Finally! My house isn't making me sick!

The heart of the house. Or, the north kitchen wall. This is also the back of the front bath.



My living room. If you can see between the drywall scraps, the whole living room was cut up two feet, treated and rewalled.



A view from the door of the master bath to the living room wall.



Ach! This is the one place I'm still a little worried about. I see dirt . . . I guess my mold remediation expert didn't want to deal with cutting around the plumbing.



It is a rather boring picture, but this is the opposite side of my kitchen where the pantry used to be.



Looking from the kitchen through to the bathroom. The new kitchen window will be a few inches higher than the old one rather than flush with the counter-top and the kitchen sink.

Just yesterday! It was the first time I have gone into my house and left symptomless! I took photographs late last week in order to document progress.

New Directions in Blogging

Mind boggling blogging!

Follow this blog!

Now, shall I join the blog roll game and obliterate my links?

I hesitate . . .

my browser crashed a month ago and I lost all my links.

All my links!

But I had my blog.

So, here is this relatively minor problem that I need to attend to. With complex instructions I have not got the patience to read. I added the Follow gadget.

It is even more critical as I've realized that some links are now obsolete and were never updated.

I feel I've been jerked into a new century.

No NaNoWriMo:

I'm not doing it again this year, either. I miss it. My friends report their soaring word counts and the days pass and I see the dream passing away again. I hate November 3rds and 4ths more than any other days of the year when I am not doing the NaNo because at that point, I could realistically still catch up. I'm slated to have too many distractions this month. I certainly hope that excuse bears up.

Our house has been gutted to the studs and in some cases to the rafters. The plumber could not get it through his head that we needed for him to get the plumbing done before the tub came in so we could get on with other projects such as closing up the walls and ceilings and therefore the attic. The tub would have fit through the bathroom door. So for the past six weeks, nothing has happened. We bugged the plumber for the first three weeks. He came and prepared the plumbing for the tub and left. He is supposed to replumb the entire house with plastic rather than copper to prevent further leaks.

The magnificent tub--I hate it already. We had this amazing walk-in shower. I had no idea how amazing it was until we had to tear it out. It was solid cement. It could have been a safe room during a tornado. But, there was the feared black mold growing beneath it. So it had to go. My husband chipped most of it out bit by bit.

After doing all the good things a person ought to do before making a large purchase, I ordered a "home spa." I cut a check for more than I could conscience and sent it off with the expectation it would take five weeks. That would have been October 31st.

I will never order anything large from a distance again--even if it is better than anything I could buy locally. It isn't worth the worry! Now, six weeks later, the tub still has not arrived, the plumber still has not plumbed the house, the walls and ceilings are still open and it is highly likely I will not get to spend Christmas at home.

So, I didn't do the NaNoWriMo because I have my fingers crossed that I'll be laying tile and painting walls before the end of the month. If I don't, I'm going to be really angry at myself! I could have started the NaNo and, if the house just happened to progress to the point I could work, the NaNo could be put on ice. Ah, but I am an optimist turning pessimist!

Picking peppers!

They are red, hot, and the plants are loaded with them. Cayenne peppers! Louisiana Hot Sauce!

Remarkable things happen--strange things. For years I have watched hurricanes barrel ashore from my safe dry living room here in Oklahoma. I thought I watched them the way that most Americans do. I thought I felt approximately the same emotions as I saw signs whipping in the wind and debris smashing into walls, panned by camera crews as it bounced down empty rain spattered city streets. When Ike came ashore, I watched it with the same somewhat detached attitude--curious, concerned, but distant. That is, until I checked the radar in the evening just before it made landfall.

The map clearly showed the outlines of Texas and Louisiana superimposed on the radar screen. I saw the storm track where the storm was even at that moment smashing into the shores. I saw Beaumont--and something snapped. Something so long forgotten I didn't even know it was there! Orange, Cameron . . . Lake Charles! And something very much like a panic attack seized me. I was convinced that Ike would hit Beaumont square on. I was convinced that Lake Charles and my old home town of Westlake would get the brunt of it, too. I imagined the storm surge and rooftop rescues. I don't even know if I know anybody there anymore--it was so long ago--but I felt the way I'd feel if my sisters were there.

I was born in Lake Charles, Louisiana in 1955. We lived in Westlake, across the bridge. And it was there in June of 1957 that my family took refuge in the school when Hurricane Audrey hit earlier than predicted, a level 4 hurricane. Previously a footnote in the history of my life, my two-year-old mind hadn't filed memories where they would be accessed. But in that moment that I saw the track of the storm, the fear, the horror--and even strange details like familiar place names--deeply etched at some level exploded into my consciousness.

The cue that triggered a cascade of emotion was the thought of Lake Charles. Why Rita didn't trip that memory, I haven't got a clue. Maybe because we were so over the top with hurricanes that season. Or maybe it was because Galveston was a favorite holiday destination for my family and Ike was already pushing a heavy storm surge against the levees. Half in denial, my first thought was to check to see what Lake Charles was reporting. The warning had been issued that day at 2:30 pm.

Shaking as though the storm was raging outside my window, I couldn't tear myself away from the computer for the next hour. I had to Google everything and anything I could find about Hurricane Audrey on the net. I looked at old weather maps and storm surge maps, I read news reports issued then and rehashed on the 50th anniversary of the storm, I perused library collections of photo journals and looked for books at Amazon.

I noted things. Facts varied from site to site. Wind speeds in Lake Charles were claimed to have been 110 to 150 mph, more often 150. The storm surge was said to be six to seven feet according to the National Weather Service, but Cameron Parish had recorded twelve. Only one site noted that offshore wave height had been 45-50 feet and the waves had come onshore over and above the storm surge at 21+ feet. The actual death toll was unknown, but more than 500 deaths had been attributed to the storm--again, the numbers were never the same from one site to the next.

I tore myself away from the computer for a rare date with my husband for dinner.

A few days later I came to a stop at a stoplight. As I looked in the rear-view mirror, a key-chain bearing a wood paneled station-wagon I had hung on my mirror danced in the sunlight. The little Ford looked like the old Mercury station-wagon we'd owned when I was very small--the first car I'd ever known. The key-chain had been a gift from my daughter, for memory's sake. It caught my eye and the footnote became a page in my life's story.

Then I knew what had happened to the old Mercury station-wagon. Then I knew the storm hadn't been just a bit of wind and all was well. Then I knew there was a story nobody had ever told me. Then I knew we'd been in real danger, that we'd lost things--that storm surges and high winds weren't just something that happened to somebody else far, far away. That's why we had a brand new Ford Squire wood paneled station-wagon in 1957!

It reminded me of a mystery that has haunted me since the late 70s. I'd consulted a psychic hypnotist to help me quit smoking. He'd asked me if he could read a pendant that I wore that my father had given to me. When he took it, he told me that he saw me as a very small child alone in a storm, alone in the dark, my wet dress clinging to my legs--he repeated "all alone" several times--I was crying for my parents. He asked me if it rang any bells. I couldn't think of any. But somehow, I knew he'd seen something--something I should know.

It isn't a footnote anymore. It is part of my tragic early life. Perhaps it is part of why I struggle with depression, insomnia and tend to think in terms of worst case scenarios.

All I knew about Louisiana was that I didn't like it anymore. A few years ago we went to New Orleans and I had thought to stop by Lake Charles before leaving the state. No sooner had we reached Cajun country and we were cruising down narrow roads braced by full bar ditches on either side than I began to feel repulsed. We stopped at a replicated Acadian Village near Lafayette. As we went from house to house I was struck by the familiarity of it all. The odor--the musty odor that had permeated my childhood and every object I touched until I was five--hung heavy in every room. Common household objects like chairs looked so familiar I would think that even the peeling paint, the very color, was familiar--we'd had a chair like that! The village was very well done--although the styles of the houses and even the objects in them seemed everyday to me, I can assure you--truly Cajun. Go see it, but leave me here!

When we got back into the car, I told my husband I felt oppressed and I wanted to get away from there. I didn't want to go on. When we drove out of the white shelled parkinglot, we headed north for home. We didn't stop for the night until we reached northern Texas.

I have other memories, too. Memories that are too fresh to deal with yet. Fifty-one years old! My daughter and I talked on the phone all day today. I repeated my journey with her through the net, searching out anything to do with Hurricane Audrey, zapping her link after link by email. She encouraged me several times, "It's family history, you know."

Then who? Who was it that realized? My mother died a year and four months after the storm.

No wonder I don't want to go back home again!

A return?

I've been sojourning in a strange land with no means of navigation which has led more to inaction and pondering my location rather than choosing any particular direction in hopes of finding my way back to the land I once I knew. I often wonder if I will ever find my way back!

Every now and then I stand up and take a few steps in a direction, only to return to the stump I've been sitting on for fear that it is the wrong direction. The sun rises and the sun sets and I still sit. I know which direction is which--but I don't know where I am, so directions are meaningless.

Sometimes I convince myself that anywhere would be better than here. There is nothing here but ghosts and they don't talk.

What can I say--could I go through the kind of stress I've been through this past year and a half and not spiral down into the depths of the dark cave of depression? Every day is a new day--because no thread from yesterday hangs limply over my head for me to grasp and work with. It seems my lethargy is contagious because the landscape seems changeless as those who are supposed to be working toward a solution seem as discontinuous as I am and so things just remain where they are, unmoved.

I had hoped to return to blogging a month ago and I made one weak stab in that direction--it was great to feel a moment of inspiration of any kind. Then my browser began to act up and I deleted it from my hard drive. With it I lost my links, my Blogger identity (I'd forgotten it) and the means to find it. I also lost all my other links--my friends, too.

If I visit here, what I am going to have to do, and I am obviously hesitant to do, is write about what I don't want to think about. Past journeys through this dark land have taught me that when I finally begin to feel the need to struggle against the darkness, I'm on my way up out of the abyss. I always used to seek counseling at this point. More than once I've finally just scolded my counselor and said, "I just have to DOOOO something!" Okay, so I am prone to depression--but according to the psychiatrist I've never been clinically depressed and so some suffer far more depth than I do. This is bad enough, thank you.

My health continues to bounce around--some days I feel great and some, terrible. I realized that I almost dread the days I feel great because they seem to precede the days I feel terrible. I think fear has a great deal to do with why I'm stymied and simply sitting here on this stump not doing anything. I just don't know what the future will bring--will I ever be able to live in my own home? Will I have to leave all and go live where the mold isn't so prevalent? Is this controllable or is this going to get worse? And finally--are these days the beginning of the end? Will it kill me? The weird thing is that I've been asking these questions for more than two years now and I have no more answers now than I did then.

Hope that I remember to get batteries for my camera so that I can take photographs of my home and my companions to share with you. And hope that I'll remember to come back and post and that I'll remember where my blog is, too.

What about evangelism?

*I apologize for being in avoidance mode for the past four months!*

Father Jake has a new blog, an apolitical one: Father T. Listens to the World. Today he wrote a post that made me look at evangelism in a whole new light: Ransom or Satisfaction.

Cutting right to the chase, Father T. has in one swipe managed to completely change my view of atonement, the meaning and purpose behind Christ's death and therefore our faith and everything! I suddenly see all this as a theological miasma--diseased and broken--in which we have tried to explain what happened on the cross in a way that would be palatable to us--rather than the one truth we need to see. It is all a lie! And we know it--deep down inside we know it. God gave us his Son, his perfect, flawless, beautiful Son and we crucified him. We have no true defense. This would answer all Father T.'s concerns in this post: heaven, hell, sin and Christ. And until we do see it--the truth of the cross--we will not own up completely to our brokenness and our need for goodness. Oh, we talk about brokenness! But do we sincerely own it? The more advanced our theologies get, the less we have to do and the less we have to face the reality that would make our need of God irresistible and our evangelistic message ring of truth. We've been using euphemisms for theology!

In short, somebody asked what could be said to the uninitiated that explains the cross? Or rather to either defend our faith or to evangelize? Instead of the purity cult that Christianity has become, perhaps we could get back to the dusty reality of a god that is man and the god in man.

It is when we see with our very hearts our own role in the crucifixion of Christ and how, as he hangs on that cross, we will know our own brokenness and our own very deep need of him, of something greater than ourselves and with love in our hearts and sadness we beg for his forgiveness and his help. He shows us in passive humility the Way to perfection, a way to perfect goodness and in the process he will remake us in his own image, to be one with him--whole, unbroken and good. Our sin doesn't condemn us forever to the fires of hell, but becomes a door through which we ache to enter in to a changed way of being, to enter in to a loving way of life where we cease to harm ourselves and others, because the heart of the Law is love. We, desiring healing and seeking it, realize that it is in loving others that we cease sinning and through it we ourselves approach the cross and tremble beneath. There we ask again and again--what do we do now to bring your healing message of hope to a needy world? There we beg with our unceasing need to make reparation for the goodness we have crucified. We promise to never scourge another, or mock or jeer or crucify again. Once forgiven--we have a fresh new beginning, we can stand upright, we can be healed and we will grow whole--we can see another way of being, a lasting and perfect and Christlike way. That is our greatest hope. Without shame we know we won't let ourselves forget: We crucified the Lord of Glory.

That is atonement--his forgiveness for what we have done.

It seems to me that we have permitted our theology to skirt the real issue of what God does in this world and how. We are his hands, we are his servants, who share his love with the world at large. Love cannot leave us unchanged. Our sadness against his suffering is our impetus to bring his healing message into physical reality and through our living faith actively every day.

So I have begun with my conclusions. It may be for the better for me to return to answer Father T. point by point here, to begin at the beginning and work back to close.

Peace.

Annie

*Yes, I am still around!*

What can I say? I have had no inclination to write at all! Not any kind of writing. It is so unlike me.

I guess that is all I have to say!

An entry on faith, however. The question is asked: What about secrets in the church--any kind. It could be more specific, really.

The Gnostics had secret knowledge and early Christians considered that to be heretical. I reject secret knowledge for the very simple reason that there is no deception in God. If there is a truth, it should be shouted from the rooftops! (scriptural) There is nothing exclusive. (scriptural--evangelize!) There is certainly nothing in God that rejects those who do not follow him--but rather invites! (scriptural) I think of the invitation to the wedding feast. I am not more special because I belong to him. (scriptural, prodigal son) We are all special and he wants us all. We are all equal in that he does not wish to lose even one sinner. I am not more loved than you and I am not more loved that the drug addict leaning against the decrepit brick wall in an alleyway. I am sick to death of Christians trying to create some sort of pristine social club when nothing could be LESS holy!

Update on my health and other considerations:

Sorry to have been so absent, but I have recently joined a discussion group based on the book, The Faith Club.

But, because a lot of people access my blog because of my problems with mold, I thought I would update with a little critical information.

First, I noticed that my hepa filter machine was contaminating the air in my room. Thinking that it must be the filter had gone bad after only three months, I bought a new one. But it didn't do any good. On closer examination with my trusty black light which reveals fungus, I found that the interior of the machine was contaminated. Naturally, I removed the air filter and examined it from the front, the area where the air would come through the filter, but there was very little contamination between the filter and the fan. After reassembling it, I began examining the outside of the machine. I found that all the seams around it indicated a small amount of air seepage, i.e., the seams glowed. But what was shocking was when I turned it around and examined the back, the manufacturer has put holes in the back so the unit can be hung on the wall. These little hook shaped holes were filled with dirt, dust and, yes, fungus. I took Q-tips and pulled out at least a teaspoon of contaminants from each hole. What the manufacturer hasn't done or even attempted to do is to maintain the integrity of the machine. Once cleaned, I could see that the Styrofoam insulation for the fan housing is completely open and exposed there allowing contaminates to work their way into the fan itself.

I began by trying to contact the company. They obviously don't care. Then I went to research hepa filters and I found that this is a known issue. I found good information on hepa filteration at The Allergy Buyers Club. Look below the air filters for a list of articles on air filtration and what all of us need to know.

As far as I'm concerned, even if I didn't have extreme allergies, I wouldn't want a machine that would allow dangerous and allergy causing contaminants into my room even if I were trying to just have better air. For those of us who suffer extreme allergies an industry wide rating system needs to be instituted. Machine need to be rated several different ways. Some are better for some types of contaminants than others, for example. More importantly because this little machine did do a superb job for about three months, the rating needs to be established after the machines have been in use for a period of time. In short, it matters not a wit that a machine is rated by the manufacturer to clean 99.97% of all contaminants from the air!

In short all that I had spent on that little machine is a waste of money! Now I need to find another air purifier/sanitizer and probably spend quite a lot more in order to buy a machine that is effective for my needs. For the record, I had simply gone shopping locally for the two machines that I did buy, same brand, and I bought what was available. Sadly, others might make the same mistake but like me suffer without realizing that the machine they are staking their lives and health on are their worst enemy. If I didn't have a blacklight and a contagion that shows up under black light, I might never have discovered this!

It is mind boggling that the company cares so little because sealing the seams and blocking the hook holes would cost little or nothing! Buyer beware!

Dry, dry hands! I was suffering from eczema and I spent money out the whazzoo to go to a dermatologist. His very expensive medicines were doing no good. In fact one of them seemed to make my hands worse. While shopping in Wichita, I ran across one of those little kiosks where they were selling Dead Sea Salt products. The very nice young woman who saw me putting on hand lotion called me over and she demonstrated her product. OUCH! I was telling her I have eczema! She assured me it would be good for me. I bought some other product from her, but not her salt! But then . . . my hands got so much better! In the next seven days my hands were much improved! I went back to the mall and couldn't find them. I'll admit it was terribly pricey but better than the cost of the dermatologist. She had told me they had a web site and so I went in search for it. However, I found other companies that sell Dead Sea Salt for considerably less. So, I bought some. Shipping wasn't cheap! But I'm using it once a week.

I simply scrub my hands with it. I also bought vegetable glycerin and I've added a several drops each of bergamot and tea tree essential oils to the bottle. I made it fairly strong. So, after using the salt, I apply a little of this--which is really intense moisturizing.

I'm no doctor. You can take my singular experience as my own testimony for what it is worth. You may find products by searching the Internet that are better.

The company that introduced me to the idea has several good products--as I said, I bought some--and they are Deja Vu Cosmetics.

And later--before I found Dead Sea Salt--I remembered a local bookstore sells Dead Sea products. I bought a lotion that I dearly love called AHAVA: Dead Sea Laboratories

All of these produce this silky feel to my skin and it can only be the salt itself. My hands are nearly completely healed now in just a few short weeks. I am so thrilled! And no, at this time I own no stock in any company that manufactures and imports these products. ;) But maybe I ought to!

I have not tried it yet, but my local health foods store claims that Himalayan Salt works the same way. They also sell the pretty pink salt for eating and she claims it is the best tasting salt and the only one that those on low sodium diets can eat. But I haven't tried this.

Both the Dead Sea Salt and the Himalayan Salt are low sodium and have trace minerals, btw. This is just a warning that I stumbled across--luckily--Sea Salt is not the same! There are no substitutions for these fairly pricey salts. I still feel that the discovery that has given me so much comfort the price seems low in comparison.