Snow globe

While I was up in Ely for two nights I slept quite well. Home for two nights and just getting my usual three hour stretches. Aside from the cats, the difference is the absolute blackness of the north woods, so dark, and the street and security light pollution that I thought I've learned to live with. Time to do some serious shopping for blackout curtains.

So many thoughts swirling around me as I lay there trying to fall back asleep. It was almost like being in a snow globe with partial essays falling down like glitter. What to write about? Spirit cards? Breaking the rules? Hibbing? Driving? Anniversaries? Politics? Indignation? Gratitude? Helplessness? Art? Literature? Friendship? Diabetes? Diet? Television? Electronics? Electricity? My daughters? Compassion? They are all interesting to me. And as my sister once pointed out to me in a card she sent, "Everybody is entitled to my opinion."

One thing that is getting my goat and I can't seem to let go of is taxes. My dad used to say he never minded paying taxes because it meant he was working and making an income. In 2010 I was fifty-eight years old and unemployed. I had to withdraw ten thousand dollars from an IRA to get by until I got a job. The penalty was about thirty percent or a little above three thousand dollars. Those are the rules of retirement accounts and there was no getting around it. What killed me was having to withdraw another three thousand to pay the taxes.

Then I find out that the Romney's were able to deduct $77,000.00, yes, seventy-seven thousand dollars, approximately twenty-five times the amount I was taxed on a measly ten thousand, for a horse.  Mrs Romney has MS and riding a horse is good therapy. Not taking Old Brownie from the livery stables for a ride, no these are the expenses for maintaining an Olympic calibre dressage horse. I have a friend with MS and she is having a terrible time getting approved for physical therapy. Not only is dressage an "alternative" therapy, they are able to deduct it on their taxes.

My last boss said I did not think rules applied to me. Oh yeah, they apply. But why don't those same rules apply to the privileged? Now, now, Carol... the rules for early withdrawal of funds from an IRA is not the same as a legitimate medical expense such as training fees for a thoroughbred horse used for therapy. And then, this arrogant man has the nerve to insult me. I am the 99% and I am the 47% and I am angry. How can I insult him in public the way he has insulted me? (Yeah, that would show him!)

I try to live my life by the Golden Rule. I want to treat others as I want to be treated and just can't wrap my mind around mean-spiritedness. I remember asking one of my little girls where she learned to be selfish? She didn't get it from her father or me. (Of course she was only five or so and outgrew it and is now a fine, generous, human being.) Driving home from Ely on back roads I was struck with the emptiness of the land. It was very green with Simpson's type of fluffy white clouds on a blue sky. Why do people have to live in shanty towns all over the world when there is so much abundance here? But what would they do here? Damned if I know. I drove through Hibbing, MN, Bob Dylan's home town and saw why he would want to leave at the first available minute. So truly, I have no answers. 

The glitter has settled, the globe is almost still. Those other thoughts will have to wait for another day. 

And Everything Is Going Fine

Last night I watched a posthumous production about Spaulding Gray called And Everything is Going Fine. I truly loved watching bits and pieces of his filmed monologues that covered several decades. I saw a man with a unique talent for storytelling that combined, laughter, pathos and charm. He'd suffered a terrible car accident and while physically improving, had gotten more and more depressed. He disappeared two months before they found his body floating near Brooklyn. They think he jumped off a Staten Island Ferry. I just looked up his obituary from 2004 and this sentence struck home for me. "In a 1980 show, Mr. Gray spoke a line that may well have summed up his life and career. ''It's very hard for me,'' he said, ''not to tell everybody everything.''

That is true for me, too. I remember taking the girls to an event where we sat with another family. The mother and I got to talking and one of the other children said her mother had to talk to everybody. My girls agreed that their mother did that too. The consensus among the children was that we were odd. The mother and I had a fine old conversation. If I could remember whole conversations the way Spaulding Gray did, or make up new ones like Garrison Keillor, I would be a story teller. There are some very funny (and off color) anecdotes about my folks in their older, uncensored years that would make a great stand up act. But I will never do it. I like telling stories though. I like working through the physical details and coming out the other side to what I think it means. What do I need to learn and can I share it with others? That is why I blog.

I like people and I like learning about them and seeing how they work. Even people I have known for years can surprise me. I think I first went to S.R. Harris Fabric Outlet about fifteen or twenty years ago. I bought polar fleece for throws that I was making for Christmas presents for daughters, niece and five nephews. This was before I learned about cutting fringe and I actually blanket stitched around all of them. I did it in August while the girls were at camp and endured the summer heat and having my lap covered with fleece while I worked. No air-conditioning, of course. The owner of the warehouse was a real pill, crabby all the time. I used to avoid him if possible. Today he was jolly, making jokes and the life of the party, so to speak. I introduced him as the owner to the friend I was with and he said, "Not any longer!" He had given the business to his son, who frankly looked a bit haggard. Just not being responsible for those millions of yards of fabric had freed him to be the nice guy he wanted to be. Amazing.

Also amazing was my friend. She needed to recover some couch cushions, had brought a swatch from her sofa and found her fabric in about ten minutes. I could not believe it! This place has thousands of rolls of upholstery fabric, to say nothing of every other kind of cloth, leather, fake fur, fleece, you name it, they have it, piled high to the ceiling. I wanted her to look at all the options and she did spend another while looking but when it came down to it, the oatmeal colored ultra suede was her choice, and at $8.49 per yard a real steal. My usual mode of shopping at S.R. Harris is to walk around and get overwhelmed and leave. But she was one pointed, knew what she wanted and would not be moved.

How can one look at a garden and say one flower is more beautiful than another? How could I look at silk and not want it all? I started thinking scarves for presents, no, I'd go into business and become the hand made silk scarf queen! Then I saw an exquisite sheer silk with little clusters of french knot embroidery. I looked at that roll and saw every few inches a cluster of the knots, all done perfectly, and all done by hand. Then I saw the same pattern in a celadon green with matching embroidery. The next roll was yards and yards of tiny french knots running across in rippling stripes. I turned it over to see how it was done and my heart nearly broke. Could you imagine the woman who sewed each perfect knot in a never ending task? I could almost feel the toughness of her calloused fingers as she plied her needle for hours. I could almost feel her back aching. That silk was marked $40. a yard. It was on sale at half that. How much did she make for all that work? It wasn't the price of a retail yard I am sure. I mentioned how upset seeing that beautiful fabric made me and someone more prosaic said that at least that person had work to feed her family. I hope she does make enough to take care of her family and that they aren't in want.

Getting back to telling everything, I had a long conversation with one of my daughters this evening. We were talking about facebook and the implications of social media. She warned me about checking my privacy settings, etc., which I have done. The other point she made is that in some states employers will not only check what you have posted, they will also ask for the password to your facebook account. I am an open book and don't really care if people can see what I have posted, but if it came to that, I would erase my account and refuse to work for that employer. I believe in the right to privacy, even if I am open about my life. If I was a candidate and asked to talk about religion or sex or anything I don't feel has an impact on the office, I would tell them that I have the right to privacy. When they asked Bill Clinton about Monica Lewinsky he should have asked them why they needed to know. When they ask President Obama about his religious views he should tell them that it is private.  Mitt Romney is invoking his right to privacy in not releasing his tax returns. Of course that pisses me off because that does have an impact on how he would govern. Am I a hypocrite? I don't think so, if he shows me his... I'll show him mine. A fun time would be had by all.

Tea bagged, ugh.

Today I made nicey-nicey to an unpleasant woman at work. I've worked alongside her on occasion since January and she has never been very friendly. But you know me... always willing to try again. This morning I told her my daughter was having a baby in March and that I was really looking forward to it. Instead of saying congratulations, or asking if we knew the gender, she asked if she was married. Four years, I told her. She then went on a rant about "family values" and morality, that marriage is between one man and one woman and she even had a bumper sticker that said that. I asked if she opposed civil unions and she got real nasty about what people did in the sight of God. I tried to tell her I have a bumper sticker, too. She did not want to hear what I had to say and stormed off in a huff. I wrote her a note that said my bumper sticker reads: God Bless The Whole World, No Exceptions.

Blech, I felt icky. I wanted to brush my teeth and went to the ladies room to calm down. When I got back to my kiosk there was my note, returned in a pamphlet. It was a copy of the United States Constitution. The sticker on the back showed it was from the Tea Party.

Lots of things went through my mind. Freedom of speech, mine as well as hers. Freedom of and from religion. Separation of church and state. And hubris, bloody, bloody hubris. I am even willing to grant that she has a right to believe God wrote out what she should do and I am even willing to believe it is true... for her. But her rights stop at her life. She can espouse what she believes God thinks of the way she is living, but can't begin to tell me what God thinks of the way anyone else is living.

There are so many people in this world living moral lives. Some follow a religion and religious leader, some muddle through on their own interpretation of the Golden Rule. Do unto others as you would have others do unto you. There is a quotation about the Devil citing scripture.  To me it means anyone can take anything out of context and make it suit their arguments. I am not a Biblical, Talmudic, or any other scripture scholar. But I know what feels right to me and it isn't exclusion.

In the Old Testament we are taught to be stewards of the land and treat workers with dignity. We are taught laws for living a moral life. In the New Testament we are taught that God is love, Jesus reminds us that we are meant to take care of each other, to go into our closet to pray, and many things are done in his name that he does not acknowledge. We are told to take the log out of our own eye before pointing out the mote in someone else. Paul of Tarsus reminds us that it doesn't matter what we say if there is no charity and love behind it.

I don't pretend I know the answers for everyone. I know that I must allow others their own opinion even if it is noxious and unfathomable to me. I know I have to make the effort to understand and accept people in any stage of their evolution.   I don't say what God sees or thinks because my mind is finite and the Creator is infinite. I can only lead by example and that takes me to task. Am I judging the morality and outrage of the Tea Baggers by the same standards I want to be judged? The answer is yes. I want to be judged as kind and helpful and doing what I can to improve the space around me.

God Bless the Whole World, No Exceptions. (Even unpleasant people? Yes!)

Searching for the corpse

On Labor Day a mouse was seen on the glass and screened porch of the condo. The cats were quite interested but I shut them in and opened a screen door for little mousy to escape. Later I closed the screen and let the cats out onto the porch. I said I thought it had gone and besides it couldn't get over the tall step on the sliding glass doors. Both John and Eri said it could. I'm not sure where it went to hide but last night, as I sat on the bed to change clothes I saw it limp into the bathroom with Little Mister and Piper following. They weren't exactly chasing it, more like having an adventure, a scavenger hunt, if you will. What to do?

As a child I lived on the eighth floor of a well-built concrete building. All I needed was to see one tiny mouse in the hallway to give me the heebie jeebies every time I had to walk to the incinerator chute for years and years. On another note, our quarter mile square development did not allow dogs and we would run, screaming "rabies" anytime we saw a stray or lost dog. And if it were to approach us we would run away as fast as we could. These days I truly think you could keep a goat there and if it helped keep the grass in shape management would allow it.

As a younger woman, I remember calling my husband to breathlessly tell him in detail about the mouse playing hide and seek amongst the shoes by the door. I needed shoes to run away, but the mouse was there. What a quandary. I finally signed off when I realized it was voicemail and I wasn't talking to anyone. Eventually my walking partner came over and rescued me but my husband kept that voicemail for months to enjoy a good laugh. And my older daughter still reminds me of the time she had to dispose of a dead mouse I found under a phone book.  Over the years I taught myself not to look at the little half digested corpses the cats would leave behind. The big man could deal with it.

The first thing I did last night was to turn off the lights to hallway and bathroom and then close the door and sliding glass window in my room. I did have compassion for little mousy but it wasn't enough to save him or her. (Why do I always think of mice as he?) He really wasn't frightening on the porch or leading the parade, actually kind of cute. I put the fan on high and went to bed and made sure to put on slippers this morning before opening the door.

Where is the corpse? Where is the mutilated little body? Where is a live mouse hiding? O mouse, where art thou? There are chairs with skirts and a platform bed and all kinds of bags and piles of stuff to hide under. And yet I am calm. Really I am. If the mouse happens to run across my foot while I am writing...  all bets are off. As it stands there are only three options; it is dead and I will eventually find a corpse, or it found it's way out, or it is hiding somewhere and the cats will sniff him out. There is a fourth alternative, but it is so wacky I know there is a million to one chances it will never happen. That is if a brave person comes over searches all the nooks and crannies and finds the beastie for me. I can pay you in juicy, delicious, watermelon.

Sometimes I do miss being married. This is one of those times. (I am woman, hear me bleat.)

A blog in many parts

1. The Ocean

As I walked down to the Atlantic Ocean, down on the Jersey Shore it occurred to me that although I love it, and can sit and watch the waves for hours, the Ocean doesn't think about me. I can go away for years but the waves come in and out with a regularity that is, as close as I can understand, eternal. It doesn't stop for anything or anyone. I can think I am tired and that is enough for now, so just stop for a while; the waves keep coming in and going out. The first day a wave knocked me down and the next one pushed me back up. I stumbled back to my towel and was grateful for the lesson. Further down the coast the intensity was less and I enjoyed hours standing in the surf, burning to a crisp and loving every minute of it. I do love the ocean and wonder how I've stayed away so long.

Once my mother and another old lady from the East were talking about missing the smell of the sea and how a lake just wasn't the same. I said I would get some salt water and dead fish and run a fan in their direction. They are right, though, a lake, even a Great Lake, is not the same as the ocean. The beach on the Jersey Shore is so clean and well kept, no sand fleas, no seaweed and very few shells. I am not sure whether this is natural or signs of something wrong ecologically. I let the fun win over thinking.

2. Adoration and joy

The reason I got to enjoy the ocean is that my cousin's daughter kindly invited me to her wedding. Everyone was happy and all enjoyed themselves. The food was great and the band superb. Nicole waited a long time for her groom, Dennis. He said he had been looking in the wrong state, not knowing his true love waited across the river. Why don't I have a picture of them? Maybe because there is no picture on earth that could capture the adoration on his face and the look of utter joy on hers. They are wrapped in a sphere of love that nothing can penetrate. How wonderful to see that intensity of feeling, of hearts joining and melding and becoming so much more than each alone. Be happy, dear ones.

3. Family

Iris and Bob are the parents of the bride. They are wonderful people who did so much to help my parents in their declining years. Although there were five nephews and nieces who lived in the metropolitan New York area, only Iris and Bob were there for them. They would come from New Jersey to Brooklyn to help when the old man was in a nursing home and the old lady was helpless. For this alone I am indebted. Then they promised to visit in Minnesota and followed through. Not once, but three times! They came for Erica's wedding and again a few months before my father died. They are kind, not because someone tells them to be kind, or because they are looking for praise. They are the true picture of what it means to be a mensch. I looked around at the wedding, and except for immediate family, I was the only cousin there. The funny thing is I am not a relative by any blood. These are my step-mother's relations and by their kindness and actions have made me family of the heart.

4. Friendship

Picture the scene, the year is 1956 and two little girls and their mothers are riding in an elevator in a new development, Bayview Houses. Monica was taller and could reach the button for seven and I was in the stroller, not even trying to reach for eight. Maybe her younger brother was in his stroller, I can't recall. We both remember that meeting fifty-six years later.  That is right, two sixty year old women who met when they were just four years old and remain friends to this day.

We were not always on good terms, what children are? Oh children can be so cruel! But those were the days when kids played outside for hours and hours, alliances forming and breaking and forming again. We grew up and went our separate ways, married and raised families and always were able to reconnect even though we lived far away and rarely spoke. Each time I came to NY I had to see her.  I am very lucky in having far away friends in California and Colorado and Massachusetts.  We had planned to see the MA friends while I was there but life interrupted in the form of sick cats and people and we decided to just go down the shore instead. I know I will see my dear Alix and Amy and Syl sometime, it just wasn't meant to be this time.

This time it was meant to be two mature women talking about what really mattered. Hearts and minds open and judgements left at the door. We have differing opinions about religion, marriage and a host of other things. Yet the respect and affection we have for each other allows us to differ and still be friends. Years ago when we supported opposing candidates I thought we were done. I didn't know how we could continue being friends. Somehow we overcame that hurdle and here we were, talking late into the night in Wildwood, New Jersey.

I don't make friends easily. I am opinionated and judging and expect a lot out of my friends. Because I am there for them, I expect them to be there for me. I know a bunch of people, but true friends are precious, rare and few. I treasure them all.

Expressing condolences virtual vs. physical

As most of my friends and family know, my mother, Harriet Smoller, passed away peacefully on July 28, 2012, this past Saturday night. We are all saddened to say goodbye, but happy she has transitioned to whatever may be beyond this earthly life.

Many, many people have sent me love via the internet and each and every condolence has been met with a smile that I have been thought of. When I was growing up, it was called paying respect and was the way I was raised. If someone lost a loved one, you told them you were sorry for their loss.

But we did it a different way. We went to the home of the bereaved and brought food and sat with them. We told stories, we cried, we laughed, we hugged. Or sometimes, depending on the degree of closeness, only popped in "to pay our respect". When my brother died at the age of 21, we sat Shiva. Everyone from the building and neighborhood and relatives came by for days on end. I remember feeling outrage at one particular young woman who had not been nice to him, and I remember basking in the love of my father's oldest friends. They made me feel like living. Whatever else it was, it was community looking after their own. The aunties came and cleaned the house, and food! In mine and many other cultures, food is love. I wish I could tell you what a box of fancy cookies from the bakery means. In Christian families one brings a casserole (hot dish) or pan of bars.

Then the official days of grieving are over, usually on the Sabbath, and for another month one wears a ribbon button with a slash. It means one is mourning a family member. I wore the one for Stuart like a badge of honor.

Years ago my husband and I did not so much as decide, but never joined a Temple or Church. We believed what we believed and for a time had a community of like thinkers. But for many years, community wise, I have been on my own. The advent of Facebook has brought me back in touch with many I have not seen in years and introduced me to many new friends who I appreciate though we have never met. They are real, but not physically present.

No one has cleaned my house, and the only cookies are a small box of Chips Ahoy that I bought myself. The boxes from Mom's apartment and various pieces of small furniture clutter the living room. When I get the motivation I will go through each and winnow out what should be kept. Tomorrow is Saturday and for the first Saturday in seven years I do not have to make arrangements for someone to visit my folks or take them out or visit myself.

I love my internet friends and far flung family, but oh, I wish you were here bringing me rainbow cookies from Nobby's.

A change for the worse

Sidney had a terrible death. Lots of pain, lots of misery. There wasn't a gentle slide, it was a bumpy tumble down a slope filled with sharp jagged boulders. His release was prayed for and welcome. Harriet has been going down a very shallow incline this past year since his death, probably even before that. She hasn't gotten out of bed in three weeks and has gotten weaker and weaker each day. Today I visited twice. She was sleeping so soundly I couldn't wake her.

Except for the one day a week my dear sister-in-law Leslie visits, I have been there every day since February. I was seeing her two or three days a week while she had the apartment. Once in a while Eri stops by and I appreciate that, too. Leslie has been a life saver taking the burden of organizing the move into the new apartment and now the moving out. When she visits Harriet on Mondays, I sleep the day away. There may be a whole list of things that must be done, but somehow I don't get out of bed until four and am back asleep by midnight. It is mental exhaustion I am sure.

Yesterday, I went out to the pool around five and was chatting with a neighbor when the phone rang. I walked over and checked the readout: Smoller. I knew Leslie would be there soon and did not answer it. I said it was my mother and I wasn't going to answer it right now. The woman said there wasn't a time in her life when she wasn't happy to hear from her mother. I saw red. She had pushed my not-good-enough button. I told her that I talked to her at least twice a day on the phone and visited daily. I said she was 98 years old and would not die. She apologized and I apologized and things are fine between us.

This morning I spent a long time on the phone with the Hospice nurse. Mom has some open sores on her back because she has no fat between her skin and bones. They are treating them. She can't swallow pills anymore, nor can she tolerate them ground up. This morning she threw up. Poor, poor, baby. Do you know what it is like to have dry heaves? Awful. By consensus we have decided to discontinue all medications. What is the worst that can happen, death? They have started her on an extremely low dose of morphine. Today I stopped by twice but couldn't rouse her from a deep sleep.

This is a definite change for the worse, physically. While I am grateful she is not suffering the way my father did, I am hoping for the welcome change, and soon.

Letting go, letting God vs. fighting injustice

Well, not such a Miss Mellow, after all. I've been doing pretty good trying to surrender the entwined circumstances of my mother's life and my own. Still accepting that things will happen on the Creator's timetable. OK.

Then, without notifying me, my hours and income get cut by 10% and I go from 0-60 in the blink of an eye. I am furious, indignant, and ready to take action. I will either quit this job, or give notice, or confront, or, or, or. Oh yes, Carol? Where is your peace? Where is your acceptance? Where is your patience?

I have learned something over the years and that is not to go off half cocked. If I am shooting, let it be straight, let it hit the target. Oh man, I am angry, but I need to give it a little time to percolate and then do the confronting. I have to be calm and I am not there yet. I  believe it behooves us not to go like sheep to the slaughter and accept every injustice. I believe that we are called upon to use our heads and voices to right wrongs done to us and on a larger scale, to our community, the world.

This situation has really opened my eyes to what I want to do after Mom passes. I don't want to sell anything. I want to work for things I believe, universal clean water, the right for women to live safe lives, economic justice. I admire those who work to protect animals, but that is not the cause for me. I'm still not sure what I want to do when I grow up. Maybe the trick is not to grow up; maybe the trick is to find what fires me up and put the energy of my youth and the experience of being older together.

Yes, it is a journey. One of the stops along the way is the little kiosk. I will do the best I can do, but get ready... someone is going to get a well thought out, clear and concise, piece of my mind. Just not yet.

You are a good mother

Today, for the first time, my mother's room smelled like a nursing home. The lovely West African aide had changed diapers for the roommate and Mom. He was getting them ready for bed. I was glad to see Harriet was on her side. She spends so much time on her back and I don't want her to get bed sores. She is not in any pain. She seemed more confused today. I tried to tell her it was a year since Dad died but she didn't understand. Who? Dad! Whose dad? Mine! Your husband, Sidney! Then she said he was a good husband.

Suddenly, she was lucid and her speech became clear, "I was the only one who took their children places. My mother used to take us on the streetcar. I guess I learned it from her. I tried to be a good mother." I said, "Mom, you were a good mother and you still are." She smiled.

When people go back to their childhood homes they often remark how small everything seems. They remember it bigger. That is because the memories made as a child are a child's memories. It isn't whether they are true or not, they were made when we were small and the world was large. My sister will swear that my father beat us every single night. I don't remember it as every night, and my mother says she would not have stayed with him if he had been such a monster. What really happened? My sister built him into this fearsome beast, I never learned to shut up around him and the poor old lady took her share of abuse, too. Harriet has adult memories, and I've got very few memories (not uncommon when childhood is chaotic) and my sister has a real memory of being knocked out as a teenager.

Looking at my step mother through childish eyes, she was not a very good mother. My birth mother had me from the day I was born and grew with me. She was my idea of what a mother should be, a rock, a shelter, my advocate and my protector. Harriet became a mother to a 12 year old boy, a 7 year old girl, and a three year old baby girl all on the same day. It would have been hard for anyone, even a child development specialist. It was especially hard for an immature narcissist who married a crazy man. Sometimes she would ask me what I wanted and all I could say was, "Be the mother." Maybe I was asking her to be my protector, to stand up to my father the way my mother did. I don't remember him being crazy and violent before she died, but then, I was very young.

As an adult, I can see what a hard time she had. I don't know that there is anything to forgive, but I do wish things had been otherwise. I wish I had been able to grieve my mother and talk about her. I wish Harriet had been better educated and able to guide me in school. One thing I do know is she did the best she could given the circumstances and her skills and understanding. That is what I did in raising my children and that is what most people do.

Take comfort. Yes, you were a good mother and, fragile as you are, you're still a good mother.

Life goes on

I haven't written very much because what is there to say? Harriet gets weaker and weaker and is hanging on to life. When she squeezes my hand there is still quite a bit of strength. But she is unable to stand on her own and barely moves in bed. I have to tell her to hold her own cup with two hands and some days she can barely suck through a straw while I hold the cup. Her speech has become slurred and she sleeps a lot of the time. Today, though, she was much better. She complained that no one was getting her up. So I asked the aides to put her in the wheelchair and we went down to listen to patriotic songs. It is a funny thing about music played on an accordion by a Russian emigree, be it The Volga Boatman, Ain't She Sweet?, or God Bless America. It all sounded the same and a half hour was more than enough. But that is so much more than she has done in weeks. She craves company and was glad to see Leslie and Scott on the third. Eri will visit tomorrow morning.

They say that people don't change, but that is not always true. I have seen changes in both my parents as they approach death. My father will be gone a full year on Friday and his death was not an easy one.   Harriet is having an easier time of it. She is not in pain, her mind is mostly clear, well clear enough to know when she is bored, or confused. I truly hope she just goes to eternal sleep sometime very soon. She is eating very little and drinking enough to get by, I guess. When I ask her what she wants she says, "You. I want you." So I sit by her bed, sometimes talking, sometimes listening, sometimes just holding hands and being quiet. She tells me I am making her happy just being there. Yes, she has changed. She is so grateful for whatever is being done for her and so gracious to the staff. They are very gentle with her.

It has been very hot, high 90's and humid. The air quality is poor and they are telling people with breathing difficulties to stay inside. I feel for my friends and family on the East Coast. It must be beastly hot with electricity cut off for millions. I have broken down and am running my air conditioning when at home and last night slept on the couch in air cooled comfort. My friend Connie and I went to the cheap theater in Hopkins to see The Dictator. It was gross and funny and I enjoyed it in a weird way. There were plenty of inside jokes and I wonder how many I didn't get. Connie just couldn't laugh at some of the really gross jokes; I admit to a guffaw or two. Today we saw a double feature, my favorite.

Moonrise Kingdom was Wes Anderson at his best featuring a cast with Frances McDormand, Bruce Willis, Bill Murray and other well and not so well known actors. It was just the kind of quirky movie I love. It is a little gem. The other joy of the day was bringing Connie upstairs to see Brave. It wasn't sneaking because we were bold as brass, entering with all the legitimate ticket holders. Imagine being sixty-six and giving into peer pressure. (Bwahahaha!) I enjoyed this Disney/Pixar movie where both mother and daughter were headstrong heroines and learned to bend after having some wild adventures. I won't be a spoiler but will say the four year old behind us got quite a scare! I still like hand drawn animation best. I think I spent too much time admiring all the detail in the scenes and in the heroine's wild hair.

So, a lovely Fourth spent in air conditioned comfort, appreciating my life. I encourage you, too, to look around and count your blessings. Hopefully your families are well and your electricity is keeping you cool.  I wonder if any one today remembers the pleasure of leaning against a cool plastered wall next to their bed?

(Written from the comfort of her air conditioned condo.)

Early morning ramblings

A very talented writer and blogger, Emma Wilhelm, who writes Emmasota blog, recently posted that she had the social media blahs. She says, "I seem to start blog posts that fizzle out after three or four half-hearted sentences." I know what she means, you should see my drafts file. What can I say that inspires? What can I say that is even interesting? What can I say that is new?

Is it news that my mother is declining and getting weaker and weaker? It isn't news that she calls every morning and wants to know when I am coming. I have nothing new to say except to thank each and every person who spends time with her. Is it news that I have been doing water exercise and went to a dance in the park? Maybe, but is it interesting? Only to me.

I woke at 4:07 with an essay in mind. It was about Karma catching up with me in this life. I used to pick at my poor baby's heads when they were nursing. Pick, pick, pick at the cradle cap while the poor kid was eating. Talk about a bonding experience. Neither of them will let me touch their heads thirty years later. Now, at 60, I am experiencing a raging case of cradle cap and have to use some kind or prescription shampoo to take care of the itching. You could look at it very simply as a side effect of menopause, or get all metaphysical... yeah, it's my Karma catching up with me. As I did unto others, in this case defenseless nursing babies, lo, it shall be done unto me. The worst part is I'm doing it to myself, pick, pick, pick, ouch.

OK, here is the deal. I will try to live the best possible life and spread as much positive energy as possible. You do your part to make your little corner of the world better too and we will inspire each other. Onward ho!

111 years

There has been a lot of news coverage of a woman from rural Minnesota who is 111 years old and still lives alone in her own home and bakes her own bread. Of course people come to check on her and everybody remarks on how remarkable it is. Very few people age the way Anna Stoer has. I think that for everyone who marvels there are twenty middle aged children wracking their brains as to how to get mom or dad out of the old house and into safer living situations. There is no one right answer because every situation is different. To all of you dealing with elderly parents I wish you the strength and love to do what you have to do.
http://postbulletin.com/news/stories/display.php?id=1487132

The Nature of Kindness

This morning I have been thinking about the nature of kindness. Is it opening a door or holding an elevator? Yes, that can be kind but that is more a matter of manners; treating each other with civility as we would like to be treated. I think kindness includes being polite but goes far beyond.

Yesterday I met a new neighbor who has the parking spot next to mine. We immediately introduced ourselves and felt a connection. I found out that she didn't know where any of the amenities were and I showed her how to get to the locker and exercise rooms. Then I took her out to the pool where two women of our age were sitting. I made introductions and one of the women made a personal remark to me. I apologized and walked the new neighbor to the elevator.

I've been feeling a little icky inside since. I've been feeling a little bad about myself and wondering why until I realized that someone had been unnecessarily unkind. When introduced to a new person, I say welcome. I would ask where they had come from and if they were settling in. I would not ignore them and be a little snide to the person who introduced them. I would try to be kind. No, not try, I would be kind. I would show my caring side.

Sitting in a shady spot by the pool is not a stressful experience (unless one is scared of water). Why take the energy to be less than kind? It doesn't make sense to me.

Here are my peeves: meanness of spirit and intolerance. 

Here are the attributes I admire above all else: kindness and generosity of spirit.

We've all heard the saying that nobody can make you feel bad about yourself without your permission. I have chosen to believe that most people are good and do not have my defenses up all the time. So occasionally I get sideswiped. Then I have to toss out the ick and realize the problem is not mine unless I embrace it. Of course by then it has inserted a tentacle into my own feelings of worth. Why do all this rebuilding? Why not live in positivity instead? I can't control other's behavior, but I can remind myself to turn away anger and be kind. It is just a better way to live, for me and everyone else.

Update on Harriet

This morning my mother left a message on the phone. She leaves one every day and I can pretty much anticipate what she is going to say, "This is your mother. When are you coming to visit?" So knowing it was there, I didn't actually listen to it until later. She said, "This is the pain in the ass, your mother. Call me." I did laugh and call to tell her I was coming after work. I told her how much I enjoyed the message and she remembered that she called herself the pain in the ass and laughed too.

Memory in the aged is a funny thing. She can remember that, and shoes she had as a toddler. But she can't remember days and dates and time gets confused. She asks me when a wedding is and I tell her August, or when Eri is moving, June, but has very little realization that it is May right now. Last week, next week, tomorrow, they are all the same and they are boring. There is no one to talk to she complains, but she doesn't want to talk to anyone who will talk about their own self.

Next Monday they are moving her into a permanent placement on the third floor, right across from the elevator. We have to talk if she wants to visit her apartment first. I will be bringing her yellow arm chair, TV, and small chest from the apartment.

On a personal note, I am extremely depressed and doing a lot of sleeping. I know it will pass, but it makes it hard to get anything done. Please send good thoughts my way. I could use the energy.

Surrender Carol

I have been thinking of the whole subject of surrender and what it means in this world and what it can mean spiritually. I am not a person who submits to idiot bosses and does stupid things just because someone tells me to. I can not and do not eat shit, nope, not even to keep a job. Yet sometimes I have to take myself in hand and ask if it would kill me to submit to keep peace. If it is not a big deal, sure. Whose ego needs the boost? I must say I am really getting mellow as I age. I used to fight about everything whether it was important or not. It was an exhausting way to live.

When I brought my thousand year old parents to live out here in 2005, I never thought they would last more than a few years and I was positive they wouldn't last five years. Well, my dad lasted six years and Mom is still alive at 98. It was a hard adjustment for all of us. In the 35 years since I'd left home I had not seen them very often, every year or two for a few days. And suddenly I was seeing them several times a week. Before the old man got sick I had weaned them down to just one day a week. For about a year now, though, we've been tied at the hip. It has always been my desire to make their end of life as easy as I can and have no regrets when they die. When the old man passed, I felt nothing but joy. I felt he had learned something in his life and moved on. When we moved the old lady to the nursing home, where she is getting wonderful care and is well liked by the staff, I thought she had maybe a week or two to live. She calls every morning wondering when I will take her home and when I will visit. It has been two months now and she is much stronger, but not strong enough to return to her assisted living apartment and I don't think she ever will.

So now it is up to me to surrender again. To say in my heart that I don't care how long it takes, I will be joyful and accepting. There is still something I have to learn and this is my time to learn it. Surrender resentments and ideas of how long things should take and surrender the time that this growth demands. Being here now is both harder and easier than it sounds. 

(Here is a funny anecdote. I went to see Harriet while she was at dinner. She had not eaten much and she told me that she hated the food. She hated the chopped meat. I looked at the dinner order and saw that her meat was ordered ground. I went to talk to the dietician to have it changed and as I left I heard her say, "Her sister was quiet, but that one you always knew was in the room!)

Starting an investigation.

Yesterday I met with a police investigator. He told me that Minnesota has statutes that define Cyber Stalking 609.749, and Cyber Harassment 609.795. He said they work closely with the FBI because the internet crosses state lines. Coincidently the anonymous person who has been posting vulgar and nasty remarks chose to send 5 replies to the last blog I wrote, R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

The investigator suggested I post what he told me and see if it stops. If not, he will start requesting isp addresses from Google, the administers of Blogspot. It can take a couple of weeks up to a few months.

Last warning! If you don't like what I have to say, don't read my blog. Every nasty reply has been saved on gmail and they all can be traced back to you.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I was watching a family eat lunch today. Three girls and their parents. The girls looked 6, 8, 10. The mother did not look happy and the father's back was facing me. One of the girls walked over to see what I was doing and I asked her if she had new sandals. Her dad came up behind her and said, "Third pair, the dogs ate the first two." I thought to myself that if my kid didn't learn after the second time she would be getting $1.99 Old Navy flip flops, not fancy Nikes. I said, "Well you better put them where they can't get them."

The dad wanted to know how much a new heating system would cost and I started my spiel. All three girls were standing real close and he said that the youngest gets antsy. I said I was sure she would understand that we were talking and could wait. Then the wife came over and he said they really do need to replace their furnace.  He asked about financing, but Costco does not finance.  He asked his wife what she thought and she said in a nasty tone of voice, "I think you are wasting my time if you can't pay for it." She showed huge disdain for him in front of the children. So I gave him a brochure and said to call when he was ready. As they walked away I noticed she was carrying a huge new Louis Vuitton bag that had to have cost a couple thousand dollars.

It wasn't a long scene but it did upset me. She disrespected her husband in public, in front of her children. She treated me as invisible. He was humiliated but did not fight back. My stomach was upset by her vituperative negative energy. I could see things so clearly, he was nothing but a paycheck to her and she did not like him because he was not making enough to keep her in the style she thought she should be kept. And you could see from his face that he was extended as far as he could go. I wanted him to think better of himself. I wanted him, as they say, to grow a pair. I could see how a man like that could flip out and kill his wife. I wanted him to run away and start a new life.

Husbands! Wives! Be kind to each other, treat each other with respect. Remember when you met and how much you wanted the good opinion of each other. Show your children how much you cherish each other. If you must be disdainful, think twice before speaking once, and for goodness sake, don't humiliate your spouse in front of your children.

I've thinking about my own life. Have I acted that way? Oh God I hope not. I know I have been out of control, sometimes crazed with anger or frustration and not very pleasant to be around. I hope that I have never made being cruel to another a habit. My marriage had some rough spots for sure, and each of us regrets particular actions or we'd still be married. But I think our children knew we respected each other. 

I tried to be kind the rest of the day. I'm going to try again tomorrow.

Removing the knife in my heart

For several months some unhappy person has been making stupid remarks on my blog. As moderator I never post them. They are misspelled insults calling me fat, a whore, boring, and commenting on my lack of sexual attraction or prowess. At first I was upset, but those comments were so totally false and silly, I just would laugh and delete. Today, however, I felt like I had a knife in my heart. Today's comment read, in part:

"You really are a heartless bitch. Your mother, lost her soul-mate. He died! He is not going to come back ever. She is mourning and you are telling her she is repeating a tape in her head. You are the biggest fucking hypocrite ever.  You are a heartless bitch. You offend so many of your "readers" when you bitch and moan and complain about your thousand year old parents. You say your father was not much of a man. Let me tell you something - the acorn did not fall far from the tree. You are mean and nasty. I know the day she dies she will be at peace and away from a ungrateful heartless daughter like you". 


I wanted to cry, I felt so devastated. I have tried to be kind. I have tried to make amends to those I have hurt. I have used these past seven years to see that my parents had a good end of life. I go to the nursing home where my mother is at least five times a week and she is so happy to see me. I hope I haven't been complaining too much. What hurts the most is that someone in my life really dislikes me and doesn't have the courage to confront me face to face. I have not always done or said the right thing in every situation. I am a mother and if I see something I think is a threat to my children's happiness I will come out swinging and think afterwards.


Before I started this post, I went back and read my last blog. Nope, I was not mean, I was not complaining, I was compassionate, and sad, and hopeful. The writer only saw what he/she wanted to see. Yes, it hurts that someone hates me. But their words have no power. I have decided to remove that blade of malicious negativity from my heart. It is not true and I refuse to bleed. The shoe does not fit, and I won't wear it.

That tape in our heads

Sometimes people have a tape running in their heads and can't find the stop/eject button. It drives them crazy, and in the case of my 98 year old mother, annoys other people too. Right after my father died her tape became, with tears, "I miss my husband." Well, who could deny that? Lots of sympathy came her way. I used a positive message repeated over and over to change that tape. I told her how lucky she was to have had not one, but two men love her. Some women never even had one. She would agree and talk about her sister Judy and how she blew both her marriages. She told everyone how happy she had been for fifty-two years with my father. She would say, "Right before he got so sick he looked at me and said that I was a year and three months older than him, but even if I was a hundred years older, he would still have married me." For the record, her first husband was no jewel, and there were plenty of problems with my old man. If he was a diamond, it was in the rough and everyone knows that diamonds can cut.

The new tape in her head is not as easy to deal with as the old one. The new tape says, "When can I go home?" It begins every conversation, fills in every pause, and never seems to end. It is wearing me down. I have given her the message that she can go home when she gets stronger. She says she is strong, she says she has been eating. I tell her she can go home when she can take care of herself. She tells me she can take care of herself. She can't get out of bed by herself, she is too weak and shaky. Sometimes I vary the answer. The other day she called and asked when she could go home. I told her she sounded like a broken record and she laughed. She knows it, she just can't stop that tape. The other tracks on this tape are the "I'm so lonely, there is nobody to talk to here" and "This place is a prison." Nicest prison in town. I do have empathy and understand the boredom and frustration.

We all have tapes running in our brains. Sometimes it is a problem at work that bugs us night and day until we figure out a solution. Right now I have a game show song repeating over as I fall asleep and when I wake up. I will be kind and not tell you what it is so it doesn't take up residency in your brain, too. That kind of tape is annoying, but not harmful. But there are others that cause pain to ourselves and only we can change them. Those are the messages that we are not good enough, too slow, too stupid, too fat, too thin, unloveable, etc. I have found, by reading true crime stories, that some people who have a victim tape playing react by killing those who they think have harmed them. It can be a parent, or people of a nationality. So many different scenarios. I dislike any kind of fundamentalism. The indoctrination records a tape that is very hard to reason with. Hate Arabs, hate Jews, hate, hate, hate.

Many years ago I took my children to a puppet show at a fundamentalist church. The message given was that we were all born in sin and only by being washed in the blood of Jesus was there any chance of heaven. There was even a song about being washed, washed, washed, in the blood. Children are literal people. Where is Jesus and doesn't he need his own blood and wouldn't it make a mess? I was furious! When you tell my babies about God, you had better tell them that we come from love and we go to love and the message all your life had better be about being love and acting love. 

So to life and the message about not driving others crazy with our worn out warped tapes. Let's record something new. Let's do unto others as we would have others do unto us. Not a new song, but one worth covering in our own inimitable style. "Mom," I will say with a smile, "Let's talk about something else. You look very pretty today."

Alcohol

I grew up in a home where alcohol was lightly used and never abused. My father had a complete shelf of liquor in the pantry and a bottle of scotch or anything else lasted a very long time. In the summer he would make a Tom Collins and we were always able to taste them. Had we asked, he would have made us our own cocktail. A sip was enough for me. I disliked Manhattans, and that was about the extent of his bar tending. On hot days he would sometimes have a beer. One beer, not a six pack. One New Year's Eve, my sister and I stayed home while the folks went to a party. We had little paper party poppers and a bottle of Champale Malt Liquor to use in our celebration. Alcohol was never prohibited, never made to look especially attractive, and just not much of a big deal at all. It amazed me as a young adult that my friends felt the need to finish off a bottle of tequila, or rum or anything. I didn't understand why they didn't just put it back on the shelf for next time.

The first time I got stinking drunk was the night before leaving summer camp at seventeen. I had scotch and port and blacked out. I did not pass out and was sick as a dog the next day. I remember having to sweep the cabin with shaking knees. Anne, my co-counselor, had no sympathy for me at all. It was such a horrible experience that I did not get drunk again for four years. I would have a Black Russian or Harvey Wallbanger on a date, and that was that until I attended a McGovern rally in 1972. I had been drinking some tequila and did not realize how inebriated I was until I started drinking beer. I never drink beer because I can't stand the smell or taste. I guess I was a riot on the dance floor and the town because people told me about it for days. What I do remember is hugging the toilet for days, shaking and ill and wanting to die. I was twenty and told myself I was too old for that shit. On the fourth day a nice young man came by to take me to breakfast. I think he saved my life.

Over the next twenty-five years I had fewer than five drinks. When I started going to conferences I made a Baily's last all night. Sometimes I finished an entire hard lemonade. My daughter found a wine I could drink and hey, all grown up now.  These days I have a half of a glass of wine at Thanksgiving and I'm good for the year. I seem to have lost my taste for alcohol.

Last night I met a friend for dinner at Thanh Do. They were swamped and we sat in the bar. She asked for a Vodka Gimlet, and to make it green. She said it tasted like limeade. I had one, too. It was tasty. I didn't feel inebriated until we made our way to the table, then I felt it. Sharon is my age, widowed, and we have a lot in common. We both want to be adored again and talked about what we are looking for. Service was slow and dinner took about two hours. By the time we left I didn't feel the alcohol at all. I went home and watched TV, but midnight found me feeling amazingly sorry for myself and weeping.

Today I was not hungover in the traditional sense. No dry heaves or headache, just tired and slow brain function. A two hour nap after work did wonders. Woke up feeling that here was an other cocktail I could enjoy. I am not saying I won't have one again sometime, but maybe I'll just have limeade instead. All the taste, nothing of the tiredness.