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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
What a dumb title for a person who never got a single star  on her piano lessons!Daily practice is the thing though: the practice of noticing as well as of writing.  However, I'd much rather play duets than solos, so hop right in! You can do the melody or the base part, I don't care.  Just play along--we'll make up the tune as we go. I'll try to write regularly and deliberately. Sometimes I will do it poorly, tritely, stiltedly, obscurely. I will try to persevere regardless. It seems to be where my heart wants to go, and that means to me that God wants me there too. See you tomorrow. ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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| Someone said it was a good thing to stay home to take my mind off the situation. Actually I'm staying home because I'm having trouble doing that. During the past four years, ever since he called to sympathize and give support when I lost my job, we've been more like friends than we ever were before. Not close friends, but someone I knew I could count on if, say, my car broke down while I was shopping in his town. Or talk to about the kids if I needed to. We shared email jokes, some I'd rather not have gotten, but some good ones too. He sent political things sometimes, and in fact I'd sent the Snopes report back to him on one of them the day he died. I don't think he saw it. Maybe the connection I felt with him and still do was always all in my head. It seemed to me that I could see a gentle, kind side to him, a lonely and hurt side that he didn't let show. Of course I saw the imperious side too, the side that demanded compliance if you wanted to stay in relationship with him. Otherwise he'd turn on his heel and stride off. There was no talking with him, discussing pros and cons. When he made up his mind about something, independently of others' opinions-- except Rush Limbaugh's maybe-- he didn't change it. When he put his foot down, he didn't pick it back up. (Makes it hard to go anywhere in life that way, doesn't it? One foot planted solidly in your own opinion.) Enough for awhile. I need to go clean something. Maybe even a closet. How's that for a metaphor? |
| I checked in at work this morning just to make sure they didn't assign me any more new patients, then came home in case either of my kids wanted to talk on the phone. Looks like the funeral isn't until Monday, and at least Hap (and I hope his family) will stay here, although the service will be about 65 miles from here. I think I'll stay home tomorrow and clean house. My 3 hrs-a-week housekeeper broke her knee a month ago, and things have gotten out of line around here. I'll take time to write some more tomorrow. |
| This will probably be a wandering page as I go from cooking dinner to eating to cleaning up, answering phone calls or waiting for them. It will probably be more cathartic than edifying. My heart is hurting. Hurting more for the people directly involved than for me, because my relationship with my ex-husband was largely over. Not entirely. I still got email from him every few days, and we'd had good talks together when our daughter was in the hospital last fall. We appreciated each other from a more objective perspective. Yesterday he went to the VietNam memorial in the big park by the river, or at least near there. He called the police to report finding a dead body. When they arrived, he was the dead body. I can't get that picture out of my head; not so much the visual as the picture of how worthless he must have felt. I won't go into it here, but he had reason to. And he had just retired. The terrible loss of someone who could have maybe done something better with his life, who at least at one time had the potential, and who believed in God-- why couldn't he call upon help to make some changes? But then he was the same man who, when we were married and I asked him to do some things differently, said, "Why should I be the one to change?" Because you're hurting people, me, I could have said. Maybe did say it. But to him that was my problem. I am thankful he's been largely out of my life for fifteen years, thankful that this tragedy didn't happen 'on my watch.' It doesn't surprise me entirely that it happened. He always said he'd rather shoot himself than die a lingering death of cancer or the like. That wasn't what happened though. This time he opted to shoot himself rather than have to change his behavior. I don't know that for a fact, but I know things that led up to it, and that's my guess. Maybe he couldn't change. Maybe he was having some mental disturbances, very possibly. Whatever, it's a crying shame. Even knowing I couldn't have done anything, I feel sorry, even apologetic. I'm sorry I got my kids into this mess, which isn't a bit logical because they wouldn't have been born if I hadn't ever married him. I'm sorry doesn't mean so much that I feel guilty, but that I am sorrowing. I am. |
| To refresh your memories, we rescued a cat last spring from the animal shelter. Her name is Olio, because she is a mixture, a frquently found crossword clue. She is a pastel version of a calico with blue eyes, slightly crossed, and a moderately friendly disposition. She did not want any part of our dog Seamus, an old, sedate Bouvier, and gave him a look that would turn him in his tracks. When we adopted Lola, the "wired terror," after Seamus's death, Olio had an attitude. She'd been the only 'child' for several months, and she didn't take lightly to having a wild dog in the house with her. "The Look" didn't work with Lola. Nothing much works with Lola. Lola wants to play, play, play, and she figures that everyone and everything will eventually cooperate, given enough time and opportunity. Now to this very verbal pair, a piteous Siamese-style whining and a joyful teasing bark, we've added another cat, of all things. Toby was the "only child" of an old man hospice patient, and the man was worried about what would happen to the cat when he died. Out of some misguided notion of kindness and fairy tales, I offered to take the cat. Toby is a very large, although skinny, male cat whose front claws have been removed. He is orange and white, with a sphinx-like face and calm demeanor. He is used to having the rule of the roost. Well, no longer. Three months after he came to live with us, I'm still wondering if it will work. Some days it's like having three ornery kids in the house, all vying for attention. Olio has come as far as approaching Toby and touching noses with him, but that's about it. Lola and Toby bat at each other's faces, play that either of them may instigate but which usually develops into some snarling by one or the other. "Kids, kids, stop that!" Lola doesn't seem to understand when Toby means, "Enough!" Or maybe she does. THere's a certain point at which she whips her tail around into the cat's face, which looks like she's trying to say, "See, I'm your friend. Smell my butt. We're friends. Check it out." In the meantime, I'm trying to get Toby used to 'going' outside. I do hate cat boxes. Olio seldom uses hers, goes outside instead. If Toby will train and they'll keep working on their relationships, I guess he'll be a keeper. One habit pattern I forgot to mention: encroaching upon territories. Lola quickly found the cat's favorite perches and made them her own, the back of the chair, the back of the sofa. She'd like to do the same with the bathroom sink but can't quite manage it. Toby evidently figured out that the people's bed was not where he got to lounge, even though that had been his previous habit. But recently I've seen him Olio's bed on the office chair and stretched out across Lola's favorite chair in the bedroom. He doesn't say a word, just regards them imperiously, daring them to complain. And now, before it gets too hot, I've got to go work in the garden, the real one. Weeds are springing up everywhere! |
| I'm sad this morning. I, who gets my fill of funerals in my daily job, missed one yesterday that I would like to have attended. I didn't even know she had died for sure until I fished the Monday newspaper out of the trash to check the obituaries. One of the hospice social workers told me yesterday she'd been asked to call Linda's employer to offer grief counseling for the employees. She remembered the woman's name as Secora, but described her as the singing cashier, and I knew immediately that she must mean Linda. I only knew Linda because I shop at the Grocery Outlet. I haven't really even heard her sing much, but I know she was hoping to win a big screen TV in a karaoke contest last summer. She said she thought she could out-sing the competition, but the judges evidently picked another person. Funny how someone I knew so little stands out so much in my mind. Linda was glamorous, in a sexy, natural way-- sweet, friendly, outgoing and caring. This is an outrageous comparison, but, she was sort of like a Mexican Dolly Parton without surgical enhancements. She was bouncy, and her eyes twinkled. She held people's babies while they hunted in their purse for their wallet or wrote out their checks. She sang to them. She asked about people's parents and jobs. She sympathized with customers who were worn out and disagreeable, laughed with teenagers who talked about makeup and boys. She double bagged anything heavy so the bag wouldn't break and scatter its contents all over your driveway. She was invariably cheerful and helpful. Linda didn't do anything very difficult, but she made a difference in so many people's days just by being the person she was. She was only 52 and was killed in a car accident. God bless her and her family. The community will miss her. |
| What have I been doing? I even wonder myself. I've been spending a lot of time farming, virtual farming that is. Can you imagine why it might be fun to plow patches of virtual ground, buy virtual seeds and harvest virtual crops? I am not sure of the allure, but part of it is artistic. It's fun to design your farm, accumulating fences and barns and silos and houses and laying out the acreage. It's fun to watch the crops come up. Potatoes are cheap and take one day to mature. Tomatoes take two days, and so do wheat and rice. Grapes take only four hours, and they go to waste if they're not harvested in eight. Pumpkins take the longest time-- four days. The longer you play the game, the more you wish there were more three and four day choices. The trees are the most fun, and the animals. People give them to you. The animals run around the farm if they aren't fenced in, and they scratch and roll over and eat. They also moo and chirp and oink. The trees are productive and give you good crops of apples, oranges, mangoes, bananas, plums and coconuts to sell. The way the game works, if you hire someone else to harvest your farm, they make money and your crops sell for more. Everybody wins. Kind of a nice touch we don't see often enough in the real world. Anyway, Bill and I both have farms. His is called "Don't Buy the Farm." Mine used to be Aunt Elsie's farm, because it was the only farm I ever went to when I was a child and I have good memories of it. I once chased a bunny through the strawberry patch and caught it. My grandmother let me take it back to the lake cottage with us, and we put it in the window well, as close to a cage as anything we had, I guess. Of course it jumped out and disappeared during the night, but it was still an adventure. My new farm, now that I've doubled its size and added a maze and two ponds, was supposed to be Aunt Elsie's Serenity Dude Ranch and Day Spa, but that was too long. So it's just Serenity Ranch and Day Spa. Y'all come. Bill and I both have as much property there as we can. We sit and harvest each other's farms at night-- if that isn't the silliest thing! I doubt if we'll play much longer though. The weather is getting too nice to stay inside, and we've gotten about all we can out of the game. His kids have their farms next to ours, and we send them lemon trees or cows or something every day. Theirs are growing too. That may keep us playing a little longer, waiting for whatever new developments come up, new crops to grow, new decorations to buy with the money we earn from our harvests. I think you have to join Facebook to play, but if you're ever in that direction I hope you'll stop by. In the meantime, it's June, and it's time for me to come back before my membership here runs out. See ya! |
| The sky has been alternately very dark, very windy, very cold, and now sunny, at least for the moment. There's still a lot of standing water from a hard rain though, and Lola's feet are too dirty to come inside. (Unfortunately, I didn't notice that until she was already in.) I took her back out to play ball in the wet grass, washing them off a little. She really needed a little exercise, and I shoveled dogdo when she wouldn't let go of the ball. So, that was productive for us both. I really need to get my glasses changed tho. I missed the one closest to the porch, and probably many others. Had an eye appointment two weeks ago and got a new prescription, but I didn't like any of the frames there. So I checked at the office adjoining the opthamalogist, who I had to see the following week for a pressure check. Sure enough, he had some I like but they're Calvin Kleins. That's a ridiculous price to pay for a pair of frames that may incidentally look better on me but I can't see any real difference in them on the rack. Nothing to be worth $100+. So I still haven't gotten the new RX. Could just continue to use the ones I have that are perfectly all right, but I want a more modern look than these half wire frames. Earlier today I went to a funeral of the mother of one of my co-workers. Lots of people stood up and talked about her, about the 4H groups she'd started, about the nice things she did for people, the fancy wedding cakes she'd made and the beautiful gowns she'd sewn from a combination of patterns. This was all in the church. After the burial, the reception was held at the rodeo grounds. I got to thinking, what would anybody say about me? I mean really. And should I start doing elegy-worthy things? How much do people know about me? I'm just the deacon, or the chaplain, and I don't talk a lot. Recently I filled out one of those questionnaires that circulate around here and Facebook. They're similar to things we used to call Slam Books in sixth grade, either because we slammed people in them or we had to slam them shut if the teacher came in, I'm not sure which. We made them on stenographers' pads, the kind with green lines divided down the center of the page. Painstakingly we'd number each page with a list of 15 or so numbers and then write the title on the top line. The first page was always Name , the second address etc. After we got the basics down, the topics went to things like favorite color, favorite song, favorite ice cream flavor. Then we got into the real meat. Who is your best girl friend? and Who is your best boyfriend? The list I filled out on Facebook yesterday, at my stepdaughter's tag, avoided the girlfriend/boyfriend thing, but the questions weren't much deeper. I wondered as I filled it out how many of my family members would know my favorite flower or ice cream flavor or book. The survey was pretty long, and at the end, Bill made a comment. "Who are you anyway?" Strange how the English language doesn't convey the same meanings written as spoken. Reading it, I felt defensive, as if I hadn't really disclosed myself with any depth (which is of course true.) Last night he asked if I'd seen his question, and he repeated it. It was a joke. The inflection and the body language, scratching the head, with no emphasis on the word "you" made that clear. Still, I wonder what important questions could be asked that would really give us more a clue of who somebody is. What do you think? |
| I haven't been able to get into this site for several days! Each time I tried, from different computers and search engines too, I'd get a message that said the server wdc could not be found. I'm at home with a little tummy bug, not feeling bad enough to be in bed but not good enough to be at work. What a perfect time to write, and nothing! (Sure, I could have written on Word. Lousy excuse, right?) Anyway, I'm lacking in energy, ambition and creativity at the moment, and I don't know how to get it going. Maybe a contest? I'll take a look. The story I just read in the New Yorker could well have come from one of those prompts: a man in a speedo, a man wearing a gondolier outfit who hears the voice of his dead mother, a homeless man. Doesn't that sound about right? I'll let you know if anything good comes of it. |
| While enjoying myself snooping around Facebook, I've also fallen for the trap of playing games competitively. I don't play with people exactly, just have a sidebar showing how my friends are doing at the same game. Funny how that eggs me on to keep trying harder. Games I used to be good at though, like Jewel Box (by another name) and ones now called Path Word and Scramble, I'm not very good at any more. Slower reflexes? Maybe. But my mind doesn't come up with some of the combinations fast enough, that's for sure. And many of the "good" words with lots of points are ones I've never heard or would certainly never think of. Hmmm. I should be writing anyway. Even if it's just this little bit every few days, it did give me a sense of responsibility, or accomplishment I guess is more like it. No, it's responsibility too: responsibility for thinking of something to write each day, for noticing some detail or eccentricity that was worth relating, kind of like carrying a camera and looking for good shots. Yes, I need to write more. One of the little things I have thought of but not recorded is the simple and cheap improvement we made to the bathroom. We put in one of those curved shower curtain rods, and suddenly I have a spacious room! Even though the tub size didn't change, it's surprising how roomy the effect is. A small thing, but if you think about it, you probably spend more than an hour a week in there, so why not open up the space and make it more enjoyable? Okay, maybe that's a silly thing. Here's another. My grief group was small the other day, and the lesson was a short one. So when the older members began talking about what it was like during the "Great" Depression, I let them go with it. Two women in their early 80's who grew up in rural areas told about the first radios they had, hooked up manually to the car battery. Their one room school houses had no electricity or any kind of lighting. "After all, we only wen to school in the day time," one said. "There was plenty of light through the windows." These same two women laughed about shoes wearing out, and having to put a rubber band around the sole to keep it from flapping and then tripping on it. Yes, they put cardboard in the shoes when they wore holes in the soles. A man, slightly older, who had grown up in town in New Jersey, said they'd had repair kits for their shoes. And he'd ridden a bus to school, whereas the two women had walked over a mile. The young social work intern who was in the group really enjoyed the conversation. She hadn't heard much about those times before, and she said it was the most encouragement she'd had in months that a bad economy would not doom us all. It was clear that people's memories of that time were pretty much in agreement. Maybe it wasn't great, but it was do-able. It had made people, and families, stronger. |
| If I write something very very quickly, I'll still get it in for this first day of the month. Happy March! |
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