tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22781633846360066162024-03-06T02:47:05.421-05:00Deedee, Cut Adrift!An average woman in mid-life ponders her situation, as well as nature, spirituality, pets, culture, family and life in general, from her southern New England vantage point.Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-72315994820939589992010-12-29T22:53:00.001-05:002010-12-29T22:55:02.402-05:00New Blog NewsHi friends! My new blog is up and running now and I have started to post.<br />
Here is the address: http://deedeehomeatlast.blogspot.com/<br />
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I hope you will all check it out and I will be thrilled to see all my followers.<br />
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Thanks for all your kind comments and I hope to see you soon at "Deedee, Home At Last."Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-83038554763275255572010-12-27T16:40:00.003-05:002010-12-27T18:48:47.295-05:00Seems Like a Long Time...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMW3YWt7AG4gxUG2eft_35mj9BCn2tNbU7roNvcv9d7fBFVt9yelWBnyDmBrc3V4Me7x72-2KmwZ3fu61Ah20njwZZZ2DRVbArADPaZshK6ix0cw9Eoemzp4rryAdRv0DWO-49DEfAhRI/s1600/winter+1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555483482496605858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMW3YWt7AG4gxUG2eft_35mj9BCn2tNbU7roNvcv9d7fBFVt9yelWBnyDmBrc3V4Me7x72-2KmwZ3fu61Ah20njwZZZ2DRVbArADPaZshK6ix0cw9Eoemzp4rryAdRv0DWO-49DEfAhRI/s200/winter+1.jpg" /></a> 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.<br />
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In consideration of this new beginning, I have decided to leave "Deedee, Cut Adrift!" behind and start a new blog: "Deedee, Home At Last!" <br />
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.<br />
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Wish me luck - A Happy Christmas and love to all! - DeedeeDeedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-4173921636174204762010-08-02T19:56:00.011-04:002010-08-03T19:27:49.721-04:00Despoiled by Oil<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRdPo6moPVxLgkAe-1Dp2UGEJQ6d4VPGY4bRB4-WJgG5hxtSS1GERhJZ58xAGvlRjeYT4_hiEge9MYgC03y56ML505FGOZV8AdMEc-W_c6sS8IXR-rCOfU1lnzdMTJkIFlI_yZuOPY7A/s1600/beach+2.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 161px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500976695079709426" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRdPo6moPVxLgkAe-1Dp2UGEJQ6d4VPGY4bRB4-WJgG5hxtSS1GERhJZ58xAGvlRjeYT4_hiEge9MYgC03y56ML505FGOZV8AdMEc-W_c6sS8IXR-rCOfU1lnzdMTJkIFlI_yZuOPY7A/s200/beach+2.jpg" /></a> <div>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.<br />I can’t begin to articulate the horror and dread I feel as I try to process the news related to this tragedy.<br /><br />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.<br /> <br /></div><div></div><div>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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br />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?<br /></div>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-25000612636829241612010-07-23T20:18:00.008-04:002010-07-28T19:25:27.050-04:00Thank you, friendsFirst, 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.<br /><br>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.<br /><br>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.<br /><br> 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. <br /><br> Thanks again for your support.<br />Love, Deedee <3Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-84859299133661535432010-05-05T23:31:00.006-04:002010-05-06T07:25:27.475-04:00Culture Club<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6tZ1Pkxw6IOh456V9fA27fOeZCb1_bxrzIXhwP1JybV61xhjf0A92Wyyavx9UFFP0pve2IL_CxZhwisxqq7aMwcHI5t0Li8wl7wau9OIhyphenhyphenxbIfh0gmjE_eGuEMTsDZl-37XXAWfEHO4E/s1600/nails.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 132px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467996466834441458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6tZ1Pkxw6IOh456V9fA27fOeZCb1_bxrzIXhwP1JybV61xhjf0A92Wyyavx9UFFP0pve2IL_CxZhwisxqq7aMwcHI5t0Li8wl7wau9OIhyphenhyphenxbIfh0gmjE_eGuEMTsDZl-37XXAWfEHO4E/s200/nails.jpg" /></a> 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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br />In the final analysis, we are all citizens of the same planet. We are all children of God. We are all human.Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-36807205413346757912010-04-18T18:49:00.009-04:002010-04-19T10:19:08.232-04:00Sunday Afternoon Movie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgTqkP7SydRiuzJTgBDz9PV_3VfB9e2S3YlqDPgzqvVR0cx9NyczZBAXSHfiHpe1cbI_VOBDapVf3gXHLdf11Ir37TVOuSnRj6vreQ6RLTgJrFqTBrjrdMRl9Uwy05AOAyWTiFJrWx7U/s1600/passenger-airplane.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFgTqkP7SydRiuzJTgBDz9PV_3VfB9e2S3YlqDPgzqvVR0cx9NyczZBAXSHfiHpe1cbI_VOBDapVf3gXHLdf11Ir37TVOuSnRj6vreQ6RLTgJrFqTBrjrdMRl9Uwy05AOAyWTiFJrWx7U/s200/passenger-airplane.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461614376059645666" /></a><br />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.<br />I'd heard this was a good film and the trailers looked interesting, so I thought I'd give it a try.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-27203351556245664312010-04-14T21:26:00.010-04:002010-04-18T22:01:02.164-04:00The Decline of Catboy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSWG0koo7Kor7vZPuJ-OY2Ryvd07bshJkMmPqAKhNcu0EgHhyphenhyphenhs9QHbp9N3TTeKq2joNzAnA1WodPkIfbAlkSeS8TPXye4VWI0QLN1nhVe-fecJN3kvaRJRpFXfvNdYwsH9U-rbhnW82Q/s1600/catboy.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 198px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460172805781509778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSWG0koo7Kor7vZPuJ-OY2Ryvd07bshJkMmPqAKhNcu0EgHhyphenhyphenhs9QHbp9N3TTeKq2joNzAnA1WodPkIfbAlkSeS8TPXye4VWI0QLN1nhVe-fecJN3kvaRJRpFXfvNdYwsH9U-rbhnW82Q/s320/catboy.JPG" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHweTQWh0ZSFfViYqEfgaSBJGlLp9jI0wF7CSGbpXqaRLYbwBk1m8Q9c61a_eVHLQKdpaL-oUQ5hC7co4rnHoRMqxn-pLfHschTuJXqqQaO7bm0T4FfTKZn0RM_P6FccdoT-xmG9-Q7Y/s1600/Catboy1+002.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460171987492479330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHweTQWh0ZSFfViYqEfgaSBJGlLp9jI0wF7CSGbpXqaRLYbwBk1m8Q9c61a_eVHLQKdpaL-oUQ5hC7co4rnHoRMqxn-pLfHschTuJXqqQaO7bm0T4FfTKZn0RM_P6FccdoT-xmG9-Q7Y/s320/Catboy1+002.JPG" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br />I sure hope so.Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-87915126539722014652010-03-31T20:19:00.007-04:002010-03-31T21:04:22.950-04:00Update on Emery-Sunrise<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPhElyxVWFI46RJjs7O1kXCSsmd32bigRgI20J88F6q4zCb3yfsomNE6WIkUmXAjrQKRa6MMdZg3itTsZbSoFYIXR7VRT09E-VmkbpVGsdyC62BujpcGFMfe8GB8g1BqD71v5axfLv5A/s1600/5-15-2009+5%3B39%3B34+PM.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 134px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454964558234987090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGPhElyxVWFI46RJjs7O1kXCSsmd32bigRgI20J88F6q4zCb3yfsomNE6WIkUmXAjrQKRa6MMdZg3itTsZbSoFYIXR7VRT09E-VmkbpVGsdyC62BujpcGFMfe8GB8g1BqD71v5axfLv5A/s200/5-15-2009+5%3B39%3B34+PM.JPG" /></a> <div>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. </div><br /><div>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.<br /><br />She is reading a book today that another friend recommended. It's titled: <strong><em>Being Happy</em></strong>.</div><br /><div>"It's a really good book!" she told me, with enthusiasm. </div><br /><div>Things seem to be looking up for Emery. I think it is because she is now looking up.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br>photo courtesy of J. Choate, 2008</span></div>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-72515852976358315712010-03-14T16:04:00.006-04:002010-04-19T10:05:09.706-04:00Seasons turning<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkbNg2GvBiysNuZZWGlWfVcNsj3yxcgs0c7fOlhpvwNcQyr1apHvN6j25SOdyGxFj97EWoEQ1kNyusSRKw0PhDMCdWJYJOkCYKiLrcdthLgR4E_w17Y3xT7OTGln79bVOGy21aZukzXoU/s1600-h/The+Brook.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkbNg2GvBiysNuZZWGlWfVcNsj3yxcgs0c7fOlhpvwNcQyr1apHvN6j25SOdyGxFj97EWoEQ1kNyusSRKw0PhDMCdWJYJOkCYKiLrcdthLgR4E_w17Y3xT7OTGln79bVOGy21aZukzXoU/s200/The+Brook.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448599211098953362" /></a><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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."<br />He wondered out loud why the bird seemed so happy, considering the weather we are enduring this weekend.<br /><br /> "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. <br /> That bird knows the winter is over and he's full of joy because of it; So am I!Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-36882905813111542232010-03-09T21:11:00.002-05:002010-03-10T01:00:41.010-05:00Frail fairy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimjnEjq0O1QfVk-ctjTxfV1z0tpAJpkhTpjDAh-T9CSFkskgw8x-icAJCzSzZP6FgBlMtT4cKuaOg2F7BBfuCHSwgrwNrT5-2RxKFdcw7BQiLAB8hU-OF2ZbE3iZJvy-1C6q0IniCDGtk/s1600-h/image001pixiebaby.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 120px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 160px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446875613282566866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimjnEjq0O1QfVk-ctjTxfV1z0tpAJpkhTpjDAh-T9CSFkskgw8x-icAJCzSzZP6FgBlMtT4cKuaOg2F7BBfuCHSwgrwNrT5-2RxKFdcw7BQiLAB8hU-OF2ZbE3iZJvy-1C6q0IniCDGtk/s200/image001pixiebaby.jpg" /></a><br /><div>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />What devastation we humans can wreak on one another.<br /><br /><em>God, help me to be extra kind each day, because everyone I meet is fighting some kind of battle.</em></div>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-61800202545715112132010-02-22T19:45:00.010-05:002010-03-14T15:58:59.485-04:00Strange Brew: The Mothman Mystery<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhExFdf75ADopgybhRUsETCdWgdHTTh38w3PZdri4H4urtIagr2iiX06HxP8GLlFJm1icInaN6pg215if6ofbyAyDq5QhYwYtBLaosJX_60i_cf2unMuvh5vl5RkxEqVF0NXXQPMdud5YI/s1600-h/mothman.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441242331960649298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhExFdf75ADopgybhRUsETCdWgdHTTh38w3PZdri4H4urtIagr2iiX06HxP8GLlFJm1icInaN6pg215if6ofbyAyDq5QhYwYtBLaosJX_60i_cf2unMuvh5vl5RkxEqVF0NXXQPMdud5YI/s200/mothman.jpg" /></a> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-53222607596401846902010-02-08T19:38:00.008-05:002010-02-26T00:03:24.325-05:00Office Politickin'<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7aAP2hToucY-gRMKWOOb1TyBbmiMKpSa_C2eMpy6jTt_wp8j3kfCwiYbV_aI16fPiin2175OwKwAo2nOzr310AKFk8j-nIbzN5Xdtwb4u6zGNkyGdiEBeTa_f_OAgNg9TScX-1x36epE/s1600-h/chatting.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 289px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 48px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436047484445166658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7aAP2hToucY-gRMKWOOb1TyBbmiMKpSa_C2eMpy6jTt_wp8j3kfCwiYbV_aI16fPiin2175OwKwAo2nOzr310AKFk8j-nIbzN5Xdtwb4u6zGNkyGdiEBeTa_f_OAgNg9TScX-1x36epE/s400/chatting.gif" /></a><br /><div>It's been two weeks already at the new job. What a whirlwind!</div><div><br />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. </div><br /><div></div><div>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.</div><br /><div></div><div>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. </div><br /><div></div><div>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.<br /><br />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. </div><div><br />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.</div>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-7998205847366955622010-01-24T16:28:00.008-05:002010-02-22T19:45:34.537-05:00Moments of Lightness<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpqjjcl-Sc_LXGjXOEj4HS-EhCwH-FdHdZZQWfemgBjbpD14gzxkKm8TEUqW9qWhzMMgidKQLJCM5OsK0zhlSOC8df5_dFEieb423zTt9ezhF3xq39tykDxwP41-tphSt7JmmQDwvI-1o/s1600-h/5-15-2009+5%3B36%3B53+PM.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 215px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430460594163658706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpqjjcl-Sc_LXGjXOEj4HS-EhCwH-FdHdZZQWfemgBjbpD14gzxkKm8TEUqW9qWhzMMgidKQLJCM5OsK0zhlSOC8df5_dFEieb423zTt9ezhF3xq39tykDxwP41-tphSt7JmmQDwvI-1o/s320/5-15-2009+5%3B36%3B53+PM.JPG" /></a><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I have my husband, who is my best friend, to rely on. I have the knowledge that my children are healthy and employed.<br /><br />Although they are growing old and their siblings are dying now, I still have both my parents.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I have coffee in the morning, hot, dark and rich, and cool green tea at night.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">photo courtesey of J.Choate, 2008</span><br /><br>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-84940600005034489142010-01-06T15:34:00.005-05:002010-01-06T16:06:59.025-05:00It's been a long December...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnX238ZRVeITdXxQ7H5WPB9mlhYBp-ciZT_zWBR4UQv5Uwj4c1DM1bM1dQwhaIO1yg8ZizC3aAEyhmUl3IxQHCYjHt9dG-8UKt8VNTwNzFGej27D6g4m8E1iIUlGFghHOXLmTe1bxFi2Y/s1600-h/winter1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 206px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423734805402026050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnX238ZRVeITdXxQ7H5WPB9mlhYBp-ciZT_zWBR4UQv5Uwj4c1DM1bM1dQwhaIO1yg8ZizC3aAEyhmUl3IxQHCYjHt9dG-8UKt8VNTwNzFGej27D6g4m8E1iIUlGFghHOXLmTe1bxFi2Y/s320/winter1.jpg" /></a><br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />I will be reporting to a new job in a new office in just a few short weeks.<br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">freedigitalphotos.net</span>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-58363154218912351552009-12-04T11:41:00.006-05:002012-04-09T19:32:54.445-04:00Our Son and Ben Franklin<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjF5q6F9Niv2r9a7f6zAFBChFijutt2N7cmmqRWqEg1Ia6D6LU6YZ1108SUl4FHUaUfl5P4PAy9oasO3tzsBRWG8x0MgFeuyv7n98Go5MeYTb-cRcY4hqpuR4XoYmhhUg_-3BWSCxTQ3o/s1600-h/Ben.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411425903690222370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjF5q6F9Niv2r9a7f6zAFBChFijutt2N7cmmqRWqEg1Ia6D6LU6YZ1108SUl4FHUaUfl5P4PAy9oasO3tzsBRWG8x0MgFeuyv7n98Go5MeYTb-cRcY4hqpuR4XoYmhhUg_-3BWSCxTQ3o/s400/Ben.jpg" style="float: left; height: 135px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 101px;" /></a> 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Asperger’s syndrome is a condition that is on the autism 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-17227592586150573772009-11-24T14:27:00.005-05:002009-11-24T15:43:33.410-05:00Something to be Thankful for<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3tPBrWi5bnfKYW4TxTGJpZxlc6soMO3K04coyOmy8MotgiRD6oIQlx_ZWFZUz1iieG3e7XaPkgNWNJP2un4ngrz-4cHHvJaQIVxcvdzzA1SkcJ6vte6OyAfqGjVc_mhri7rLNeKiwmI/s1600/photo_9473_20091103.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 274px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407765630614051090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3tPBrWi5bnfKYW4TxTGJpZxlc6soMO3K04coyOmy8MotgiRD6oIQlx_ZWFZUz1iieG3e7XaPkgNWNJP2un4ngrz-4cHHvJaQIVxcvdzzA1SkcJ6vte6OyAfqGjVc_mhri7rLNeKiwmI/s400/photo_9473_20091103.jpg" /></a> 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.<br />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.<br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-61241273988199215582009-11-10T16:34:00.005-05:002009-11-10T16:49:23.889-05:00In The Throes of Indian Summer<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zNvEzGotReE65e4LO_bcEP0zpdIV7H2ouHL_LQTc5lezS0wzpHkSygPmG40weZ-w7P7DdX5gHJEuee-n1MydX8lo-gCmfrw5fiq5ZmgwQ4Lsho4OgVnLz46q1sspjBv9Z7JhDPoQzSI/s1600-h/Perch.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 260px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402591644786456962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zNvEzGotReE65e4LO_bcEP0zpdIV7H2ouHL_LQTc5lezS0wzpHkSygPmG40weZ-w7P7DdX5gHJEuee-n1MydX8lo-gCmfrw5fiq5ZmgwQ4Lsho4OgVnLz46q1sspjBv9Z7JhDPoQzSI/s400/Perch.jpg" /></a> <div>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.</div><div><br />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. </div><div><br />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.</div><div><br />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.</div><div><br />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.</div><div><br />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.</div><div><br />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.</div><div> </div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></div><div></div>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-73968749211683876082009-10-28T16:27:00.012-04:002010-02-25T21:20:16.384-05:00On All Hallows Eve<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxE8C1WpGjLEyiJbOV2HhjQrmdm_E8_CCs3-w17HgOIfytugwlnOEGXefCsfvjDFBzhCV3Vwp2nFMML_j-nNfhQdayQ_iHGpZoHCUMJr48AO5ThXaoWWcC_fil2Fg7PniHflVl49d1_D4/s1600-h/Halloween.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397831869205143554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxE8C1WpGjLEyiJbOV2HhjQrmdm_E8_CCs3-w17HgOIfytugwlnOEGXefCsfvjDFBzhCV3Vwp2nFMML_j-nNfhQdayQ_iHGpZoHCUMJr48AO5ThXaoWWcC_fil2Fg7PniHflVl49d1_D4/s400/Halloween.jpg" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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!”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />Tonight my two friends and I would go there to challenge whatever spirits might rise up to prowl the night.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />"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!<br /><br />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.<br />"What WAS that?" Pam asked incredulously as we stopped and tried to catch our breath.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-26211048555056799182009-10-19T20:19:00.006-04:002009-10-20T16:44:19.009-04:00See the geese...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yucUmGYIZWi7rvsRVz3EN6NTXOlF3pU2gm45yoPfONeAJzG10J25_Zk9bA4SGtpbYKtGvtLy-fZjKqbd46Fp3Ffb9XHLd7gh4PR6f_q0iIvN5Sl-KQvq12HAinQilj44raZJ3_SwkRI/s1600-h/fall1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yucUmGYIZWi7rvsRVz3EN6NTXOlF3pU2gm45yoPfONeAJzG10J25_Zk9bA4SGtpbYKtGvtLy-fZjKqbd46Fp3Ffb9XHLd7gh4PR6f_q0iIvN5Sl-KQvq12HAinQilj44raZJ3_SwkRI/s400/fall1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394485182661270386" /></a><br /><br />I woke up today and found<br />frost perched on the town.<br />It hovered in a frozen sky<br />and gobbled summer down...<br />The warriors of winter<br />gave a cold, triumphant shout<br />All that stays is dying'<br />and all that lives is getting out<br />...See the geese in chevron flight<br />laughin' and a racin' on before the snow<br />They've got the urge for goin'<br />and they've got the wings to go<br />And they get the urge for goin'<br />when the meadow grass is turnin' brown<br />Summer time is fallin' down<br />and winter's closin' in.<br /><br />-Joni Mitchell, "Urge for Goin'"<br /><br />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.Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-28187486152773869782009-10-12T19:27:00.003-04:002009-10-12T19:35:25.351-04:00Grace and Guidance<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBxknd1YLp9NUH6fcWDQt8AoY2gYCB88mDsqUq45YkP-2wT7Zr0_2662019nmHYriaNpfZD4o-F0YvuYmDmn3hR4BH5sGISlrBJR86jNiQR8Y-RVUmXYXQcGpewRznxZ6fC0cI5hVnP0M/s1600-h/AutumnBlackbirds.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 216px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 162px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391859518997325122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBxknd1YLp9NUH6fcWDQt8AoY2gYCB88mDsqUq45YkP-2wT7Zr0_2662019nmHYriaNpfZD4o-F0YvuYmDmn3hR4BH5sGISlrBJR86jNiQR8Y-RVUmXYXQcGpewRznxZ6fC0cI5hVnP0M/s400/AutumnBlackbirds.jpg" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-16815381648814905722009-09-30T21:36:00.011-04:002009-09-30T23:57:49.395-04:00Farms Fading<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEKF_P7BENx4WgfgEEX9HI_MyVSRI1dVUyCXR3ipIJMR8V1eqmUuGDJLfIjDcwyCHCyRf_kdWx6wGb_KdM_xTaPJb7UrMnpi2FFXxN9iSbv3tdTx5WIIzRT7zhekF9P2ljGetUJLSj5Q/s1600-h/cows+005.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387460001603920306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEKF_P7BENx4WgfgEEX9HI_MyVSRI1dVUyCXR3ipIJMR8V1eqmUuGDJLfIjDcwyCHCyRf_kdWx6wGb_KdM_xTaPJb7UrMnpi2FFXxN9iSbv3tdTx5WIIzRT7zhekF9P2ljGetUJLSj5Q/s400/cows+005.JPG" /></a><br /><div>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.<br /><br />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. </div><div><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTHNx-3fhHPyHjfRp3yWKQR2YIB0mJuzI465g6NNV6HgViYMx_BH6Mwh0-qOrINAjYsnWbFsmCdoXzjSdXsOMrbMA-D5228tjNjoY8Vr2J2VkJ267aMC-WOuOoJxWBjVaMJ4heFu7Eas/s1600-h/cows+003.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387451571990401298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTHNx-3fhHPyHjfRp3yWKQR2YIB0mJuzI465g6NNV6HgViYMx_BH6Mwh0-qOrINAjYsnWbFsmCdoXzjSdXsOMrbMA-D5228tjNjoY8Vr2J2VkJ267aMC-WOuOoJxWBjVaMJ4heFu7Eas/s400/cows+003.JPG" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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. </p><p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg12Y6PUSmahI_E-Jhkn6b1KlzggG3TqyElN5p9-Hms6Ammj4_PvuvTXRuqNT8lamVVs4uTBJ18yWGQg6ZsMRWJP-9dBIZRQ4vndIW4aeKlvvjec72J9HDvh3a0QQPUhPL6fwjPbgbA5Bk/s1600-h/cows+001.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387444615815774786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg12Y6PUSmahI_E-Jhkn6b1KlzggG3TqyElN5p9-Hms6Ammj4_PvuvTXRuqNT8lamVVs4uTBJ18yWGQg6ZsMRWJP-9dBIZRQ4vndIW4aeKlvvjec72J9HDvh3a0QQPUhPL6fwjPbgbA5Bk/s400/cows+001.JPG" /></a><br />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. </p><p>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.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcIbOfou7u49YEv-d2KRF18yXVz361h5ByKLKtOABN-Q0RiHamQz6Mxd6ugJnwPCVEKbBzgWp-6sNo7ETjq2CzKq6oT27lU4AD19uOTDjnIuGPWDuhfUBEi2M8z3dt_TvWZib2AayJ_4/s1600-h/cows+002.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387439796209069026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcIbOfou7u49YEv-d2KRF18yXVz361h5ByKLKtOABN-Q0RiHamQz6Mxd6ugJnwPCVEKbBzgWp-6sNo7ETjq2CzKq6oT27lU4AD19uOTDjnIuGPWDuhfUBEi2M8z3dt_TvWZib2AayJ_4/s400/cows+002.JPG" /></a></p><p><br /><br />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. <br />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.</p><p> <br /></p>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-27682629462751730422009-09-22T21:07:00.009-04:002009-09-22T22:05:37.933-04:00The Atlantic in Autumn<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW6g1Ik9IZuecoJNRLJgTNRdrEP1zhmONWJ_qZ2hlP5A56JS03NzgAu_9upLsi5ikjnl40b7YoU0LqA8uaGBzzqp1wpmm-6VjLyU56fS1qOxY7AwebvlmrGAJ7kG6AIXWqVP34oSLLRP8/s1600-h/Beach_Shadows.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384473079821104930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW6g1Ik9IZuecoJNRLJgTNRdrEP1zhmONWJ_qZ2hlP5A56JS03NzgAu_9upLsi5ikjnl40b7YoU0LqA8uaGBzzqp1wpmm-6VjLyU56fS1qOxY7AwebvlmrGAJ7kG6AIXWqVP34oSLLRP8/s400/Beach_Shadows.jpg" /></a> <div>Equinox today, the autumnal shift. The daylight is rapidly fading and the sun seems cooler somehow, as we tilt towards winter. </div><div><br />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.</div><div><br />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. </div><div><br />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. </div><div><br />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. </div><div><br />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.<br><br /></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></div>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-6422940631945998032009-09-15T22:41:00.007-04:002009-09-15T23:09:52.368-04:00The Orb Spider's Web<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenE1Bq8ry1jWypiF3uhFu15Z5fWLWNdRU7ZaPCp_6HXFfucHqx54r-BkOu4IxG5CzPgPjwjEzJW9NmnSTHsMuLIBtSRb2t3gGCty6YAMmT4tMiQ5S7Sv9Hc3sgdcb0pFB-atgmzi2o7A/s1600-h/132.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381890757444307202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenE1Bq8ry1jWypiF3uhFu15Z5fWLWNdRU7ZaPCp_6HXFfucHqx54r-BkOu4IxG5CzPgPjwjEzJW9NmnSTHsMuLIBtSRb2t3gGCty6YAMmT4tMiQ5S7Sv9Hc3sgdcb0pFB-atgmzi2o7A/s400/132.JPG" /></a><br />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.<br /><br><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_EakxWxYUDkPn4oTFJxIcO5_aNnFAgoma0vqbecyFHH8nAlyhoGBcUJnciMk-NvClVPMUzd-F-hD1WSckrf2qlHfshVFAaguv62n6C9gfDsMz3R0VZTt-8Ji-t3ILooO83OuwnnT2cA/s1600-h/136.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381890506328265218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr_EakxWxYUDkPn4oTFJxIcO5_aNnFAgoma0vqbecyFHH8nAlyhoGBcUJnciMk-NvClVPMUzd-F-hD1WSckrf2qlHfshVFAaguv62n6C9gfDsMz3R0VZTt-8Ji-t3ILooO83OuwnnT2cA/s400/136.JPG" /></a><br /><br><br />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. </div><div>That's Mac checking out the evening's spinning session. </div><div>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.<br /><br><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmbYxblbg5n9iGIF4xpTeexJxAxCsTFMDCSrW_F4ild3K44wbKXv6fIVKgLri-z5r94TTjSk8sMd_U4SeijDHAFsC-sv3tnjiyr348VLarjiTBrLP-lBaf63iYnJUq3BXvOyYWSgU3-Wg/s1600-h/133.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381890313020512194" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmbYxblbg5n9iGIF4xpTeexJxAxCsTFMDCSrW_F4ild3K44wbKXv6fIVKgLri-z5r94TTjSk8sMd_U4SeijDHAFsC-sv3tnjiyr348VLarjiTBrLP-lBaf63iYnJUq3BXvOyYWSgU3-Wg/s400/133.JPG" /></a> </div><br /><br><br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-87443872802793584082009-09-05T10:08:00.010-04:002010-02-25T21:48:46.442-05:00A Time of Transition<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5crEu3c3T-ow_fZt7xjXUNgPDk8t7sdEi01KwYsGwvo-UfXSubscCi88mk5uZgnndnXwwGBrVEnxmV52AO_bTAHyK-ih4xmL1Ux2ceSxuhKcOczn3DX94FbYPD2PBi3mZOSfGDIbJfpw/s1600-h/fall_10.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377997926007571410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5crEu3c3T-ow_fZt7xjXUNgPDk8t7sdEi01KwYsGwvo-UfXSubscCi88mk5uZgnndnXwwGBrVEnxmV52AO_bTAHyK-ih4xmL1Ux2ceSxuhKcOczn3DX94FbYPD2PBi3mZOSfGDIbJfpw/s400/fall_10.jpg" /></a> <div><br />The hot, humid days seem to be past us now here in the northeast U.S. and Fall is fast approaching.<br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /></div>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2278163384636006616.post-10130180313555233362009-08-26T19:35:00.012-04:002009-09-15T23:12:55.020-04:00Let the Dream Never Die<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqf4pb_qETm25twFm_OlY8F4eY4MqbNiZY8orsA6W3iCRsF5X3rzu3N0ybB94stsw1ymkuT87YdTvoe2GGiKRxDerd3EmrAscYswvcArvmFAudbKbGH8eJRqlzMdgmakcDDS2SPpJYDSI/s1600-h/180px-TedKennedy_1962.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqf4pb_qETm25twFm_OlY8F4eY4MqbNiZY8orsA6W3iCRsF5X3rzu3N0ybB94stsw1ymkuT87YdTvoe2GGiKRxDerd3EmrAscYswvcArvmFAudbKbGH8eJRqlzMdgmakcDDS2SPpJYDSI/s400/180px-TedKennedy_1962.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374824666253084770" /></a><div>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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br><br />Let the dream never die.</div>Deedeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01171030223413480117noreply@blogger.com5