Death

We never talk about death. We exercise, diet, have surgeries, take pills, supplements and try to deny we are all going in the same direction. There is only one end to our lives, no matter how we try to avoid it.
I personally don't believe in heaven or an afterlife. I believe when we breath our last, it joins the first breath we drew and that is all there is. Some may find this morbid, as they want to believe there is more after our time here on earth. But in a sense our breath, for all those years we lived is our immortality. Our breath goes on when our lungs have ceased functioning.
There is only so much air in this world and it has all been breathed in and exhaled long before we made our appearance here.
We use euphemisms to refer to death. Passed, lost, kicked the bucket, there are literally hundreds of ways to avoid using the words, death, dying or dead. I didn't "lose" my parents. That sounds like I misplaced them. They died and their ashes are in a mausoluem in FL. I know exactly where they are. Which is more than I can say for some of my other relatives.
The subject of death and dying is more on my mind now that I have reached my 60's. It's not the only thing on my mind but I realize now I need to have some sort of written directive to let my family know that when I am dying which hopefully will not be for quite awhile, that I chose to die with dignity, and maybe by choice. They need to know that I don't want my life prolonged with feeding tubes or a machine that breaths for me. I choose quality of life not quantity. I don't want to be a body in a hospital bed.
I have been reading books as of late that deal with the subject of death. The latest is "How to get the death you want - a practical and moral guide" by John Abraham, which is enlightening.
I have found in recent years that structured religion is not for me. I attended church as a child (Congregationalist) and spent 10 years or so attending a "fundamentalist" church in our fair state. I have no problem with religion per say if that is the way you want to go. It is not the path I chose. I will not argue on this page or anywhere else or with anyone else my beliefs against yours. That isn't what it's all about. I accept what others choose to believe as that is their right. I would hope that they would extend the same courtesy to me. Now back to death.
In the human fight against death, which is lost on a daily basis, some refuse to stand down and accept that no matter what you do, death is inevitable. Of course there are different deaths, some come with age, some by accident and some on purpose. I am talking about my death as in the latter years of my life and how I am starting to approach the "final curtain".
To be truthful my husband and I have not had the discussion on death. We have had the discussion on the fact I want to be cremated and my remains scattered here and there, in the town we have spent our married life in and where ever else seems good (as long as it doesn't have to do with cities or suburbia). I do not want a wake or a funeral. I know that bothers him but I also feel he will follow my wishes. If he wants a get together of some sort, that is fine. Although I don't really plan on being the first to go, well you just never know.
In writing this, I also realize I do not know what my husband wants. Does he want cremation, to be buried, a wake, or a funeral?? These are questions to ask. We need to talk about this and we need to write it down and we need to tell our children what our thoughts are, what we require when the time comes.
There are decisions to be made. Not all at once and there is not set time limit on when they should be made, but they do need to be made. In speaking about our deaths I think we are better able to live our lives. There are less years in front of me than behind, I want that time to be the best possible and if it means having an uncomfortable conversation with my husband and with my sons, so be it. I think it this concern I am allowed to think of myself because when death comes to me, it is my family that will be comforted in knowing they did what was right for me.

Light

As we left my in-laws house Thanksgiving Day, it was early evening. The sun was going down supplying us with a beautiful sunset, the street lights were on and the house lights were being turned on.
The drive through the maze of neighborhoods with streetlights is as easy to navigate in the gloaming as it is in the day. We followed the lights, peeping into the houses as we passed, seeing other people celebrating the day. The streetlights slowly petered out as we drove onto I-91.
As we drove and the night got darker we could see out into what is know as the pioneer valley. Lights marking streets, parks and homes glittered into the distance. Lights flashed on the few high chimneys left from when the valley was full of huge brick factories fueling the economy of the valley so many years ago. Now the tall "plane" lights flash on cell phone towers that fuel our economy through commerce and trade.
As we drove further north the lights of Springfield, Holyoke, Northampton were left behind. We headed into darkness where the lights were to be found away from the highway. After a brief glimpse of the lights of Greenfield, the darkness surrounded us. We could see shimmer of lights on the hills and mountains as we passed by. Homes tucked safely away from the highway. Closer to the highway there were Christmas lights. A field of "deer", bright white and shining in the dark night  and the occasional outdoor Christmas tree festooned with lights.
We arrived at our exit in Brattleboro. Here there are streetlights, guiding us down to the next turn which will being us down to Rte. 30. The lights grow further and further apart. By the time we hit Rte. 30 we are running out of lights. The houses have thinned out and we are at the end of the streetlights. Shining across from us, reflected in the West River are the lights from the Marina Restaurant and the lights from Putney Road businesses., but we are not heading there, we will follow the road north towards home.
There are times you can drive for miles on Rte. 30 and not see a soul. It is as if you are the last car in some apocalyptic film noir. The last survivors, on a lone road in Vermont. Then in the distance there is a small pool of light. A gas station/convenience store. We zip by it, by this point the lights are becoming annoying. As we pass it, the stars start to appear in the sky. Stars that you can't see when you have too much man made light around. There is a twinkling of light from a mountain top as somebody switches on a light in their house. Tucked off of the roads there are houses whose windows are lit in the golden light of a home.
Onward we go north. Now we are where there are no lights, well no street lights and in a lot of places no guard rails either. These are the places where only the reflection of our headlights reflect off the yellow stripes in the middle of the road and the white stripes on the sides guiding us along the winding road. Occasional road signs are there and even the occasional guardrail with it's bright, triangular reflective pieces.
We pass River Bend Market, the last big pool of light. Then up to Townshend, taking a right onto Rte. 35. There are streetlights here and there is a small country hospital. Plenty of lights and signs to let us know where we are. But just a few short miles out of the center of town, the streetlights are gone and the signs are few and far between.
It is once again gloriously dark and the road is ours. We hit a point where the white stripes indicating the edge of the road have all but faded out. We are totally dependent on the yellow stripes like the yellow brick road to guide us home. Even the houses with their warm lights have started to disappear.
By the time we reach our dirt road we have run out of houses, and it is dark. There is sliver of a moon hanging in the sky surrounded by a galaxy of stars. There are no houses here at the corner of our road. No bright lights, just a dirt road. We turn down the road. It becomes like a tunnel. The trees spread their branches over the road. During the summer it shades the road, during the winter they give the road a feeling of solitude.
Finally some lights appear, quiet lights, house lights, Christmas lights, and finally, the light that is like a beacon pulling us up our driveway to our home. A quiet outside light, calls us to the mudroom door and finally we are home. We turn on the inside lights and enjoy the beauty of being the pool of light in the darkness.

Food, it ain't always what it seems to be

Lately I have been reading a lot about food. Frankly I am obsessed by food. I love it and I hate it. Food makes me happy, makes me sad, fills me up, causes bloat, and makes me feel guilty.
I think I should be a vegetarian because it's good for you. Well an ovo-lacto vegetarian but then I remember I love meat. Really, I love it and I don't believe that as a vegetarian you should be eating "fake" meat. Soy hamburger or hot dogs or variations thereof. Besides I can't do a lot of soy. It's a "let's not get cancer again" thing. Which is why there was also a hysterectomy thing, but I digress.
Food is what makes the world go 'round. It is in every culture, in every form possible. From trotters to head cheese, from mesclun to giant pumpkins. We grow it, we eat it and sometimes we play with it.
When I was a young thing and I mean way back when before computers, when phones were big, heavy and usual black and when TV's got 3 channels on a good day. My pediatrician told my mother that I should drink "lowfat milk". I don't know the what-fors of this decision cause I also know that he thought I should stay away from potatoes and bread, like that was ever going to happen.I do know I have always had "gut" issues, tummy troubles, constipation to the trots and back again, I think you got it. I was a pudgy little kid. I wouldn't say fat as I always had height to even out things. Anyway, way back when, there weren't exactly big grocery stores around. So there weren't big dairy aisles offering everything from yogurt to almond milk. You went shopping at local stores, funny how life is trying to reverse itself now with the whole 'shop local' thing. There was no such thing as skim milk to be found bottled in a dairy case. There were 2 types of "dry" skim milk, both equally as horrid tasting. So basically I gave up on milk, but not on dairy. Full fat ice cream or cheese never caused issues, so they continued to grace my life.
A few weeks ago in my reading of all things food, I read about raw milk, you know, the kind people use to drink before pasteurization and homogenization came into the game. Raw milk. It's really not raw, it's just milk in it's natural form. When you get a bottle of "raw" milk, the cream has separated and floats on the top. I love to dip my finger into this. It's good and it's where butter comes from. Anyway I decided to try "raw" milk in my diet. I have taken probiotics for years and frankly they didn't seem to be doing much good.
I just want to be able to go to the bathroom (bowel movements) without constipation, diarrhea or searing pain in my gut, also know as IBS, irritable bowel syndrome, of which I was diagnosed with many years ago.
We have a local farm, about 15 minutes away from our house that sells "raw" milk. So I became a regular. At first it was a little weird. It's a unmanned farm stand, still run on the honor system although I understand not all people are honorable. On one side is the family home and on the other the barns where the cows live. I am not saying it is organic, GMO free, or anything else, I don't know and I don't care at the moment, cause I am there for the milk.
I love their milk. If I drink one glass a day (about 12 ozs) my gut is happy. No, all the problems don't go away but the difference is significant. If I miss a couple of days, the misery returns. No worse than before, but it's there.
I am not saying this is for everyone. You have to make your own decisions on food and it ain't easy. Organic is great but it is more expensive. You may argue that the benefits are long term, but for some it is what is in your wallet now. You can't always afford to feed a family of four on an organic chicken that costs $24 for something that weighs 2 lbs. So you have to do a balancing act.
The latest book I read made me understand that the big food companies treat us consumers as lab rats. They make food easier to chew, flavor is done with chemicals so we will come back for more and they add sugar, fat and salt to just about everything and trust me, this is why since the 1980's we have been getting fatter and I am one of the crowd. Just as guilty as everyone with mac and cheese in a box, cookies, chips, and all that stuff we just love to eat.
Unless we want to be buying into the big pharmas to keep us alive through modern medicine i.e. popping pills for everything, changing our diets is the only way we can control our lives and live better ones. I don't want to line up pill containers and try to remember when to take what. I have to live with my thyroid medicine, I have no choice. But if I can get off of the other 2 I take, or even 1 I will feel I have succeeded in taking back control of how I chose to live.
Oh and if you think dieting is the magic pill, nope it ain't. There is a certain amount of getting off the couch and moving. Doesn't mean you have to join a gym or take up running. It just means that at least 3 x's a week for at least 30 minutes each time, you need to get your heart rate up, sweat a little, take a walk, do what ever floats your boat, but enjoy it.
I'm trying. I don't succeed every day, but there are more good days than bad and that makes me feel happy.

A sponge, a fire and some words.

There are times when the old saw of "How long have you been married? Too long." rings true.

The argument is not over politics, religion or the kids but over a sponge. Well let's say the sponge is the trigger to the smoking gun.

Years ago my husband stated he hated the sponge being left in the flat area next to the faucet on our kitchen sink. So in my travels I found this "thing/holder" which straddles the double sink in our kitchen. One side is for the metal scrubby we use on pots and pans and the other side is for the sponge. It's not the greatest thing but it works for me, not for my husband. To him it is an impediment. Whether getting a glass of water or washing up, it is always in his way. So he removes it and leaves in on the counter next to the sink and  usually neither the sponge or the scrubby are in it. The sponge can usually be found on the counter and the scrubby in the sink (although many time both are on the counter). The biggest problem is usually the sponge is soaking wet or at least damp when placed on the counter. He does not think of putting the holder back in place and putting the items back in it. Guess that is my job. 

The counter has suffered over the years from this constant action. Water has pooled in the grout and despite my efforts to clean it, the grout has turned unpleasant colors and in some areas the grout has almost disappeared entirely. Yes, this upsets me but I have lived with it along with the many other things my spouse does that piss me off and knowing I am not perfect, I am smart enough to know there are probably a few things that he has to put up  from my side of the marriage. But it sometimes are the small things, those everyday things that spark off the conflagration. They pile up like dried tinder, just waiting for a spark, that little something that will ignite them. A misplaced word (or sponge) will cause everything to go up in smoke. 

Sometimes there just doesn't seem to be a rhyme or reason to why the argument starts. Surely a sponge is not that important. But in reality it's not the sponge, it's the days before. In my case the stress build up to an important meeting, learning about 2 incidents aboard Navy ships, one which has cause the loss of life of 7 sailors, which as a mother of a sailor currently deployed just brings tears to my eyes for the mothers of those lost, my own chronic illness which at times causes me to swirl out of control and become morose, blue, sad, exhausted, lost and bewildered and finally that getting older isn't for sissies, I am just am not sure I can do it some days. 

It all piles up and then....the sponge incident. As I sit in my darkened room typing this out it does seem a bit silly but it's not. There are so many things in marriage that are left unsaid. No matter how honest your relationship may seem it's not as honest as you think. 

We do not tell our partners of all our fears. We don't tell them of all the things they do that drive us crazy. Why not? Because we have learned that honesty can hurt. That we are not perfect and we may not want to hear what they say. 

I have deep fears, hiding down in a place I don't go. Really there is no reason to go there because they are the  things I faced many years ago and unlike the fool in the horror movie that opens the door despite all of us in the audience yelling for them to step away, it's not a door I need to open. I know what is there and it can stay there. I don't need to revisit the past.

It is now the future that frightens me. The truth that there is less time ahead of me than behind. The fact that my body is slowly wearing out and my mind may go with it. There are a thousand and one fears if not more that some days I can't keep behind the door. They all come out and terrorize me like the nightmares I had as a child. I don't want to feel this way but I can't help it. Just like the fool in the horror movie I open the door although I can hear all those voices telling me to step away.

So is the sponge a metaphor for something? No, it's just a sponge. It was just the tipping point. That place where this time instead of cleaning up and not saying anything, I got mad, I yelled, I cried, I wrote this and then I read it to my husband. You see, one of my secrets that I find easier to write and post then try to verbalize my feelings. Product of my environment? Yes. Will I be able to change at this point? No, but I have found a door I can open, this one. I can write what I feel better than say it, which means I can also share it with the one person that counts more than anyone in my world. It may not be a perfect way to communicate but it is the best I have and a hellva lot better than starting a fire.

An epiphany on a bad day.

I know this will seem odd to some, but it has taken me 60 years to figure out that I have abandonment issues. 

My husband pulled one of those bonehead moves yesterday that tips me over the edge and I really never knew why. He went to church, okay, that part is fine and usually he is home by 1:00 p.m. but he didn't get home till 2:00 p.m. I waited on lunch until my tummy rumbled louder than the ATVs flying down our road and gave in to eating lunch alone. When he finally showed up I was, upset to say the least. Well he stopped to see someone and then casually mentioned at least he didn't stop to see another friend doing some physical rehab in our local hospital. "Oh lucky me", I thought, "he came home even though he could have been out visiting." But wait! He knew he was going to visit at least one of these people and he couldn't have given me a heads up? Like a note on the fridge or a call from church before he headed out? Nope. This has been an issue in all of the time we have been married. " Please", I have asked of my husband and my children, "call me if you are going to be late." It happened sometimes but not all the time.

As I hung about the house being snarky and sulky the rest of the day, it dawned on me that time wasn't the issue here. It was him (or them) not coming back. I ran through my storehouse of memories and realized that I had spent a great deal of my life doing what I asked them not to do. 

I left behind friends and boyfriends before they could leave me. I have spent almost my entire life in a self-imposed solitude. Now don't get me wrong. I actually like my company and when younger would not have enjoyed spending time with women who thought of hair, makeup and clothing as main topics of conversation. Now that I am older, I have reached slightly out of my comfort zone trying to interact with people on a social level, but still have no idea at times how to hold a conversation.

My memories are not of a door closing or someone saying goodbye. They are visceral, a part of me that is buried deep within my psyche. My father left, my mother left, my brother was gone, my aunts, uncles, everyone that I knew in the first 3 years of my life. Yes, I had my adoptive parents, my adoptive family of aunts, uncles and cousins but it was all different. There was something I lost but had no conscious thought of the loss. It was what made me do some of the things that I did so I wouldn't be hurt again because how does a 3 year old express that kind of pain? In my case extreme shyness, holding back on attachments to people but becoming overly attached to "home", our house, the only place I knew that was safe. My parents suggested we move at some point in my pre-teen years and the nuclear meltdown on my part caused them to rethink that idea.

My parents once remarked that they had been told I didn't like to be hugged so therefore (in the logic of the 1950's) they were told not to try to hug me. It's still an issue. Hugging, I can't even describe how that infringes upon my space although I have become accustom to hugging my family (you have to if you marry into a big Italian family) but it took years.

I was also told by my adoptive mother that they had wanted 'the boy' (my brother) but he was taken so they took me instead.  Excuse me, are we talking about getting a pet here?  

My adoptive parents and I had issues, beyond the usual stuff, but not the kind of stuff that lead me to killing off anyone or pulling wings off of flies. Just things that now I realize were not just the everyday growing up stuff.

I suppose I will always have to deal with the whole idea of being abandoned for the rest of my life, but in a way this epiphany has opened a door and let me see why I have done and still do some of the things in my life. 

I relate this story not for sympathy but because I need to see it in print. I need to feel the keys under my fingers as I release this little demon. It will always control me in some way, but now that I know the root cause maybe I won't be so anxious when the husband is late, or the kids don't call or people leave, but don't expect me move anytime soon, I am no going down that road ever again.

I thought that whatever happened to make my 'real' parents give me up, had to have been because I did something wrong, but it wasn't my fault, for years I thought it was my fault. I became passive, because scars like that never heal. I have realized in the past few years with the reconnection with 2 siblings and learning about and connecting with  2 others (mom was a busy girl), that there was a story there of people who made bad decisions and whose life choices ended up changing more than just their life. That is the way of the world. We make decisions and sometimes we forget how one decision can ripple outwards and change so many things.

Now don't get me wrong. I have seen my share of shrinks and therapists, after awhile you learn to say what they want to hear. I loved my adoptive parents and they loved me, we just didn't always get along and they didn't know the whole story about those short years in which I was someone else's daughter. Maybe if they did, we would have hugged or moved to another house, but those things can't be changed. I don't have regrets cause they were good people and to regret my life with them wouldn't honor the love they gave me. That is the special thing about adoption, okay so they want the boy but they still took me. They didn't have to. They could have said no and walked out the door but they didn't and that made them great parents.

I could go on and on about all the issues, conflicts and assorted baggage that I have, well frankly we all have baggage. I guess it comes down to how we decided to carry it. Do we load ourselves down with it and carry it through life blaming it for whatever evil befalls us or do we zip it up in a small carry-on realizing that occasionally we will have to look at it? Whatever is in that baggage will always be a part of us but it doesn't have to control us. We just need to know it's there and get on with our lives.

Winter's full moon.

The moon's light creeps around the edges of my curtains in my dark room causing me to get out of bed and pad silently down the stairs so I can stare out on the snow covered gardens, lawn and woods to admire the beauty of the midnight hour.
The moonlight pouring through the downstairs windows of our house is  like muted sunlight. Shadows lay across the snow cast by the barren trees. Wicked shadows, shadows which hide the coyote as it hunts. Shadows only disturbed by the silent wings of an owl searching for prey.
It is not a fat, warm summer moon which calls out fireflies and moths to flit among the night flowers and grasses at the edge of our woods. It is a cold, hard moon, high in a winter sky. It brings out a beauty of a night world in sharp relief. No warm air to caress my face as I step out of the door to look at it. It entices with it's hard beauty and cold light. It draws you out into the bitter night air to look up at the sky and see the stars laid out in a black sky.
There is no sweet scent of a summer night, instead there is a dryness to the air, a sharpness. The only smell on a cold night as this is the smoke rising from the chimney. The mingling of maple, cherry and birch wood as it burns to heat our home.
Inside again, in the warmth of our home I hear the creaks and groans that are the house settling down on it's foundation. It makes me think that the moonlight itself is gently trying to work it's way inside and if it does, we will float up into the sky, and become the moonlight.We will be forgotten by those who knew us. Nothing will be left of the house or it's foundation. There will just be the gardens which will go wild, and the woods which will close in on the lawn.
It will all be  a dream that happened one cold winter's night when there was a full moon.

 

Being political

Am I a "liberal"? Hmm, that is a question I have been asking myself as of late especially considering the turn of events in the recent election.

When you run for an office you usually fall into Democrat, Republican or Independent categories or maybe the fringe groups such as the green party or the libertarians (which is not liberal and yes there are many more parties but I to draw the line somewhere in naming them).

Growing up in the late 50's and early 60's the way of the day was you usually chose a party and that is the way you voted. You were choosing a party 'line' or philosophy so there was always a chance that at some point you voted for someone not because you really wanted that person in office but because that person belong to and was backed by the party you followed. 

Politics are confusing to say the least. I was taught at a young age that my vote counted (although there seems to be times the old electoral system counts more) and here is the radical part of my upbringing by fairly conservative parents, I didn't have to 'belong' to one party. I could actually choose a candidate and vote for them based on their merits not their party.  

For years I have declared myself an independent. The only part of that I was ever sure of was it meant I was not associating with either of the "big two" parties, Republicans or Democrats. One problem with this is during primaries you must take either a Republican or Democratic ballot to vote. Yep, I do see that as a problem. I don't want to belong to either but I am forced to if I want to vote in a primary. So I guess I could just skip over primaries and wait for a general election but that could mean someone that I would like to run won't be able to because of the lack of support in a primary. A "Catch 22" right there.

Then I started this odd thought process that I have, exactly what creature is a Republican, Democrat, Independent or a Liberal?

So I looked up the definitions of the "big two" and this is what I came up with -

re·pub·li·can  (rĭ-pŭb′lĭ-kən)

adj.

1. Of, relating to, or characteristic of a republic.

2. Favoring a republic as the best form of government.

3. Republican Of, relating to, characteristic of, or belonging to the Republican Party of the United States.

n.

1. One who favors a republic as the best form of government.

2. Republican A member of the Republican Party of the United States.

 

dem·o·crat (dĕm′ə-krăt′)

n.

1.

a. An advocate of democracy.

b. One who believes in social equality or discounts distinctions in rank.

2. Democrat A member of the Democratic Party.

 

You know what? Neither of these terms really tells me anything. I am not political and I admit it so sometime using a dictionary isn't useful because these terms are just that, terms. They give me no history, and don't tell me what each party believes in. I mean really, I could belong to either party based on those rather vague definitions. 

 

I also looked up Independent which I found equally unsatisfying. 

adjective in·de·pen·dent \ˌin-də-ˈpen-dənt\

1 :  not dependent: as a (1) :  not subject to control by others (2) :  not affiliated with a larger controlling unit <an independent bookstore> b (1) :  not requiring or relying on something else :  not contingent <an independent conclusion> (2) :  not looking to others for one's opinions or for guidance in conduct (3) :  not bound by or committed to a political party.

It works at times. But does it fully describe my political or non-political leanings? Now mind you I am just looking into the broad stroke definitions of 4 more or less political persuasions.  

I think there are many of us that do not think about the political system and those we have voted into office until an election year, a scandal or some other news worthy item comes up about that elected official. We just go along with what is in place, like the electoral college. How many of us actually understand that system, where it came from and why we are still using it? Does it still benefit our country in this day and age of electronic communication? Maybe there should be an updated version of it. Heaven knows, it has never benefited Vermont. The only time presidential candidates come here is if they accidentally cross over the border from New Hampshire. Okay, maybe on occasion one has made a brief trip to the northern section of the state.

Seriously, I have more questions than answers after this debacle, this farce, that was the recent presidential election. How could we even let 2 people run for the highest office in the land with the questionable backgrounds that they both had? Not saying any presidential candidate has been perfect but these 2 topped the loser lists big time and yet one is now our president-elect.

Well the last definition I looked up was liberal and guess what? That one suits me to a tee.

lib·er·al (lĭb′ər-əl, lĭb′rəl) adj.

1.

a. Favoring reform, open to new ideas, and tolerant of the ideas and behavior of others; not bound by traditional thinking; broad-minded.

b. Of, relating to, or characteristic of liberalism.

c. Liberal Of, designating, or characteristic of a political party founded on or associated with principles of social and political liberalism, especially in Great Britain, Canada, and the United States.

Really a portion of any of the first 3 definitions could fit me but that last says it best. I hope I am open to new ideas, to change when change is needed, not to following a party line just because it is the party line, voting my conscience because I personally feel that is what I have to do and rather than casting my vote blindly, not voting because that is also my right.

I first voted in 1972 the year of Nixon vs. McGovern. Yep, my candidate lost. My Dad and stauch Nixon supporter called me to tell me his candidate had won and I returned the favor when several months later there was a movement to impeach Nixon and he left office. 

I can't say over the years how many of my votes have gone to winners or losers but they have been used to vote my conscience and as I said, sometimes my conscience has left the 'tick' box empty. 

Yes, I am a "Liberal" with leanings towards Republican, Democrat and Independent. I can see the usefulness of all the parties if they make us stop and think about what we are voting on or who we are voting for. We should not longer 'toe the line' because one party or another says this is so. We should be flexible and try to see the whole picture to see who really would be best for any office. From our smallest towns to the largest cities, we should have people in office that care about the people not in office. Which I realize is a bit of a utopian idea but I have faith in humanity. We have done well so far, but are in need of some major reality checks. America is not perfect and what happened before the election with the backstabbing and vindictivness of the candidates and after the election, with tensions flaring between those who consider themselves winners and those who consider themselves losers only serves to divide the country and make us look foolish to the rest of the world. 

Trump may not be 'your' president, but he will still be president and lets honor that office. But let us also keep our eyes wide open to the man in office whether or not you voted for him. His words condoned many actions that people have spent years fighting against. Let's not slip back in time and lose all the good that this country has bought forth to the world. 

I am proud to be a Liberal American. I stand by the immigrants, as 2 generations ago my family were immigrants, I stand by those who are disabled, as any one of them could be my son or my daughter, I stand by LBGTQ because I was taught that God makes no mistakes, the list goes on and I am there, because I am an Amercan and damn, proud of it.

 

 

To iron or not to iron

 

ironing - noun

the act or process of smoothing or pressing clothes, linens, etc., with a heated iron.

Unless you are a seamstress, a designer of clothes or a quilt maker chances are you do not know, or are familiar with or indeed use an iron.

An iron is an electrical device that once plugged in and turned on creates heat which you use to press clothes or material with. That is the simple explanation. It can create steam if water is put in it's reservoir, it also has a variety of heat settings dependent on what you are ironing. For me it is a way to go back to my childhood. 

When I was young, being one of those baby boomers or mid-century antiques, clothes, linens, indeed most of the material that touched our lives was not made out of polyester or even contained polyester (or any of the other wonder materials of this day and age). Most clothing indeed the sheets on our beds required ironing. A time consuming process of taking said iron to the items in question and pressing out the wrinkles that washing had put in. No matter how good you were at hanging things out on the clothesline or quickly pulling them from the dryer (yes we had one, infrequently used), everything seemed to wrinkle.

Ironing was an art. You learned which items may need a little sprinkle of water then were rolled up and set aside for a few minutes before ironing and which items you could immediately press. There was a moment of satisfaction as a pile of handkerchiefs neatly folded and press stood in a pile waiting to be tucked in my father's top drawer. A sign of relief as the good tablecloth graced the table at Thanksgiving dinner without a crease or wrinkle in sight. The delight of putting on a sparkling white cotton shirt that felt soft against the skin because of the diligent hand of the person who spent time pressing it.

Yes, I still take a moment of joy when I press a linen shirt that dried outside feels rough and scratchy, but with the application of heat and steam becomes supple and soft. I love it when I sew and press a dart on a bodice so it fits nicely against the skin, or flatten a seam so a dress falls softly or a hem is barely visible. 

I don't have to do it. I know how to grab a cotton shirt out of the washer, throw it in the dryer for a few minutes till the material is nice and hot and then hang it and watch the wrinkles fade at the material cools and air dries. I could always wear material which never wrinkles and requires no care other than to wash and dry it. But when I iron something there is a fragrance when the heat and steam meets the material. It brings me back to the basement in my childhood home, ironing my dad's handkerchiefs, (he had to have a fresh one daily to tuck into his suit pocket), learning how to sew with my mother and generally living, what was then, a much less complicated life. 

Most homes nowadays don't have ironing boards or irons. Women and men don't know this art. They have never pressed a sharp crease on a long sleeve dress shirt or a pair of pants. They don't need to know and most don't care to know, but it is one of those small things along with so many others that are disappearing in this world of modern technology. 

The "good ol' days" weren't always good but they did have some redeeming qualities, maybe ironing is not one of them but to me, the memory is a special one. I didn't always want to iron and a lot of times I complained and whined about it, but I did it. I accomplished a small thing and it taught me that sometimes those small things count. They can make someone happy. Every time my father opened his drawer and saw those hankies, neatly ironed and stacked in the corner he knew I cared without me saying a word.

The future past

I was born in a time now called 'mid-century', one among many in a group called 'baby boomers'. I have one foot on the deck of the Starship Enterprise and one in a 1975 Ford Galaxie. I am among those who watched the first moon landing and saw the computer go from the size of a football field to a device you can stick in your back pocket. We ate butter, lard, cookies and cakes and never heard of  lactose intolerance or celiac disease. We ate vegetables grown on local farms that were not GMO and Monsanto was a good place to work. We caught fireflies in the summer, and thought our world would go one forever.
We didn't have integration, we believed in politicians, we didn't know what recycling was, we let banks and Wall St. rule our economics. We thought doctors were gods and cancer was a word whispered in dark corners. Drug use was unheard of, alcoholics were people who just drank a bit too much, hitting a woman was wrong but not corrected, and bigotry, not just of color prevailed.
We drove in cars without seat belts, rode bikes without helmets, we were told no and corrected when we did something wrong. We were punished when we broke our parents rules, going to our room really was a punishment, there wasn't a TV, computer or gaming station to keep us amused but there were books. Hard cover and soft cover, not on Kindles or Nooks. Comic books cost a dime and were not 'graphic' novels.
Our parents did not 'hover' over us. We went out at daybreak during the summer and came home when the streetlights came on. We ate what was given to us and were thankful. 
H.G. Wells told us of worlds and times beyond our own. Orwell wrote "1984" which painted a desperate picture of the future for our race. Roddenberry told us that space was 'the final frontier', it wasn't and isn't.
Baby boomers came in all colors, sizes, background and ethnicity. They found nature and a hole in the ozone layer. They modernized and mechanized our society. They gave birth to Generation X who are now the parents of the Millennials.
We were and are not perfect, just like our parents before us. We struggle every day with the world around us. With instant news, the horrors of war, the bombings, the deaths of innocents is up front and center.
We were not given things just because we wanted them.
Wars have been fought through each generation to insure the freedom of the next generation. We now question wars fought on foreign soil as to why any generation should lose members in a war that politicians think we need to fight.
The world, our county, our people are in a state of constant flux. I am not saying my life, childhood is better or worse than any other. What I am saying is we have missed the point. Each generation has something to offer. We need to look behind us to see what is ahead. Take the best that there is, apply it to the next generation and surely there will be a change for the better.
We are trying and we continue to try to bring the best forward, to not lose the best of the past because it is old or different. To embrace all because we can and should.
One final note, I am not saying that bad things didn't exist way back in the 'mid-century', they did and they continue to. What I am saying is we have let the bad rule too much of the good in this nation, in the world. We forget with instant bad news that there is a lot of good news that needs to be told.
We are letting fear rule us. From being afraid to letting kids get bumps and scrapes to fearing opening our doors to strangers to much larger and darker fears. We can't go back to 'simpler' times but there are lessons to be learned from all pass generations, good and bad, they are what makes the future either bleak or amazing, as in what could be.
 

Death

I dreamt about death last night. Not my death or the death of anyone I knew. Just about death.
I am at the age that the conversation of death is more and more in the forefront. Obituaries are filled with people of my age dying, so I think about death. Not every day or every minute, but in passing, fleeting thoughts.
We live with death every day. We dine with it, read it, watch it on our TV's. We are surrounded by death in our daily lives and yet we choose not to acknowledge it except when we must. 
When we are forced by the death of a loved one (whether the death be human or animal) we use words such as 'loss', 'passed','crossed the rainbow bridge', for the life of us we cannot seem to say a person (or animal) died. I did not lose my parents (that would be careless), they haven't passed from one room to the next, sadly, they died.
The dead are celebrated, venerated and mourned in a variety of ways, from the 'Day of the Dead'  when people go to cemeteries with food and gifts to spend the day with their families, both living and dead, to building pyres to cremate the body of a loved one and scatter the ash to the wind.
From our first inhaled breath to our last exhaled breath, we are surrounded by death. The trees that grow feed on it, the flowers we see are there because of it, our world exists because death is a constant. It feeds and grows the community of man.
Death is here just as life is here. They are one in the same. How we acknowledge and understand this 'union' is up to us. Some choose religion as a gateway to understanding life and death. Faith is a very important part of life for many people in the world. It gives those people strength to face the uncertainty that we call life.
I don't believe in ghosts, spirits, angels, heaven, hell, well a lot of things. But I don't say that there isn't a possibility, just like I think death is not the end. No, I don't believe in reincarnation, going up and down the old ladder of life depending on how you lived your previous lives. I do believe in nothing is final. The body may have died but certain aspects continue on. If you are buried in the 'good ol' fashion' way, pine box or canvas wrapping, no chemicals involved, your remains go back to the earth. Trees, grass, flowers all exist because of that nourishment or think of this, every breath you ever breathed is contained within our world. It goes around and around, gets breathed in and out again, year after year, century after century. No, you are no longer a sentient being but you are here.
There are those among us that leave behind the written word, paintings, sculptures, heroic acts, their 'accomplishments' during this thing we call life. Then there are the millions more that just live their lives. They don't have 'accomplishments' to mark their life here on earth other than the fact that they were here, but it is because they were here that the breath of life passes on. The solider that breathed his last in some battlefield has given breath to a child born on a farm somewhere far away from war. My last breath, whenever that may be, will start a child crying as it emerges into this world. That is an amazing thing.
I am surrounded on a daily basis by the beauty of death in the wonder of life. From the flowers I grow in my gardens to the sound of the song birds outside my door, it is truly amazing.
This is not to say death doesn't hurt. That it doesn't break you heart and make you cry when someone you love is no longer there. When you cannot gaze into their eyes or hear their voice. Death creates voids and life fills them. I guess that is why I dreamed about it last night. It is spring and the world is awakening from a winter sleep. Life is all around me, green and glorious, loud and noisy on a quiet dirt road in Vermont. I won't always be here but I have a deep and abiding faith that the world will be because we humans accept death not as ending but just a change. Something we fear and embrace because it is the beginning and ending of all we know. 

Parents

Have you ever really thought about it? That we parents were once children and our parents were once children and so it goes?
We, as children never think about our parents being children. We see the pictures of them, young and carefree, out exploring the world or sitting with family members at a Christmas dinner but we don't think of them as being young. We see them at a sort of static point in our lives. We see them as parents.
My parents have been dead (I am not PC in using the word dead, it is a fact. I did not lose them or any of the other euphemisms for this condition) now for many years. As I think back now that I am heading off into the sunset myself, I realize that I didn't know my parents, not as they were before me, when they were young newlyweds, before they met, or growing up. There are a couple of stories and a couple of black and white photos that show them before parenthood, before me.
Why is it we don't ask our parents if they had dreams or aspirations before becoming parents? Are we so self-centered (as children) to think our parents had reached their goal in life, had climbed their personal Mt. Everest? They became our parents, how glorious is that???
As proud as I am of my two sons (you know who you are), I remember vaguely having a life before them. A very different life than I live now, especially since my husband and I have gone up one step in the parenthood game by becoming grandparents.
I remember lazy summer days after being released from another torturous year of school. I had a hard time in school and wasn't the best of students. I often heard the phrase that 'I didn't apply myself'. School was boring. Back then the teachers as a general rule, were trying to push square pegs into round holes. Girls were suppose to be housewives, that kinda 'woman' thing and boys, well they got the fun jobs and supported us girls. It was before the sexual revolution, before women started demanding equal rights, it was still the time of crinolines (look that one up), gloves and hats.
I didn't like crinolines, hats or gloves. I wanted to play with trucks and climb trees. I wanted to do what the guys did. Do my kids know that about me? Do they know that if given a chance I would have been a heavy machine operator, or a welder? Oh the things I would have done if I had only realized I could have done them.
Do they know that I had many, many confrontations with my parents? That I couldn't fit into what they thought I should be and that this sense of failure dogged our relationship until they were gone (okay one euphemism)? No they don't. Because in the parent/child relationship we don't talk about these things but as parents our childhood experiences can easily become that of our children and our own relationship with our parents can become the one we have with our children. It's a cycle that repeats itself and sometimes you can't see it until your child has left home.
What do I want my sons to know about me? There was a lots of smiles, laughter and love in my life growing up. Yes, there was a lot of teenage angst, bad girl attitude and screwing up on my part. We had issues, all parents and children do. Maybe some of ours were a little more difficult because my parents were not my biological parents and biology, knowing where you are from, links to your past, does play a part in accepting who you are in life.
I have finally found at this time in my life that I am okay with who I am. I will never be skinny (Reubenesque is the word for my curves), there will always be something to overcome either physically or mentally, I will never have a perfect relationship with my sons or my daughter-in-laws because there is no such thing, the sun will rise and it will set. I will shed tears over those who have died and who I miss. I will always wish I had made that snappy comeback or I told someone how important they are in my life. I will not live my life in regret. I cannot change the past but I can choose on how I wish to remember it.
I am doing a project right now in which I am going through the many slides my Dad left me. I am only choosing the ones with smiling faces and happy memories. I don't need the scenic vistas or faces of people I don't recognize. I do need to see those faces so dear to me growing up. The small group of aunts, uncles and cousins, sitting at the picnic table in our backyard, or visiting at someone's house or even gathered around a table for a long ago Christmas dinner.

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.

Change of life/attitude/maybe clothes style....

Where shall I begin this little trip down memory road concerning my thyroid?
Well it started innocently enough with an appointment with a dermatologist due to some skin issues on my face and in my hair. I was given some meds, some advice and told to return if the problems didn't clear up.
Well I returned and as the good doctor looked at me she stated, 'do you know your thyroid is enlarged'? It was news to me. Frankly I never thought about my thyroid but because of that singular statement I found myself on the roller coaster of appointments. From the dermatologist to my own PA. Blood tests and an ultra sound. Blood tests came out find but the ultra sound did not. Seems there were nodules on both sides of my sweet thyroid. The right side larger and impeding my airway enough to make me cough.
This information sent me over the Keene to a specialist and the next thing I knew I was having a partial thyroidectomy, the theory being, my thyroid functioned, so the doctor did not want to take it all out, just half (the right half), in hopes that what was left would take over the job completely. Two weeks after the operation and after more blood letting the conclusion was the surgery was a success but the patient died. In other words, my thyroid was not working any longer. So I started on a med for that.
Months passed and slowly my energy level started to improved. More good days then bad but my weight started inching up. I went to one dietician a couple of times and she saw nothing really wrong with my eating habits although I could practice more portion control, oh duh.
I dropped her like a hot potato and started looking around at other options. I will state here I am not a touchy feely person. I hugs those in my family and that I know excessively well and I shake hands with everybody else. I don't even think about air kisses. So in looking into alternative medical treatment I first and foremost needed to find people that would respect this idiosyncrasy about me.
I tried a return visit to a place I had gone to about 10 years ago. The practitioners were young, new and huggers back then. Scared me right off. But I figure time had past, they and I had grown older maybe we all could handle each other. Seems that was the ticket. They have learned that I have a right not to be hugged and I have learned I can open up to them.
So we have started down this road. My first entry in my journal was for Sept. 27, 2013. At that time I weight in at 227 lbs. My most recent entry for Dec. 26, 2014 I weigh in at 242.8 a gain of 15.8 lbs. 
I had spent 18 months or there abouts, 3 years ago losing 30 lbs. I cut back on portions and I walked and walked and walked. I had weighed closer to 260 back then. But at some point I got tired of walking maybe that was the first indication of something going wrong. I maintained my weight for a year quite easily and then I became tired. I would gain a pound or two but I always managed to lose it. Seems I can't do that any more. It became harder and harder to function. It's not like suddenly these things happened. It was insidious and slow. Oh and of course once you are staring  six oh in the face everybody want to blame your age. 
I admit I let thing go for a long time. I have had in the past 15 years 4 major surgeries, I haven't been in the best of health, but I still believe I can improve my health. 
So now I am trying. I hate the elliptical we have but it is easier than dressing in many layers of clothes and trying to walk down a frozen dirt road. I also can set up my computer and watch documentaries, they do help the time go by. I started doing stretches first thing in the morning. Right now I am a balancing act. This stuff is new to me so it is like balancing on a fence. I am never quite sure if I will get the work done or fall off the fence, hit the couch and turn on the TV. I am a procrastinator by nature and this is hard, really hard. So I thought I would write about it. Maybe seeing it down on paper (as is were) I will make me feel like my efforts are real and I have a responsibility to me, to try, to succeed so I'll be around for awhile. Not in a 'home' or a walker, but up and participating in life.

Morning has broken

There is an old hymn 'Morning has broken' that many of us 'older' folk know from the singer Cat Stevens  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXWI6ISkzlI

Blackbird has spoken like the first bird.
Praise for the singing,
Praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the world.

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven,
Like the first dewfall on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight,
Mine is the morning,
Born of the one light Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise ev'ry morning,
God's recreation of the new day.

Morning has broken...

This plays in my head when mornings are a bit rough which, for some unknown reason, seems to happen a little more often than I care for.
I remember the mornings of work, kids and school. They were hard. Rushing to be somewhere, trying to get kids ready for school, snow days, hot summers, winter vacations, it all slipped by so fast. What I wouldn't give for one of those early morning scrambles out the door with my boys now.
Like my own childhood I thought those days would never end but they did. One day my boys were little, messy creatures. The next, they were grown men. Now they are married and one is a father. How fast the time flew and I wonder, did I spend enough time with them? That is the thing about parenthood, you don't know if you've done it right no matter how great your kid turns out. There are always questions.
The thing about the song is that even if you don't believe in God, Buddha,  or some deity there is always an awe, a magical moment when the first light of morning comes. Right now our 'black bird' is the crow or raven as it circles in the sky calling out, the dew is more of a frost as winter is creeping up on us and the world (at least here) seems to be falling asleep rather than waking up as it is a season of change.  But even as we head into the coldest part of the year, the mornings despite their temperatures and lack of greenery can be inspiring. Taking a moment, despite the lack of sleep and the feeling of total crankiness, to look out on my small space in the world gives me inner peace. It makes me breath, it makes me create, to move on, to hope, it keeps me alive. I don't know in that mad rush of childhood with my boys if I passed that on to them. It took me too long to learn that lesson, the one were you stop and breath and when you do the world slows down and you can sometimes look back to where you have been and if you are fortunate you can sometimes see through the morning haze, where you might be going.

60, sixty, six-zero.....oh my!

I am 60. The big six zero. Sliding down the slope at a very rapid pace to 70, oh my!!!
I was diagnosed early this year with pre-diabetes which, of course, does not sound as bad as diabetes. I had always thought that if I was diagnosed with some sort of problem that could be cured with A, B or C, I would immediately hop on the band wagon and get it done. Do what ever was necessary to overcome whatever the issue was. I find, however, I am seriously lacking in any type of ambition. My procrastination ability is leading me down the road to Type 2 diabetes. 
I merely have to lose approximately 23 pounds and exercise 3 times a week or better and I will greatly reduce my chances of becoming diabetic. I am even on Metformin which should help the process and I recently had a partial thyroidectomy (which I do take medication for since the remaining piece of thyroid decide to quit when it's larger, lumpier half was removed). I am told by the doctors that the weight should be coming off (I do eat fairly healthy although I admit to a sweet tooth). So why, oh why can't I seem to do it?
What is procrastination (other than an exceedingly long word)? Read what I found below.

The True Meaning of Procrastination

The definition of procrastination

Published on December 2, 2010 by Piers Steel, Ph.D. in The Procrastination Equation

Procrastinate definition, to defer action; delay: to procrastinate until an opportunity is lost

But it is the Oxford English Dictionary that gets closest to the irrational dark heart of the word. It defines procrastination as a postponement, "often with the sense of deferring though indecision, when early action would have been preferable," or as "defer[ing] action, especially without good reason.

 

Oh yes I can come up with reasons why I haven't lost weight in many, many years. It started out as 'baby weight' after the birth of my second son in which I gained 60 lbs. Then it was not having time to work on the weight loss issue, then moving to Las Vegas, moving back to Vermont, etc., etc. Not one of those reasons were really in any way valid. Oh they might have had a moment but nothing more than that. I have been plagued all my life by procrastination. Some times its okay but most of the time it has cost me a great deal. The great thing about getting older is I realize hindsight really is 20/20. Well maybe it isn't such a great thing.

I have a health problem, something that can't be fixed by drugs, surgery or other people. The only person that can fix it is me. I have the tools, I do know how to fix the problem, I just can't seem to do it. I keep saying, 'tomorrow', day after day and then a week is gone, a month, and nothing has change. The only constant is me saying tomorrow. 

Don't think I haven't spoken with counselors. At this point I could have a degree and open my own office, I speak 'counselor' with ease. I know what they are going to say and how I am going to answer. 

It is awful to think that this long streak of procrastination is actually a long streak of insecurity and self-defeating attitude. And in long I do mean back to my childhood. Back to those first 3 years when all the adults in my life took my life and turned it upside down and inside out. Took me away from those I knew and loved, shattered my world and thrust me into the great unknown. Made me feel small, insignificant, unloved and unwanted. My mother gave me up to be put into a system to be fostered by strangers and eventually given to strangers who would now be my parents.

It has colored my world. Made the dark corners of my mind darker. It has been the imp that always whispered in my ear that I wasn't quite good enough and I procrastinated and the imp was right. In school I didn't live up to my potential. I failed in college. I have a thing about being on time but I can't seem to finish things on time.  

It is the hurtful things said that stick in my mind. The Boston Globe Art Show, I got an honorable mention for a block print. We went to the Saltonstall Building in Boston to see the show, I was over the moon. The work of the other young high school students were amazing. My father saw my piece and said, 'I wonder how you got a mention at all with all this other talent around'. My heart was pierced. 

I got to go to college as an art major not the college I wanted to go to but to a state school where they could turn me into an art teacher, which was not my goal in life. So I procrastinated about going to classes, finishing assignments, my parents paid while I had a good time but like all good times eventually it had to end. I left college, with no degree and no shame at my 'bad' behavior. This was a running theme with my adoptive parents. Me not being quite good enough. Time and time again I proved them right. 

I have said many time that you have to leave your past behind because it can effect your future. Unfortunately I haven't been able to do that. My past keeps bumping into my present which disturbs my future. It subconscious. I don't deliberately dwell on what was I try to focus on what is but there are some days when a phrase, a feeling, a random thought hits and suddenly I am 3. 

One of the last conversations I had with my adoptive mom (we never really spoke of my adoption although I always knew I was adopted) was for her to say to me that when they got the call about a boy and a girl ready for adoption they rushed to get there but the boy was gone so they took me. And that is pretty much how I have always felt, second best. 

Don't get me wrong, I loved my adoptive parents and never want to meet my biological parents (I figured they didn't want me, I didn't need them). I know my adoptive parents did their best but I also realize from being a parent that some people shouldn't be parents and mine were the kind that they were great at being an aunt and uncle but not so great with a small, redhead child, that grew up with ideas and thoughts of her own and a temper to match her hair. 

But that was then and this is now. It is not their fault nor anyone else's that I find myself in this predicament. It is my body, my weight and my brain, attitude, or procrastination that has gotten me stuck between a rock and a hard place. I can move forward, but frankly, I afraid, I know how, but it's like the proverbial tunnel and I don't see the light at the end and that scares me

I guess the only way to do it is when I wake up in the morning I have to say 'today' and continue to say it every day and to keep looking at the positive in this life of mine.