she works in the city and is away from home as long as Mac is each day. My son has floating shifts and is sometimes here during the day if he works a night shift, but has to sleep. When no one can be with her and she can't come with us, she has to be crated and she hates it. She barks and cries endlessly. There is a dog daycare in town, and I have a few people in mind who might be able to come over around mid-day and take her for a walk. I'm hoping to have something figured out soon.

I'm so glad to have Rigby in my life. She is the best gift anyone could have given me. There have been days since I was cut adrift, when I don't think I would have had the impetus to get out of bed, but for her. She is always there waiting for me. She needs to be fed and walked, and I won't let her down. She gets me up and moving and out into the world. I think that God worked through my daughter to bring her to me. I never would have taken it upon myself and gotten a dog while I was working and He must have known that. But I think He also knew how much I was going to need her, so He made it happen. I'm forever grateful that He did.

Rigby Comes Home

2009-04-04T19:44:00.011-04:00

So my daughter and her roommates had adopted a little female puppy. She was part Schnauzer and part Australian cattle dog. She had been given her first round of shots and worming, and came with a reduced cost coupon for spaying at a western Massachusetts Vet's office. Almost immediately, my daughter and her friends started to learn how much responsibility a dog is. The girls were in classes most of the day and out at their jobs, the library, the bars, or parties most nights. The little dog was crated for most of this time, and her barking quickly annoyed the other tenants in the building. After a few weeks, the landlord called to inform them that they were in violation of their lease, and the dog would have to go immediately.
A few miles away, their friends lived in a big house with no restrictions on pets. This was a house full of young men. The boys were initially enthused about taking in the little canine orphan, but soon, the realities of house training, feeding and exercising a growing puppy became apparent. This was not as easy as it had seemed, especially when there were mid-terms to study for and keggers to attend. She was crated too much of the time and she barked a lot. She was still not house-trained. She was not happy, and neither were the boys. Tentative plans had been made for one of the girls' parents to eventually take her when school got out.
One day, about a week before Thanksgiving, my daughter called me to talk about the dog. Things really weren't working out. They were thinking of posting her for sale on Craig's list; that was it for me. "Bring her home", I said. It would be a long, holiday weekend, and Mac and I said we would think about what to do with her for those three or four days.
So, just before Thanksgiving weekend, my daughter arrived home in her tiny, little car, with a huge crate in the back seat. Out of the crate popped the funniest looking little dog I had ever seen (I submit the photo up at the top left as evidence). She was skinny and had long tassles sticking up off her ears. My first impression was that she looked like a little alien dog. She was wild, and ran in crazy circles around us, and could jump up as high as my head. She peed on my brand new living room carpet. But that first night, she crept up onto our bed as we slept and nuzzled between us.
She clearly needed a stable home and some real training. The other parents were no longer willing to take her, due to unforseen circumstances. I could not possibly let her be put up for auction on the internet or sent back to the shelter. This little puppy was between a rock and a hard place, now, through no fault of her own. She was a victim of circumstance, and there didn't seem to be any alternative but for us to keep her and try to give her the best life we could. She deserved that, at the very least. She would be our dog now.

Best Friends

2009-04-03T18:07:00.006-04:00

It was the fall, and my daughter had just started her last year at UMASS Amherst, out in central Massachusetts, at the edge of the beautiful Berkshires.
I was pretty lonely at the time. She and I used to be close and spend lots of time together, but in recent years, not so much.

Mac goes to work at dawn, before I am awake. He comes home at supper time and because he is a heavy smoker and I quit years ago, he retreats to the barn right after dinner. He comes in after an hour or two and usually falls into bed and is unconscious almost instantly. I was remembering how good it was to have a dog, but when I was working and away from home for nine hours each day, I just didn't see how it could work.

Our last dog was a big, female, shepherd/lab cross, rescued from a local shelter. Gretchen had thick, white fur, and a bad back leg. At some point, we think she may have gotten hit by a car and was never treated. In spite of this, she was a joy and a blessing, sweet and loving as she could be. Gentle with the kids and obedient. I was working part time back then; mother's hours, nine to two thirty, so she was never alone for too long. She became a part of our family.

She started to deteriorate from old age about seven years after we'd gotten her. She had been hospitalized with pancreatitis a few times, and she had developed cysts all over her body. In addition, she had arthritis and could no longer get down the stairs by herself. We live on the second floor, and since she weighed more than 80 pounds, she was too big for me to carry downstairs. I had to make a sling, so we could lift her back end and help her get outside to relieve herself. Worst of all, she had vestibular syndrome...what the vet referred to as; "old, rolling dog syndrome". In the wee hours of the morning, I would wake from the sound of her crying. I would find her on the floor outside our bedroom, with her big head rolling around, and her eyes spinning in their sockets, while she whimpered and her legs thrashed. She was so frightened, it was utterly heartbreaking. All I could do was hold her head in my lap and talk softly to her to try and comfort her until the episode subsided. The vet told us there was nothing else we could do about it.
Then she lost control of her bladder. I found her one morning, lying in a pool of urine, looking embarrassed and miserable. I brought her to the animal hopital that day on my lunch hour, and I knew what was coming when the vet came out into the waiting room and said: "Let's have a talk".

Her ashes are in a canister hidden somewhere in the barn. Mac knew how devastated I was about it, so he never showed them to me. I want to plant a tree in the yard for her and empty the ashes into the ground around the base of it. Maybe this year we will finally do that.

A decade had passed after Gretchie's death, and although I had the two cats and a couple of rabbits in the meantime, I longed for a dog. I knew I should not be selfish about it though, and resigned myself to waiting until I was either retired, or could work part-time.

Then, one autumn day in 2007, I turned on the computer, signed on to AOL Instant Messenger and saw this on my daughter's away message: "A dog - what a terrible idea...what a WONDERFUL idea!" Oh, no! Oh my goodness, she'd gotten a dog! I quickly called her and asked her if she was crazy - her lease had clearly stated; no pets were allowed in the house. She was unconcerned. She and her three roommates had gone to the local shelter and picked out a puppy, and had already bought all the necessary equipment, a crate, a bed, two big aluminum bowls, a variety of toys. And what if the landlord told her she couldn't keep it? One of the roommates' parents had supposedly agreed to take it in that case. All the same, somehow I knew, I felt it in my gut, I would have a dog soon...

Foolish April

2009-04-01T21:42:00.006-04:00

Here's the story of my daughter's April Fool's day last year when she was a senior at University of Massachusetts in Amherst... It's too good not to share!

One year ago, I remember settling into my bed in my tiny second floor room in a house I shared with 3 roommates, and thinking that the next day, (April 1,) was sure to be eventful.

What I underestimated however, was the ingenuity of several of my closest friends. After what they did, they’re lucky I still refer to them as such. I was too tired to really worry about what could befall us in the morning, though I had a strong feeling we wouldn’t escape April Fools day unscathed. Boy, was I right.

I woke up earlier than usual to a text from one of my roommates, Erica, who was always the first one awake, as she worked full-time. “be careful if you go to the bathroom.” Strange, I thought. Did she spill something? Was she warning me about the usual flood of water that covered the floor after showers were taken? “Why?,” I responded. “You don’t know? Go downstairs.”

I wish the following events were filmed. I would pay to see our reactions. My roommate Kristen and I flung our bedroom doors open and raced downstairs, just as Kelly was emerging from her room. Powder covered the living room and kitchen floors. Pigs feet were in our coffee maker and refrigerator, Jello too. Peanut Butter and feminine products covered each of our cars. Then, the thing Erica warned me about. There was a (dead) lobster in our toilet bowl - RIP ‘Pinchy.’

Under the veil of darkness, the group of them assembled, discussed a plan of action, purchased supplies, dressed in black, snuck up on our house, climbed in through a kitchen window and wreaked havoc. And not one of us woke up - which is perhaps the most horrifying element of the story.

What was most upsetting to me? I was so disgusted by the pigs foot in the coffee maker, I couldn’t have my daily cup. I still teeter on the edge of gagging when I think about it.

Several angry text messages, and one scared friend and boyfriend later, the mess was cleaned up (for the most part,) by early afternoon by two of the perpetrators. However, I swear there was lingering white powder on everything from dishes to laundry up until the day we moved out in late May...

Object of Obsession

2009-03-29T20:28:00.016-04:00

I’ve been reading articles lately about the gymnast, seventeen year-old Shawn Johnson, and her recent ordeal with an obsessed stalker. A deranged, 34 year-old man developed a fantasy world around the delusion that he and Shawn were meant to be together and he had himself convinced that she "spoke to him via telepathy". He showed up last week at ABC studios in Los Angeles, where Shawn is taping “Dancing With The Stars”, with two loaded guns in his car and a roll of duct tape. Luckily, he was intercepted and has been arrested and charged with felony stalking, as well as carrying a loaded weapon in a vehicle. Hopefully this guy will be kept in custody until they can commit him to a secure, psychiatric facility for a long, long time.

This story has triggered memories of a time in my life about twenty eight years ago when I was the target of this kind of unwanted attention. I know first hand how upsetting and scary it can be to be stalked.

When my husband Mac and I were engaged, he was living in a tiny, three room cottage on a small lake in a nearby town. At the time, I was living two towns away in big apartment with two friends. Mac and I, and the two dogs loved to canoe on the lake and we spent most of our time there, and I would occasionally stay over, rather than make the drive home alone late at night. Since Mac would rise very early and be gone off to work before dawn, I would be left there on my own for a few hours, with only the two dogs for company. I was not apprehensive at all about this. I felt very comfortable there and I never thought twice about it.

One morning just after it had gotten light, I awoke to the distinct feeling that someone was watching me. The dogs were quiet, so I wasn’t concerned. I was lying facing a window that sat a few feet off the ground. I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was a figure, wearing a black knitted hat with a ski mask peering in at me.

Oddly enough, I was startled, but not afraid. I assumed it was one of the little kids from the neighborhood, pranking me. If it had been a total stranger, the two dogs would surely had gone crazy barking. I chuckled about it a little and went about my business straightening up and feeding the animals before I had to leave and go back to my apartment to get ready for work.

I was a smoker in those days, and as I walked across the yard to my little, red VW bug, I lit up a Kool. After getting in and buckling up, I pulled open the ashtray under the dashboard, and to my surprise, saw that a playing card had been stuffed into it. It was the queen of hearts. On the back of the card was a cartoony picture of a puppy and some flowers. Written on the face in a messy hand was a sloppy verse, warning me that I had narrowly escaped being raped, and that it was known that the back door didn’t lock properly. Now I was afraid.

I remembered that Mac mentioned coming home one day and finding the back door open and his desk drawers pulled out and in disarray. He had nothing at all of value in the little shack, and never bothered reporting the incident to the police. Neither of us thought much about it until this happened. That night we drove to the police station. After telling the story and showing the officer on duty the playing card, we left, feeling dismayed and nervous. We had been told that they could not, or would not, do anything about it until something actually happened. Until what happened... I got raped or murdered? I decided to stay away from the lake from then on, at least during the nighttime. This was very upsetting because I loved the lake, and I loved the dogs even more. There were no animals allowed in my apartment building and the only way I could see them was to go to the lake or meet up with Mac someplace else. It made me sad, but more than that, it made me angry. My freedom had been obstructed by someone I didn’t even know. It infuriated me.

A day or so later, on my day off, I decided to pop over to Charlotte’s across the street from Mac’s. She was a sweet, friendly woman and I wanted to tell her to be wary of strangers lurking around the neighborhood. She opened the screen door and greeted me with a smile, but as she turned the card over in her hand, her face quickly clouded over. She demeanor changed suddenly, and she acted as if she wanted me to leave. She practically shut the door in my face. I left her driveway, wondering at her odd response. She had always been kind and polite before. Her husband was a dour and solemn type who would wave hello only if we did, and never took the opportunity to speak. It would not have surprised me if he responded that way, but Charlotte had never been rude. Her youngest son was constantly visiting with Mac, watching him chop wood or work around the yard. He was nice kid, sweet and pleasant like his mom. There was an older son whom neither of us had met. I had seen him walking down the dirt road toward the bus stop a few times. He was about seventeen or eighteen and seemed very shy. He never spoke to us or waved.
That evening, when Mac pulled his truck into the yard and shut it off, there was suddenly a knock at the driver side window. It was Charlotte. In tears, she explained that I had come to see her and had shown her the card with the threat on it. She recognized it as coming from a deck in her home. On a hunch, she confronted her oldest son and had gotten a confession from him. He really had no intention of harming me, she insisted, but had a crush on me and had gotten the idea for the playing card note from something he had seen on T.V. She begged Mac not to go to the police with the information, as she feared his father would “kill him”. She said that she had already made an appointment with a counselor and that the boy was enlisting in the service as soon as he graduated high school in a few months. She swore that he would never bother us again. I had serious misgivings, but I felt sorry for her. She was a good person and I didn’t want to make any trouble for her. We would be married in a month or so and moving to another town. Besides, the police had been no help and she was getting the kid counseling. We decided to let the matter go.

I continued my policy of visiting only during the daytime and never staying alone at the cottage, but one afternoon I was driving down the dirt road alone, and I saw the older boy walking in the same direction that I was traveling in, a few yards up ahead. I thought to myself that he must be very embarrassed about the whole thing and I was feeling a little sorry for him when, to my shock, he stopped walking and turned around. He stood and faced me as I approached him, and he stared at me, wide-eyed, with the creepiest look on his face, his eyes following me as my car rumbled slowly by on the rutted road.

Shortly thereafter, we moved to the two family home that we still live in today. We had invited his mother and younger brother to the wedding. We think he got our phone number from the shower invitation. At least, we believe it was him on the other end of the phone, calling us every single Saturday night at the stroke of midnight for about two years. It was always the same. If we didn’t answer, it would ring until we did. If we answered, there would be silence in response to our hello. We got into the habit of picking up the handset and just placing it on a table and leaving it there until morning. One Sunday morning around six o’clock, I picked it up and put it back in its cradle and it rang instantly. My heart nearly stopped. Had he been trying it all night, or was this just a coincidence? I picked it up and said “Hello?” There was silence on the other end. I exploded in a rage. I let loose with a barrage of curses and insults that you would not believe. I told him that he was incredibly pathetic and needed to get himself a life. I hung up, and disconnected the phone from the jack. The next morning I called the phone company and changed our phone number. The old number was private and unlisted, which was why I suspected that he had gotten it from the invitation. If it was him, he’d have no way to get this new number. We never had a prank phone call again after that.

What makes certain people become obsessed with others they don’t even know? Even stranger, how does the object of their affection become the object of their homicidal rage? How do they make the leap from being an adoring fan to becoming a crazed, would-be murderer? Is it some hidden mechanism of a diseased brain, or a symptom of possession by some unspeakable evil? For the life of me, I have no clue.

Just Call It Lake Webster

2009-03-25T17:58:00.007-04:00

Less than an hour south of where we live there is a body of water that has gained some fame over the years. Most people call it Lake Webster, but the original inhabitants of the area, the Nipmuck Indians, an Algonquin speaking tribe, named the lake; Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg. The English translation of this mouthful is; "Englishmen at Manchaug at the fishing place at the boundary". There is a village nearby called Manchaug, its name derived from the Algonquin word "Monuhchogoks", the name of the particular group of Nipmuck natives that lived by the lake. The lake was important to the Nipmuck for fishing and was also used as a meeting place for several tribes, being central to several paths of the Great Trail system. The lake is 3.25 miles long and a little over a mile wide, surrounded by the several small New England towns and villages.
Over time, the locals came to say that the meaning of the name Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg is; "You Fish on Your Side, I Fish on My Side, Nobody Fish in the Middle". A humorous article published in the local Webster newspaper back in the 1920's started that spin. Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg is reputed to be the longest place name in the United States and 6th longest in the world. In 1954, Ethel Merman and Ray Bolger recorded a song about the lake and its unusual name, spreading its fame far and wide. But to us, and to most of the people that live in the area, it's just a pretty place with an unusual name. A spring-fed lake and place of natural beauty, surrounded by small towns and small town folk in what used to be the land of the Nipmuck.
Image of the sign was originally posted to Flickr by Bree Bailey at http://flickr.com/photos/61077396@N00/480368135 May 1, 2007

Winter's Requiem

2009-03-23T17:13:00.010-04:00

Last evening, about an hour before dusk, a front rolled through. Suddenly, the sky grew dark and the wind picked up. Greenish grey clouds gathered overhead and started spilling wet snowflakes. The wind drove the snow sideways as it picked up in intensity. It stopped as quickly as it began, but the air had changed. After a taste of spring and a few weeks of moderating temperatures, it was cold again.
This morning when Rigby and I set foot outside, the sun was shining brightly, but it was barely above freezing, and the breeze made it feel much worse than that. I was wearing an insulated fleece under my suede ranch jacket and I wished that I had also worn gloves.
As we started out along one of our usual routes, I noticed how quiet it was. Traffic was unusually light and there was no one else out walking. The sidewalks were empty as far as the eye could see. I decided that it must be too cold for most people to venture outside for very long. People seemed to be staying inside their homes or cars if they could help it.
The only sounds were from nature. Two tufted titmice called back and forth to one another across a backyard. The sound of the north wind, high in the tops of the white pines, was like the roar of some distant lion. All along the street, the music of wind chimes echoed, some deep and resonating, some light and tinkling like mandolin music as we made our way down toward the brook. I was eager to turn a corner to get the wind at my back and out of my face.
Rigby kept shaking herself, as if she could somehow shake off the cold the same way she shakes off the water after her bath, but it wasn't working. She startled each time the bully wind tumbled a big brown leaf across her path, ready to give chase. I reminded her that the chipmunks weren't out yet and they were only leaves.
Down at the brook, we arrived just in time to see the fat little muskrat crawl up the bank and sit on someone's lawn. He seemed to root around a bit, then sat back on his haunches eating something. Rigby stared intently at him, and I was glad she didn't bark. I'm trying to break her of the habit of barking at anything that moves.
The trees around the brook are usually full of birds. On most days, there are black capped chickadees, cardinals and sparrows by the score. Last week, I noticed that the blackbirds are already back. Grackles, redwings and cowbirds were squeaking, squawking and clattering high in the branches and flitting about the tall, mauve-colored rushes that rise out of the marsh. Today though, there is only a lone, downy woodpecker making his way up the bark of a bare tree next to the road. He looks at us and gives a nasally snort before disappearing around the trunk.
We started back up the hill, toward home as the wind picked up again. It buffeted my hair about, whipping my face and it flattened Rigby's ears against her head. She looked back over her shoulder at me with narrowed eyes, as if to say: "I thought winter was over! Why is it so cold?" My fingers, ears and nose were stinging.
The wind slammed into us, pushing us back a few steps. The noise it made was like the voice of the dying winter, howling in protest as the season turns, sapping its strength. It is forced to leave, but is vowing that it will rise again and return to hold us in it's icy grip, soon,...much too soon.

Thursday Night Fight Club

2009-03-20T00:58:00.010-04:00

They start to shuffle in at a little past 7:35 on Thursday evening. The class is supposed to start promptly at 7:30. I am sitting at the teacher’s desk at the front of the room, waiting. The room feels cold and the blinds are open, despite the darkness outside.
Opposite me are eighteen desks, the little table type with the chair attached and a book rack underneath.

Rochelle is always the first to arrive. She is a small, thin girl with dark skin and long, black hair. She has a serious expression and is unnaturally quiet. She always chooses a seat in the front row, on the farthest side of the room. Next comes Sean, a big, blond hulk of a boy. He’s an athlete who wears his pants two sizes too big, and his bright yellow hair down over his eyes, making it necessary for him to jerk his head to the left every few seconds so he can see where he’s going. He is the polar-opposite of Rochelle, and sees himself as the star of the never-ending sitcom that is his life; “The Sean Show.” He goes directly to the back of the room and pushes a desk to the back wall before falling sullenly into the seat.

Mike is usually the next to arrive. He is an awkward boy with a thin frame and wire-rimmed glasses who tries to be cool and impress Sean, but the most he gets for his trouble is a punch in the arm or the back of his chair kicked.

Goofy Trevor with the permanent grin comes in behind him, and then the kind, friendly Dylan accompanied by Davey, the charming redhead. Then Jack arrives; a short fellow with large eyes, brown hair and freckles, and a voice that reminds me of Linus in the “Peanuts” cartoons. He is sweet, almost as quiet as Rochelle, and like her, takes a front row seat, but in the opposite corner.

Always the last to arrive each week are Tisa and Jennifer, the two princesses. Tisa is a redhead like Davey, with beautiful copper curls. Both girls have their hair up in messy buns and the waistbands of their sweatpants rolled down. They wander in, laughing and gossiping loudly, cell phones and bags of candy in hand, even though they have been warned several times that both of those things are banned in religion class. While most of the kids have glanced at me and mumbled hello as they entered, these two take no notice of me at all. They stroll back to the farthest corner, and pull two desks together before settling in.

What am I doing sitting at this desk at the front of the classroom? This is religious education class for grade eight. I am the teacher, amazingly enough, and it’s time to begin the lesson for the week.

But first, Sean has fired a pencil up into one of the ceiling tiles and is now standing on his chair to pull it out. A contingent of the boys on the left side of the room have pulled their desks into a tight circle. They are red-faced and laughing raucously over an off-color joke, while Tisa and Jennifer squeal over a text message on one of their phones and toss brightly colored skittles into each other’s mouths, oblivious to the rest of the class. I raise my voice to a decibel not common for me and as calmly as I can manage, I say; “Page 242, everyone! Two-forty-two in your books, please.”

But Davey complains that he cannot turn to page 242, because Trevor has torn it out of his book. He balls up the tattered page and flips it like a miniature basketball into the trash can next to my desk. “SCORE!” yells Sean, leaping to his feet with both of his arms held high. He falls back toward his seat at an clumsy angle, and it tips over, desk and all, clattering to the floor with Sean in it. Laughter and hoots of derision erupt.

Someone’s cell phone goes off ...the ringtone is a Kanye West tune. This instantly sets the corner circle group into a series of rhythmic, robotic motions, punctuated by foot stomps and slaps on their desks.

Rochelle exhales loudly and crosses her thin arms over her ribcage. She is an altar server on Sunday and probably the only kid in the class who would come even if her parents didn’t make her. Her mouth is set in a tight line now, and she is looking at me with her eyebrows raised as if to say, “Well,… Do something!”

Lord, how did I get myself into this? “I remind you all again that there are no cell phones allowed in class, people. Please shut them off right now or you will go to the office! Settle down, guys…c’mon. Who will read the first paragraph?”
“I will!” answers Dylan, and for a moment the clamor dies down, but only for a moment.

While Dylan was reading, Trevor has pulled the laces out of Mike’s shoes. Mike protests loudly when he finds they are missing and Sean corrects this outburst by slapping him in the back of the head with his book while yelling, “Quiet! Dylan is READING!” Sean has finally gotten the attention of the princesses and they giggle in appreciation of his antics. He is smiling now and under the yellow fringe of his bangs, his cheeks are turning pink.

“Who can tell me what we should do to live our faith?” I ask hopefully.
Tisa’s arm shoots up and waves about frantically. “Yes, Tisa?” She smiles and says sweetly, “I really like your sweater.” Jack has slumped down in his chair, his face hidden behind his book, but his body is shaking with silent laughter.

I sigh and look around for another response… “Trevor, how about you?” I regret my choice immediately, because Trevor always answers every question the same way; “Be holy and stuff?” His generic response ensures that he will always be ready if called on and he’ll never be wrong. The discussion is interrupted when Dylan, apropos of nothing, wants to know if Santa Claus is actually related to Saint Nick.

Sometimes I think I must be out of my mind to have taken on this role. The aggravation hardly seems worth it, but I keep coming back each week.
The director of the program said the first night, “You may be the only Gospel some of these kids ever hear.” I guess that’s why I show up every Thursday.

Davey grabs Mike’s book, and Mike lunges out of his seat to get it back. While he’s standing, Sean pulls a tack out of the cork board and places it strategically on his chair. Caught in the act!
“SEAN!” I yell “That’s enough! How are you going to explain yourself to your parents when I call them and tell them about this?” He grins from ear to ear and casts a sideways look over at Tisa and she giggles. The bell rings, It’s 8:30.

“Class dismissed-see you all next week.”

At The D.U.A.

2009-03-18T21:20:00.005-04:00

Yesterday I attended a class at my local unemployment office, on revamping your resume. As frustrating as it can be waiting in line at the crowded office of the DUA (Dept. of Unemployment Assistance)or constantly being disconnected when trying to call, I am grateful for all the resources they offer. I know that in these days they are understaffed and overwhelmed by a surging human tide...people cut adrift from their livelihoods and lifestyles, just like me. The people working there are actually interested in helping and they treat everyone with respect and kindness. For a bureaucracy, that's saying something.
A co-worker who was laid-off around the same time that I was, came with me to the class, and I was glad to have her companionship for the day. The young guy who lead the class had a great sense of humor and he was pretty easy on the eyes to boot. We got quite a few good tips and ideas to help in the job search. For a few hours, we were working on the problem in a somewhat meaningful way. We are going back together next week for another seminar.
If nothing else, it feels like I am doing something to help my situation...taking a few steps forward, reaching out in the darkness.

What Happened In Aurora?

2009-03-16T18:52:00.008-04:00

I’m fascinated by anything that can’t be explained by conventional knowledge. It’s sort of terrifying, but yet thrilling to think that there is so much that even our best minds don’t understand about our universe. Our human race has made so much progress in such a relatively brief span of time since the advent of mankind on earth. Yet, there are still so many aspects of our existence that are completely out of our control. We have figured out how to split atoms and build satellites, but we are still impacted by odd events that defy our puny logic.
Take for example, an incident that took place on April 17th, 1897 in the town of Aurora, Texas. The History Channel recently ran an episode of their excellent, documentary style show, UFO Hunters which focused on the incident. This account tells of one of the earliest UFO cases ever recorded in the USA.
At approximately 6:00 am that day, something plummeted out of the dawn sky over a ranch and smashed into a windmill, shattering it and casting metal debris over a wide area. It was reported that a strange, cigar-shaped “airship” had crashed that morning. What’s more, residents drawn to the site by the collision claimed to have found a small body in the wreckage. It was said that the townsfolk brought the strange little corpse to the Aurora Cemetary and buried it there, beneath a huge live oak, said to be over two hundred years old. The investigators found that the enormous tree reacts strongly to a metal detector moved vertically up its trunk. For nearly eighty years, a small, rough-cut stone served as a marker for the spot where the little alien was allegedly buried. The only thing engraved in the rock was thin oval shape, dotted along its horizontal length with circles, resembling a cigar-shaped craft with porthole style windows. Although there are photographs of the makeshift headstone, it disappeared in the early 1970s, presumably stolen.
The debris from the destroyed craft was rumored to have been dumped in a nearby well belonging to the Oates family. Although an attempted search of the well didn’t turn up any significant pieces of metal, the water was found to have an abnormally high aluminum content which could not be explained, and the family had suffered for generations, from health problems that had been attributed to tainted water from that same well.
I always try to maintain a skeptical, yet open mind about this type of thing. Those who refuse to even acknowledge the possibility that our planet may have been visited by extra-terrestrials will, no doubt, try to find rational, mundane answers to explain away this story and thereby protect their mental comfort zones. The fact that this incident took place 6 years before the airplane was invented may make that a little more difficult.

A Good Place To Start

2009-03-16T11:51:00.005-04:00

Suzen, writer of Erasing The Bored blog has a great idea. Check out her post "Lighting the Fires of Hope" here
Change starts with Hope, and Hope has to start somewhere. Love, Deedee

Bulb Thief

2009-03-15T21:12:00.004-04:00

It finally seems like spring is creeping in. I almost hate to say that and jinx it! It's been a rough winter here in New England this year...a lot of snow, very cold, and I think everyone is ready for some warmth. This has been a beautiful weekend! The temperatures climbed up close to sixty and the sun was shining. Pussy willows are popping, and everyone was outside working in their yards, starting the spring clean-up.
Walking around the yard with Rigby, I noticed that some critter had been digging up bulbs. The garden on the side of the garage was all torn up and a few half-eaten bulbs lay on top of the dirt. We have so many daffodils that we wouldn't miss a few of those, but they seem to have been left untouched. I guess they don't taste good. Whatever was out there snacking mostly focused on the gladiola bulbs, and possibly some tulips. I had a couple of crocuses last year and those apparently got eaten as well. We always have more than our share of skunks around, and they are very fond of digging up the lawn as well as all the gardens, so they are the likely suspects.
Whatever it was, it also dug up spots on the opposite side of the garage where nothing is planted. The little critter probably figured that if one side of the garage was planted with bulbs, the opposite side must be too. Every few inches all along the entire side of the garage, there are holes, even though I've never put in any bulbs on that side. I found that surprising and I think it's pretty smart, even though he did a lot of work for nothing. It was a good bet, but it didn't pay off this time.
Mac got out the rake and smoothed everything out again. I hope it stays that way for a while!

On The Road To Find Out

2009-03-12T22:30:00.010-04:00

It is strange how quickly life can change. I walk around the apartment in the morning, looking out windows and picking threads off the furniture while I brush my teeth. I have lost interest in all forms of housework lately. At the moment, there is a fine film of dust on everything and the carpet is a mass of stray fibers pulled loose by the cats, testing their claws. My morning ritual used to include doing a load of laundry each day before leaving for work. Now it piles up in the laundry closet off the bathroom, until I have run out of clean underwear. I used to hit the ground running each day, ironing with one hand and wiping the countertop down with the other.

Funny how the more time you have, the less motivation to get things done. Now there's always plenty of time later or tomorrow, so it's easy to put things off and leave them hanging.

After rising I sit on the couch eating breakfast, two eggs over-easy or a bowl of high-protein cereal with blueberries. Rigby waits expectantly nearby for her taste of my breakfast. The two cats sniff at my feet or gallop around the living room, biting each other. The weather is on the television like every morning and the white-haired anchor man's face and the tone of his voice is soothing to me. He seems like a gentleman...someone's sweet dad. Just watching him and listening to him talk makes the world seem like a better place to me. Sometimes I find myself staring at the screen in a fog and I realize that although I never looked away, I have no idea what the forecast is.

Everyone else has gone off for the day and this is how I like it. As previously noted, I like to be alone in the morning and not have to make small talk or answer any questions. I like to be able to get at the sink or the fridge or the bathroom without anyone getting in my way. I need to let my mind acclimate itself to being awake, shifting all the boring minutiae of my life into its proper focus before I have to function and actually think.

As I think about it, I realize that one of the problems with being cut adrift from your job is that it messes up your self-image. Who am I now if not the person that held that position and did that job? What should I say when someone asks what I do for a living?

I have been through this before when my children became adults. I saw my role as mother as my true lifelong occupation and career. Back then, a job was only a way to finance the true life I had with my family. Eventually I took five years off from working to stay home with my kids while they were little, despite the fact that it cast us into a state of near poverty. I loved the play dough, the dolls, the color forms, the water-color painting, the Lego’s, the story reading, Sesame Street, puzzles and puppets,....loved it all. Those were truly the best years of my life. I took great pride in being the best parent I could be. It was the biggest source of joy in my life. Those days flew by in a flash. That time is long gone now and I have to admit, I was surprised to grieve so hard at its passing.

Some years ago, I found myself staring into my daughter's closet and while trying to figure out which clothes still fit her, my eyes fell on several of her favorite toys stored on a shelf. I felt a sense of anxiety churning in the pit of my stomach, as I wondered when I would have some free time to spend playing with her. I suddenly remembered it was Saturday and I felt so relieved and happy that I could stay home and spend a happy day playing with my little girl. I was full of joyful anticipation of a fun day ahead with my baby. A noise outside my bedroom brought me back to consciousness just then, and I woke up to realize that I had been dreaming. It was indeed a Saturday morning, but my little girl was now eighteen years old and had plans of her own for the weekend. There would be no playing dolls or stuffed animals with her, that day, or ever again. I sat up in bed and cried my heart out. Words cannot express the sense of loss and despair I felt on that day. Sometimes I still feel it.

A psychic once told me I was the "root chakra" of my family, "the wellspring of its life force", she said. I felt the truth of that statement when she said it, but that was years ago. I'm glad they are healthy and on the road to being self-sufficient. But, I am sad that they are grown-up. They have little need or desire for my involvement in their lives now.

My husband Mac never really shared my enthusiasm for parenthood, as much as he loves his children. For him, parenthood was sort of harrowing, more like something to survive, rather than something to revel in. For me, it was everything, once upon a time.

I have been trying hard to re-invent myself for the past few years. I guess I had started to relate more to the person I was when I was at my job, and now that too has been yanked out from under me. So who am I now? Time to look deeper for the real me.

Down In The Hole

2009-03-10T20:32:00.010-04:00

I know what James Taylor meant when he sang;

Down in the hole,
Lord, it's deep and the sides are steep
and the nights are long and cold
Down in the hole,
Light and love and the world above
mean nothing to the mole...

Today I am struggling with trying to put together a resume. I have no heart for this. I can’t imagine myself sitting through an interview. I don’t want to deal with calling places and waiting desperately for call backs. I don’t want to get my hopes up only to have them dashed, time and time again. I don't want to have to figure how to navigate a whole new landscape of office politics with a whole new group of people. I just want my old job back.
Now, when companies everywhere are letting people go and unemployment figures are as bad as they have been in decades, it seems beyond ridiculous to be asking for applications and making phone calls asking, “Are you hiring?” I fully expect them to laugh in my face. I wouldn’t blame them if they hung up on me.
Since I was cut adrift back on New Year’s eve, I have been trying to stay busy. So far, it has staved off the depression that always hovers just at the edges of my life, waiting for the opportunity to spin me down into a black hole. I have found that it takes a conscious effort to keep it at bay. Daily exercise, reading, trying to keep busy, no matter what. I need comedy shows and constant distraction. I need a plan. If I wake in the night, I must force all thought out and practice deep breathing and clear my mind. If allow my mind to wander, the darkness senses an opening and like some evil entity, tries to grab hold of me.
Last week I got an email from a former coworker, announcing that they were meeting after work for drinks and would love it if all the ones who’d been laid off would join them for a little socializing. My first instinct was not to go. Then I thought about it and saw it as a chance to find out what was going on at the company. How business was, and whether there was any talk of calling people back to work. I dressed up and did my hair and make-up. I scrounged up 20 dollars for a couple of glasses of wine and headed for the bar near the office. I found that several more people had been let go after I had been. Two of the managers professed their faith that when things improved, I would definitely be one of the ones to be re-hired. But who knew when that would be? What else would you expect them to say? I innocently mentioned to my former manager that I had been going online and checking the schedule on the company website to see how business was, and how many installations were being scheduled. A few days later I found that my access had been disabled. He apparently didn’t think it was a good idea that I was still able to log on.
Until this week, I’ve been maintaining. I’ve done okay up to now, and I have not let myself slide into the abyss. This week though, I can feel myself slipping. Despair is whispering to me and it is all I can do not to listen. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to get up each morning. I have to force myself to move and get out there and do something, even if it seems futile. I can’t let it get to me. One deep breath and one step forward at a time...

Light In The Darkness

2009-03-08T15:40:00.007-04:00

We have all had so much bad news this winter. Every time you turn on the television or radio, you are bound to hear reports of the stock market tanking, people losing their jobs and the recession deepening. Of course, there is the usual litany of shootings, robberies and assaults. Constantly hearing dire predictions and negative outcomes does nothing to help. It seems to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I've been thinking that what we all need for a change is some good news to help lift us all out of the dark hole we have slipped into.
I happened to turn on a local news broadcast the other day, and the sight of candy colored names painted on a steel beam caught my attention. I turned up the volume and listened to the story.
It seems that a group of children who are patients at the Dana Farber Cancer Center watch a construction crew working outside on a nearby building from a windowed walkway. The children began to hold up hand written signs with their names on them. The ironworkers have responded by painting each child's name in bright pastel paint on the steel beams, to the delight of the kids. It has also had the effect of brightening the days of the men building the 14 story structure. These ordinary guys are bringing joy to sick kids and showing support for their families. That's just got to give you hope and make your heart smile. There's still a lot of goodness and light in the world. We just have to look for it. Here's the story from Boston.com. Enjoy...Happy Sunday, everyone.

Crypto-Critters

2009-03-04T16:33:00.008-05:00

I am enthralled by nature. I'm interested in all living things. The plants and animals we share our world with are an endless source of fascination and gratification for me. For me, the natural world is a perfect and sublime miracle constantly unfolding around us.
Something that will always grab my attention instantly is a television show, book or article on cryptozoology. The dictionary defines cryptozoology as: “the study of evidence tending to substantiate the existence of, or the search for, creatures whose reported existence is unproved”.
Do we know everything about all the beings that we share the planet with? As over-populated as our planet has become, there are still vast areas of wilderness where humans rarely venture. Is it possible that deep woods, mountains and deserts hide animals that have not been officially documented? What if some of the creatures that we think of as myths or legends actually exist on the outskirts of our civilizations?
Recently, I've been reading and watching a lot of programs concerning these mythical animals. Two of the "monsters" I've been focused on lately are the "Mothman" of West Virginia, and the "New Jersey Devil" rumoured to dwell in that state's Pine Barrens. It occurred to me recently that descriptions of these two separate phenomena are strikingly similar. Consider that the "Mothman" has been described by eyewitnesses as: "...having the glowing red eyes of a large animal, and a body shaped like a man, but bigger, maybe six and a half or seven feet tall, with big wings folded against its back", while the Jersey Devil is described by a Wikipedia entry as having; "...a long neck, wings and hooves. The creature is often said to have a horselike head and tail. Its' reputed height varies from about three feet to more than seven feet. Many sightings report the creature to have glowing red eyes that can paralyze a man, and that it utters a high pitch(sound)". These are pretty similar descriptions if you ask me.
Last night I stumbled upon a television program focused on another cryptid, supposedly observed in England, known as the "Owl Man." Although the show itself was a laughably amateurish, poorly slapped together production that reminded me of a cheaper, hokier version of "Blair Witch Project"(If that's even possible), some quick research online today revealed that this giant, owl type critter has actually been reported by various witnesses in the Cornwall area several times, starting in 1926, and continuing to the present day. Apparently this bird-like creature is also roughly the size of a man, with: "...pointed ears and red eyes...the creature flew up into the air, revealing black pincer-like claws. "All of these reports share a few commonalities; namely the red, glowing eyes, the large wingspan and a height of roughly four to seven feet.
So what the heck is going on here? Are all these people hallucinating? Is this some kind of silly hoax that has been passed down through the generations, or are these actual animals leftover from prehistoric times? Some believe that they may be an alien life-form from another planet. As the name "Jersey Devil" suggests, there are those who think it may be just that... a demon. Or, could it possibly be that there are simply animals living alongside us that have not been discovered?

Social Sacrifice

2009-03-03T17:49:00.006-05:00

Since it is the season of Lent now, I've been thinking about sacrifice, abstinence and related topics. Last Wednesday, I went to have Father Joe rub the ashes on my forehead, and I will observe the Catholic obligation of meatless Fridays, but I have not really committed to give up anything specific for the next month. My lovely and talented daughter wrote the following piece for her work website:

"Until recently, I hadn’t given any thought to what I would give up for Lent this year. I’ve half-heartedly sacrificed chocolate and sweets or sworn off my favorite seasonal candy in years past, but a light bulb went off last week, however, when I read this Wall Street Journal article about parents planning to give up Facebook for 40 days.

Facebook is a bit of an addiction. I log in every day during my commute to the city. I follow email notifications for friendship requests or wall postings. I crave Facebook. I may not be as enthusiastic as 39-year-old Kevin Shine, detailed in the WSJ article, who logs in “as much as 20 times a day,” but I do agree with his statement - Facebook is “my candy.”

So, to friends and colleagues on Facebook, I’m quitting cold turkey…until April 12, at least. And I’m not the only one who’s giving up this form of virtual interaction. Steve Johnson’s piece in the Chicago Tribune suggests 10 creative and funny ideas for what to do with all the time you’d save by not checking Facebook.

Social media helps us keep in touch with family & friends, to network, and even to connect with brands. It’s also quick, and in our often lightening-speed paced world, anything that helps maintain relationships with a few key strokes gets a thumbs-up in my book. Living without Facebook for the next 40 days will be a challenge, especially for a digital native such as myself, but I won’t be completely out of the loop... I’ll still be Tweeting and texting. Is that cheating?" - by Skye M. From 360 Days In A PR Life
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I personally don't understand the attraction to these social networking sites. Why would you want anyone and everyone to know all your business and know exactly what you are doing and where you are at any given moment of the day? Giving it up, at least temporarily is an excellent idea, in my estimation. Is it cheating?...maybe... but it's a step in the right direction if you ask me.

Say It Ain't So!

2009-02-28T21:32:00.009-05:00

The winter is about over. It's mud season now, and the scenery is somewhat less than pleasing, but that's okay. Even though the ground is still mostly brown and the dead grass is yellow, the trees gray and leafless, things are starting to get that windswept, waking-up look about them. There are pools of icy water just off the sides of the road and the trees that stand in it look somehow like they just sprouted there, moments ago.
Plaintive bird calls echo through backyards. Today I saw a blazing red cardinal and heard him trumpeting his spring call; "Toooo-weeet! chew,chew,chew!"
The little black-capped Chickadee was singing; "See-mee, See-mee!"
Two turkey vultures found a thermal above our street and circled each other in an aerial ballet, gradually drifting upward toward the sun.
Snow drop and crocus stems are starting to poke up everywhere, through the cold, crusty mud. The sky this past week was a nearly forgotten shade of blue. The only remaining mounds of gray snow are hiding in the shaded areas that the sun never reaches. The rest has melted and evaporated away. Today, although the wind was high and brisk, the ground radiated warmth. Winter is over for all intents and purposes, so why...why...WHY are they saying we are going to get a foot of snow over the next two days....WHY!? I know why. It's because this is New England; land of the meteorological practical joke. Wake me when it's over please...

What's So Good About It?

2009-02-26T15:52:00.007-05:00

To say that I am not a morning person would be an understatement. The very thought of actually getting up and moving around before the sun has come up makes me slightly nauseous. My husband Mac's battered old clock-radio springs to life at five thirty in the AM (after experiencing an awful barrage of loud metal music as my first sensory perception at that already rude time of day, I convinced him to at least set the dial to a classical station). He springs to life right along with it. He is up early to prepare for his job which consists of carpentry and roofing. After shrugging purposefully into his layers of thermal, flannel and sweatshirts, bumping into the bed and jarring me awake again numerous times while doing so, he sallies forth into the day without so much as a yawn or a groan. There is much coffee drinking and truck loading to do before he can head out for the day.
I, on the other hand, pull the covers up over my head and try to shut out the sounds of the house and the light that filters in through the window blinds.
If possible, I try to stay in bed until everyone has gone and the house is empty, no one home except Rigby, the cats and me. This has become a lot easier since I was cut adrift from my job. After all these years of living with three other people and only one bathroom, I know better than to think it might be free if more than two of us are home and up. If it's a rainy or frigid day and Mac is still home when I rise, the kitchen dance begins. We dodge and weave around each other as we both try to get to the coffee pot and into the cabinets or the fridge, much to my aggravation.
I'm actually a really nice person, except in the early morning. I love my family to pieces, but I'm pretty cranky first thing in the morning. I need about a hour to get my wits about me. Thankfully, my husband is pretty easy going and doesn't get offended. Yesterday he was laughing at me. He said that when I get up in the morning I'm like a bear coming out of hibernation; grumpy and dangerous. To that I said: Grrrrrrrrrrrr!

Have We All Been Here Before?

2009-02-25T11:53:00.004-05:00

Energy never dies, but is only transformed. What becomes of our energy once our physical bodies can no longer function? Is it on to a final rest after one single lifetime in the body, or do we take on a new shell, like spirit hermit crabs and graduate to a new level of education at schoolhouse Earth? I have to concede to the possibility that perhaps not only does our soul, our life-force, leave our bodies upon death, but it may enter a new body to further progress in our life lessons. One life just doesn’t seem like much time to attain all the wisdom there is in the universe. What if we get more than one chance at trying life on Earth? This seems like a reasonable possibility to me.
Some years ago I was invited to an evening of “past life regression” at the home of a friend. I always take these kind of things with a grain of salt, but I have a very open mind, and I thought it would be interesting.
A young woman with bunches of dark wavy hair and a long, purple, velour dress was holding court when I arrived, doing readings for people in small groups. She touted herself as a past life reader and promised to reveal to each of us, a past life persona.
The person she saw me as in my most recent life was a male. He was a dark, brooding, sort of menacing guy. His name was Jason, and he was a shaman or sorcerer of some kind. It didn't really sound like he was a nice person. She told me that my current life was all about regaining the power I had in that life, but channeling it toward good this time around.
As interesting as the tale of Jason was, I'd been a little disappointed not to hear about a life spent as an American Indian. For reasons I've never understood, I always been deeply interested in Native Americans. I've collected many books on subjects related to American Indians and their culture as well as some recordings of their music. As a child, I liked to play a game with friends that consisted of us living like natives in the woods and performing rituals with sticks, stones and water. Whenever games had a western theme, I would always be the Indian and never the cowgirl. The first pieces of jewelry I ever bought for myself were silver and turquoise made by a native artisan. I prefer them to diamonds.
I've also had a dream in which I am dressed in buckskin clothing and moccasins. In this dream, I'm running for my life across a desolate landscape. I trip and fall, and when I look up at my pursuer, he is raising a tomahawk over me. I've wondered whether this dream could be a traumatic memory of the end of a past life...or then again, maybe it's a just a dream?

At Last

2009-02-24T22:01:00.003-05:00

At Last!!!....my president has come along!
Sorry, just watching the Prez speak on T.V....God, he makes me so happy! He is the real deal, I can feel it.

Empathy

2009-02-23T20:42:00.005-05:00

Various sources describe an "Empath" as someone who has the ability to discern and actually feel the emotions of others. I have long thought that this describes me.
I've heard it said that this over-developed sense of empathy is a double-edged sword and I can certainly attest to that. If someone I know is happy and joyful, I seem to absorb those feelings as well. If someone near me is experiencing grief or sadness, it manifests as a dark cloud of depression over me. While it can be very helpful in life to be able to intuit the truth of a situation and to accurately guess people's true motivations, it's also exhausting to experience other people's pain as well as your own.
In the past, as strange as it may seem, I have many times walked around for months suffering over situations that have little or nothing to do with me. It is particularly difficult detaching emotionally from my immediate family members, as I am in close proximity to them daily. That makes it a lot harder. Their sorrows, joys, grief and anger feel like they are mine too.
It's as if someone else's flame is consuming my candle.
For the longest time, I didn't realize that there was something of a choice involved, but I see now that I can take steps to protect myself. I am just now, at this advanced stage of life, learning to sort out which problems and emotions are truly mine, and which belong to others. I can still care about them, and I can still try to help them, but I don't have to suffer for them. Letting go of other people's pain and problems is something I have to practice daily to keep my sanity.

Up In An Airplane

2009-02-21T19:02:00.009-05:00

Up on the airplane, nearer my God to thee, I start making a deal inspired by gravity - Emily Saliers (Indigo Girls)

The other day when I was out walking with Rigby, something above caught my eye. Like a faint ghost, a big passenger jet was carving a trail through the bright, blue morning sky. I thought about the scores of people, all the souls inside that distant plane. Some, maybe sitting with their seats reclined and their Ipods on. Maybe someone's reading a book that I've read or chatting with the attendant. Somebody's eating peanuts and having a diet Coke or a chardonnay.
Many of the flights that originate out of Logan airport pass right over my little town. At night they can be seen approaching from the east with big, bright lights ablaze, like high beams. As they get nearer, the big lights suddenly go out and just the blinking red and green lights seem to stay on.
I don't like to fly. Even though I know that air travel is vastly safer than car travel, I'd prefer to take my chances on the ground, rather than at 30,000 feet.
The take off is always the worst for me. In my car, I feel that I have some degree of control over what happens. In the air, I am at the complete mercy of the pilot, who I've never met and know nothing about. For all I know, he could have just taken three Ambien and washed it down with a couple of whiskey sours after a fight with his ex-wife. I guess this probably means I'm a control freak, I don't know. Plus, there's that whole "gravity" thing. I have no understanding of physics, really.
As the plane starts to move, I clutch my rosary beads, scapula or a prayer card and shut my eyes. I'm chomping gum to try and pop my ears before the altitude does it for me in a more painful way. My stomach flip-flops. I pray silently as we taxi down the runway, and I hold my breath until we are up and we level out. The landing is no piece of cake either, but it's usually not as traumatic for me as take-off.
That morning as I looked up at that plane, I was reminded of the last flight I took.
I was traveling down to Florida with my sister and one of my brothers to attend the wedding of our nephew in a town near Tampa last November. The take-off had been as smooth as silk and we were waiting for the attendants to come back with our drinks. I watched as the Earth fell away from my window, then took a deep breath and glanced around the cabin. I caught my brother's eye and asked, "How're you doing?" He answered, "Wondering how the heck it's possible that we are rocketing through space in this metal cigar."
I laughed out loud because I have had that exact thought many times. It seems like such a crazy, improbable thing to be doing, and if you didn't know for a fact that such a thing is possible, you'd never believe it, would you? A big, steel tube weighing thousands of pounds, filled with more than a hundred people and their stuff, taking off from the ground and speeding through the air, then safely landing at your destination. It's nuts.
That was a great trip, because not only did we get to see our other brother and our two nephews and experience the wedding, we also got to spend a few days together, just the three siblings without our spouses or kids. We really had a good time and a lot of laughs together. Even though I really couldn't afford the trip, I knew it would be a rare experience that I would not want to miss, and I was right. It was so worth it, and I'm glad I made the decision to go.
Everytime I look up and see those passenger jets overhead, I am reminded how so many things that we take for granted in our every day lives are actually so incredible. Really makes it seem like anything is possible.

The Fifth Season

2009-02-18T12:50:00.012-05:00

Anyone who lives in the northern climes knows that there are more than four seasons. Some think of that beautiful reprise of warmth after the first frost, better known as "Indian Summer", as a season unto itself, but it lasts only a few, precious days at best. Many of us who live where the winters are snowy have a different idea about what constitutes the fifth season. Right now, in this part of the country a new season is just beginning...mud season. Starting near the end of meteorological winter and lasting into the first weeks of the calendar spring, mud season is all too familiar to those who dwell outside of the cities.
As the snow and ice retreats with the slowly warming temperatures, yards and unpaved driveways become oozing car traps that rival the La Brea tarpits. Boots and sneakers get caked with brown muck, no matter how carefully one tries to step. Mac starts parking his dump truck on the asphalt driveway and is reluctant to try and get down to the barn in it, as the ground turns into chocolate pudding.
It's impossible to keep floors clean in mud season. Many homes around here have that handy entryway off the kitchen, better known as "The Mudroom", where shoes are removed before entering the main house. This is usually mandatory for family members and guests alike, to try and stem the tide of grit and grime that fights to get inside. We have a screened-in porch that works well for this purpose. Most people I know are not shy about enforcing the shoe ban, at least not during mud season.
The roadsides are a mess now, littered with chunks of asphalt, rocks, trash and detritus of every description. Snow-plow blades have destroyed the edges of the sidewalks and potholes and frost heaves dot every street. Things that have been hidden for months under snow banks are revealed as the melt commences. Car parts, torn envelopes, broken beer bottles and random nuts and bolts mingle with lost gloves and losing scratch tickets. Everywhere, a coating of sand and salt lines the streets and waits to be swept or raked off the dead grass next to the curb...sand, salt and mud.
If you have a canine friend, mud season is all the more annoying. Every day when Rigby and I come in from her walk, we must go through the unpleasant and time consuming ritual of bathing her muzzle, her feet and the underside of her belly. I fill a big bowl with warm water and shampoo, spread a towel on the kitchen floor and start the ablutions with a wash cloth, while she struggles to pull away and looks reproachfully out of the corner of her eye at me.
Some days, I glance out the window, prior to the walk and fool myself into thinking that things appear dry enough so that if we stay mostly on the pavement, we will be able to avoid the need for the half-bath that day. It has never been the case yet. She is pretty low to the ground and has very furry paws. By the time we get home they are black and her underside is wet and grimy. On damp days, when we have to navigate puddles and dodge the spray from car tires, she requires a full bath. Into the tub she goes, much to her chagrin. To make it up to her, I give her three or four treats when we are done, but she's still not pleased with me.
Despite all this, mud season is a joyous time! It means that winter's back is broken. The sun climbs to a higher angle in the sky and our corner of the world is definitely warming by a few degrees each week. If it's mud season, can spring be far behind?

Mysterious Manisses

2009-02-15T18:33:00.010-05:00

Eons ago, a great glacier carved out a tiny island 12 miles off the coast of Rhode Island. Hills, valleys, rocky outcroppings and deep, dark hollows mark the terrain. On a clear day, the tip of Montauk, New York can be seen from the bluffs on her western shores. This place was called Manisses, the “Island of the little god”, so named by the Indians who lived there for centuries.
Captain Adrian Block, a Dutch explorer landed there in the early 1600s and changed the name to Block Island, paving the way for the white people to settle there. Throughout its history, the island has been the scene of massacre and shipwrecks. A grand hotel and a mansion were destroyed in blazing conflagrations. There is a historic, Indian burial ground surrounded by rolling hills and pastures. Many of the older hotels and homes are said to be haunted. Even the dark woods in the hollow at the center of the island is said to be a place of supernatural power.
It is a place of unmatched beauty and heavenly tranquility as well. The island is ringed by roughly seventeen miles of mostly unspoiled shoreline, and coke-bottle green waves lap the white sands. Swallows and terns fill the air and flutter about the cliffs. Beach roses line the roads and scent the air on summer days, while boats with white sails drift in and out of her two harbors. It is a place of magic and mystery.
There are many stories to be told of Block Island, but the one that comes to mind tonight is the legend of the mermaid.
It seems that a young mother and her little boy were on the island, and enjoying a day at the beach some years ago. The woman was reading, while her son played in the sand near the water’s edge. At some point, the woman became aware that she had dozed off, and when she lifted her head to check her boy’s whereabouts, he was nowhere to be seen. In a panic, the mother ran up and down the deserted beach looking for her son. Suddenly, she saw him bobbing in the water. The story goes that something unseen seemed to be pushing him toward shore, keeping his face just above the waves. His mother charged into the surf and floundered toward him. Just as she reached him, she saw the tail of a large fish slap the surface of the water a few feet away. When she got her little boy back safely on dry land, she asked him what had happened. He reportedly told her that he had walked out too far into the water and had started to struggle, when a nice lady with very long hair who was swimming nearby, had helped him by lifting him up and pushing him back toward the beach. The woman looked out at the water and saw no one. In fact, the beach was empty as far as the eye could see, but the child insisted that “a lady” had rescued him. Then the boy’s mother remembered the large "fish" she had caught a glimpse of, just as she had reached her son.
I recall reading a written account similar to this story in a little island newspaper many years ago, but when I searched online recently, I could not find anything on it. Could this story be fiction created to entertain the tourists? Quite possibly. But I prefer to think of it as a mystery and a legend. Whenever I am "on the Block" as we say, I always scan the sea for signs of mermaids. It is only one of the many strange and marvelous tales of the magic island of Manisses.

Night Visitors

2009-02-14T20:03:00.004-05:00

At night it becomes a different world outside. Now in the winter, especially, the tracks left in the snow tell a story about what happens after darkness falls, to those who care to try and read them. I study the impressions and try to imagine the creatures that left them. There are tunnels and little narrow trails weaving through the yard, which I guess are from shrews; tiny, fuzzy, brown animals that resemble mice with stubbed tails. Rabbit prints are everywhere and deer tracks are easy to spot. Not as easy to decipher are the ones that look like little hands pressed into the snow...raccoon or opossum?
One morning, not long ago we found a pile of gore and entrails left behind the garage. It was apparently all that was left of a rabbit.
There is a big hawk that hunts in our neighborhood, but it was hard to tell if this was his handiwork. My husband has been sitting silently out in the screened-in porch late at night indulging his cigarette habit and has seen a lone coyote stride up the driveway and head down behind the garage on two occasions, so it may have been his leftovers. We have also seen a fisher. His long, bushy, chestnut-colored tail disappeared behind a blue spruce tree, as he slunk along the edge of the woods.
There is one set of tracks that we just can't figure out. It travels across the yard from a big white pine and goes directly under the porch. In between the large footprints, there is an impression of a thin tail, and the snow is pushed aside, as though it's belly were dragging. Whatever it is, it may have set up house under there, or maybe it was just seeking refuge from the weather or some predator.
The yard becomes a secret world after the sun goes down. Nocturnal animals emerge and dramas play out in the darkness, just beyond our doorstep.

Did I Do That?

2009-02-12T17:58:00.006-05:00

Confession time. When I was eleven years old, I helped tie Emily Calhoun to the a-frame of the Bellini's swing-set. In fact, it was entirely my idea. Emily was a misfit; a pale, chubby girl with freckles, an overbite, and a head full of the frizziest, flakiest, most unkempt hair I have ever seen on a human being. She and I lived a few houses apart. We were the same age and were always feuding over one stupid thing or another.
I had recognized her poorly disguised voice, just a day or so before on the opposite end of a prank phone call made to my home. In retaliation, my brother and I, and a scruffy band of younger, neighbor kids had found a large, black and yellow salamander that someone had stepped on, and we somehow thought it would be appropriate to restrain Emily and scare the sass out of her by sticking it in her face. Our gang accosted her gang in the woods and being the larger, stronger group, we took her captive. We marched her to the rusted old A-frame like a prisoner to the gallows, and proceeded to tie her to the crossbar. Her blood-curdling scream caused us to cut her free just a few seconds into the torture. We scattered to various hiding places, but the damage was done.
When I remember this now, it does not seem possible that I could have actually been responsible for something like this, but I was. The thought of it horrifies me now.
According to the grapevine, at some point during her high school years, Emily became a resident groupie to the local motorcycle gang. She later dropped out of school all together and off my radar. Then, years later, I saw her one day at a pizza place a few towns over. Our chance meeting led to an impromptu lunch during which she revealed that she was completely estranged from her entire family, and her new, slim shape was the result of ongoing amphetamine abuse.
Although I suspect there were many factors from her early life contributing to her troubled state, I still can't help wondering what part(however small)I may have played in shaping it. I will never know for sure. I can hardly believe some of the things I said and did when I was a kid, but there it is. As alien as that person now feels, it was definitely me in some earlier, larval form. I am sincerely contrite and remorseful for the actions of the younger, meaner, stupider me.
Now, I am the champion of the underdog. I support several charities for the homeless, and as I write this, I am preparing to go to my weekly stint teaching religious education to an unruly mob of thirteen year olds whose parents belong to my church. Maybe on some level, I see this a sort of penance for the sins of my past life. Proof that anyone can change.

At A Loss

2009-02-08T17:22:00.012-05:00

I realized today that I have not yet mourned for the loss of my job. You know, the one that cut me adrift six weeks ago. I know I wrote a bit about it and vented a little here and there, but then I started to enjoy the freedom of not having to punch a clock day in and day out. There remains the practical consideration of money, however. I do need it if I want to continue to eat and watch T.V. and have a roof over my head.

Then, suddenly today, I started to feel real sorrow. I loved my job. When I first started there, I felt as though I had been yanked up out of Purgatory into Heaven. I was well paid and felt valued. I could wear jeans if I felt like it and bring Rigby to work if I wanted to. I had my own little office with a sunny window and a desk that I helped to design. I was allowed to choose the color and style of the cabinets and countertop. I picked out the shade of celery green paint on the walls. I lined the window shelf and countertop with plants. I brought in all my music and loaded it onto my computer so I could listen all day. I burned fragrant candles and worked happily away at my own pace for the most part. At certain times of the year it was insanely busy, but even that felt good...the satisfaction of having done a good day's work when I punched out in the evening.

I got along well with most of the people there, and I felt that my supervisor was truly a good friend. It was a great job, the best job I've ever had.

On the day I was laid off, my supervisor told me I could just leave anything I didn't feel like taking that day. No one else would be using my room, he said. Maybe he was in denial too. I took everything I wanted and threw the rest away, except for the two "excellence" awards that I left on the shelf as an ironic statement.

Today I was in the area, so I drove by my old workplace. I had heard that due to the downsizing, the building is now too large and pretty empty. To further cut costs, they decided to lease half the space to a different company. The few remaining employees were all moved into one half the original space.

As I drove by my old office, I saw a silk flower arrangement sitting on the window shelf of my little office room. My office! Someone else's flowers! A shock of realization hit me...it's really not my office anymore! Someone else has taken it over and now it's their office. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. Even though I knew there was a chance I would not be hired back, today for the first time it feels real. If another company is leasing part of the building, they can't just toss them out after a few months. There literally won't be any room for any of us to be hired back.

My son said, "Mom, cut your losses and move on. Looks like you really will have to find a new job now."

With seven percent unemployment and companies still letting people go, that will be much easier said than done. I really have to say goodbye to that part of my life-the past seven years. I know I'll never see most of those people again now. I don't even have their phone numbers. Many of them live hours away and we had little in common other than work, but still... Writing about it now, there is a lump in my throat and I want to cry. It's NOT FAIR!

Owl Miss You

2009-02-07T20:28:00.004-05:00

Here is a drawing I made of an owl.
We had a little owl in the woods at the back of our yard. At different times of the year, late at night or in the very early morning while it was still dark, we heard his quavering tremelo. Sometimes my sister and her husband heard him too. Their home, a quarter mile away was apparently in his territory too. Lately though, we had not heard from him.
Two mornings ago, Mac came in from walking Rigby around the barn and reported that there was a bird party in progress out in the woods in back of the barn.
When dawn broke that day, the temperature was hovering around 5 degrees farhenheit. Since Mac is a carpenter and his current job is strictly outdoors, it would not be a working day due to the bitter cold. As he waited for Rigby to take care of her business in a snowbank, his attention was drawn by two, big Blue Jays, a pair of cardinals and a legion of slate-colored juncos all fluttering around one particular tree. We puzzled over what could be stirring them up. There didn't appear to be any food or seed around, and he had not seen any predators lurking.
We forgot about the birds as we became absorbed in the tasks of the day.
Later that evening Mac and Rigby were again near the spot and the dog started pulling on her leash, desperately trying to get over near that same tree. Although it was now gathering gloom in the woods, Mac thought he could see a small dark shape in the snow at the base of the tree that looked out of place. He would take a closer look in the morning when it was light.
The next morning as I was making my eggs and pouring coffee, Rigby burst into the kitchen with Mac close behind her.
"It's an owl...there's no sign of injury, but he is dead", Mac told me. "He's just lying there at the base of the tree. Almost looks like he's sleeping. That must be what all the birds were fussing over."
Later I walked out to have a look. We never saw him while he was alive, but there he was. A screech owl, I think. He was small and precious and he did look almost as if he was asleep. All his pretty grey feathers were intact, little ear tufts trembling in the cold breeze. I feel sad in my heart that he's no longer alive and I wonder why he died. Surely, being a northern bird the cold weather wouldn't have bothered him too much, at least I wouldn't think so. The other birds may have been harassing him, but there wasn't any blood - no sign that they had hurt him. Maybe he was old by owl standards and it was just his time. We will miss hearing his voice. All things must pass.

Why Does He Cry?

2009-02-06T10:45:00.006-05:00

We set up the trap near the dumpster that night and waited for the first catch. One of the kittens seemed more curious(or hungry)than the rest. It didn't take long before we had Cat Boy in the box! Next, his sister Shy, the calico fluff-ball was lured in too. We agreed to start with these two and once we had them safely in a new home, we'd come back for the rest. It turned out to be more difficult than we imagined, though. The shelter was full at the time and in any case, the cats would have to be quarantined and observed for at least 6 weeks to be sure they didn't show any signs of rabies. We kept them in a big plastic kennel carrier equipped with food, water and a blanket on my sister's porch until we could figure out what to do.
After a few days, we decided to see what would happen if we let them out of the carrier into the enclosed porch area. What transpired next was like something you'd only imagine seeing on a cartoon! Cat Boy literally ran straight up the wall to the ceiling, screaming in terror! He bounced around from wall to window screen like a pinball for several minutes before I threw a soft towel over him, and wearing thick leather gloves, got him back into the carrier. Coming out was not a option at all for his sister...she was rolled tightly into a black, white and bright orange ball at the back of the box and wasn't budging.
In about a weeks' time we came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was adopt them ourselves. My sister and her husband chose to keep Shy and I chose Cat Boy. In due time, after many wormings, shots, and a few baths they were welcomed into our respective homes. I think they both spent about two or three weeks hiding under beds for ninety percent of each day before they were able to conquer their fear of us.
We don't know what became of the mother cat. Eventually, we also captured and tamed Jet, one of the tuxedo twins. He was quarantined in our barn and eventually was placed in a happy home through the shelter. Funny Face was found to have a festering wound on her face and the shelter's vet made the decision that she should be put down. We never did get the remaining tuxedo cat, but I have seen a cat that looks very much like him around the neighborhood for years. It is my hope that he was adopted too. Shy and Cat Boy continue to thrive.
There is one funny thing that always reminds me of those days. Whenever I do laundry, Cat Boy comes running from wherever he is and jumps up on the washer as soon as he hears me turn it on. He sits on top and peers down into the open machine as the water fills. After a moment, he starts to cry loudly. He has a cry that sounds almost like a baby. When he really gets going, it sounds like he's yodeling. It took a while before I realized that the sound he is hearing is very similar to the sound of the water running into that storm drain next to the dumpster where he was born. I think that some part of him may remember that time. It's very hard not to believe it is emotion I hear in his voice at these times. Maybe he misses his brothers and sisters, or he is crying for his mother. Maybe he is mourning a lost time when he was a wild cat boy.

The Wild Origin Of Cat Boy

2009-02-05T11:38:00.010-05:00

Cat Boy was feral once. He lived underneath a big dumpster that stood behind a multi-family dwelling, not far from my home. That was the prime spot where a stray female gave birth to about a half dozen kittens. It provided a big, sheltered area and a constant source of food for her little family. Between the constantly replenished food source of human garbage, and the mice it attracted, they would not go hungry.
The apartment house that leased the dumpster sits on the corner of two quiet side streets. In those days my sister lived across the street from the place. Just a few feet away from where the cat family lived was a large sewer grate at a low spot in the road. Except when everything is frozen solid, or in the driest days of summer, there is a thin rivulet of water creeping lazily down hill toward the drain, and the pipes beneath it gurgle loudly with the sounds of moving water.
Besides Cat Boy there was a beautiful, long-haired calico female, a short-haired calico female, and a set of twin of "tuxedo" cats; black with white paws and bibs.
Once my sister and I became aware of them, we gave the the ones we saw most frequently names and started observing their comings and goings. There was Shy; the timid, pretty calico, Funny face; her drabber, short-haired sister, Tux and Jet were the black tuxedo brothers, who had a habit of sitting back to back on the top edge of the dumpster like book ends, and of course, Cat Boy; the regal black and white male with the giant, double paws.
My sister and I, along with her husband were doing a cleaning and feeding shift at a local animal shelter. Twice a week we'd go to the shelter in the evening and let the cats out of their cages. We would give them clean water and fresh food, administer any prescribed medicines, clean and disinfect the cage, brush the bedding, then brush and play with each resident for a few moments.
After observing the wild kitten's antics for few weeks, the three of us became concerned for their safety and well-being. We decided that when they became old enough, we would try to catch them so they could be spayed or neutered and given vaccinations. After that, maybe the shelter could find good homes for them. They were all very wild and would scatter instantly if approached. It was not going to be easy, but we constructed a plan that included a "hav-a-heart" trap and a can of salmon, and we went fishing for felines one cool autumn night...

Cat Boy and Ceecee

2009-02-03T18:28:00.008-05:00

There are two other furry little persons who live in our apartment with us. Cat Boy is a piebald(black and white spots), polydactyl(way too many digits), neutered, American short-haired male cat. Ceecee(short for Cirrus cloud)is a white, medium-haired, spayed female with a grey streak between her ears.
These little feline people roam about at will, night and day, and sleep (when they feel like it) under my bed.
Cat Boy's front paws are known as the "mittens of death" Because of the six, huge talons hidden in each of those innocent looking paws. They do look exactly like fluffy mittens, that is, until he rakes them down the door frames leaving marks that would impress a Bengal tiger. Lucky for us, he is as sweet and docile as a critter can be. He's a lover, not a fighter and likes nothing better than having his ears, and the underside of his chin scratched. When an unfamiliar voice is heard at the door, he disappears into some dark corner or closet for several hours, until he is absolutely sure the interloper has gone. Cat Boy even endures the indignity of being bossed around by Rigby the Schnauzer mutt, with uncommon grace.
Not so his female counterpart! Ceecee's main defense is her fierce and nasty attitude. She rarely has to unsheath her claws, but she can bite like a cobra, with a hiss that would unhinge the ghostbusters. Rigby is a constant source of annoyance to her, but she takes none of the dog's crap, and Rigby has learned to cut a wide swath around her at all times.
All of these little beings were rescued. Thirteen years ago, Cat Boy lived under a dumpster down the street from us when we found him, and Ceecee turned up the following year, living in a local zoo, having been born in one of the animal cages. She was sent to an area shelter that I was volunteering for at the time, and that's how I found her. Rigby was adopted from another shelter, out in western Massachusetts by my daughter, when she was in her last year of college. The folly of that decision soon resulted in her coming to live here with us.
After the initial period of chaos, the cats drew closer together. All three seem to have settled in to living together in an uneasy truce. Somehow, it works.
I can't decide whether Cat Boy and Ceecee see each other as mates of some sort, or more like brother and sister now. I ponder this as I watch the gallant Cat Boy licking the grumpy Ceecee's head and ears, moments before he clamps his teeth over the scruff of her neck and the rumpus begins.

No Explanation

2009-02-02T20:41:00.006-05:00

I sat in my window on a sultry summer night, staring at something I could not comprehend, trying to wrap my mind around it. Curiosity quickly turned to abject terror as I watched this strange white fireball do something I would have thought completely out of character for a natural phenomenon. Rolling along in a straight line was one thing, suddenly taking a sharp, ninety degree turn as it did almost seemed to indicate intent...or...intelligence? I was struck by the sudden thought that somehow it was aware of me! Crazy! But I wasn't taking any chances and I did just what any coward would do under the circumstances... I slammed the window shut and locked it. Then I slammed the other window in the room shut and locked that one as well. I pulled both window shades down tightly and sat there hyperventilating for a while. It quickly became sweltering in my little room, but there was no way on God's green Earth that I was opening those windows that night. I remember imagining it outside underneath the window. I pictured myself lifting the shade and seeing it there. I didn't sleep very much that night, or for several nights immediately afterward. I tried to tell my parents about it the next day, but they didn't seem too concerned. I suspect they thought I was "imagining things" and I didn't waste much time trying to convince anyone. I knew what I had seen...I just did not know what it was!
Since then in the many years that have passed, I think about what it might possibly have been. The "willow-the-wisp" answer seemed plausible until I thought about that sudden sharp turn it took into my driveway. Ball lightning was a major contender, but the fact that there was no sound at all, no thunder heard or lightning seen that night at all, seemed to rule that out.
It occurred to me that perhaps it was not a natural thing at all, and I could not rule out extra-terrestrial(or extra-dimensional?)possibilities. In general, I have a very open mind. I definitely believe that there are unseen forces, energies and perhaps, entities that have not been officially documented. It seems to me the greatest arrogance, to dismiss something simply because we have not personally experienced it, and science has not, or cannot prove its existence.
The relatively recent emergence of the incredible world of quantum physics has validated much that we would have previously thought impossible. There is much we still don't know and cannot explain about this universe. I still don't know what it was, but I would love to find out!

A Mid-Summer Night Mystery

2009-02-01T16:32:00.005-05:00

As I have mentioned before, I've experienced several very strange things that I have no good explanation for in my life thus far. One of these incidents happened when I was roughly fourteen or fifteen years old. I lived in a town not far from here with my parents and siblings, on a side street just east of a main road. The house we lived in at that time was on a little hill and my bedroom was located on the west side over the garage. There was a west-facing window in my room from which I looked out over the driveway below. Beyond the driveway was a fence surrounding a neighbor's yard and their home beyond. Further west, beyond the neighbor's property was the aforementioned main road. My bed was positioned lengthwise along the west wall of the room, and I was in the habit of sitting on the end of the bed, elbows propped on the window ledge. Many an evening would find me in that spot, admiring the sunset or watching the cars go by out on the main street, on the way into or out of town.
One very hot and muggy summer night, I was gazing out my window watching for fireflies and listening to the katydids murmur. The rest of my family had retired for the evening. It was a week night, well after ten pm and all was quiet, but we did not have air conditioning in those days and I was too hot to sleep. The neighbor's home on the other side of the fence was completely dark. They were an older couple whose children were grown and gone, and I guess they too had gone to bed for the night.
Suddenly, without warning, a dazzling, bright light about the size of a soft-ball rose up from behind the fence right in front of me! It looked as if it was burning somehow, with white fire, like a sparkler that children wave as they run across lawns on the Fourth of July, but there was no hiss or crackling sound and not a soul was in sight. It was totally silent. It rose up a few inches above the top of the fence, only about 5 or 6 yards away from where I was sitting behind the window screen. It hovered for a second and then disappeared behind the fence. My initial reaction was one of intense curiosity. What the heck was that?, I asked myself. I had heard of "willow the wisps" and "St. Elmo's fire", rare phenomena related to swamp gas or electromagnetic anomalies. Maybe this was something like that. I'd read about something called ball lightning, but I recalled that it was usually accompanied by thunder storms, and tends to explode loudly shortly after forming. There was no sound to this at all. I didn't know anyone who'd ever reported seeing anything like this. I was sitting, calmly pondering this with no sense of fear or anxiety at all, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw it again. Moving up the street now, flashing brilliant white sparks, it rolled slowly along in the gutter. It did not appear to bounce at all, or veer off course as you would expect a natural thing might do. I sat puzzling over this, watching as it steadily approached the end of our driveway.
Then, it did something totally unexpected and utterly terrifying. When it reached the end of our driveway, it suddenly took a razor sharp right turn and started rolling up the driveway directly toward me. More later...