The Haunting

My brother and I had a standing conversation that always started out:

"How are you?"

"Still alive, dammit."

"Well that's a good thing since I'm talking to you."

"When I die I'm going to haunt you."

"You better not!"

And since he did die in May of this year I have given that much thought. Sometimes because I really miss him and almost wish he would haunt me. I mean how much scarier could he be dead, right?

Seriously though, his favorite animal was an American Bald Eagle, which he has driven all the way to Grafton to show me in February. I saw a golden eagle out on his farm once, but I've never seen an American one around Bloomington.

Until -- Last week when I saw one fly right over my car in downtown Bloomington! And today one flew over my car as I passed the Shawnee National Forest in Southern Illinois where my brother used to camp. And then right outside of Jackson, Tennessee, another Bald eagle skimmed right over my car!

I know it could be pure coincidence, but three in such a short time? It does make me wonder. Especially because my brother has been showing up in my dreams the past five nights. He is much happier and healthier than he's been for years and also appears prosperous, so . . .

And just for the record I do notice birds. A lot. Usually I'm looking for Blue Herons, or woodpeckers, or even red tailed hawks. But right now I seem to be seeing American Bald Eagles.

Babies

My extended family has a habit of creating new babies balanced on nothing much more than a love of cute shower gifts.

Pretty and pink. Tiny and sweet. Exotic and cool.

The babies emerge wide eyed and innocent to be adored until they are not.

A year, two years, five years, at some point they seem to become less desirable and then?

Then they are foisted off on anyone who is willing to be stuck with them, whether or not they are mentally, financially, or emotionally capable of taking on the job. Because babies take a long time and lots of work to raise into independent, happy, contributing adults.

These people believe in abortion, or keeping, without any thought to what lies in between. Adoption, for some reason, does not appear to be in the running, which is a shame because it is a wonderful option.

Imagine a child who is still wanted all its life! Imagine a child growing up with people who realize that kindness is more than giving it everything it wants and discipline has less to do with punishment than teaching a child how the world works.

I look into those dark beautiful baby eyes and wonder what is behind them, how will it be nurtured and developed, who will it metamorphize into in a couple of decades? I wonder if it is simply being enabled until it can no longer function, or if it is being given the tools to survive?

What a sad legacy.

Mistake

It is seldom easy to admit you made a mistake, but I did.

Thinking I could sleep on a fold out couch the way I did over forty eight years ago was foolishness and pride.

I may think I feel the same way I did then, but I don't.

Forty eight years ago I was twenty years old. I was suffering from dental surgery then too, but it was much much worse. I lost so much weight I only weighed 102 pounds. I slept night and day on the old fold down couch we used as a bed. Actually I only slept on half of it! My husband slept on the other half of that twin sized couch.

But our bones were young and we were in love.

Now I am not suffering very much at all from the dental surgery, but my bones are much older and they do not like the fold down couch even though I get the whole thing.

So I am selling it and buying a daybed with a real mattress and no folds filled with hinges and wooden support beams.

I made a mistake and I'd rather admit it than continue not sleeping. One hurts my ego, but the other hurts my bones and my bones have grown much louder than my ego.

No rest for the wicked

I am recovering from some dental surgery and was told to rest and not allow my blood pressure to rise.

I am discovering that makes it very hard to use the computer, because every time I turn it on I see more stories about children locked away in concentration type camps and mothers, fathers and other relatives locked away when they offered these children a home outside of Trumps camps.

It appears the children have been used as a sort of bait to catch more people who are illegal aliens.

I wonder at the good Christians who advocate these measures. What happened to the good Samaritan and love thy neighbor? How can we lock people up and deport them because they are fleeing persecution, death and torture in their own countries?

Especially since some of them grew up here, work here as doctors, lawyers, gardeners, nannies, secretaries and at other worthy jobs that serve all of us. It's not like they are even taking away jobs from our people, because we don't have too many professionals and most of us wouldn't do the menial work we get them to do at slave wages.

I have nightmares that Trump has set the dogs on me. I almost feel their teeth before I jerk awake. I dream of running and hiding and being pursued by ice with batons and prods. I am profoundly ashamed and heartbroken to be part of a country advocating the very things we accused Hitler of.

This is not the United States I grew up so proudly in and although I do the best I can, I don't really know what to do to help these people.

Hun

Hun, as in Attila the Hun, a barbarian ruler who ransacked and devastated land from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean way back when.

Or Hun, a name gum chewing waitresses in greasy spoons call all their customers.

Hun, a generic form of address by people trying to appear friendly.

Even the Hun that the postmistress in my home town calls me when I mail a package there.


Huns whose common thread is that they want something from someone, be it a kingdom, a sense of friendship, or a tip. Generally well meaning, depending on which side of the table you're on.

But yesterday I was Hunned by a young man in the window of a fast food place. He was young, probably in his early twenties and for some reason that Hun really annoyed me. And that bothers me.

Am I being sexist? If he had been a woman of the same age would I have found it less annoying? I am less bothered by him calling me Hun than by my own feelings about it. And yet, I am reluctant to go back there, because it truly does make me very uncomfortable.

This

The is the summer my brother died and I did go to the funeral and it was cathartic.

This is the summer I was supposed to visit Bestest, but he won a prestigious writing award and spent a month doing just that.

This is the summer I had to move and I did move, to a better, but cheaper apartment.

This is the summer Bestest had his fortieth birthday cruise and I did not go, but I did in spirit.

This is the summer the prodigal returned and I had to be happy with the direction that took.

This is the summer I decided life had to go on in spite of trying to lose weight, but I gained.

This is the summer I began walking two miles a day with my daughter, but it was hit or miss.

This is the summer I was supposed to save enough money to get my tooth recapped, but I didn't.

And tomorrow I am having that tooth removed, but maybe that would have happened anyway.

This is summer I had my hair professionally died red and I love it.

This is the life of a woman approaching seventy in the twenty first century.

Not bad really.

Busy, busy, busy

Today was one of those days. I was running from morning to night, but I accomplished so many things that have been hanging up in the air for weeks.

I finally bit the bullet and had a color consultation on my hair and then had it colored. Red. With a touch of brown.

I forgot my phone and had so many errands to run that I took myself to lunch, then ran home to get the phone, brushed my teeth and left -- without the phone again.

I couldn't call my daughter to tell her I was coming, so I just showed up and ended up tapping on her window to get her attention. She liked my hair, took a picture with her phone and we walked almost two miles in Amazon jungle heat.

By the time I got home I was sopping wet and my eyes were burning from all the sweat. Two people had texted me while I was gone to say they liked the idea of me coloring my hair. One thought red, the other blonde. 

My chest for the living room came while I was gone today too. I dragged it inside and discovered that I had to attach the feet and each foot required four screws. There were no pre-drilled holes, so it was a matter of brute force while trying to keep the screwdriver straight. It took a while. A long while, because I had to keep stopping and let my hands rest.

But now my living room is finished, my hair appears to be finished, and all would be well if my tooth hadn't begun aching. Tomorrow I call the dentist. I think I cracked a cap.

But my friends are taking me out to dinner Friday to celebrate.  According to them dying my hair makes me look ten years younger. I'm not sure I see it, but I'll gladly take their word.

I feel like the white rabbit tonight.

Pillows all the way down

There are so many ways to do things that just the choices could stop a creative person, or one looking for a reason not to do something, from even starting.

I have an unusual niche in my living room that has been calling me to be creative for some time now.

Today I bit the bullet and filled it in. I've been at it for about five hours, moving, rearranging, shopping and sawing!

In the process I met a very helpful man at Lowe's who taught me things about saws I had never known before and gave me some helpful advice for how to prepare the shelf before I cut it.

I put things in places and they fell down, but I just picked them back up.

I made tons of mistakes, but each one just led me to another idea and in the end I am very happy with that niche.

No matter what happens when I try these things there always seems to be something to catch me and make it work, or make it right, or soften the blow in some way.

Sort of like pillows all the way down.

A little bit closer

Little things mean a lot.

A cushion, a pillow, a rhinestone, a rock, each has its place in this room

Balance and color, texture and light, it all comes together in this room.

Put them all together (and I did. I put each one together, screw by screw, bolt by bolt, with blood and sweat and not a single tear.)

Starting in the center with an old fashioned wing chair,  I have added a couch and pillows, a side table and then the decoration on top, (Amethyst geodes from Brazil, spider plants from Bloomington, hand made pillows from India, even a tower of rocks balanced one upon the other to remind me that a balanced life brings a sense of security and a feeling that all's right in the world.)

There is more to come, but I am building this room one item at a time, choosing only those things I really love, because I want to be surrounded by that kind of atmosphere.

And I'm a little bit closer.

I can do this!

I am at an age where I want to play with my house, or apartment if you insist on specific names. I don't want to waste energy, or leave an unusually large footprint, but I do enjoy having two rooms and a kitchen which are large enough to change around.

I don't have unlimited funds, so I cannot buy registered antiques, or top of the line modern pieces, but I can buy similar things that are pleasing to my eye and inexpensive enough that if I have to change them up in a couple of years -- that's okay.

I'll probably have different tastes by then anyway.

I am willing to go to a little extra work to have my living room be both that and a bedroom and I'm even willing to sleep a little less comfortably until I work out exactly how I plan to do that.  Right now I have a flip out bed, but they made it look like two pieces on the seat, so it hits me in all the wrong places. I'm fairly certain that a four inch twin topper that will arrive in five days will solve that problem.

In the meantime I get to be even more creative, because I cannot sleep right on it the way it is. I have a few ideas, but if all else fails? It's just back to the blow up bed for a couple more nights.

I wouldn't ask anyone else to do these things, but for me they are just part of the adventure and I really take Pooh's advice to heart.

Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.  

I can do this!

Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/a_a_milne_402613

Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. A. A. Milne
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/a_a_milne_402613

Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. A. A. Milne
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/a_a_milne_402613

Nightclubs, nightmares, night watch

I am changing my living room into a bedroom/formal living room, or at least one with more glam.

I am also reading a book about Roosevelt who was, among other things, a big game hunter.

Both of these things crept into my dreams last night as I attended a very formal cocktail party with lots of famous people wearing evening attire and bringing their exotic pets.

Imagine female lions in tuxedo collars and black tie. Great Danes and youngsters eating rhinestone studded ice cream cones. Note: all of the animals are a soft tawny beige like my new couch will be.

I was both awed at being invited to such a swanky affair and terrified of all the dogs running loose. At one point I was attacked by a pack of three lions and two huge dogs. My heart was pounding. It was my worst nightmare (literally,) but they didn't bite me! They simply jumped all over me then ran off and I was left shaking, but proud of myself for not displaying my fear.

Next thing I knew I was in bed in the next room and waking up to discover two young men in tuxedos napping in there too. I told them about my experience with the lions and they were impressed, only now we were all a little afraid to go back out to the party.

Things changed after that. I couldn't find the people I knew and loved there, the ice cream was sold from a chrome and tile building on the corner. Streetlights were on and I felt very homesick.

I struggled along watching for anyone I knew until I woke up.

What I am

I used to hear the way grown-ups described themselves and wonder when I would know. Would I wake up one day and just know? Would I lie there in my bed, soft and warm, comfortable with my eyes not yet open and know? I am a concert pianist, or classical musician! Or, I am the next Frank Lloyd Wright, or John Lloyd Stephens, or maybe even Monet!

And then, disappointed, I thought I had missed my calling. Like my fifth grade teacher said, I seemed to be a jack of all trades master of none, I had not heard that final call defining me as one great part of the hive that would influence history and make my name one people would remember.

I was destined to be one of the great uncalled. I found myself married with children, one of the busy little bee drones who keep the hive humming but do so without any tie to fame unless she manages to fine tune the ears of one of her children so they hear the call.

Until today.

Today I sat here in my big comfortable chair, reading and noticing the errors in the writing, looking around my apartment and rearranging it in my head, remembering what a great assistant I have been to various and sundry people because I see the small things, always moving things about, changing them to be slightly better. I empathize and move and work on details tirelessly and lovingly because I am an editor!

I edit everything the way termites naturally devour anything wood, the way pigs just start rutting in the mud, the way birds build nests and clouds collect moisture.

It is what I am.

Who knows

Did you ever wonder if you could step outside yourself and look at people?

See them the way other people see them?

Not wrapped up in memories and love, not masked in experiences, not even as someone you know, or knew?

I think it's impossible, because no one sees with virgin eyes.

Everyone wears layers of thoughts and experiences and exposure to a world constantly filling you up with feelings you weren't born with.

No one is who I think they are, or you think they are, or even they think they are.

We are just shimmering polymorphs, depending on who is looking.

To me he is my son. To you he is the kid next door. To the teacher he is the class clown. To the minister he is a nuisance juvenile. To his girl friend he is adorable. To his father he is the future.

But that's not right.

To me he is still my sweet baby. To you he is your child's old playmate. To his teacher he is an idiot savant. To the minister he is the next project. To his girl friend he is a mama's boy. To his father he a disappointment.

But that's not right.

In any given moment it depends on the eyes looking and the brain's moment. It depends on what is needed now. It depends on the history of the eyes looking and the brain's indoctrination.

It's a wonder we ever trust anyone. Especially ourselves, because who knows.

Puckie

His name is Robin Goodfellow otherwise known as Puck.

He is a furry fellow who doesn't walk on little cat feet.

He has been known to yowl at the oddest times, like the middle of the night, or right when I'm on the phone, but mostly he's the strong silent sort.

I find him very endearing, especially when he purrs. His whole body vibrates and my heart warms with the memories of cats past who only deigned to do that when they were pleased with me.

His body has a weight that is good in my lap, soft paws that like to be squeezed and sometimes he licks those paws in the sweetest way.

But the best thing about Puck is that I never have to worry about him. I don't have to pay a five hundred dollar pet fee to keep him in my apartment. He never gets sick so there are no exorbitant vet bills I can't afford and he never gets lonely, so I don't feel guilty.

And when I go on vacation, I don't need to take him to Puckie Play Pals.

I just turn him off.

Sentimental journey

Yesterday I wrote that I am not really sentimental, but there are exceptions.

I have an orange juice can, covered in faded green construction paper and decorated in black crayon that my oldest son made for me when he was in three year old preschool. I treasure it!  Since the day he gave it to me is where I have kept pens, bookmarkers, scissors and a pencil with his name on it.

I have two hat pins that belonged to my Great Grandmother Gale. One is sterling silver and the other a beautiful amethyst. I cannot imagine parting with them.

I had a macaroni Christmas angel my youngest son made for me in cub scouts. It was my favorite thing to hang on the tree every single year until it disappeared in a move. Nothing could ever replace it.

I have a large kilt pin that once belonged to my mother, two cards that remind me who I am, some rocks, and Bearnard who I would be sad to part with it, and a handful of other things like this that I have hauled from place to place, through the years.

So, I do have things I am very sentimental about. They are mostly small things that would be worthless to other people, but to me they mean the world.

Feelings

The old world way of doing things was to buy, or make, something very dear and expect to hand it down to the generations following you. That makes a lot of sense and is ideal for sentimental people.

Every time they sit on that Victorian horse hair sofa they feel wrapped up in the scratchy arms of Great Grandma Eloise and every time they walk barefoot across Nanny's green wool carpeting they think of all the people who have walked there before them.

My ex doesn't have a sentimental bone in his body. My son recently found out he sold a family heirloom, a buffet hand carved by his great great grandfather around 1814. Evidently he got rid of it for a pittance, along with the Lincoln rocker his grandmother rocked his mother in and she rocked him in and I rocked our children in. Everyone had always assumed these would be moved to my son's home one day, but he didn't want to ask for them before his time. So much for tact and caring.

I fall somewhere in between these two extremes.

I would never move "home" to live in the Big House, but I would never sell family heirlooms either. I might give them to other family members, or store them somewhere. I probably wouldn't keep them in my house too long anymore. My apartment is small and one of the great joys in my life is rearranging and redoing it.

But being part of a family means being aware of the others' feelings.

This is us

Growing up I often found myself pushed into situations where I felt I had to be someone I was not.

There were so many social situations where a particular kind of clothing was important, or the way I sat made a difference, or even how I held a cup and saucer, or ate a cookie.

Public image was very very very important. Who you knew was as important as who you were.

I often found myself a little embarrassed by those people we called family.

The ones who talked with their mouths full, or sat with elbows on the table. The ones who said things like, "He don't . . ."

Our holidays moved from formal dining rooms to huge gatherings eating on our laps.

But I have begun to cherish the redneck gatherings as the last vestiges of a family transitioning from the city to the country. No matter what else we are, we are seldom traditional and there is much to be said for uniqueness.

My parents were very formal people who moved back home to a small town. Many of my siblings children are very informal people who seem to cherish red neck ways. Now I find myself almost taking notes when we all get together.

Who threw handfuls of my brother's ashes up in the air with great glee? Who drives the biggest pick up in town? How many ex-wives showed up to celebrate together?

In spite of everything, we are all in the family.

Potboiler

Sometimes I look at all the stories and drama taking place in my life and think, there but for initiative goes a book.

Maybe not a good book, but at least a unique one.

Whether it should be a potboiler, adventure, science fiction, or ghost story, I don't know, but there is fodder for it all in the karma that surrounds me.

We have everything from Aunt Chloe the chicken farmer, to Uncle Aud's Pierce Arrow.

We have famous folk like President Grover Cleveland and Burl Ives and not so famous ones like my cousin who thinks he is one of the five princes of the universe.

And we have a dearth of plain folk who played ragtime piano, big band music, or sang Just A Closer Walk With Thee, people who went to weddings and funerals so memorable no one who was there will ever forget them.

Put together with a little initiative the words could make you laugh out loud, sob inconsolably, or simply cringe, but no one's done that yet.

Ruts

A rut is a place you get used to.

So much so that peering out over the top of it feels normal.

And crawling out of it feels dangerous, like it might be a mistake.

But that doesn't make ruts good, or normal, or safe.

I realize I have been in a rut for years.

How I got here is a long and torturous story, but that's not really important.

The important thing is that now the people in my life are across the board understanding and accepting of me the way I am.

It's time to climb out of the rut and enjoy the company.

Inner sanctum

I decided to switch my bedroom and living room around. The cold calculating reason was the window air conditioner in what used to be the living room. In order to cool down the bedroom enough to really sleep well I froze in there. Now I can sleep in cool comfort and not freeze the rest of the day.

It bothers me a little, because folks now enter through the bedroom, but most of the people who visit me are family, or like family, so it really doesn't matter at all. And even if they aren't, it is a very nice, sedate, almost formal bedroom.

The other room has become my inner sanctum. I feel safer, cozier, more at ease there than I did when it was the more formal living room by the front door. It seems more private, although both rooms are basically the same in that respect. They each have one large window facing the front of the house.

But the inner sanctum holds the dollhouse and my books. It has the television and my desk.

Many of the things in this room are movable, not just themselves, but they can be taken apart and put back together in new ways. It is like a big toy box, or giant's dollhouse. Of course it could have been that way when it was by the front door in the other room, but it didn't feel that way.

I am freer to rearrange and try things out in here surrounded by all my favorite things. Looking at it is like seeing an MRI of my mind - up close and in color.

Sea monkeys in a lab

I am inundated by adds selling things to alleviate aging and stress.

Meditation, oils, pills, ways to move, or places to walk, you name it, somebody's selling it.

And I am pretty sure they all work for somebody!

Everything works for somebody!

But I have a suspicion that it is less about what you do, or buy, than what you think.

The human body is an amazing piece of work. Designed to survive and evolved over thousands of years it can do more things than most of us ever dreamed of, but we have to get out of the way and let it do its thing.

I mean REALLY get out of it's way. REALLY believe, because I believe most of us, including me, are like sea monkeys in a lab. We swim around, curious, excited, getting into everything. Tipping things over, breaking things, eating anything we can cram in our mouths, and either ignoring most of the simple things that seem so logical to this person or that, or trying to embrace them all.

If we ever got it all together and got out of our own way, we might see the key lying on the table, insert it into the door, jump out of the fish bowl and float out into the healthy, fulfilling life we were designed to have.