How I have rejected flying and it's impact on the aviation industry. Which I am pretty sure is zero.

I love the feeling of flying. My first trip as a child was a small 2 seater flown out of LaFleur in Northampton, MA. There was no door, only a cargo net across the opening. I hung on to it as we took off and circled Noho. Dipping our wings while going over my aunt's house much to the horror of my mother who saw her child clinging to a net while looking down from a plane (I think my dad sorta forgot to tell her what we were going to do). I love the old passenger jets, the pressure as the engines roar while you go down the runway, ever faster, your body pressing against the seat and then, you are free from the ground, Gaining altitude and watching the landscape beneath you become a glorious patchwork of colors. I even enjoy the jolt of landing, the relief of having flown among the clouds and having descended safely back to earth.
As I grow older (a term which I understand is not quite PC) I understand that although I love technology and the advancements of the past 150 years or so I also realize that it really is my choice whether or not I go with or without these advantages.
One thing I made a decision to go without is flying. Now don't get me wrong I use to love to fly. Pop in a plane in CT and be somewhere else entirely within a few hours but that was back in the day of direct flights and airlines that actually didn't see their passengers as paying cattle.
My last flight was out to our niece's wedding. The flight out wasn't bad although it required 2 plane changes. The flight home was a disaster, from the flight attendant who was extraordinarily rude, to the layovers and finally JFK airport otherwise known as the land of the rude. Oh not the people flying in and out of JFK but those people associated with airlines. One poor woman was asleep on the floor as her flights kept getting canceled. While we sat there in terror that our short 'commuter' flight from JFK to Bradley would be canceled, two other flights got canceled, not enough personnel to fly the planes. So there were 100's of people scrambling to book new flights and wondering how the hell they were going to make connecting flights.
I admit I grew up in a time when flying was a luxury and passengers were treated well. There was leg room and butt room. You were not herded into a plane, strapped into place and ignored, except for the occasional small bags of peanuts thrown at you. I remember enjoying flying. Now flying means migraines and I am just not willing to go there.
I would like to fly, but I have gotten to a point in life where the 2 hours drive to the airport (which I must be to at least 2 hours before my flight), then going through the TSA (which at best is not very efficient) all for a flight of about 2 hours (depending on whether I am going south or west) plus those who insist carrying on luggage that was not meant to be carried on in it's original design, trying to fit my well rounded butt into a seat meant to hold a 3 year old, the lack of civility among the flight attendants, well my theory is if I can't drive there then I guess I am not going.
Does this effect my life? For the most part no but (yep there is a but) I have missed out on stuff. Going to VA for a couple of days to see my son, going to FL to see my brother, little trips that probably the average person would say no problem to but I emotionally and physically just can't do any more.
Migraines are a reality of my life and have been since I was 16. Stress and migraines go hand in hand in my world and flying just stresses me out. So now that I have hit the age of maturity, being able to make the decision whether or not to fly, I chose not to.
Some do not understand this and that is okay. We all have the right to chose what we do in and with our lives. I will take a train or a car, but planes no longer are a possibility (unless it's a private plane that someone else pays for). I will miss out on stuff and that is the price I have to pay for my decision which is not always easy to accept.
We should all be allowed our quirks and idiosyncrasy's as long as they don't hurt someone else. I don't think the airlines are at all offended by my lack of flyer miles, as for my family no one has ever mentioned being upset that I haven't flown in for the weekend to see them. So maybe, just maybe this quirk works out, most of the time.

Junk?

This morning found me cleaning out the 'junk' drawer. We all have one, either in the kitchen, an old desk drawer, or someplace where know one outside of ourselves can find it. It is the place where the odds and ends of our every day lives end up. Screwdrivers so you don't have to run down cellar for one (although they are rarely the size you need), measuring tapes, screws, razor blades, extra dog poop bags, key rings, keys not on rings, broken bits and pieces and unknown bits and pieces. Every drawer is full, things crowded and pushed in because the last thing we want to do is clean out the junk drawer.
If we are lucky it becomes the depository of things rarely used but always needed. You know it's in that drawer and you are willing to hunt through the 'stuff' to find that item. With me it is things like caps.
The water trough which is home to goldfish and water plants and supplies me with the lovely sound of water gently splashing during the summer months must be drained every fall. The fish and plants go down to the greenhouse and the trough is moved out of the way so in the winter I can push snow into what was it's summer residence. It has a cap which is removed to drain the water every year in the fall and in the early spring once the snow banks have melted the trough is moved back into place the cap goes back on and it is once again filled. I probably could leave the cap on it but I prefer to place it in the junk drawer. It is like an omen every time I open that drawer and search for a screwdriver or some other item. It is always there, sitting inbetween the electrical tape and the box containing batteries. It is a small reminder that spring will be coming. It never has gotten lost or gone missing, it can always been found in the drawer during it's 'off' season and this is the way it has been for 10 years and no doubt the way it will be until I leave this house.

Hiding among the bushes

The green and white leaves of Porcelain vine which grows up the corner of our house and then clings with tenacity to edge of the roof dance gently in the breeze as I lay on my bed on this warm summer afternoon, surveying my domain through the opened, screened window. The grape arbor which is immediately below my bedroom window is fully leafed out. The beetles have yet to turn the leaves into lacy greenery. If you look closely you can see small clusters of grapes, slowly growing among the heavily leafed vines.
This reminds me of childhood, 50 years ago. Hiding under the hedge that designated the property line between my parents and myself and our neighbors. The bushes were bridal wreath. The flowers looking like small versions of white daisies clustered together to form a small, white bouquet no more than an inch or so big, a bridal bouquet. The green leaves were small and delicate with scalloped edges. The branches although they looked like a gust of wind could blow them away grew in the most tangled and wonderful way, naturally forming archways between the full grown bushes. This is were I hid. Looking out across the lawn into my neighbors yard.
It was a wonderful place to hide. My neighbor's dog (whose name I can not remember) would come and hide with me. She had long silky fur and a loving nature. I remember her colors as being black, brown and white. We would lay there together like two conspirators watching the yard as it was transformed into a party.
When it was an especially important event my neighbors would borrow a canopy type of tent from the local funeral home and set it up in their back yard (the name of the funeral home would be facing our yard so no one could see it). This was the place where the elders of their family would sit to receive the younger family members. If it was some sort of birthday or an event in which gifts were given, then there would be a pile of luxuriously wrapped presents of all sizes and shapes waiting for the moment they were to be opened. Their patio, breezeway and kitchen would be filled to overflowing with the many dishes brought by various family members. My neighbors yard was magic.
It would always be loud and exuberant when the family members got together as there were many, many relatives, immediate and extended, his side being Italian and her side Polish. Laughter, jokes, much hugging and kissing, quite unlike my small and very quiet, undemonstrative family.
I would lay there amazed at the people and the emotions that rose up in the air from all the joy and love that these people felt for each other. It was palpable, real, honest and for the most part outside my understanding.
There was always the one uncle who knew where I was hiding. He was the one that was the favorite uncle. He spent a lot of time at the neighbors house not just because he lived alone but because they wanted him there. He would casually stroll over to my hiding spot and a paper plate full of food or a napkin with a treat on would appear in front of me. He never said anything and he always seem to catch me off guard because there it would be, wonderful, homemade Italian (or Polish) food waiting for me to eat it. He never failed me (or the dog).
Those were truly magical days. Feeling I could become invisible and just watch a world that I didn't quite understand but somehow in watching I felt very much a part of. They were good neighbors. Their children were older than I but they didn't fail to ask me to join them for dinner in the summer when the grill had swordfish on it and the smell was tantalizing.  They seemed to understand I was alone. I had friends but I didn't have brothers or sisters and being able to sit at a table with a family of 6 was probably a good experience for me. Watching the banter of 3 sisters and a brother and the loving presence talkative parents was interesting, amusing and quite different from quiet dinners with just me and my parents.
Summer days like today bring back memories. Pleasant, a bit sad, but beautiful.

Lists

Lists, lists and more lists. Lists of shopping, birthdays, anniversaries, projects to be done, dream projects, things I need to do, things that need to be done to the house, to our vehicles, to us. The lists are never ending and tonight they have invaded my space.
I am a lister, for those of you familiar with the Vermont usage of that word, that is what I am for a job but also what I do, I make lists and I don't think I have ever finished a list. I mean start at the top and work my way right down to the bottom, no ifs, ands or buts, everything crossed off in good fashion and done. Nope, I never have.
I buy small notebooks to make my lists in. I have at least 4 or 5 right now and then a larger covered notebook given to me which is the 'creative sort of stuff' notebook. I have also started a binder which breaks down the months into paycheck weeks and has anticipatory lists of things to be attended to such as vehicle registration, oil changes, buying wood for winter, etc. The small books contain grocery lists and errands to be done. I cross things off and when a page is done I fold it in half lengthwise. So I know where the next list begins.
I have dry erase boards on the fridge as the first step in making a grocery list. I have a phone list next to the kitchen phone, for frequently called numbers (which I really don't need a list for) and of course the power outage number.
I carry a list of the medications I take, the vitamins I take and the operations I have had for when I see a new doctor and they insist that I fill out a form with all this information and more.
I make mental lists when there is not paper or pen handy, who am I kidding, I have at least 2 small notebooks in my purse right now with pens. I have them next to where I sit in the living room, there is one near the phone, and there are several next to my bed. I can list anytime and anywhere.
This all has nothing to do with the age that I am at. I have had this disturbing problem for years. The bigger problem is I am also a procrastinator. So sometimes my lists are self defeating. I look at a list and I panic, when I panic, I procrastinate and then the list becomes daunting, overwhelming and intimidating, yet I keep doing it.
Granted there is nothing bad in listing in of itself. It's just I can't keep my lists small. They grow as my head fills with ideas of things to be done, or things dreamt of or just everyday, run of the mill stuff. I love lists or maybe I just love writing them, and yes I am old school as they say, I 'write' them. I do no print them, I use cursive and write. It happens that I like, no, love to write. There is something about pen put to paper, it is an artistic expression in itself.
I have always loved ink, pens and paper. Dipping and old fashion pen into an inkwell and scratching out a list, or a comfortable modern pen that glides over a page. For a long time in my younger days I used a refillable pen. It had a little bladder in it and you pulled up a small lever that would suck the ink out of a bottle and into the bladder. Oh what a beauty that one was.
I think I now realize what my issue is. It is not the lists, it is the fact I like to write them. I enjoy seeing the words, sometimes expressing a dream, a piece of ordinary life, or an idea. They are part of me. An odd, maybe not quite mainstream part but they are me. A small expression of my artistic nature. Cursive handwriting, no matter how we are taught it, it becomes our own.
So maybe my list obsession isn't such a bad thing. I may never reach the end of my list but I will damn well enjoy writing it. In fact I think it's time to invest in a good old fashion refillable ink pen.

Ramblings on my past life.

How does one start the story of one's life? Do I start with "Once upon a time" like in a fairytale or do I go with something a little more biblical like "In the beginning"? I think I will start the the obvious, I was born February 5, 1954 to Janet and George Fournier although they gave me life they were not fated to be my parents. Those people were Helena and Edward Rudski who at the moment of my birth were living a few towns away blissfully unaware that their daughter had just entered the world.
My biological parents were not a match made in heaven, I suspect it might have been a match made in a bar. My mother, a young widow with a son, met up with a good looking younger man. I never met either of  my biological parents but I suspect my mother was strong willed and very much the survivor from the little I know of her (her first husband died in a car accident. She was pregnant with my oldest brother and also in the accident). My father I know less of. What I do know was garnered from a couple of afternoon encounters with his sister and his brother at different times and they both saw their brother George with different eyes. The one thing I do know about my father is he died from drink as they say. Too young and several states away from his family. I don't know when, I don't even know where he is buried.
My biological mother is a bit of a different story. I found her but as far as she was concerned we were way past knowing each other on any level never mind mother and daughter. She died within a couple of years of writing me my rejection letter (so apropos as she earned her living as a writer but never made the transition to a novelist). She died of breast cancer, something we both had in common. She was cremated and I attended her internment with my reunited siblings on a sunny day in June at a cemetery in Northampton, MA. It was funny in an odd way that her obituary (which ran in some local papers up around So. Royalton, VT where she had lived for years and yes I live in VT only about an hour and 15 mins. away from her home) listed her five children and their respective spouses and/or significant others. To those that had known her, she had 2 sons not 3 sons and 2 daughters. What a shock to some that this seemingly forthright, outgoing woman hid such a sorrowful past. Even at the cemetery when we were introduce to various family members there was no shock or whisperings in the corner at the reception held afterwards about these interlopers that had recently joined the family. Perhaps some knew, maybe some had an inkling but no one seemed totally blindsided by the fact that we existed and were there.
At the internment it was only her side of the family and that of her first husband's that attended. My brother and I were the children of her second husband (George) and even so many years after the fact of his abandonment of the family they held a grudge against her for the loss of their brother and of his children. So they chose not to attend the funeral.
Yes, there are gaps and holes in this story. It doesn't cover my sister's determination to find her biological family or the story of us individual siblings being brought up very differently by adoptive parents  or of our biological mother who brought up 2 of her sons.
I think I started down this road before on my blog but found it a difficult road to travel. I never met my biological parents, their associates, friends,  or co-workers, so I only know snippets of their lives as seen through those who loved them which colors how good or bad these people might have been.  When I was in my teens I was curious about these 'parents'. When I was in my early 20's I was ambivalent. My late 20's with the birth of our first son Eli, made me search out the woman who arranged my adoption and from her find out the name of my biological aunt on my father's side, whom I contacted and spent a day with driving around Easthampton, MA. Seeing her home, meeting part of her family and learning that she and her husband had unsuccessfully tried to adopt my brother Bill and myself. But at the same time I felt no connection. She may have been my aunt but she wasn't the aunt I loved, who had a drawer full of cheesecake recipes, who could crochet or knit anything, whose name was Irene and she was married to Charlie who smoked really smelly cigars. I had a history, a family, I just couldn't connect to all the new information given to me. So I disconnected. That has been part of a problem in my life, the disconnect. So that was the end of it, I knew a little more than I had when I started out but it was the life of someone else. So I tucked the information away and continued on for almost another 20 years with nary a thought about those whom I was connected with by blood.
Then somewhere before my 44th birthday a letter came. A woman called Nonnie (Marion) was looking for her sister. She had hired a detective and he had pointed her in my direction. From there the ball started to roll and we began to meet the other siblings, Tim, Bill and Bobby. Some of the stories are good, some are sad. Three new families came out of the disaster of our mother's life and I do believe it was a disaster. It hardened her so she couldn't accept us when all we wanted was to get to know the woman that gave birth to us. I never wanted to pry into her private life, I just wanted a conversation with her. I didn't need to know the whys, I needed to know her but that was to be denied because of her own pain.
That I suppose is part of motherhood. I don't know how she lived with herself after she gave 3 of her children up. Did she disconnect? I can't imagine giving my boys up, that is the one disconnect I could never make. I wasn't always the best mom and I didn't always like my boys but I always loved them. There was never any way then or now that I could step away from that. They were the first humans I felt a true bond with because we shared DNA, my DNA and their Dad's. I never felt that before, a blood bond, a direct link to my past and to their future. Nothing else mattered except that connection and it is still one of the most important part of my life.
Well that's it for this evenings ramble. I apologize to those who know more about the structuring and punctuation of sentences than I. I am just writing this off the cuff in hopes that maybe both my sons will read it and understand a little where some of their mom's insecurities and issues come from. Like I said, I wasn't (am not) perfect and I feel that maybe there might be some resentment out there due to my lack of parenting skills. But I think despite how I may have cause issues in either of your lives, you have both turned out to be exactly who you needed to be. I am proud of you both. I love Eli as my first and Eric as my last. It is equal and unwavering.