A New Beginning...Again

     I sit here gazing out at a blinding, white fog.  The temperature is supposed to hit 50 degrees.  In December.  In the Midwest.  Such crazy weather we've had this year.  Such a crazy year!
     My 2010 brought pain--physical and emotional, stress (where da money at?), and new friendships.  Some,  not "new" so much as revived.  Some, new friendships with old acquaintances.   And some, brand spanking new friendships with people I have never, or will ever, meet.  I've learned that you can learn something about a person by how they play the game.  Whether the game is life, or Farmville, if you play nice people will respond positively.  Such a simple philosophy, yet, at times, so hard to follow.
     During this year, there were many, many days filled with tears.  Fear exploded from me in panic attacks...one that lasted three months.  Because of the stress, my pain levels stayed in the upper echelons, making even the small things into great obstacles.  But, I found that friends and family were ever-giving, ever-supportive.  I realized, day in and day out how blessed I am!
     I turned 50 this year.  And, I feel a confidence that I wish I'd had when I was in my twenties.  They say youth is wasted on the young, well, I wonder if wisdom if bestowed too late in life!  Oye, if I'd only known then what I know now!  Funny, but true!  I've learned that I am strong...have been for quite some time.  I am talented, which I knew, but did not feel free to share.  I love with intense passion, which makes my fall back to reality a hard fall.  But, after that hard fall, I've discovered that I can pick myself up and march forward...building a slightly thinner wall than before.  I've always known my sense of humor was a gift, but I've learned when I'm using it as a cover-up, and when I'm being just plain silly.  Oh, I love being silly!  And I've learned that 50 really IS the new 30!  Lookout future, this woman is hot!
     This day is also the end of a decade.  I've gone through all the modern-day textbook things.  Divorce, loss of home, raising a teenager, moving to a new town, then moving to a new place in that town, losing pets, losing loved ones, and...surviving.  Surviving!  It does'nt seem like the Y2K scare was ten years ago.  Hmmm, I wonder if there was a Y1K scare?  Sorry, Bi-Polar moment, there.  The point is, I suppose, that so very much can happen in a decade--in a year.
     Today, I will look at the stark white fog as a whiteboard.  A clean slate.  A place to write new experiences, quests, and love.  When the fog clears it will be a new day.
     I hope this new year and decade bring wonderful things for my son and me.  I pray it brings endless blessings to my friends and family.  The year will be 2011.  An adventure awaits!

Imagine

     While reading, visualize this situation, feel the emotions...


     Imagine being young and innocent, and striking up a deal with someone you don't know, but have heard wonderful things about.  Imagine knowing that this decision will make you an outcast.  Imagine trying to convince--pleading with--the man you've pledged yourself to that you have not been with anyone...ANYone!  Imagine loving this man all the more when he realizes that you are being honest--that he must help you fulfill this "deal."
     Imagine a journey in the heat.  Riding on a donkey, while nearly ready to deliver your part of this deal.  Your fiance' guiding you over rocky terrain; through empty lands.  Imagine your fear and desperation.  Imagine second guessing your decision over and over again.  Imagine seeing that fear in the eyes of your love.
     Imagine the joy of seeing the village you were instructed to visit, only to find no one willing to help you.  When your only hope of shelter appears, you are excited!  Then you learn they can not help you because all of their rooms are full.  Not even room in the lobby.  The delivery is at hand.  You are terrified.  Imagine the owner of the establishment offering you shelter in the only place he can think of.  Imagine your fiance' rushing, clumsily, to arrange hay for you to lay on.  The animals rustling as your delivery arrives.
     Imagine holding your baby for the first time.  Imagine your joy, your fear, your overwhelming love.  Imagine looking around you and seeing light.  It is a bright, warm light full of love and promise.  Even the animals are smiling. 
     The deal you struck was with God.  The delivery you made was the King.  The payment you receive is God's appreciation...the World's exultation!
     Christ is born!  The world is full of promise!  Imagine the possibilities!
     Imagine.....
      

Thanks--My Version

     Today is the day that we, as a nation, give thanks to those who suffered to make this country prosper.
     Over the years the thanks have become more personal.  For some it amounts to nothing more than wealth, or that seat in Congress, or the "dopest" ride.  For me, it is the following.
     I am thankful for family, past, present, and future.  They have lent a hand in making me who I am; what I might be.
     I am thankful for friends.  True friends.  The ones that actually hear me, share in my joys, and stick by me through years of lost contact.
     I am thankful for my God-given talents, passed down through Irish genes.
     I give thanks for doctors.  Their knowledge, along with God's help have cured many ills and continues to help heal those I love.
     Most of all, I am Blessed and Thankful to have been chosen as the one to give birth to my greatest accomplishment--My Nick.  He is funny, wise, strong, handsome and intelligent.  I will never be able to offer the world anything greater.
     Blessings to All,
     Ann

Like A Son

     I'm wondering how the mind of a teenage boy works. 
     This morning I got a call from my son, shortly after he left to walk to school, reporting that someone found it funny to write F*** Nick on our door and a penis on our garage door.  Oh, and a large happy face, as if that made it all better.  For some reason, my heart is breaking.
     My son's best friends frequent our tiny apartment to hang or play Xbox, often.  They are always welcome.  In fact, they walk right in.  They help themselves to my food and drink, and most call me "Mom".  I love that they are that comfortable.  Why, then, would one or more of them vandalize the property at which  we live?  Not only that, but write a derogatory phrase toward Nick?  Kids will be kids, right?  Uh uh.  Not on a rental.  Not at all, but definitely not on property that I do not own! 
     I have an idea who did it.  And that makes my hurt even greater, as he is a good kid, but can be a stinker (much like my own).  And he is just about Nick's best friend--one of my favorite visitors.  He, like so many of my son's friends, is like a son to me.  I feel free to tell him to hold down the noise, or not dis someone, or stop eating so much, 
     Although my son said he would clean up the graffitti after school, I did it, as I would not have the obscenities staring at the street all day.  This is not an easy thing for me to do.  Scrubbing, thanks to my diseases, leaves pain and weakness.  Nick's best friends know that I have a disease that makes doing some things difficult.  Apparently, they/he don't/doesn't care about us as much as I thought. 
     I had to call the Sheriff.  They said to report it to the landlord to find out how to procede.  So then I had to answer to my landlord.  Although he was glad to hear it was cleaned up, he wants to press charges if the person(s) are found.  This will leave me with an ethical dillema, if it is who I suspect it to be.  The landlord thinks that perhaps 30 hours of painting somewhere will teach the offender a lesson, but I just don't see that happening.  This is a town of 800, with one full time cop.  Around half the population are children.  There is little for them to do, but take walks, or drive around.  And those things get mischevious sometimes.
     My son is popular.  Perhaps this comes with that.  Years ago, our house/property was TP'd by my then stepdaughter's friends.  She too, was popular.  I don't know.  I was not popular, nor did I live in town.  I am just confused.  And all that keeps running through my mind is "how could they/he do that"? 
     Lately, in this tiny town there has just been too much of this going on.  Thefts, vandalizations.  I know it's not all done by one person or group.  It's small town entertainment.  I spose I should "get over it".  But, it's hanging on.  The hurt and disappointment are sticking with me because the one I suspect is like a son.  And I would expect more from my son.
     I hope above hope that I am wrong in my suspicions.  I hope it is one of the usual suspect trouble makers.  We may never know.  But, I'll always wonder who found insulting my son good fun.

Like A Fist

     Twenty years ago the message in the commerial was "Words Hit Harder Than A Fist."  It was geared toward domestic and child abuse.  Apparently, few people took this to heart, or perhaps, believed it.  I believed it.  Words had beaten the shit out of me all my life.  At school, and at home.  And yes, they leave scars.  Deep scars that never heal completely because the next word, and the next, keep tearing them open.  And for some reason, unlike physical scars, they don't get tougher.  Each painful word or phrase hurts just as much, or more than they did the first time.  And no one can see them.
     Or can they?  Self destructive behaviors are, many times indicative of verbal abuse.  Whether it is excessive piercing, tats, promiscuity, or drugs, it does show.  For me, it was alcohol and promiscuity.  After being told repeatedly by my father that no man would ever want me, that I was homely, lazy, stupid, I believed it.  I went bat-ass crazy trying to prove him wrong.  I thought of suicide many times before I was finally forced into seeing a doctor and a therapist.  I learned that I wasn't so bad.  But, it took years and years of therapy, and medication combos to get to the point I am, at age 50, believing I deserve what anyone else deserves.  To exist.
     There are several campaigns active right now to bring awareness to bullying.  Most are focused on the GLBT community, and the teens in it.  Of course, that is because, recently, the suicide rate in that demographic has risen at a shocking rate.  But, it is not just the GLBT community that is affected by the thoughtless, evil(?), tossing of hurtful words and phrases. 
     Try on these words and phrases....Cow, Fatty, Beanpole, Slut, Emo, Fag, Heifer, That's so gay, You're so queer, You run/catch/talk/ like a girl, She's so butch, Dike, Lesbo, Does your face hurt, cause it's killing me, You're a waste of air, Loser, Spoiled, If I want it done right, I have to do it myself, Waste, Stupid, Weeby, Rice Burner, and my personal favorite--Butter Butt.
   I almost wish I could say that only kids used these words, but I can't.  They learned these words.  From parents, grandparents, teachers, coaches, older siblings.  The new campaign states that "it can start as a joke."  And I suppose, to some, the words are funny.  Unless they've been directed toward you.  Or maybe because they were directed toward you.  It   Ain't   Funny.  Period.
     A local school district is being sued by the family of an African American girl who was subjected to racism/bullying by her algebra teacher.  Get this.  The Caucasian teacher writes an algebra problem on the board.  The AA girl raises her hand and states that she doesn't understand it.  The C teacher tells her that of course she doesn't, "it's a White thing."  The C teacher then writes another problem on the board, and asks the AA girls if she understands it.  The AA girl asks "why because I'm black?"  The C teacher laughs and says "yes."  At what point did Algebra become a race issue?  And even if in some alter universe it was, how could a teacher--of any ethnic origin--belittle a student--of any ethnic origin--in in front of the entire class.  In the school, where children are sent to learn.
     I've preached this before.  Parents learn respect.  Google it if you need help.  Grandparents, come out of your "that's how we did it in my day" frame of mind, and learn from your kids.  Kids.  KIDS, talk to your parents if you feel hurt, talk to your peers if they are hurting someone.  Don't "go with the flow".  If you see hurtful, act, tell.  Don't let someone suffer the pain of verbal, but invisible fists, because you don't want to be next.  If enough of you stand up for the bullied, there will be no one left to bully!
   "It gets better", "stand up and be counted", "make a difference", "just do it".  There are positive messages out there too.  Grab them.  Embrace them.  Practice them.  To the recipients of the good deed..."Pay It Forward."  Someday, maybe some of the scars can stay healed.     

World Wide Wonderful

     I received a message today on my Facebook wall that brought tears to my eyes.  Not because of what it said, although the message was sweet and much needed.  The tears came because the message came from a woman that was a part of my past that was self-destructive, and made few women friends.  It got me to thinking.
     When I was young, I knew people that I attended school and Sunday School with.  Oh, and lots of cousins.  When I became an "adult", I met people I worked with and attended bars with.  Lots of bars.  Lots of people. Lots.  And it wasn't all good.  I pissed alot of people off.  Drinking alot, and searching for the man that would prove Daddy wrong.  I didn't make many woman friends.
     At that time, the 60's, 70's, 80's, we knew people by what we heard/saw/perceived.  No behind the scenes stories to explain the whys of a person.  The government was priviledged to have that ability for many years with a computer system that could access other computers across something later called cyberspace.  I'm not sure how the story goes, as to how WWW came to the common folk, but at some point it opened up the world.
     In our house, it oozed in in 1997.  Although I didn't know its power yet, the idea of searching for anything my heart desired was appealing.  What I discovered at that time were chat rooms.  Some strange, some boring, some supportive.  As I tend to do, I became addicted to the chat rooms that offerred support for my newly diagnosed Fibromyalgia.  I spent hours chatting.  I didn't "know" these helpful people, but they were my friends.  Slowly, the fun chat rooms closed and everything became too serious for me, so I went in search (because I could!) for something else to fill my time.  I found games networks.  I spent my days looking for hidden objects like a pro.  After all, I'd spent a great deal of my childhood in Dr.s' waiting rooms, and had found every toaster or chicken in a tree that Highlight magazine could offer.
      One day, I don't remember when, the term "MySpace" entered my psyche.  I'd heard stories of how such sites preyed on the young people it was set up to attract.  No child of mine would become a victim.  But, as kids do, my ex-stepdaughter set up an account at a friends house.  Slowly, I began hearing that this MySpace was actually a fun way to stay in contact with people, share music, and express your personality.  Hmmm.  A way to have fun and monitor child safety at once?  I was "in"!  It was fun, there were a few games, people to chat with, virtual gardens...a real entertaining "Space".
     And then there was something much better.  It was set up for college kids originally, and young people took to it like peanut butter to jelly.  When both young ones in my house had accounts online, I signed up for Facebook.  At first, my friends were classmates of my ex-stepdaughter.  Then I found a few adults I knew, "friended them".  Then there were more.  And relatives.  And old classmates, work comrads, and what I have listed as "back in the day".  People I knew during my party days. 
     Life comes full circle.  I am now "friends" with two of the women that treated me badly in my days of recklessness.  And they are kind.  The message I got today was from one of them. 
    Along with the fact that we've matured, healed, and had experiences that have shaped us over these past 30 years, there is Facebook.  We can send virtual gifts, birthday wishes, share joys and sorrows, share gaming, and get to know each other in a way that face to face doesn't allow for most.  And, yes, there is a downside to not being face to face.  Accountability.  Mudslinging has risen at an unfortunate and astounding rate.  But, not in my Facebook "family". 
     And family!  I've reconnected or increased connectivity with family members.  I've seen their children and grandchildren--the future of our family tree. 
     The future.  My goodness, what wide, wonderful world will open to us in the future? 

Cross My Heart

     As I sit here typing, I am in pain.  It's because he is in pain.  He is disappointed with a change in today's plans, and he is angry and hurt and disappointed.  This tears me up inside, and tears roll down my face.  As he lashes out, I hear the honesty of how he really feels about our situation.  And I swear, I'm doing the best I can.
     I don't go shopping for the sake of shopping.  I don't go out anymore, to save money.  I stopped buying some things on my grocery list that were costly and unnecessary.  Any extra cash goes to him.  For school activites, hanging out, and allowance.  I think of him first even when buying cereal.
     Today he is hurting and doesn't want to live here anymore.  He's tired of living in a rental, where things are older and fall apart.  He's sick of me.  He doesn't want me here.  I love him more than my own life.  His heart hurts, and as if he were still within me, so does mine.  I'm not sure how to help him.
    When he hurts like this, he falls back on how the past two years have treated him.  Divorce, loss of three loved ones, not including his favorite dog, Mercury.  Truly, he has mourned more in a short period of time than most others his age.  I wish we could heal those hurts.  How can I help him heal?
Just loving him doesn't seem nearly enough.  Especially when he won't let me show him.  I want to embrace him tightly and tell him it won't always be this way.  It's only been two years.  But, he pulls back when I try to hug.  I know it's his age, and being a boy.  And resentment. 
    I want so much for him to be able to see the positive things peeking through the disappointment.  His multitude of friends.  His love of football--that 80yd TD run.  How much he is loved--by four families!  Having the best "step" family, and how lucky he is that it is that way, rather than the more common conflicts.
     I am sorry, bud, that today fell through.  I'm sorry that you come home to just me.  I'm sorry that everything doesn't go as smoothly as you want.  But, I swear to you, I am doing the best I can and loving you more with every second of every day.  God loves you too.  No matter what you do, no matter how angry you feel, no matter how "unloveable" you may thing you are...He loves you! 
     Just like I do.  Unconditionally...forever.  Cross my heart.

Seriously??

     Oye.
     I have truly missed my calling.  Dick Van Dyke and John Ritter made millions performing, on TV, the very things I seem to encounter regularily.  Lucille Ball was loved by millions for her zany mishaps.
     My life, it seems, IS one zany mishap.  Without humor, I'd be dead!
     I'm not sure it was all that zany when I was a child, although my Aunt Reen, Aunt Dorie, and Mom kept zany an acceptable way to live.  But, when I got older....
     There was the weight machine incident when I was a sophmore.  I was bearing down to leg press 260lbs, and the girl in charge of inserting the pins ASSUMED that I wouldn't be able to press it and pulled the pin out at the exact moment I pressed.  This left only about 20lbs to press.  With all my vigor I pressed for 260, met 20 and my feet slipped right off the pedals, sending them downward into my shins.  Two fractured shinbones.  The gym teacher was about 5'1" and 90lbs soaking wet, and she bore the weight of my large, fainting frame to the school nurse.  Must've been quite a sight.  Lesson: never assume--its makes an ass out of you, and shatters ME bones....
     And the rainstorm.  It came down like the heavens were having super soaker wars.  It left huge gulleys of water at every dip in the street or sidewalk.  I tried to jump across a huge one on my way into the grocery store after the storm.  Damn.  Gulley too wide, feet soaking wet.  After several minutes, browsing aisles, I noticed a young boy holding his mother leg and pointed down--at me.  He looked a bit frightened.  I followed his point and found that my canvas shoes had gone rabid.  Foaming.  More foam with each step.  I had used a spray on canvas shoe cleaner the night before.  Perhaps I could've used less or rinsed them better.....
     More recently, there was a three month ride of the uprising of home machines.  The computer died.  The washer quit spinning, the vacuum stopped sucking, the coffemaker stopped making, and my glasses snapped.  Okay, the glasses aren't a machine, but they are what gives me my super powers.  This uprising cost me a ton, but on the bright side, it really would make for good TV.
     After spending months waving at the cars behind me, my tailpipe was removed by a friend.  Not a problem, except for the pollution of the enviroment, and the possible poisoning of anyone riding in my car.  When my little Suzuki started roaring, it became embarrassing, but at least I had a car.  That my son was mortified riding with me is sad, but life.  However, when I jumped in and turned the key on the day of grocery shopping, and got a click, things became harried.  Damn.  Another breakdown.  More money.....no groceries.  Oh well, call a repair guy.  Luck!  Found a good guy that would let me pay my bill a bit at a time. 
     As I watched my little SUV leave the driveway, I was saddened, but encouraged to have found such a great repairman.  Until we ran out of food.  After all, that's where I was headed when the vehicle died.  Three days later, my son was scrounging in cupboards for something to snack on.  He found, stale saltines, semi stale cheese whales, and....croutons.  He was overjoyed to snack on croutons.  Time to get the car back?  I think so.  But, alas, this was not to be.  I drive a '99 Suzuki and a starter, it seemed, was a rare commodity.  Six days later, by no fault of the repairman, I got my little "beep beep" back.  Oh joy!  Oh reveillee!  Oh God it needs gas!  Lots of gas.  I grabbed my wallet and headed to the gas station.  It sputtered, but I figured it'd been sitting for six days--warm up girl.  Big sputter.  Well, it's mostly downhill...I'll make it.  Until that little surge uphill to get to the downhill--silence.  Really?  Turn the key.  Absolute farting sound, then silence.  After a sigh, I walked to a friends house to grab a ride to the station to get enough gas--to get to the station.  Had to spend $9 on a small gas can--again---yes this has happened before and don't even approach the question of why I don't carry a can in the car!  Okay.  Paid $5 for gas in the can.  Pumped too fast and it blew up onto my person.  Gas all over.  Can doesn't hold $5.  Can I get this in my car and get back to this stall so I get my remaining $1.88?  My dear friend takes me to my "bleep bleep", I start pouring and it leaks all over, splashing onto my feet.  Let me add, here, that once a can is purchased you must assemble.  Directions are stamped into the plastic, making assembly impossible for a 50yr old, nearsighted lady.  Back to "BLEEEEEEP!"  Got in, car started.  Friend left.  Thanks Kate.
     I raced back to the stall and 'aha!' $1.88 still there.  I'm still wondering if I hadn't pressed the type of gas I wanted, if I would've gotten my credit.  But, it was erased and I put my last $6 in.  When a tank is that empty, $9 doesn't do much.  As I walked toward the station I could see a huddle at the cash register, and knew it was about me.  Reeking, I walked in and announced, "I'm bAAaaack!"  "Say, I didn't use that entire $5 a minute ago...."  "Yeah, I see that."  Oh boy.  After much discussion, I was given my $1.88 back.  I went slinking home...or stinking home...dragged up the stairs while saying a quick prayer of thanks--yes, thanks--and walked in the apartment.  "Everything running okay?", came the question from my son.  "Great.", I say.  "I ran out of gas, walked to friends, got ride, spilled gas all over, and I stink.  Car's running fine."  "Cool!"  Seriously??? 
     Gotta laugh at it all.  Gotta.  Or I'll strangle the first cheery person I see.  Seriously.   

My Best Guy

     He is almost 5'8" tall, with blonds curls.  He is intelligent, and has a great sense of humor.  He has common sense--and uses it.  He is athletic, and a natural leader.  He knows right from wrong, and when faced with touchy decisions, chooses right more than wrong.  He is not a morning person.  He is not patient.  He is protective of those he loves.  And loves fiercely.
     He will be fourteen in December.
     As any mother, I remember that uber-cold day.  I was scheduled to be induced due to pre-eclampsia, and the drip started at 8am.  Boredom set in for his Dad and me within an hour.  It was gonna be a long day!  I don't remember what I did to pass the time.  I know his Dad wandered in and out, and pitched cell phones to the nurses.  He was a born salesman.... 
     At some point I began to feel something.  Uncomfortable, but manageable.  The two of us walked up and down the halls, as was suggested during our classes.  I must've been quite a sight, waddling with my drip rolling along.  Getting back onto the table, once back in the birthing room, was like an episode of "I Love Lucy", with the comic error of it.   By now it was about 11am, and I was really hurting.  I told the nurse, who checked the monitor and told me to relax, as the tape showed very little in the area of contractions.  Boy, I wondered, what do they consider a contraction cause I'm h u r t i n g!!  After reporting, again, to the nurse, and her checking the tape--again--I was told that if I didn't show some "real" contractions by noon, I'd be sent home.  Panic.  I begged her to believe me...these were contractions.  I'm not a doctor, but I think the medical term for what I was feeling was "holy crap that hurts!"  The Dr. was called in to check me and I hadn't dialated.  Yep, it was gonna be home for me. 
     At what point it was noticed that the labor belt had slipped, I don't know.  Now keep in mind that all this time, the amount of pitocin was being increased to bring on the contractions because the machine didn't show jack.  The inducer was working...the look of alarm on the nurse's face when the labor belt was adjusted was memorable.  I remember wanting to mock "told ya, told ya", but I was in too much pain.  According to the tape, my contractions were close to going off the tape.  Call in the Doc.
     When she came in I had high hopes, but I was going nowhere in terms of being baby friendly.  I think I cried.  Birth became imminent around 3 or maybe 5pm.  Doc?  Still not ready.  Where was my focus point?  I couldn't remember.  Breathe.  Can't, it makes me nauseous and faint.  I think I snapped at the nurse on that point.  So THIS is what all the fuss is about!  Damn!
     The steady increase of pitocin had caused violent contractions by that time.  My blood pressure, which had been dangerously high in the first place, now registered on the the machine as "please fix me".  Seriously!  I don't remember much...the panicked look on his Dad's face, the nurses hustling, the frustration of two failed epidurals...and the Dr. checking and finding that I'd become baby ready in an hour!  The relief of that alone must've brought my blood pressure down a little, but the machine still demanded attention.
     At 7:01pm my best guy litterally flew into the doctor's hands.  I was kind of fuzzy, but I swear she had a catcher's mitt on.  His Dad snipped the cord, and our lives were changed forever.  His cries were not howling, but cute...at least at first.  I remember repeating my delight at his "cute" cries.  After his sister came in and declared he was purple, and I'd received congrats from the in-laws, I relaxed.  I felt elation.  When the nurse put him with me to feed, I felt calm, warm.
     As he grew, we became best buds.  It was obvious to everyone how close we were.  Too close?  Maybe.  But, I don't think so.  Perhaps our relationship was in preparation for what we face now.  It's just us.  And it has it's bumps.  He is almost 14.  He has attitude, as all kids his age do.  He knows it all, as all kids his age do.  We are both stubborn.  There has been door slamming and yelling and silences.  But given time, these iron out, and we talk once again about hunting coyote, the war, and how he wishes I wouldn't talk to his Facebook friends.  Apparently, it's embarrassing to have someone come up to him and mention something I said.  Go figure...
     Because I am in pain most of the time, I hope he doesn't see women as weak.  I hope he sees my passions and sees women as strong and committed.  I hope when he sees me cry,  he knows it's okay to do it.  I hope he continues to see himself as "a beast."  I hope I will see him graduate.  I hope I will seem him succeed.  I hope the world for him.
     For every moment of childbirth pain, there is a moment that he has captured my heart.  The endless hugs when he was younger.  The surprise of receiving a Mother's Day card when I thought he was too old to go for that stuff.  His declaration of "you're a great Mom!", when discussing a less than stellar parent.  And, the last minute "Happy Birthday, Mom.  I Love You." as he exited the truck to go to school.  I know he'd been holding onto that for effect.  It worked.  I cried for an hour.
     He was, is, and always will be my Best Guy.  
    

The Way "It" Is....

     Been going through some rough financial times over the past six months.  Just as so many people are these days.  I'm not new to stretching a dollar.  When I was in my 20s partying mattered much more than paying the bills.  In my 30s I changed, "careers" and was forced to take on full time-temp work.  It payed less than half of what my nanny job paid.  But, it was my decision to leave the nanny job, and I had to take the punches.  I did not count on being nearly KO'd.  Eventually, the temp work turned permanent, and some things started to iron out.  Got married, had kids, became ill, lost my job...and although tight, we still made it pretty well.
     Divorce changes many things.  Suddenly, I was a single mom.  Paying for everything on disability and support.  I made changes in my adjustable expenses--things were tight again, but it seemed like it was going to be okay. Come December, I had to make a choice.  I made the wrong one, and it put me a month behind on the mortgage.  And, as always happens, it spiraled out of control.
     In June of '08 I was forced to sell the house, or be foreclosed on.  A house that was built to our specs--somewhat to make things a bit easier for me, due to my ongoing pain.  One floor, hi-rise potty and all.  Those were some of the darkest days I've seen.  I had a son now.  Only a respectable apartment would do.  I'd promised my ex that I wouldn't take him out of the school district, so finding a decent apartment would be tricky. 
     On one of my cruises around this tiny little town, I saw a big sign in front of a four-plex.  I called, I met the gentleman, I fell in love with the tiny apartment.  I exlained my situation to the landlord, and he was more than accomodating.  After spending weeks cleaning out the basement of the house, having it flood once and goo up alot of boxes, it was moving day.  I was exhausted beyond anything I'd experienced before.  One of my son's friends and his brother and mom helped us move a house into an apartment.  There are 19 stairs.  I pushed as hard as I could to help as much as I could, but finally broke down.  It was my 12yr old son that took me by the shoulders and said, "We're gonna get this done.  Don't worry.  It'll get done."  The pact the four of them made came to truition at about 10pm when my bed got set up.  It was their intention to make sure I had my bed at the end of that day.  Could anyone ask for better people?
     We adjusted pretty quickly to our new surroundings.  I wasn't so sure my sons buddies would want to make the uphill journey to our apartment to hangout, as they did at the house, but if that's what it took to hang with Nick, then so be it.  We are so very lucky....no, blessed!
     Then, as I've written before, everything (it seemed) broke down.  In three months I had just shy of $2,000 of replacements and repairs.  Do that math...$667 a month extra for three months!  No "extra" about it.  Things had to be repaired and replaced.  And once again, the downward spiral began.  Of course, at first it was not too noticeable.  And then it was.  And now I am seeking assistance.  Just temporary, but enough to get back "in the black".
     When I had the house, I could not get food assistance.  Too many assets.  Couldn't get State help with utilities...made $60 too much.  And now.  Now.  The fine State of Illinois is out of money for assistance.  Before I took the trip into the big city, I researched whether I would even be eligible.  Indeed I was.  But, as I got to each place I was told there was no money for assistance.  On the township level I was told I could not get rent assistance because I already got government assistance through my SSDI.  So, I think that means they'll pay you to survive, just not under a decent roof.  To give them some props, though, they did refer me to a church.
     Crossroads Community Church is a modern church, that preaches in a not so preachy manner.  I've never been to the church, but have watched some sermons online and listened to some as well.  Their following is staggering.  This is the church that was suggested to me.  I called, and was told that they assist by giving directly to the various programs.  I was directed to one of them.  When my call was finally returned, I was asked immediately if I was homeless.  When I answered 'no', I was rushed off the phone with the words "Sorry, we only help those that have no home."  Now as much as that is a good thing if, indeed you are homeless, it makes no sense to wait until one IS homeless to help.
     A friend of mine directed me to the churches here, and gave me a name or two of folks always willing to lend a hand.  I called the churches.  First returned call--same day--said they don't do rent assistance, but would a gift certificate to the local market help?  Yes, of course.  The second call came today, Sunday, October 10, 2010.  10-10-10.  Supposedly a lucky day.  The second church will help.  I don't know how much.  I couldn't be so bold as to ask.  They would, however, need to make the check payable to my landlord...they hoped I understood.  Of course I understand.  It is for the same reason that it is so hard to get disability when you really need it.  Or any assistance, for that matter.  There are people that play the system, and somehow get away with it. 
     Today is my lucky day.  I've found that you can count on your local resources, family, and friends more than you can your highly paid, elected officials.  I don't know what I will be sending my landlord tomorrow.  I do know that God provides.  I wish that came more easily for me.  To just know and not get worked into three weeks of panic attacks.  But, it will come.  In its time.  When my heart is fully ready, and not so filled with worry where the assurance should be.
   Oh!  And to make this date even luckier, my boy comes home after five days in Arizona.  Funny how you can miss the sound of bombs and gunfire coming from across the apartment.....

     Last week the world lost 100 teens.   Not runaways.  Not "hide n seek".  Suicide.  It has been going on for a very long time, but the death of Tyler Clementi brought this astounding, heartbreaking statistic into a bright, glaring, light.
     In Tyler's case, he was bullied because he was gay.  His roommate and a friend used the gift of technology to expose Tyler's private life to the world.  As a result of the embarrassment, shame, and shock, Tyler, too, used this gift of technology to alert the world that he was going to jump off the George Washington bridge.  He was 18.  That same week kids aged 13, 15, and 18 killed themselves due to bullying.
     First, let me say that I refer to our technology as a gift because it is.  What used to take days to accomplish in the workplace can now be done in hours or minutes.  Distant relatives can share photos of new additions, Social networks, like MySpace and Facebook, allow old classmates and relatives to reaquaint themselves.  And that is just on the "joe slob on the street level."  Think of what ever- advancing technology has done for medicine, space research, agriculture.  It is a gift.
     When I was a kid, I was bullied.  Looking back, I can find no reason I would NOT have been bullied.  I had glasses at age five, a grown-up, teased hairstyle when the style was long and straight.  I was loud, and cried at anything.  Such an easy target.  I had worms thrown at me, buttons ripped off my clothes, hair pulled out in hunks.  I was punched, knuckleheaded, had glasses purposely broken (multiple times--parents thrilled...) and piles of schoolbooks dropped on my head by the boys taller than I.  Other victims of bullying included the overweight, and those from poor households.  Or the improperly dressed.  Or the recipients of an odd last, or first name.  And, we were told it was just part of growing up.  "Ignore them, and they'll ignore you."  Since many of the things I was bullied over physically hurt, I cried.  Because I cried I was bullied.  I wanted to die for many reasons.  Being different was in the top two.  I remember holding a bottle of aspirin one day, when I was home alone.  And thinking.  Just thinking.  Mom pulled in the driveway, thought tucked back inside.
     I never felt like I fit in, thanks to bullies,  making the vicious cycle neverending.  Until my Sophmore year.  I made cheerleader.  Within the blink of an eye, I fit in, and the bullying stopped.  I was the same person.  Kind, funny, smart.  By the end of lunch hour that day I'd been invited to three parties.  Because I fit in to a predetermined stereotype, produced by parents. 
     Bullying is not okay.  It is not to be laughed off, or bragged about at the 25th reunion.  It really does affect a persons future.  I find it sad to say, that it makes the victim--if they can live through it--stronger.  They become tenacious and hard working.  To a fault.  To a breakdown.  If there is a hidden emotional imbalance, the effects can be fatal.  For me, it nearly was several times.  Thanks to the gifts of technology in medicine, twenty five years ago, that part of my angst was controlled.  But, the rest of the scars still ache from time to time.
     Bullies are as insecure as any child of school age.  They find, at some point, that making some else feel awful makes them feel good.  It's a sort of high.  Many bullies are bullied.  And their bullies are bullied.  It's sort of the human version of the food chain.  But, it is not okay.
     In between the bullies and the bullied are the bystanders.  They are aware that they are not perfect, and that stepping in could make them the next victim.  I wonder how a bystander feels when they see the bullied fall apart...or die.  Is there a "I should've done something" feeling?  God, I hope so.  Let their guilt be their punishment.
     The death of Tyler Clememti has brought about a movement for teens called "It Gets Better."  I've just finished watching many of the videos associated with this movement, and various celebrities speak on the subject, on Ellen.  Although I think it is a good message, as everything in life "gets better" at some point, it is important to point out that it doesn't ALL just one day get better.  It is gradual.  Sometimes unnoticed, until you wake up one day, and are not afraid to go to school, or work. But, yes, every tough situation gets better eventually.
     Tyler's death has focused on teen sexuality choices.  Choices?  Life is not "duck, duck, goose."  "You're straight, you're straight...you're gay!"  Your are who you are.  I hear you all...the Bible says.....
indeed, there are verses that cite that one man may not lay with another.  But above all...above the Noah, the Moses, the "valley of the shadow of death"....it says to LOVE ONE ANOTHER.  Not just the straight, college educated, trendiest dressed, homeowner, with blond hair and blue eyes, that was the captain of the football team or head cheerleader.  Love One Another.  Any other.  Every other.
     I have been fortunate in my life to have met many people of many social classes, ethnic classes, and religious views.  Some of those people have been gay.  And some of them have been my best friends.  One, was in a car accident that killed everyone in the vehicle but him.  One was in the army.  One worked in a factory, one worked in an office.  These are experiences that many people can relate to.  They all have blood that is red.  Their hearts beat, their lungs expand, their voicebox vibrates to make sound.  One of  these friends just got married to the man he has loved for 25 years.  My marriage ended at 12 years.  Another, gave up his bed for me when I had nowhere to live during a trying time in my life.  He slept on a cot in his living room for two months.  His morning greeting of "Good Morning Sunshine!" grated my every nerve, but I loved him, and he me, because we were friends.  Before he was ready to "come out", one of these friends was my boyfriend.   He could be very sweet, but his temper didn't suit me, so I broke it off.  The office friend was the victim of sexual and physical abuse during his youth. 
   "Being" gay is not even an accurate phrase.  I am not, at this moment, "being" straight.  I am writing from my heart, waiting for the landlord to call about the rent check.  I just... am. 
     Kids now use jargon that is contradictory.  As stated on Ellen, if any child....anyONE uses the "N" word they are sorely punished.  The "F" word is "just the way they talk at school."  The only place that does not allow it is regular television.  You can pay an extra $10.99 to hear it on pay channels.  But, "that's so gay", and "you faggot" are today's accepted slang.  They are not even aimed at a gay person.  Just an expression to ridicule or insult.  I am guilty of letting this slip by me now.  My son uses these expressions as do his friends, his older sister, and most other kids.  I fought it for a long time.  I finally waved the white flag, but made him learn the real definition of the words.  He had no idea that the word "gay" meant happy.  He did know that Negro meant the color black.  He did not know that faggot was a bundle of sticks or twigs.  He does know that an ass is a sort of donkey.  I am certain he does not know that the "F" or "N" word are not in my dictionary.  I made him learn the dictionary defintion of these words he uses so freely as everyday exclamations.  I will continue to do so.
     Tyler Clementi and the 99 other teens that threw away God's most precious gift last week, due to the pain caused by bullies can not die in vain.  Today is Wednesday.  There go another 50.  Parents,
teach your children tolerance.  Teach them the beauty of difference.  If you don't know how, then Google it.  You have the gift of technology at your fingertips.

Grandma

     She always smelled like flowers.  She always grew flowers.  Beautiful flowers.  I remember the lily of the valley just outside the side door to the house.  And mixed in were the wild violets.  I'm not sure how, but the love of violets trickled down to all of us.  There were tulips of every color, and others I didn't know the names of, and the Clematis.  Oh, the Clematis were her flower pride.  Brilliant purple.  When I got a house, I wanted Clematis somewhere.  The Bleeding Hearts leading into the "front" door were so fun to squeeze.  They always popped back.  Today, my heart is squeezed and it's not popping back.  My Grandma Jessie Mae Callahan Sanderson passed at age 93, last nite.
     I think she was more than a grandmother somehow.  We travelled from Stockton to Galena every Saturday to visit her.  Galena became my second hometown--she another mother.  She was stern when needed and comical in an ever so nonchalant way.  What Grandma said, she meant.  No punches, no lies.  A strong woman out of need at a young age. 
     She was born in 1917.  The middle of seven children.  Well, somewhere around the middle.  Her mother died when she was young.  She mothered her siblings at age 13.  Her stepmother sent her packing.  Although I'm not clear on the whole story, I think that's the gist.  I know she had an eye disorder that required strong lenses to correct and getting those glasses was next to impossible.  But, she got them, and had beautiful, but sad eyes.
     She lived through six wars.  Her opinions on those wars I do not know.  She sent two of her sons into service.  Both returned home.  She gave birth to five children.  She was a twin, who's counterpart was lost.  She said once, that she did, as the reports said, feel the presence of her twin.
     She was all American.  Patriotic.  Love of country.  Grateful to it's protectors.  When 9-11-01 happened she cried with the rest of us, and was inspired to write yet another poem to commemorate its significance.  She was a poet laureate.  Published, no less.  Her book, "Fireflies" sold many, many copies.  I am grateful to have received her gift of word.  At one point, she and I were published in the same Anthology.  What an honor.
     I remember holidays at her house.  The smell of ham, or turkey pushing it's way through the door when it was opened.  The table was always set for the holiday and she had personal touches at every place.  Homemade name cards.  Some with glitter.  Colored eggs with our names on them.  The Christmas cookies!!  Oh that "secret" recipe of Grandma Eustice....actually published in the paper!  No secret anymore...outstanding.  Christmas Eve was the night of magic, when the gifts were exchanged.  After everyone has opened theirs, the share began with her inquiries as to what everyone had received. 
     As a child, I remember our trips to Grandma Sanderson's.  If you got there at lunch, you ate whatever was on the table.  And it was always something good.  Even leftovers taste better at Grandma's.  After lunch we took a trip downtown.  At the time, Galena was a regular town.  An A&P, a dime store, a pharmacy, several bars, and tons of antique shops.  Of course, being given a quarter or fifty cents made Ben Franklin my favorite store.  Oh, the paper dolls I bought on Grandma's quarters!  But we visited all the stores, and I became mildly knowledgeable about antiques.  Those stores always smelled funny, but the treasures were unbelievable.
     For a week every summer, even as I became a young adult, I spent it at Grandma's.  As I laid in Aunt Maureen's old bed, I was awakened by the morning doves and the smell of Grandpa's coffee brewing.  In the distance, I could hear the train travelling its mission.  Later in the day, just to pass the time, I would walk downtown, over the train tracks...the smell of tar...still takes me back.  As I got older my trips would include the pharmacy, just to fawn over the help.  I can't tell you what we had for supper.  I'm sure it was wonderful, as Grandpa had put in a hard day at the Mobil station, and needed sustenance.
    Funny the things you remember.  Laying out in the backyard when I was 19 and Grandpa making a comment about my growing up.  Staying the week with Janet and going downtown and speaking gibberish to make people think we were tourists.  Listening to the DeFrancos and swooning over their pictures in the Music Lyrics magazine I'd purchased.  Janet and I doing dishes and singing "Rock The Boat" in harmony.  And Uncle Jim telling us we should be in a group.
     She was always dressed to the nines.  Even at home.  But a special event, brought out her best broaches and earrings.  Matched perfectly to her outfit.  A very classy lady.
     She bowled for years.  Once retired, she enjoyed trips to Minnesota, Texas and...yep...Vegas.  Oh did she love the slots!  She brought that love home and spread it around the Dubuque hangouts.  She golfed for awhile, not learning until her 70's (60's?).  It became another adventure and joy.
     She suffered a stroke not long before her 90th birthday.  It was devastating to those of us that knew her as the spunky do-it-all lady.  She spent her final years in a nursing home, giving joy---and frustration--- to the aids and nurses.  Her greatest advocate was Aunt Reen.  Reen rode that staff like a rodeo pro.  And Grandma got qualified care as a result.
     On the 29th of September we celebrated my mother's conquer of another year in the nursing home as the result of a stroke.  On that day Grandma was preparing, I think, for her reunion with her love and best dance partner, Grandpa.  We, of course prayed for recovery, but something inside of me said that she had had it with this nonsense.  When Janet called this morning, I was not surprised at the news.  Just very sad.  She'd had many wonderful years and memories with those of us that loved her, but her release to God was her prayer, I think.  A new world filled with violet fields, cardinals feeding at her heavenly bird feeder.  And dancing.  The Shag.  With Grandpa...finally.
     She will be put to rest on Tuesday.  I hope there are no yellow ribbons....she really hated yellow.  Really.
     Love you Grandma.  Tell Grandpa and the gang we think of them often.
     Godspeed.

     On September 29, 1940 a daughter was born to Stanley & Jessie Callahan Sanderson.  She was the first daughter, after two sons.  Needless to say, she was Daddy's girl.  And the boys weren't impressed.  According to Carol Ann Sanderson they tortured her constantly.  Aaaah, siblings.  She would, a few years later, have the priviledge herself.
     Her childhood was, for the most part, a carefree one.  Walks to the pool every day in the summer, picking Hollyhocks to make toothpick dancing ladies, paper dolls of Jayne Mansfield and Betty Grable.  A blondie cutie in her younger years, she would become a beautiful brunette as years passed.
     She was popular.  A cheerleadr for the Galena Pirates for six, yes six, years.  Homecoming court (I believe), fawned over by her male classmates; friends with most of her female peers.  She had the gifts of humor, kindness, and smarts.
     While walking to high school, a young man noticed her.  After days of seeing her walk, he offered her a ride.  He was strikingly hansome--incredible smile.  Four years older.  Eventually, she would date this young man.  He was years ahead of her in experience, being born to an alcoholic father, and out of school to support the family at 16.
     The date she described that stands out in mind, was a trip to the movies in which she had to leave to use the restroom, or get popcorn or something.  She was night-blind, even then.  Walking  back into the theatre, she stood for a moment, adjusted her sight and took her place next to her date and took his hand.  Apparently, her date had super laser eyesight, because she felt his eyes bearing down on her from behind.  Oops.  He was not amused.
     He went into the army in 1957.  She waited.  They were married October 18, 1959.  They began their life in a small apartment beneath his mother.  She was a "city" girl and didn't know how to cook or take care of a household.  His mother taught her everything she knows today.  Marriage was not what she imagined it would be.  But, on September 24, 1960 she gave birth to a girl.  Her husband, now my Daddy, had been travelling to Stockton for work.  He found a nice little house to rent in Stockton.  And, her world was upside down.
     Stockton, a close knit community, didn't welcome "outsiders" openly--expecially not Galena!  A football town since, I think, it's creation, Galena was like the Packers to the Bears. The enemy!  So, this young mother felt alone.  Trapped with this infant.  She was not encouraged to make friends.  Because of this, she was not regarded as the friendly person she was.
     Eventually, Dad met a man at work that he would become very good friends with, and Mom friends with his wife.  That friendship ended abruptly when it became apparent that they were into the "social scene." 
     In the meantime, we moved to a big house on Front St. in Stockton.  This is the first house I remember.  Beautiful oak trim, spacious rooms.  It was at that house that Mom brought home a tiny bundle in 1963.  I remember being told to be careful of her.  She was very tiny.  Her name was Janet.  I had a sister.  It was pretty cool, I think, until I realized she was staying.
     A year or so later, a guy Dad worked with announced he had a house for rent in the country. We moved to this new world in the summer of '65.  I remember moving day.  I think I was told several times to get out of the way...go figure....  I remember some guys bringing in our carpet all rolled up, and pulling back when I touched it, and found that the backside was scratchy and dirty.  I don't know what Mom was doing, other than trying to keep me out of everyones way, and taking care of toddler, Janet.
     This was not an experience Mom treasured.  She'd never been in the country...alone.  And, to make matters worse, it was that year, or maybe the next, that Richard (Robert?) Speck killed a load of nurses in Chicago and was on the loose.  Mom was scared beyond imagination.  Of course, I don't remember, but I'm guessing she wept with relief when Dad returned from work.  She was that scared.  At least in town she could go running into the streets if she had to.  Here, she was a mile from most neighbors.  Who would she run to...the cattle grazing in the fields surrounding "our" property? 
     As the years went by, she tackled my clothes being ripped by my "best friend", the everpresent odor of cattle and pig--and losing two boys.  Stillborn.  I remember her being pregnant only on the day she was scheduled to go to the hospital with, I think, the second loss.  As usual, she smiled and explained something, but I don't remember that either.  My Dad was crushed, as he'd always wanted a boy.  No more children were born.
     I remember 1968.  By this time, my sister was actually a playmate, be it one to be tortured.  And Mom would show us moves from her cheerleading days.  It became my passion.  Mom had a class reunion coming up.  She would be thin, or not go.  She went from house dresses to capris and blouses tied at the waist.  One day, while my sister and I played under the Big Maple Tree, she came out of the house with a blanket.  She was laying out.  In shorts.  And a tied blouse.  Who was this pretty lady?  Wow, Mom was a girl!  And a pretty one, at that.  I remember seeing pics of her reunion and it was clear that she had taken the weight loss too far, but she was still a standout.
     After some years, Mom & Dad bought that house in the country.  The property included a trailer, rental, and a four room house, rental.  The "little house" was not much of a problem, as the renter didn't come by much.  But, the trailer....oh the trailer.  Renters included a couple that fought all the time, sometimes the woman running into the night in her nitie.  I think they were asked to leave.  The Burkhart's.  Mom a model for Spiegel catalog, Dad a Ken doll and two girls that became our constant playmates. Kathy and Connie.  I can't remember why they left.  I remember Kathy being in my class for a couple years, at least.  And the Conlins.  Mexican(?) couple with an adorable daughter, Donna.  She was younger than we were, but we included her as much as we could...until my Mega Pixie Stick magic wand cut her eyeball.   I know that's not why they left, but boy did I take it for that!!  I remember having to go to the trailer and personally apologize to them for my recklessness.  Very humbling.  I don't think I ever got a Jumbo Pixie Stick again, them being lethal weapons and all.
     Dad took on a second full time job somewhere along the line.  He was gone 16hrs a day.  We never saw him, but after 3:00pm on weekends, or all weekend if it was his weekend off at the Kraft plant.  Mom became full time disciplinarian.  She must've discussed our actions with Dad at some point, because many punishments came from Dad's hand, or instructions.  She became accustomed to being a bit of a single parent, but spent time laying on the couch.  Tired.  Well, being a mom is exhaustinig.  We didn't know it at the time, but she was chronically depressed.  No one talked about that then.  She'd had post partum depression after my birth, and I suspect Janet's.  But, she had days that she was just silly or helped us with crafts or taught us to bake.  And teach us cheerleading.  She did the jumps!  In the kitchen!  She was amazing.
     She had things she did to make us into morning people, which we still are not.  She would dance our cereal to the table.  Or sing while pouring it.  There was that one day, though, when she must've had a bad night and poured OJ on the Froot Loops.  And was not in the  mood, and made us eat them.  Not sure I unpuckered until Jr. High.  And she baked.  Oh Grandma Radabaugh taught her well, and she was a good study!  Homemade bread...sometimes she's let us punch it down.  Making cookies, swearing that if you stand by the stove and pointed your left toe, they baked to perfection.  God knows, they were damn good cookies!
     To add to her duties, she was nurse, as my sister got a serious case of anemia, suspected to be leukemia.  And I got Red Measles in every, yes every, orafice possible.  She sat by me on the couch, worried, as this was a serious disease in 1969.  All drapes were closed; sunlight could blind me.  I cheated, of course, and peeked out the window to see our new trailer neighbors, the Burkhart girls.  She actually took quite a liking to the medical field, reading "I Am Joe's Liver"(Pancreas, Brain, Skin) from Reader's Digest to us.  She passed this to me,and I can be quite annoying with my "knowledge" of medicine.  She was also a wealth of soap opera information, updating us on the goings on as we ate supper.  Oh, and the grocery list.  Who knew reading the abbreviation could be hysterically funny!  "We need tpap, tpste, mluk, jce, and eggs."  Eggs?  I know that word!  She became part meteorologist as well, giving new names to combo weather such as snain, and taught reading in a unique manner, twisting letters so that when I actually got into school I thought we ate marcony and cheese.
     I hit puberty.  And boys.  An obsession for boys, that is.  She became Counselor.  God Bless her for listening to every move my crush of the day/week made.  I was way to geeky to actually ever have a boyfriend, but she assured me that, 1)they didn't see what she saw, and 2) some people are late bloomers.  As this was not the case with my sister--she bloomed right on schedule--I didn't put much stock in her wisdom.  I watched my sister become more and more beautiful, and I seemed to just get dorkier.  Yes, I was jealous of her.  Somehow, Mom kept it in perspective for me, and I learned to joke about it. "...Yeah, all her prom dress sizes combined is what size I take..."  She and her family's humor was gratefully passed on to me.  Without it, Dad would not have known I was alive except to demand chores and then complain that he could've done better.  His declarations of my homliness and that "no man would ever want me" could be somehow masked with a joke, even while devastating me.
     Yes, after many years of working two jobs, and then working all day at home on his days off, Dad became a bear.  It turned the once confident, popular cheerleader into a woman of submission.  It was pointed out to me by someone I love very much that when he spoke, Mom actually lowered her head.  We had all become victims of emotional abuse...though not knowing for many years.  To this day, if I am not doing something, anything, I am a nervous wreck.  I am still afraid of "getting into trouble". 
     Mom began working somewhere around '73 or '74.  Assembling switches.  Second shift.  I was in charge.  She got some calls that were not appreciated.  But one, a delicate problem was explained to me so that I could be sensitive to my sister's needs.  I remember her coming home with pieces of switches that had fallen into her purse, and her stories of a smelly friend.  Mom was not unkind, but a person can only take so much!  She landed a job at the Stockton Bank eventually, and worked there until she moved to Galena in '90.  The bank job saved my ass many a time, as she didn't have to pay for overdrafts, and I, in my irresponsible late teens and early twenties, put that to the test.  She would sneak money into my account to keep it above water.  I owe her tens of thousands of dollars.
     There came a time, I remember when I had to become the nurse and counselor for her.  A frantic phone call.  "Don't panic..."  Well, surely someone had died.  "I was sewing your dad's pants...(heavy breathing)...and the needle...(more breathing)...went through my finger".  Normally, I'd have made a joke, but the heavy breathing kicked me into my "help" mode.  This would later be called "being cold", but it's how I deal in the moment.  Anyway, I asked her what she meant-'went through'.  She told me the needle had broken off in her finger after going all the way through the bone.  OkeeDokee.  "Okay," I calmy told her, "Go and get a bowl and the peroxide.  Can you do that?"  She could.  "Pour the peroxide in the bowl and submerge your whole finger."  She did, and I began to talk her down.  I'm not sure what we talked about, but she did, after ten or so minutes, calm down, breathe right.  "Okay," she said, "I'm going out to the garage.  Please stay on the phone."  I did.  I'm not sure how much time passed.  She returned, out of breath again, "Okay, it's out."  What had she done?  This superwoman had taken the strongest pliers she could find, put her hand between her legs, and pulled.  And pulled.  Out of the bone.  "Well, get your finger back in the peroxide!" I exclaimed.  I can't remember if she ever went to the doctor for this.  She was able to move her finger, so I expect not.  Years later, fencing wire would come loose and pierce her through the palm of her hand.  Dad was home for that one, and he took her to the ER.  Poor woman.  When people got hurt, Dad got angry.  I just hope he wasn't cussing her out all the way to Galena.
    Fast forward--finally--.  Mom turned 70 yesterday.  We gathered at the nursing home that none of us ever saw coming, and celebrated another year conquered.  She seemed a bit down.  But, she would have never imagined herself confined to a nursing home two years earlier.  She was a movie-aholic, shopaholic, on the go gal.  Remarried to a doting, wonderful man, after leaving Dad in '89.  They spent winters in Tuscon for awhile, and took trips to San Francisco to see my stepsister, Teresa.  She was funny, hip, and mostly supportive.  She'd come to realize as years went on, that having children was a gift.  She phoned often, I did not.  Rotten kid.  Now, she sits in a wheelchair, little use of her right arm, right foot turning in, breath seems hard to come by.  They say that's normal.  She's had several infections and her mind doesn't always work the way she wants it to.  Her personality is different, but, and this is big, she can talk.  For six weeks we waited for her brain to heal, post stroke, and give her her words back.  And one day Nubs walked into her room and she said "Hello!"  "All things are possible through Christ..."  And she had countless folks praying for her!
     Her greatest gift now is Janet.  The daughter she gave birth to second, the daughter she sparred with first.  For years, they just didn't get along.  Janet is more like Dad, though much softer.  I've always been more like Mom, except for the crying at the drop of a hat.  Janet lives several blocks from the nursing home.  She visits five times a week.  Hounds the aids and nurses if things aren't just so.  Attends the progress meetings with complaints and approvals.  She is Mom's main advocate.  This wears her out immensely, as she also has Fibromyalgia, along with a myriad of other health problems.  She now knows Mom better than I do.  Truly my loss.  She feels an overwhelming sense of responsibility for making sure Mom is taken care of.  Nubs is there everyday, several times, my Aunt Reen stops by once a week, my Aunt Janice pops in, she has more visitors than YouTube!  But, Janet has guilt.  She knows it, but she has to do what she does.  And, she is very, very good at it.  She is still living with the guilt over my Dad's death, as if there were anything any of us could've done for a man that admitted he was trying to kill himself through the bottle.  But, the day before she'd called and he didn't answer.  And the next day.  And, as she might have at another time, she didnt drive to Stockton to check on him.  One of his best young buddies did go to the house, and after banging on the windows, as instructed by Dad if he didn't answer the door, he went in and found Dad, passed.  Janet's guilt consumes her at times.  And fuels her advocacy for Mom.  I wish I could take her torture away.  I don't make it to see Mom, but once a month.  I know Janet resents me for it.  I suppose I would.  I call Mom once a week now.  Just to let her know that I love her, and am so proud of her.  I send emails and pictures.  I don't deserve such a wonderful woman to be my mom.  Or sister.
     Yesterday, September 29, 2010 we celebrated Carol Sanderson Radabaugh Cole.  Today, I look out at the cloudless sky and thank God for her life.  And, Nubs'.  And Janet.  And Reen.  I don't deserve it, but I am so blessed.

I Made It

     This is it.  Half century.  I made it.  There were many times over 50 years that I wondered if I would.  Ironically, today is, so far, one of them.
     The day started out teary with panic.  Just the way I went to bed.  Rent is due, and the bargain I struck with the landlord and the bank has come back to bite me in the ass.  Nick got up, dragged himself to the bathroom, showered and took his seat on the love seat to eat breakfast.  We sat in silence as the minutes ticked by to school time.  We dragged ourselves down to the garage, into the noisy little "beep beep", and took off.  As I said my usual, "have a good day bud", he said "Happy Birthday, Mom.  I love you".  I fought back tears as I told him thank you, and I told God thank you on the short drive back to the apartment.  I crawled back into bed, surprisingly sleeping for just over an hour.  I figured I'd better get up and get going, as I had a trip to WalMart for a few groceries and meds. 
     On the drive up, it was as if I were overcome with a spirit.  I noticed the tips of leaves turning orange.  The Sumac, bright maroon.  I needed these groceries, so whatever that meant to the rent, so be it. 
     And then I got to the checkout.  Debit card denied.  I'd just checked my bank balance, so I knew the money was there.  And it all just came spilling out.  Right there at the checkout.  "Happy birthday, too me", I said with anger.  The only thing in that cart that was a "want", not a "need" was beer.  I had to have the scripts.  As I stood sobbing, I searched through the bags for my meds.  Perhaps, they thought, those would go through.  They did.  W T F???  I left the store, leaving my milk, toilet paper and cereal staring at me in disbelief.  I was in full sob mode as I walked through the doors.  After sitting in the car sobbing for a few minutes, I thought "no", somethings up.  So I called the bank, then I called the debit card.  There was a solution.  Now, I had to walk back into "the WalMart" with swollen eyes, makeup gone, and try to retrieve all but $50.00 of what I'd gotten.  After some amazing head addition, mission accomplished.
     The drive home was very different.  I was exhausted, and still had to haul the groceries up 19 stairs.  I didn't notice anything but the road.  This would have upset me any day.  Public humiliation, frustration, defeat.  But, today is my 50th birthday.  My plans for today were so much different.  But, those were MY plans.  God's plans--apparently much different.
     My plans were to run a couple errands, relax, sleep, go to the football game and head downtown for some birthday beers.  Reality is, I kept the beer in the grocery cart--out of spite I think--so I will have a few of those while Facebooking and watching TV.  Yep, it's just another day.  And, really isn't it?
     However, these things have not escaped me on this day.
     I have been allowed to live for 50 years.  God's plan.  I was gifted a beautiful, smart, kind, talented son.  God's plan.  I survived divorce, having to sell a house I loved, moving to a smaller place, the loss of a favorite pet and several loved ones-all in just over a year.  Survived.  God's plan.  As I sit her now, I have a roof over my head, heat, water, and now, food in the cupboards.  Thank you Lord.  I have friends of many different kinds from many different places, thanks to social networking.  Thank you Lord for giving an "aha" moment to a college kid years ago.  I have many diseases, but they can be somewhat controlled with meds.  Thank you Lord for Doctors, Pharmacists, Scientists and Medicare.  Thank you for the ability to walk, talk, write.  There are many things I don't do well.  This gives me the opportunity to learn.
     Tomorrow is the beginning of part II.  I will still not know how to pay the rent I promised, and believed would be easy to pay, at the time.  But, I know all things are possible through Christ.  He has lifted me out of despair and set me down in hope before.
     I made it.  God's plan.

Prospective

    Perhaps I am fortunate in an unfortunate way.  I stay home.  I clean when I want, I take a break when I want, I don't do anything---when I want.  How many times have I been told how lucky I am?  Too many.
     I am home due to disabilties. All-Over-24/7 Pain, overwhelming fatigue, panic attacks, depression, to name the headliners.  Yes, I am fortunate.
     I was granted disabilty in 1999, after fighting for two years.  I'd worked all my life up to that point.  First for a demanding, unappreciative, emotionally degrading man, then for a woman with the same "management" style. True, that was only 17 years of my 25 working years. But, the toll that just those two "managers" had on my body and mind was devastating.  Working your ass off and being told it's wrong or not good enough, is not only exhausting, but it breaks you emotionally.  And as it turns out, physically.
     Fibromyalgia is thought to be triggered by trauma or chronic stress.  That I, my sister, and my mother have been diagnosed with it, is no accident.  We lived in stress mode everyday, whether the source of the stress was physically present, or not.  And, I worked for 11 years, in an insurance company, under the same intense stress.  Mistakes were screamed in front of a gathered group of peers.  Many were able to blow her off, but for me it was a continuation of previous degredation. 
     Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is thought to be brought on by a serious infection, such as mono, hepatitis, or today's H1N1.  The body's handy immune system gets so excited at being put to work to fight those infections...it forgets to stop fighting.  It is in full battle mode, fighting even the good stuff.  After time, this wears a body out.  Imagine being a soldier in a battle that never stops and never gives you a break...ever.
     I worked in several jobs, mostly in the insurance industry until 1997, when I was fired for absenteeism. I'd had my son five months earlier.  The Fibro kicked into high gear.  The Chronic Fatigue was exasurbated by the natural sleepless nights of having a baby.  And, borderline Post Partum Psychosis added to the mix, causing me to miss alot of work.  I cried so much at the thought of being fired, but I know now that it was God's time out sign.  And for awhile, a blessing.  I got to be home to raise my son.  My beautiful boy.  The joy that has brought me is immeasurable.  I was able to be home when my stepdaughter got home from school.  No babysitter, no latch-key.  During that time I was looked at with a bit of envy.  All the while, my body screaming in pain; my mind spinning.
     And now, I am going to celebrate 50 years on the earth.  And people look at my staying home differently.  My son is almost 14--quite self-sufficient.  My stepdaughter is a junior in college.  I am still home.  "What do you do for a living", I am asked when I meet new people.  I am embarrassed.  I reply that I stay home.  "Oh, you have kids?"  Yes I do.  "How old?"  My son is almost 14.  And then I have to endure "the look."  By this time, I can read most people.  "Living off the government." 
     My sister was the one that took that feeling of shame and helped me kick it to the curb.  After all, I paid into Social Security for 19 years.  When asked what she does, she tells the inquirer that she worked in the special needs industry until she became ill.  Simple.  That is what I tell you now.  I worked for 25 years, mostly in the insurance industry, until I became too ill to work. 
     God, I'm lucky.

A Day Lived Through Webster

     So many thoughts today.  They're just jumping everywhere, so this entry will be a potpourri of emotions.
     Lonely: Being without companion.  This, although I swore it wouldn't after my divorce, is shadowing my days.  No, I will not remarry.  But, to have someone care about me, and want to be with me, because I am me, does leave my heart sort of achey breaky.  I want to be someone's number one, not their number two, or when no one else is home. That's what I have been up until this day.  Good enough until something better comes along. And why have I let this be the case?  The obvious answer is that I don't put myself first or feel that I am worthy of first.  That was the case, many times.  I played second fiddle to a ghost for many years.  It seemed noble.  There is nothing noble about it.  I was as lonely then as I am now.
     And then my son was born.  I was his number one.  He looked at me in a way that only a handful of people in my entire life ever looked at me.  Even today, though his Dad is his best buddy, I know that I am still his number one.  His description of what he will do to any man that hurts me, sort of gives it away.  It is a wonderful feeling.
     Compassion: Sympathetic feeling.  Empathy: The experiencing as one's own, the feelings of another.  Sympathy: A relationship between persons wherein whatever affects one similarly affects the other.  Sorry: Feeling sorrow, regret or penitence.  Gracious: Marked by kindness and courtesy.  Heartbreak: Crushing grief.  These words have been in my head for awhile. They've applied to several situations.
     One situation makes my heart ache relentlessly.  One makes it soar with joy.  One makes me very sad and guilty.  One makes me angry due to lack of it.  In order to crawl out of  Heartbreak, I try to concentrate on Gracious.  To deal with Sorry, I have to face Heartbreak.  The cousins Compassion and Sympathy, lead me back to Sorry. 
     On my luckiest days I catch a glimpse of Empathy and Gracious.  Sadly, Empathy is a rare commodity. But, Gracious....only lately....has been more present, more often.  I do use Gracious to get through the Heartbreak. Gracious also soothes Sorry.  Gracious eases my Guilt: The feeling of responsiblity for wrongdoing. Thank You, Gracious. For your Compassion and Empathy.  It is with Grace: Honor, that I accept your existence, and move through my days.   

Sometimes They Walk Among Us

     I think my first Guardian Angel on Earth, was my Aunt Reen.  She was comic relief, and nurturer wrapped in a tall redhead.  When things at home seemed their worst, I could close my eyes and pretend she was my mother.  Luckily, she is one Guardian that still walks among us, and is still nurturing me.  And luckily, my Mom is my Mom.
     God is a graceful God and has sent me Angels at just the right time all of my life.  Of course, it was subtle, and I didn't realize until their time to move on had passed.
     During my childhood years my Angels were various cousins and two teachers.  Mrs. Bentley-kindergarten, and Mrs. Whitman, fifth grade.  Both were patient and kind to this obviously odd child.  I was plagued with what was called, later in life, "diarrhea of the mouth." It led to punishment at home.  When, in fourth grade, I'd received yet another checkmark in that category, I hid under a desk--afraid to go home and face the wrath of Dad.  To him, this was an embarrassment.  I wonder if he was watching when the Dr. diagnosed me with ADD a year ago.  Mrs. Whitman's calm demeanor somehow kept me in low gear, and the checkmarks disappeared.
     In high school, Cindy Koester was my best friend.  And I do mean best.  Kids actually made fun of our friendship, wondering if we took care of each others behinds in the restroom.  Cindy, as I learned years later, also came from an emotionally abusive home.  Perhaps that is why we were so comfortable together.  Unspoken pain lived out each day, shared with notes in the hall, or noon hour reflections on life.  And boys.  Always boys.  Guardian Angel, I'm not sure.  Lifesaver, certainly.
     But, two of my greatest Guardian Angels up to that time were in high school.  Miss Ebel and Miss Schleisinger.  These were the people who read my pain, as I kept a journal for Miss Ebel's english class.  Before this point, my writings were deemed good, but not believable. As Mrs. Thomas noted on one poetry assignment, "write about something you know."  Gave me a D!  She was in her sixties, I think, and did not believe children could possibly know about wanting to die, and such nonsense.  But, Miss Ebel, fresh faced and straight out of college, did believe.  And she shared those entries with Miss Schleisinger.  Miss Ebel left notes acknowledging my pain. I was validated at last. And this kept my writing brain producing poetry for years to come.  I wish I could find Miss Ebel.  I would love for her to know what a positive influence she had on my survival.  And, as many of my Guardian Angels do, she was gone May 27, 1978.
     Over that 1978 summer, I gained my first paying employment.  This job would nearly kill me, but it came with some wonderful Angels.  First there was Marty.  She was in an abusive relationship.  This welcomed me to the "real world".  From Marty I met Pam, who still remains a friend.  Through Pam came many more "guardians in training".  People that would listen, but not know quite what to do. I do hope they got their wings.  My relationship with Pam led to a second family.  The Dohertys of Pearl City are a close, loving family.  I learned that hugs and kisses are good stuff.  And being angry or sad are not a character fault, but a part of the human experience.  
     And Trixie.  The most loyal, truthful, giving person I had ever met.  Trixie is a gem.  Put on this Earth by a wise God.  Trixie was my first experience of unconditional love.  She loved me through my depressions, mania, partying and affairs.  When I finally got help for depression, she was the first to encourage.  When I got a DUI, she bailed me out of jail.  I surely hope her cousin, Maureen, had good strong shoulders, because I am sure Trixie complained about my irresponsibility many times!  I still consider her a dear friend, although we've only seen each other a few times since I left that company.
     After a stint in NJ as a nanny, I moved back to IL, and with no place to live, Ranee flew in to help.  What I thought would be a stay of a few weeks turned into a few months.  At some point I had overstayed my welcome.  The next Angel's number was called and he swooped in with--well if you know Keith--bells on.  He took me in.  He slept on a cot in the living room for two months while I continued my search for gainful employment.  He greeted me each morning with "Good Morning sunshine!", chasing away any chance of feeling sorry for myself.  Keith is gay.  I learned alot about that culture, taking away any questions of the orientation.  Keith was also gay in the happy sense of the word. He was usually pleased with the day, and even if he wasn't he usually made me pleased with it.  I've lost touch with Keith.  I hope good things have happened for him.
     During my first months back in IL, I dated a wonderful, hard working man.  Nevin was also a Guardian Angel.  I felt loved, special and worthy of someone's time.  He helped me out of some financial problems--the result of not being able to find a job. He helped me see my body through his eyes...beautiful. "what part of your body do you most dislike?", he asked.  I gave him my answer and he kissed it.  I still think of him...what girl wouldn't!?  It took me 12 years, but I paid him back every penny.
     My cousin Brent, had become a best friend, and confidante over the years. His financial help to aquire a vehicle, so that I could go farther with my job searches, bumped him up to Angel status.  That car cost $500, right fender rusted through to the ground, passenger floorboard open to the passing highway, and was a sight to behold. It got me to Monroe, where I was hired at the seasonal factory--clothing division. In time, Brent stopped sending Christmas cards and we lost touch.  In the past few years he was diagnosed with Non-Hodkins Lymphoma.  Brokenhearted, I called him.  We kept in touch for awhile, but, again have not spoken for about a year. This is my bad.  I have added him to my list of things to do, as I write.
     Louise was my supervisor at Madeleine Fashions.  I was an office clerk.  I'd been able to save enough money to get an apartment.  Even pay utilities.  But, not food.  Besides being a wonderful, fun lady, I believe Louise was put in my life for a reason.  Maternal support.  She helped me grieve when Nevin and I broke up.  She calmed me down when I believed every error I made was the end of the world.  She was wise.  I let her down alot due to my common ailment of missing work due to depression.  I would lay and cry after I called into work.  She would address it, and let it go.  She helped me buy food.  It took 12 years to pay her $20 back, but I would not let this wonderful woman down again.
     I don't think my next Guardian Angel was prominant until I became employed by Viking Ins. .  Although, Kim was more like the Guardian Angel in "It's A Wonderful Life", she became one of the closest friends I've ever had.  We were party partners in crime, and sounding boards for each others' dysfunctional families.  We both had "daddy issues" and accepted each others' bad decisions.  There was a gaping whole when Kim was cut out of my life.  Although I got married, that hole was not filled again.
     After the birth of Nick, came borderline post-partum psychosis, general depression, overwhelming fatigue (duh), and body aches that made caring for him torture on some days. Due to missing an exorbitant amount of work, Western States Ins. fired me.  I understood.  They had a business to run; I was not there to get the job done.  Full time with Nick, an active, active baby, ran me into the familiar den of depression on a new level.  It was suggested that I have someone watch him a couple days a week so that I could sleep.  Jill Cummins became a part of my life.  She specialized, at that time, in part-time child care.  And she was a genuine, good person.  It didn't take long before we were best friends.  Another Angel there at just the right time.  At some point, I began to feel better, and actually helped her out on my "Nick days".  When we moved to O'ville, and Nick left her care, we lost touch...except at Christmas...when we went to cut down our tree on her tree farm.  I am still in touch with this Angel, and she is now a Social Worker, a perfect fit for her!
     My most recent Angels have been a family that helped me move from the house I had to sell, to a gracious landlord, to an old flame, to a schoolmate from the 70s that I am only now getting to know.  The Janicke/Young family went up and down my 19 stairs countless times over two days, while I struggled with my emotions and my disability, to move me and Nick  into the apartment that the Gracious Landlord rented to me, despite my inability to pay him until the house sold.  The Old Flame floated across a Facebook page and a rekindled friendship was born.  His relay of his life trials makes me feel useful again.  I've always had a need to help fix others' problems, and although that is usually not possible, being given the opportunity is an honor.  The Schoolmate.  I know I didn't talk to him once in school.  He was just sort of there, but as it is in school, not in my clique, hapless as it was.  This man is funny, intelligent, compassionate, and generous.  I so wish I had known him years ago.  This week he has been my Guardian Angel.  I hope our new friendship continues to grow.
     There are so many people that have come and gone in my life and made it live-able when I didn't want to live it.  I can not list them all, although it probably seems I have!  Look at your life.  Were there significant turning points?  Who was there at the time?  God knows your path before you do.  Who did He drop in your path at a critical time?  Even if it was only for a short time.  Think about it.  Then include them in your prayers tonight.  Thank them, and thank God for being a giving, graceful God.
     Today, I am thankful for my many Angels.  No matter how the days twist and turn, God has my plan in front of him...and it will contain Guardian Angels.  And perhaps, He has appointed me to someone.  I hope so.  I have alot of good deeds to payback!
      Blessings....and don't forget to "live around it."