Another poem:

Advent

Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Hopeless darkness,
I watch the sky.
All swirling clouds,
the endless darkness,
all oppressed.
In tearful pleas
I wait.

Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
The joy of your presence,
the gift of your love.
A ray of light
breaks through
my heart lifts,
but in the dark
I wait.

Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Hope draws me
to watch the sky.
A glimmer here,
a shade of light
the darkness breaks,
a promise comes,
balm to my soul
I wait.

Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Peace of mind,
reprieve .of turmoil,
of strife, of hunger.
You'll lift my burdens,
sooth my soul,
with songs like Larks
we'll not have a worry
gently guided,
I wait.

Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Your love is all!
And wrapped in love,
joy, peace and hope,
the dawn will come.
The light of love we all will see
forever,
for eternity.

Why it frightened her:

It had been almost two years since she had dropped out of a favorite listserv, allfaiths.com. It had been such a time waster! Shortly before dropping off, she'd been involved a round-robbin writing thread. The story line, as is true of all round-robbins, where one person writes a scene based on the previous entry, had become wild. It was an old-west meets New York City fantasy with everything from robots to vampires centered on an old country house. City slickers trying to imagine old tractors and farm dogs made it extra wild. Each character had a favorite comfort from hot tea to Jim Beam Whiskey. Among those who played in the round-robin was a character by the name of Dingo. He came complete with straw hat and baggy coveralls. It was all in good fun and some terribly fun ideas had been birthed by the group. Overall, the quality of the writing was amazing.

One day, Katie mentioned shooting a manuscript off to a publisher. It was simply a figure of speech. Before she knew it, Dingo was playing with the idea in all sorts of terrible ways. "Katie git yer gun," or "Katie's cleanin' up her gun," "Katie's on a rampage! Better find that gun o' hers before she gets here or we'll all be dead!" or "We're gonna have to run, Katie's got 'er gun!" It had gotten out of hand and it made her miserable. Dingo was stuck on the idea and no matter what, he wasn't leaving it alone. She quit the thread and quit the list serv.

Just about a month before the firs of the threatening emails came, she'd started visiting the list serv again. Almost the day she returned, she had said something in a discussion on the subject of the war in Iraq and Dingo had become irate. He wasn't the least bit subtle about it, either. He was cold. Katie thought the post had been quite inoffensive, really, and thought he'd misread what she'd written. She tried to set the matter straight, but every post she wrote boomeranged on her and he simply became more angry. It puzzled her that others seemed to take his side. She even tried rereading her own post to see what could have been so offensive. It was certainly inadvertent. That was the first time it ever occurred to her that the man was a little off-kilter.

But now, here were those same things mentioned in these emails that related so perfectly to the things Dingo had been saying in the round-robin. Except they were threatening, not just uncomfortable. And now the other Steven Kingly thriller characters were being introduced. It all made sense now. And she had a good idea that the person threatening her was either Dingo or somebody else who had participated in the round-robin.

It wasn't that the risks of playing around on the Internet had never crossed her mind. She'd always been alert to the possibility, but no red flags had ever flown over the innocent games the group of writers had been playing. Wisdom reminded her that this would have always been the case. People don't ever associate with weird people like that knowingly.

Notes: (So, I don't lose my notes, I'll write them right in.) A year and a half later she catches Dingo doing the same thing on the list serv that he'd done to her to another woman.

The Perfect Murder

*Yes, I am going to write this. Even if y'all think it is stupid! It keeps playing on my mind and I do think that if I pull it off, it is a great idea! And it is a rough draft . . . *

Another weird email turned up in her email defense. Kate saw it and knew what she was looking at simply from the title. It said it was from the 5th 3rd Bank. It could have just as easily said it was from EBAY or PayPal or any other financial type of concern. But she knew if she opened it, there would be a threatening addition at the bottom. She knew it would play off a famous Stephen King thriller--one she had not read. She knew that herself and the main character shared the same first name. She knew it might be written as though it was nonsensical gibberish, words strung together in a way that suggested they might have been shuffled, some sort of code, as though if she printed it out and cut them apart she could reassemble them to say something very specific. She knew that it could very well threaten her for her religious views and she also knew that it could very well and very clearly state that she was going to die.

She double clicked and opened it. Briefed through it. Confirmed her fears. Hit print. Took the freshly printed pages from the printer and tucked them at the bottom of the pile that she'd been keeping front and center on her desk right above her keyboard. This one would be the thirty-second message she had printed out and she'd allowed even more than she had kept go to delete heaven.

The same old questions haunted her. Was it a real threat? Some of the posts had been addressed to more than one address. She'd checked most of them. One batch had been sent to all the email address beginning with the same letter as her own email address through her Internet Service Provider. She called them on that one. Some had been emailed to her alone. Should she take it to the police? That was the action that her ISP had recommended. But then her daughter had told her that she'd received some too--which made little sense because Internet wise, the two never crossed paths--different web interests--and her daughter lived three-hundred miles away, had an unrelated email address and a different ISP. Along with talking to her ISP and her daughter, she'd checked for scams and it wasn't listed among them. Besides, what kind of scam is a murder threat using a character named after yourself? Finding no answers, she'd continued to work over the same sparse evidence for a month now--mentally, always mentally. Other than printing out the posts, she had done nothing else. One thing was certain--she had no intention of taking the time to decipher the message. It seemed to be an act that would play into the monster's hand.

Brandishing the pile, even fanning them with her thumb, she rose from her chair and, like a person hypnotized, walked into the living room where her husband was watching the television. She sat down on the edge of the couch, nerves taut. She flipped the pages again, noting an odd word here and there. Would he think it was foolishness?

####################################################################################


The day was perfect. The sky was a clear blue, the air clear, the hint of fall that is typical of September days that you can't quite explain--like a smell--marked the end of hot summer days. As Kate dexterously rounded the near-right-angeled curve going 35 mph on the road to her house, she felt the numb, painful dryness of her lips and wondered how, when the weather was so beautiful and not at all dry, her lips should feel January-arctic-front dry.

I am cursed!

I was beginning to suspect it. But now it has been confirmed by my AC/heater/washing machine/dehumidifier/refrigerator repairman!

I heard Mr. Dickens raising a ruckus by the front door early this afternoon while I was in the backyard cleaning the bird cage. When I opened the door I found Payne, my long delayed repairman who'd come to repair the washing machine he had loaned me seven months ago. Or, in other words, he came to repair his washing machine.

He dropped my dehumidifier, still dripping from its cleaning, into the sunshine on the side of the porch. "You want me to leave it here to air dry, right?"

"Sure." I responded, looking doubtfully at the water dripping from the vents and wondering if an electrical appliance should look as though it was just pulled out of a tub.

"It wasn't very dirty, you know."

"Yeah, it shouldn't have needed cleaning for a full year, but we'd found some mold behind the shower and we'd cleaned it out. You know all it takes is one spore . . ."

"Yeah . . ."

Sometimes you know the message wasn't lost on a person. Most people lose the message about mold spores, but Payne is obviously more intelligent than most.

"That's a neat little machine--you know that? Easy to clean, not much to 'em."

I could tell he was intrigued by it. "My sister has one in her basement." He launched into an explanation of how it works as he followed me through to the kitchen. I indicated the sick fridge. He took a look at it and not much of one either. "Might as well buy a new one."

"You mean you can't fix it?"

"Not worth it. It'd cost $500.00 or more. Might as well buy a new one."

He headed out in the direction of the washing machine. The refrigerator had been an unscheduled stop.

As he scanned the situation, my guilty streak kicked in and I said, "I really ought to pay you for those--they don't look like much, but they've been doing a great job." I'd hate to part with the $50.00 he wanted for them, but I really ought to. 'A month or two' is long gone!

"Yeah, good machines. They're really Maytags, you know?"

"No! I'd never even heard of that brand before."

"Sold by Sears." That began a discussion about how appliances used to be made and how differently their construction had been forty years ago, including the story of a friend's dad who has had a dryer for that long and it has only needed three small parts replaced in all those years. "Yep, 1968," he said as he bent down behind the washer.

He borrowed a flat head screwdriver and started breaking into the top of it. "You must be cursed," he said as the top plopped back revealing the strange looking works at the heart of the machine.

"Yeah, I think I am."

"You're having quite a streak of bad luck here."

"All year."

He became serious about the operation of the washer, replaced the broken part and replaced the framing. And then, as though the conversation about curses hadn't been broached before, he said, "I think you're cursed."

As soon as I had seen him out the door, I climbed into the car to go to Sears and check out the Whirlpool refrigerators he'd recommended. As though we can afford a new fridge! The old one was dated 1998, top of the line Amana. I'm not buying top of the line anymore.

five word game:

I am playing around in a Christian poetry and writing group online. They have a little game where five words are presented, a poster writes a poem with them and then assigns the next person five different words. Initially, I played with the first two challenges and then wrote a third to post as a participant.

Here they are:

wispy, wool, tangled, frenzy, ancient
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

In ancient days the simple wool cossack and wispy white hair surrounding balding pate showed wisdom and inspired confidence
and so in worldly wisdom the youthful thought it worth the frenzy, in tangled frame of mind, to present their wisdom in shaving a balding pate!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

yellow, pincher, pole, particle, hour

The first one I wrote:

moderate, solution, widespread, complete

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A way of life centered in habits that moderate between extremes.
The youthful rarely care, but increasing age and mortality looming
creates widespread concerns to maintain health, avoid excess and complete our allotted span of years.

(I didn't say they were good!)

The second:

satisfied, foamy, scatter, truths, wither

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Foamy edged waves race over sand as smoothly as water over marble,
tiny bubbles pop and crackle as toes wriggle into the sand and peek and hide.
Wind will scatter leaves and blows chill down snugged collars,
it presses with pride to drive all ahead to end in hidden hollows.
Satisfied with little memories held dear, our truths more like sand than wind that will wither the last flower driving in the bitter cold.

Dread:

Predawn, up before the sun. Summer's end is heralded with the briskness of early fall. Summer's heat was freedom and health. I could spend all day outside. I could throw open a window and air out the toxins that make me sick--I can't tolerate any at all now, I think. I could open a window for the night or spend comfortable hours outside doing tasks normally done inside. My neighbors think I'm weird and I wish the yard was more private. I find any excuse to go out that door.

As I take in the still total darkness near 6:00 AM, I feel the dread of the coming winter and I'm afraid that fall will be altogether too short. My bare arms feel the chill and I think it is time to get my jackets and sweatshirts out and wash them. I rub my arms briskly to warm them as I look up at the dark sky and try to discern how cloudy it will be today.

I used to anticipate winter with the same joy and excitement that I anticipated every other season. But not anymore. The thought that my anticipation of winter will ruin my beautiful fall is almost as bad. Will that dread fill me every time I get a goosebump from a chill wind between now and December? Besides, I have a longer list of things to do before the weather becomes too cold.

Time does pass quickly. I drive Ike to school just as the first glimmer of sunshine breaks through the striated clouds on the horizon, tinting them a soft promising pink. As I drop him off and watch him carrying his horn to the football field, I think, 'One hour down! One hour passed so quickly. So much to do, so little time--before the cold comes in.'

I'm all alone out here:

I've been all alone for the longest time. It is dark and cold and lonely. I want to talk to somebody, but they have all gone away. They closed their doors and their windows to keep me out. They turned off their lights to pretend they weren't at home. They turned off the phones or they won't answer.

I sit here and talk to myself sometimes. I try to figure out what it is that they are avoiding. It isn't happening to them. It is happening to me. I once believed the fiction that they loved me. We had a good happy life. We had things and we did things. We laughed and we played, we worked and we talked. But now it is all different. They only want to think about themselves. If I keep trying to talk to them perhaps they will pick up a shovel and dig a hole to bury me in so they won't have to hear me.

Sure, they have had hard times. And I did listen. I listened for hours as they told me all the awful things that happened to them. I loved them. I tried to soothe them, to brush away the hurts, to soften the blows. But now I wonder what good it did because when I needed them they all ran away.

I know what it is. They don't want to believe me. They don't want to believe this could happen. And so they put their fingers in their ears and they shout, "La,la,la, I can't hear you!" and they turn and look away or they look right past me as though I am already gone, a figment of their imagination.

I'm a voiceless voice, a bodyless body. I don't exist. I'm turning black and melting away. My life was nothing. My days were spent on nothing. There was no love. There was no me.

The First Day of School:

There is something about this picture that says so much about the children, what they anticipate and how they feel. I told my daughter that it is photojournalist-esque. I didn't know what other way I could describe the moment that she has captured.

One of the writing challenges Carolyn of Skateboard (link on right) provided yesterday was:

1. Spend some time remembering how your family "tells time"--such as
'before the move', or 'after the accident' or 'when the baby was born.' Make
a list.

Yesterday I was completely stumped by this one. The only thing I could think of was that we so often date our lives according to losses, when somebody died. It seems that it is usually, "Before Grandma died . . . " or "When we still had Lindy . . .". Every now and then we might date things to where we lived when they occurred: "When we lived on South Avenue . . ." or "Before we moved here . . .". Because I am in exile, living in my old house where I never thought I would live again, this is a sore spot for me. I'm afraid it will become a part of our measurement of time and the thought makes me unhappy. I think the fear is that it may be a long measurement of time for my life, that it may be more permanent than I want it to be.

I hate to say it, but right now both subjects seemed depressing. But still, school has begun, I do have some time for writing, I do want to get back with the group and participate if possible and I think it would be very good for me. So it was important to me to try to do these challenges.

And that's it! That's the answer! School has begun. I always dated things that happened when I was child by what grade I was in. And when I relate stories about my older children, I remember when it happened the same way, by the grade they had been in when it happened.

In the picture above, I see my grandchildren beginning another eventful year of their lives. Hannah (not her real name) is obviously excited. She likes school, she is eager to get back to her friends and she is still at that age where enthusiasm for it can make her giggle. I can see her wriggling in this picture. She almost can't sit still for the photograph. While her brother isn't quite so excited. He is at that age where he has concerns and maybe some anxiety about what the day may bring. Maybe he is wondering if the class bully that bothered him last year will be in his class again. I don't know. At that age, I had begun to worry about everything. I would worry about the clothes I was wearing, who my homeroom teacher would be, if my lunch would look sufficiently similar to my friends. So, although I am sure he is excited, he isn't eager, either. And, so begins another year of their lives--a memorable one, an eventful one--one that they will remember and, like me, assign and date to it a cache of memories.

Day 1 continued: The Bounder

So, at approximately 9:30, I dragged my duffle to the Southwind caravan. We located the Bounder, the camper that I was told serves as the official home of cook staff, even though it became apparent that I was the only cook staff on it. I'd found my way by talking to strangers here and there, then faceless, busy but kind.

I stowed my suitcase against the back wall of the back room where six bunks had been installed. I noted that for the most part the bunks were empty and unmade, that no other gear cluttered any corner. I had to worry about everything. I'm a very insecure person and I clue in to what I am to do by what others do and this wasn't working that way. It was obvious that although there were six bunks, there were no other bags--nobody's luggage. Evidence suggested that I might be alone. Not only then, but even at other times later in the trip, I wondered if anybody else would be getting on the Bounder and even if the Bounder would be going on.

Then, because the Bounder was excessively hot, I went back out into the fresh air. Around the buses that were parked behind it the activity was frenetic. The quiet alongside the Bounder was disconcerting in comparison. I was feeling like a fish out of my fishbowl and as though the water had gone somewhere else. And wouldn't a fish bowl full of water have been nice at that moment? I wanted a bath so bad!

I meandered through the hyperactivity outside the buses and located Ike. I was the only person meandering. I seemed to be the only person without an agenda, without a task and with empty hands and slow feet. In the brief exchange we had before he ran off to do something, I wondered when we could shower. It was just a question! Disgusted, Ike looked down his nose and, in a nasal tone to add weight to his disgust, "Don't be high maintenance, Mom!"

I backpeddled. "I won't be high maintenance," my voice whined even in my own ears, "I'm just wondering . . ." I was left wondering for quite some time because he never gave me an answer.

We parted company and I returned to the dark, empty side of the Bounder to wait for its occupants. All the other vehicles were loaded, the members installed in their seats--but the Bounder remained dark and empty. Not a soul walked along its side, not a person sat on its couches, not a driver made an appearance. The engines of the buses and trucks hummed and the Bounder sat silent.

I sneaked the opportunity to brush my teeth, using my drinking water to rinse my mouth. Embarrassed, even in the darkness, I squatted low to spit into the underbrush at the edge of the parking lot. A few minutes later, I saw a woman next to the camper ahead of the Bounder brushing her own teeth and I realized for the first time that I had discovered a secret of grabbing the few minutes here or there for care of self.

Suddenly, people converged on the Bounder. I hadn't even see them come! And then it was crowded, every seat filled. I entered and plopped, or fell, into the nearest seat--which turned out to be in the middle of things to my embarrassment. I recognized Mike, the director, and Vento, officially in charge of brass and--maybe officially in charge of a great deal more that I am unaware of, but the rest were all strangers. I think there were eight people and there was only one woman besides myself.

It was just that quick and the lights were on and we were beginning to try to get off but blocked by a camper belonging to Pioneer (another corps). I don't know how they do it, but nothing blocks them for long! There I was, sitting between Mike and Vento and worrying that I had gotten into the wrong vehicle. Surely some mom-volunteer shouldn't be sitting between the big brass! I even suggested that, "Am I in the right place?" Mike assured me that I was, but I remained doubtful. And then the Pioneer camper rolled out of our way as if by psychic transmission of some sort and we were on our way.

Taking in my surroundings should have made me feel right at home! I'm a child of the 60's. I even thought of myself as a hippie at one point. The inside of the Bounder looked lived in. It seemed a bit shabby, cluttered and the couches were covered with bed pillows and sleeping bags. I realized to my horror that I was sitting on somebody's pillow. I tried to minimize the effort it took to wrangle it from beneath me and push it up out of the way. Even the crowdedness, the shortage of seating as Mike sat on an ice chest, added to the effect. The atmosphere, to say the least, was casual. I knew automatically that the Bounder gets little attention--there is so much more to do.

Every moment is an adventure with the corps. And, it seems, as I watched Mike, that every moment is a potential disaster and takes major effort. Not that Mike seems the least bit stressed--but it would for me and it would make me freak, scream, cuss, pull out my hair, and exhibit and suffer every stress related illness from ulcers to heart-attacks. And so I admire Mike and the staff tremendously and I observe them with the kind of wonder that comes from being mystified rather than with any hope that I could emulate them.

It was a narrow little parking lot for those buses. Beyond the Pioneer caravan, the drive narrowed to car lane width and then plunged down a steep driveway. It was too short for the Bounder. We scraped going through. But the buses! Even I could understand that the buses are long and low. So that was our first hurdle--getting out of the parking lot . . . and a bumper crunched behind us.

*I know that I am windy! And I hope I manage to get it written now that I have started this way.*

Reviewing my long week with Southwind Drum and Bugle Corps

Day 1, 7/18
This is the trip in review before I have forgotten. My journal, kept by hand, was spotty and incomplete.

Because I had no clue what I was in for, I'm going to begin here with that same mystery for my readers! What is a drum and bugle corps? Until last November, I didn't even know that they exist. I think it is a shame now that I didn't and that I've missed so many years, so much excitement and so many fine performances. Drum and Bugle Corps ought to be included as an Olympic event!

What I must say about the trip, in total, was that I have rarely come across such a fine group of hard working, self-sacrificing, goal oriented people. I would have to apply a great many superlatives in order to feel that I might have expressed all their qualities. Most especially, and I think this is rare in today’s world, I felt that each and every person involved, staff and kids, have found a sense of purpose for their lives in this strange competitive world that runs parallel to this ordinary world that most of us inhabit. It is so strange to say this, as later on in the trip I actually worried that the importance of items in the drum corps agenda take on a larger than life feel, an importance out of the natural order of things--an insanity caused by being so focused on the head of a pin! But keeping the real world in mind, the drum corps world is a wondrous place. So, I was taken aback, being somewhat of a religious nut, if you will, I had thought that the only place I would find this kind of devotion to an ideal would be in faith.

These kids have a dream! I say they are kids, but they range in age from 16 through 21 (maybe 15 through 22). And they are all exceptional, self-motivated and driven in a way that so few kids are--maybe two kids in a thousand. They are willing to suffer amazing deprivations, long hours on their feet in miserable weather conditions in the hope of winning (I have a story to tell about that later). At the same time, they are loyal to each other and to the corps, loyalty being a rare commodity in this world.

Of course these are generalities and sometimes what I have said above may seem like an overstatement–but when I stood a quarter of a mile from the football field late in the trip watching them practice beneath the broiling sun, which they did all day as the heat waves rose off the field, and I was profoundly touched. That shimmering image of more than a hundred young men and women, instruments glinting in the sun, at temperatures soaring over a hundred degrees came to symbolize all my admiration and to describe if only partly how great they all are. And, this goes too for all the adults who are committed to their success–who have made their own great sacrifice for this ideal they all share and for the love of music, for accomplishment of dreams, for belonging to something greater than the sum of its parts.

That all said, I’m just a mom–and could only observe and try to help what little I could. I felt very much like an outsider, an observer–like a fish in a fishbowl looking out at the greater world warped by my own confines. It seemed that every person I was with were long-term bugle corps devotees and most were alumni to either Southwind or another corps or to both. I was learning a new language, a new way of thinking, a new level of determination and a focus that was entirely on the corps, the kids and their dreams.

What probably didn’t work so well for me was that one thing that does define almost all of these good-hearted people is that they are competitive. I’m not sure that a non-competitive person fits in their filing cabinet. I went solely with the hope that I could be of help and that my health wouldn’t defeat me. The doctor had told me almost a month before that the trip would either kill me or make me stronger. Considering that Day 2 was twenty-one hours long and I felt that a good hard eight hour day would be my upper-limit, I was probably knocked out of the running for my zombie-like stare the first day.

I joined up with them in Fayetteville, Arkansas (that is Arkansaw for you Easterners). My husband drove me, my huge duffle and overstuffed shoulder-bag to the show–the very first Drum and Bugle Corps show that I had ever had the opportunity to see. I was entering a strange new world without having a clue about what was to come.

The day was hot! Sticky hot. The kind of hot day in Oklahoma when not even an air conditioner can make you feel cool. Naturally, we arrived early and parked in the stadium parking. Before the show was ready to begin we left the car and began walking in the vague direction of the parkinglot where the buses had been sighted. We finally located the set of buses and trucks that comprise Southwind's home on the road more than a quarter of a mile walk from where we'd started (it turned out to be the long way ‘round).

I did understand early on that they travel and sleep by night and spend almost every day in a new location. We found the caravan surrounded by a smattering of people as the kids were already mostly dressed and were warming up some way off. The first thing I checked was the cook trailer, by chance, but found it empty. We finally located somebody and I was told to find "James." I had no idea who James was or what he looked like, but the person who sent me in search of him seemed to think I should. And I thought Mike was the director! (He is, but James is the cook! So for cook staff, it would be obvious, wouldn't it?) So off I went hoping that somebody more motivated to get on their feet would help me in my search. Note that now I understand their reticence about putting their weight on their feet. And I also know now that James would not be easily found in his rare moment of freedom.

It took three tries to find somebody who had a clue where he might be before I finely located him. I found him back at the cook trailer standing on the ramp at the back. I'd come full circle. I introduced myself and felt immediately that I was a subscript in the script–a place I am unaccustomed to. Not that I'm complaining, but just describing the feeling. I was told that the corps would be leaving at 10:00 PM and I could bring my things after the show. I never expected the laid-back attitude. Regiments marched through my mind as I felt lost in the vagueness of the instructions!

After that non-plussed moment of introduction, my husband and I stopped for a while before returning to the stadium in order to watch the kids warm-up in a paved spot between two buildings. Initially the brass section was in a semi-circle and playing some part of the show–beautifully. The percussion section warms up separately and were out on a hill to the south, out of sight but, as I later realized, they are never out of hearing. The tattoo of drums is always in the background--even when the kids are supposedly at rest. The kids were wearing their white show shirts (an undergarment) and their jumper-like black trousers. A few other parents had gathered along a wall out-of-the-way to watch and we joined them. We sneaked to a spot and sat down as though we hoped the directors wouldn’t notice that we were sneaking a preview that we ought to pay for.

Ike managed to ignore us, as he should. He calls it "lock down." He keeps his eyes straight ahead and lets nothing distract him. I knew that! But I was thrilled. I secretly hoped that he saw us anyway.

It was the first sight I’d had of him since we’d left him in Kentucky at the end of May. I had heard from his older brother that he had grown, that his acne had cleared, that he was more mature. What I saw was the most beautiful kid in the whole world! Bronzed and blond by hours in the sun, strong from excessive exercise, a slight golden fuzz on his cheeks and glowing green eyes–I just felt so much pride in him. His jawline was more pronounced, his cheeks taught, childhood padding broiled away. And, yes, he had matured as it turned out, both visibly and emotionally a very different person in many ways.

(to be continued!)

Diary of a mad woman:

Okay, I'm going to give in and continue to write about this mystery that has thus far remained unsolved. My health is a preoccupation. It isn't a preoccupation because that's what I want to do, it seems that I am forced to. When I become lax, I pay by suffering. I like to be lazy, just for the record.

Now, I am going to write this as though someone is doing it to me. Most of the time I'm completely rational about it and I look for normal causes for my symptoms. But the "saltiness attacks" haven't triggered anybody's memory as to a cause so I haven't found help for them yet. I don't really believe that someone is doing it intentionally to me until something inexplicable happens and I can't dismiss the mystery. In this case it happens to be blood . . .

1) Like a red tide:

It is a long story that has taken up most of my week. Becuase I was stubborn, I ended up in the shower at 5:00 AM. It is the story of my life through the past six months.

We'll have to step back a few weeks, three to be more exact. It was the last time I remember being able to breathe easily if I opened my closet door. I remember that one time when I opened my closet door the scent of my perfume wafted out and I wondered if the clothes I'd worn to Church that Sunday were the cause. But then it seems that by the very next morning, I opened my closet to be met by the "elephant pen at the zoo" odor that is, quite frankly, killing me.

My initial response was to wash all my clothes using clorox. Yes, even my colored clothes. But the closet still reeked. The next step was to take everything out of the closet, but the closet still reeked. Do note that this same scenario has played out in two other closets already--except that the closet itself never reeked and laundering the contents of it solved the problem. This time, it didn't help at all to wash the clothes, bind the shoes into plastic bags and, finally, to remove everything from the closet.

My next step was to wash the entire closet--not once, but twice. And then to clean the carpet despite the fact that this carpet is about four months old and it couldn't possibly have any dirt in it yet. I spent three days this week doing that. Still, the closet reeked.

Along with that, my bed has been infected too. I've laundered all the sheets, I've cleaned the pillows and still, and this is why I was so stubborn last night, it makes me sick.

I will say this: It can't be chemicals because obviously it begins before the chemicals do. That is if you consider my own chemicals. I thought it might be some sort of pesticide, but it won't weather out--that's why there were three weeks before the infection culminated in the waste of so much energy and time on my part and why I ended up showering off at 5:00 AM. Chemicals will wash out, too.

No matter what this is, this stuff hits me like pepper. It takes over a closet or, as now, my bedroom in as single night. It reminds me of the red tide. It is a superbug that multiplies rapidly at random intervals and then does nothing more than bother me for several days until that random deluge, tide, comes in.

When I take a whiff--a single whiff, mind you--my vision gets blurry and I feel dizzy and begin to sweat. My mouth and nose feel as though something is drilling in--I envision little screw shaped bacteria. It hurts and tastes nasty, although the taste, I realized last night, is slight and indescribable. It makes me cough and sneeze. I know that I am not alone in this because my poor old dog is suffering the same way right along with me. Foolish dog! He stays right with me even when I am suffering to clean it up, choking and coughing all the time.

I can't be forwarned and avoid it because by the time I detect the smell of it, it is too late. A whiff is enough. It is very effective against me. And one whiff and it might be several days before the saltiness on my skin and in my nasal discharges and even in my mouth subsides. It also makes my lips feel funny, dry, sticky and somewhat rubbery.

To be continued . . . (if I can muster the courage)

Pixel Man

The pixel man in the video stands in the shadow by the door. Ghostly images that move between the frames. He seems to jerk, or pull, repeatedly. I wonder if he is trying to open the door. Or if he is trying to close it against the world. Can't he escape? Or is there a threat outside?

The "New" Neighborhood:

Ike thinks the main road we take to get here is an industrial wasteland. He is small-town. In a big city, this would still be a fairly decent neighborhood even if it is near the tracks, so to speak. The businesses here don't pollute.

The main road near the tracks is really a mix between small businesses, warehouses and private residences. This neighborhood itself would be called working-class, I suppose. The people here are very often young and are upwardly mobile. Two-thirds of the homes are privately owned residences and are well cared for. The other third are rentals that drag real estate values down. My house would sell for the same amount that I bought it for in the 80's before the housing glut drove prices down all over town.

I see this housing edition as an island situated on the right side of the wrong side of the railroad tracks. Or rather there is a siding that creates a private quarter to the north, separating this housing edition from the older homes on the other side. The homes here were built in answer to the need for housing after WWII and this is the only street in the neighborhood where the houses are not identical, or rather, not tract housing.

I took the long route to get to my point. In order to cross the tracks there are about four streets that have railroad crossings we can choose from. On one, that I rarely choose to take, there is a very old, decrepit two-story house. It is oddly built as though it grew organically according to the whim of its owners over the last century. I think it was probably one of the old farm houses that were here even before any other homes were built. It is painted two different colors and all the paint is peeling. The front porch sports a swan on each porch post. I always thought it was rather queer until I took a second look one morning when I wasn't in a hurry. The back door is surrounded by Christmas lights that the owner even lights on April evenings. More importantly than its condition, its odd shape, its swans, is its parklike yard, if you could call it that. Simply, the house is surrounded by trees planted in straight rows and probably four or five city lots of pure green grass.

There is an impressive aspect to it and I pointed this out to Ike one day. I think it is proof that even those who have little money and few assets can still have their own little piece of heaven and this is one that belongs to some small family who likes to enjoy their lives. It's evidenced in the Christmas lights around the back door and in the two chairs that sit facing toward the open tree covered lot between the house and the railroad tracks. A swingset sits in the shade of the trees a stones throw from the chairs. It would be a quiet place except for the trains.

While most of us are chasing our tails and trying to keep up with the Jones', these people have managed to obtain a house that takes their focus off the neighbors and to live life the way they want to live it. So, the point I wanted to make for Ike was to take the time to go sit out back after a hard day's work and enjoy what life has to offer rather than worrying about what you haven't got and what you may never be able to afford to have. And these people may be happier than their counterparts in their expensive houses out on snob hill. Some people just never get it: "Bloom where you are planted."

On other fronts:

Despite this month's challenge, my writing seems to have taken a nosedive. But there was one exception. For the first time in what seems like forever, I revisited Katie Jo and Wade in imagination. I was thrilled.

The thing is that I am not happy with forcing a story that I'm not excited about. There are better things to do with my time, I think.

My daily walking has been going very well this week and I'm proud of myself.

I'm crossposting this peice that I wrote yesterday evening when I returned from my walk:

We were going to walk down by the river again. On our way down big snake road, I told my husband that just a few minutes earlier, when I was driving up the hill, I had seen two husky men walking down it. They were strangers. I'd never seen them before and considering their builds they must have been brothers, although older--maybe in their thirties. They were carrying sticks. Not wimpy little sticks, but good stout ones. When I saw them I was suspicious. I don't know what it was in particular about them, but they seemed angry to me. I told him that I didn't want to catch up with them. Of course, he wasn't the least bit worried. After ten minutes or so, they could have been long gone.

We unlocked the gate to the nursery and went down behind the barn, the way we usually do. From the bottom of the hill we swing either right or left and make a loop back around a group of trees. That, it seems, turns out to be approximately a mile. This time we headed left and up the narrow track along the fence to the property. Across a field we caught sight of a deer. She ran when we began to walk again.

We were most of the way to the soy bean field when I heard what sounded like men's voices in the distance. My husband's hearing isn't as good as mine. He suggested that someone at the rent house was talking loud. But I didn't think so. I would bet the rent house was a good third of mile away. I continued to listen and look and then I spotted the men. They were walking up the road from the rent house that we loop back on. What is weird is that they were carrying trash bags with something in them.

This land is private land. It belongs to my husband's employer and family. I continued to look. Dang, if I didn't wear a bright green sweatshirt this evening. I saw them see us. It is difficult to hide in a brown landscape wearing bright green.

It scared me because after they paused looking our way, they appeared to begin to come straight across towards us. I have an excellent imagination and it never ceases to function. I wasn't going to wait around for them so I started back toward the nursery. Rather than going all the way to the regular road that goes north of the barns, we headed up a steep track that comes out in back of the green houses. I made tracks up that hill! I haven't been that winded in a long time.

At the top of the hill I turned around and I could see that they were still looking at us. I'll let you know if anything comes of it--since I didn't have the guts to check them out. Had I had on a darker shade sweatshirt, I told my husband I would have stalked those men to see what they were up to.

Unfortunately, I came out a half a mile short of my goal for the day.

I'm married to an Okie!

My son and I get a kick out of this. We shouldn't but we always do.

I made a quick trip to Braum's tonight and once there I wondered if we had any salad dressing in the fridge. I called my husband on my handy li'l cell phone, "Do we have any ranch dressing?"
After a pause I heard him answer, "Uh huh . . . but some Franch would be nice."
There was quite a lot of background noise in the store. To double check, I asked, "What did you say?"
"I said, uh huh, but some Franch would be nice."
"Franch? Oh, okay. I'll get that at the grocery store tomorrow. Just so long as we have ranch."
A few minutes later, I climbed into the car where Ike was waiting for me, listening to his tunes. As I backed out for the drive home, I told him about the call. By the time we'd gotten to the left turn lane and were waiting for the traffic light, we were having great fun with it.
"I guess that if it comes from France it must be Franch." Gut wrenching laughter.
"We're ranchers here, so we think the Franchers are ranchers, too." Another bout of hilarity.
"We go to the restaurant and he wonders why he got ranch dressing instead of franch dressing." Aren't we just pitiful! Don't tell him we do this.

In other news: It is spring! The daffodils bloomed.

When did it begin: Very beginning & Ultimatum:

I'm searching for a way forward while holding onto the ideas that I've had. This is truly a discovery draft but meets my daily requirement. Note that I never write straight through a story incrementally so the very first post for this story was, "I hate this place." But to read it somewhat in order: the first section here, When did it begin, I hate this place, the second section here. Confusing, huh? And if the idea continues to appear to have merit, each small segment would probably be expanded into a chapter. Its a rather strange veiw into the creative mind, perhaps.

*****

Driving home on a sunny day in early fall--one of those perfectly glorious days when the weather is exceedingly perfect--Grace felt her physical misery and wondered again, as she had so many times, what could be causing it. She ran her bitter-tasting tongue over her dry, rubbery lips and questioned how it could happen that her lips were chapped when the heater hadn't even been turned on yet. The symptoms mystified her--and her doctor.

For one, when she had these spells, her urine would take on a hue not unlike ethanol--red-orange and heavy. Culturing it turned up nothing, no infection, no bacteria. And yet, mysteriously, the antibiotic did seem to work. Logic said that it couldn't. Grace remembered the conversation with the nurse:

"Your culture was negative, but doctor says to go ahead and take the antibiotic. That's all you need."

Grace paused as questions raced through her mind, confused, she asked again, "What do you mean, it was negative?"

"You don't have an infection."

It seemed as though the nurse's words stopped dead before reaching her understanding. Was it possible? The pain and the blood had stopped the day she began the antibiotics. It was the same old story, test after test came out negative. She'd gone through the barium radiological proceedure [find out name of test]. She'd suffered one blood workup and all came back good--not counting a slightly high cholesterol ratio [?].

All through the fall and into winter the symptoms increased. The other set of symptoms took center stage for a while. For a woman who hated salt, salt seemed to be oozing out of her pores. Her lips tasted salty and the microhairs around her lips seemed to become caked with salt crystals. With the salt came cold sweats that started at the roots of her hair and flowed down through her body. She couldn't even figure out where all that salt could come from. The most frightening thing about this set of symptoms was that when she rested sometimes her nerves would jerk spasmodically and the jerks could be so hard that twice she suffered back injuries from them. At night, she would drool and sometimes it felt as though spittle was gathering at the corners of her mouth and she would have to wipe it away--whereas she'd never been a drooler. Terrified, she never spoke to the doctor about these symptoms in hopes that they would just go away. Her greatest fear was the possible onset of multiple schlerosis. If that was the case, the diagnosis would come too soon, she thought.

*****
(flash forward to another chapter)

Hurrying to get her teeth brushed before leaving for church, Grace took a swig of mouthwash. It burned. She spit it out and rushed to rinse her mouth. Several handfuls of water didn't seem to stop the burning sensation. She grabbed a toothbrush and applied a squirt of toothpaste and began brushing her teeth vigorously. Half way through her bottom teeth, she suddenly saw she'd grabbed her son's toothbrush. As though she could undo the mistake, she stopped brushing and rinsed it thouroughly, placing it back in the toothbrush holder. Her own toothbrush was in the other bathroom. She'd forgotten. But really, she thought, what good would brushing do, anyway. She rinsed again.

After drying her mouth she saw the bottle of blue mouthwash on the vanity. Her first thought was of her son--what if he used it? She held it up to the light and noted, with a grimmace, that it was only half as blue as it ought to have been. Instinctively she dumped it. The blue liquid raced down the drain. It all happened so quickly that Grace hadn't ever thought of saving it. She needed evidence--just in case.

On her way out the door, as she donned her green jacket, she cooly said to her husband, "That's it. I warned you. I said just one more time and I would leave. Thanks for the mouthwash!" And she grabbed the doornob and hurried out without giving him a chance to respond--or not.

Later, while sitting in the church, she felt the burning creep up into her left nostril--on the side she had not brushed. The creep went up, buring her eye. The burning felt as though it would cause her nose to bleed. Just in case, she wiped the bottom of her nose when she felt a hint of dampness gathering there. 'I'm such a fool!' she thought. 'To think I let him get me again.'

When did it begin?

It was just a routine morning, a routine act. Grace unscrewed the sprayer-head from the automatic coffee maker. As she pulled it out, she saw that it was completely full of white stuff. It puzzled her, so she examined it more carefully. It looked almost like a clump of flour had gotten stuck in the center of it. It was fine enough stuff that it should have gone through the sprayer holes. Still puzzled, Grace went to the sink and held it under the stream of water from the faucet. It washed out easily with no scrubbing or rubbing whatsoever. After rinsing it, she held it up and examined it, ensuring that all the holes were completely clean, and returned to the coffee maker to finish cleaning it.

Following that discovery, she noted as she wiped down the lid to the resevior that there was an unusual build-up of what seemed to be calcium deposits around it and on the plastic grid the water was poured through.

It was only later that the mystery began to take shape in her mind. As it did, the initial and most horrible thought that continued to haunt her whenever her thoughts ventured in that direction was her worry about her own sanity. Was it possible?

An hour or so later, she returned to the coffee maker and lifted the lid to the resevoir again and peered down into it where the still evident excessive lime buildup under the grid could be seen. She regretted her haste and thoroughness in cleaning it earlier. Careful examination netted a very thin line of white residue along the raised outer edge of the resevior. Grace licked her finger and rubbed it off, then touched it to her tongue. It had a salty flavor, saltier than she would have expected, but then she wasn't in the habit of tasting lime buildup on coffee makers.

Truth just wouldn't quite dawn on her for quite some time. When it really began to take solid shape in her mind was while in the midst of other household cleaning chores, she was searching through the cupboard beneath the sink for some misplaced bottle of cleaning fluid, when she noticed a large box of trisodium phosphate that had taken front and center. The logic of that defied her--how can a box of harsh soap that is only used as a painting prep take front and center? Finding what she was looking for, she returned to work, but the box of soap didn't get forgotten. Finally, curious to solve the mystery, she returned to the kitchen and pulled the box from beneath the sink, examined it, wondering, then repeated the moistening of the tip of her finger and touching a bit of soap dust inside the lid, then touching it to the tip of her tongue, tasting it. Her taste memory kicked in--it had that same slightly salty flavor as the supposed calcium deposit that had come off the plastic so easily earlier that morning.

That's where she left the problem for a couple of days. Every morning, she drank her usual two or three mugs of coffee. But that third morning, while wiping down the outside of the coffee maker, she noticed a fine white powder on the shiny black base. It reminded her of the discovery she'd attempted to hide from herself a few days before.

She paused and looked blankly at the machine trying to imagine a way that a white powder--say it was flour--had landed there near the heating element pad. Then slowly, almost with trepidation, she unscrewed the sprayerhead again and peered into its black interior. What she saw there was quite different than what she had seen a few days before.

In the very center there were several small clear floppy looking crystals. There was no confusion whatsoever that it could possibly be a sudden influx of calcium deposits from the water. If her mind could stagger, it did at that moment--she'd only cleaned the coffee maker three days before. They were clearly different than anything that she had ever seen before. The mystery that had seemed so insane, so deniably crazy just three days before, instantly crystalized itself into something real.

UPO!

We had a UPO experience this evening.

DH let our basset hound in and put her in her crate to allow her muddy feet to dry. No sooner did he close the crate door than he began searching for a mournful mewing sound that seemed to come from somewhere in that corner of the kitchen. Hannah sat facing the crate door observing us with baleful eyes--her usual posture. DH enlisted my help at that point. I bent down and looked into the darkest corner of the crate, behind Hannah's whipping tail, and saw two green glaring eyes staring back at me.

"Ebony is in her crate."

Strangely, at that very moment it seemed that Hannah discovered Ebony and managed to rotate her head to her tail position. That was stupid. A spat, a claw and Hannah nearly hit the top of the crate. DH opened the door and rescued her then had to crawl in on his belly to rescue the black cat from the black corner.

That wasn't the end of the mystery.

We put the dog back into her crate. A few minutes later she began scuffling around, searching excitedly for something that we couldn't see, but seemed to jump from one side of the crate to the other. Hannah was loving the hunt until the UPO (Unidentified Pesky Object) appeared to have managed to escape through the wire. We let Hannah out. Her excitement continued for a few minutes and then died off as though the UPO turned out to be a dustbunny hiding in a corner.

Shortly after dinner while watching TV, my own composure was rattled when Squeaky clawed her way up the back of the couch and caught my head. I lept up and peaked over the couch to see what the commotion was all about. Squeaky was pacing and sniffing, looking all around the back of the couch as though she'd caught sight of a UPO and then lost it. DH and I looked at each other and shrugged. We hadn't seen anything!

Squeaky's search continued, so we flipped the couch over. Nothing. She explored the entire couch and then drifted off to the corner of the dining room to explore under the buffet. We flipped the couch back and I sat down. No sooner had I managed to relax, than Ms Squeaky was clawing at the couch behind my back.

"Oh, for crying out loud! What IS it?" I said, jumping up and stepping away from the couch. Squeaky circled the couch at light speed in such a convincing way that I really did believe that there must be a UPO. She vanished behind the couch again. Just as I gingerly approached the couch to peak over the back again, my eye finally caught sight of the UPO. A fist sized fat object glided past my feet and seemed to vanish in the folds of my throw that had partially fallen to the floor. I squealled and jumped back, staring at the fringed edge of the throw.

"There," I pointed toward the throw and glared at DH who was still sitting calmly in his chair as though nothing whatsoever had happened. "It's there!"

"What is it?"

I made note of the fact that he was still sitting in his chair. "There really is a varmint! And it ran up under there."

He leaned forward slightly and looked in the general direction in which I was pointing. I gave up hope and began to examine the edge of the throw for the best possible hand hold so I could pick it up without coming close to the hiding varmint. Squeaky was still on the wrong side of the couch. I picked it up and--nothing.

A moment later and Squeaky came careening around the corner of the couch again, this time she was actually chasing a gray ball aimed directly at my feet. I lept back, squeeling. I'm so embarrassed! The leap changed the varmint's direction and he seemed to roll under the couch and vanish. In the meantime, I had gained the doorway.

DH remained seated as though he was merely a spectator at a sporting event. This time I pointed in his direction, "Get up and guard that side of the living room--don't let that thing get out!" I shrieked. I do not take UPOs lightly! I nearly had a panick attack when I thought of that varmint getting down the hall and into Ike's messy bedroom.

Two times Squeaky could have had him cornered and she let him escape. I was beside myself. That was when I bellowed my third command, "Get Hannah!"

DH dutifully released Hannah who went after the UPO with a vengence. She circled the couch several times, snuffling dust bunnies, and then followed the trail back to the buffet where Squeaky was in stalking position. Just as I thought all was lost, Hannah, hot on the trail of the now invisible UPO chased it right back to the place where it all began--her crate. DH strolled over to observe the commotion more closely, pulled the crate from the wall and watched Hannah dive behind it. She came back up with something hanging from her mouth. DH stood there in spectator mode until I bellowed one more time, "She's got it! Let her out!"

DH opened the door and out went Hannah. He closed the door and stood and watched her through the window, reporting on the sporting event that continued--thankfully--out of doors.

As he sauntered back to his chair, he muttered, "Ebony brought it in."

The depths of the mind:

Last night I was relaxing in a hot tub of water, letting my mind meander. I'd been thinking of baptism, really. I must have fallen into a light sleep, however, because baptism turned into Shelob's lair and myself into Frodo. Shelob was close on my heels and I was running in the dark. Just when I was about to despair, I saw a small arc of light ahead. Just as my mind was balancing what it might take to tear out into the light and whether Shelob would catch me before I could, I woke up.

I didn't recall a scene like that in the movie. And trying to remember the book didn't help me either. How I managed to be Frodo in my dream simply astounded me. If my imagination is that good, where did my writing go?

Besides that I wonder how I manage to keep my head above water while I sleep in the tub.

I said again that I wish that the NaNoWriMo would happen any other month than November. December always derails my renewed writing vigor. I haven't recovered it yet. So, now that January is nearly over, shall I reconsider my committment to write 500 words a day? Gosh, isn't that a stupid question?

At any rate, I am rethinking the possibility of posting my two NaNo novels in segments, revising as I post. Perhaps I could post blocks of a thousand words per day until I get them posted. I seriously doubt that I'll ever try to publish either one.

"I hate this place!"

Finding the front door standing wide open, she stepped in onto the dirty bare wood floor, paused and glanced toward the two doors that lead into the recesses of the house. "Hello?" She heard a rattle and followed the sound through the door that lead into the kitchen. The first person she saw was the heater repairman sitting on the hallway floor and then her husband's head behind the stove. It was surreal that they seemed not to acknowledge her entrance, that the silence seemed to be able to mute the clank of a wrench as it thumped to the floor.

The cold came through her jacket and she noted that the back door stood wide open, too. Even with both doors wide open, the stale odor of urine mingled with the odor of latex paint and the thick atmosphere felt difficult to breath in.

Breaking the silence again, she said, "I hate this place!" The heater repairman glanced up at her briefly, then returned to his work. Her husband's head bobbed behind the stove.

Most of the time we live thinking that there is order to our lives. We build our plan for our tomorrows on the basis of that order. We think we know where we will be tomorrow and who we will be with and where we will live. But sometimes the unexpected, even the unbelievable can happen and it can change everything in a blink of realization. The continuing thread of our lives is snapped in two--the plan we had for tomorrow becomes ridiculous and what we did yesterday, in light of our discovery, becomes stupid. Denial is usually the first response. Then slowly truth wars with denial and we take a step back, examine the evidence, frown, face it and fear it. But the change, undesired and unexpected, makes the denial impossible. Suddenly the future is rife with questions. The unknown can be frightening, a place where our worst fears may be realized. Then all we can do is devise a new plan and hope that lady luck will smile on our future and make it secure.

"I choose life," she said. She said it boldly and then repeated it to herself more quietly. That was the absolute choice, the writing on the wall. It was a choice between death and life. Choosing to live should be simple enough, but it didn't seem that way. The echo of that statement colored the days that seemed to net altogether too little progress in the right direction. She was ready to move, to solve the dilemma, but barriers stood in her way. With every step since the day the truth began to dawn on her those words seemed to vibrate through her limbs. Fear and fury! It took fear to move her and fury to energize her.

Remembering now the many events that accumulated over the years, this day of change shouldn't have been unexpected. When had it begun? Was it in the fall of 2000 that she experienced the first symptoms of the disease? Six years! That's a lot of denial. But of all the possible causes this one--this one--was the most difficult to accept or believe.