Angels Wink

The Ditalini Press assignment for December was to describe your idea of Utopia


Susan left me speechless today and that's a hard thing to do. Her impish misconduct inspired the first line of my Utopian Ode.

Utopia may be only in my mind, however, it is a place where:

Angels have a sense of humor and even good Karma can be delivered with a wink.

The meek are not forced to inherit the earth with all its chaos and responsibility, but rather to tend the gardens of plenty, fulfilling their peaceful natures.

Mistakes are not sins, but rather lessons in life, and consequences, while painful, result in growth and maturity instead of punishment.

God is not limited by wood and mortar, creeds and commandments, but can be seen in every crimson sunrise and sunset.

Miracles are not found in moldy pieces of bread, but rather in an arid dessert where rainbow colored flowers spring from the baron cacti.

Love is not earned. It is freely given by all, and anger is abandoned as it's power dissolves in the ripples of a child's laughter.

Tearful Mantra

When I was three years old I cried.

And my father called me a sissy.

When I was six

The neighborhood bully called me a cry baby.

When I was fourteen

My mother said, "Big girls don't cry."

When I was twenty three

My husband called me a drama queen.

I don't cry anymore.

These are the words that stole my tears

That locked them deep within me.

Now I am my own jailer

As I repeat the mantra I have learned.

Collateral Damage

Cancer is not a simple sniper

Which waits in ambush

To take the life of a single victim.

Rather, it is a nuclear holocaust

Reaching far beyond it's intended target.

Destroying families

Relationships

And sometimes even love itself.

Collateral damage.

What cruel force lies behind the creation

Of this merciless weapon?

How are we to defend ourselves against it?

A Thanksgiving Visit

We spent most of yesterday visiting a friend at the Grafton Correctional Facility. I had filled out the visitation papers several weeks ago in hopes of being included in the holiday pilgrimage to see Steve. Although I have known people who have been incarcerated, I have never gone through the trouble of an institutional visit. This was a first for me.


I make no excuses for Steve, neither does his family. Twenty six years ago, at the age of nineteen, he committed an armed robbery which ended in the death of an innocent person. He is serving thirty years to life. At this point, he has spent more time behind bars than he spent on the outside. Steve is living with the consequences of his actions, and although he would love to have his freedom someday, he realizes his sentence was just. Because of the efforts he's made to educate himself in the field of horticulture, and because of the overcrowding of today correctional facilities, he faces a parole hearing next month, which he hopes will lead to an early release.

The correctional facilities house an entire society of invisible people just like Steve. A select few of these hidden members are fortunate enough to have not been forgotten by family and loved ones. To them they remain painfully visible, as they go to great lengths to show their support through gifts, correspondence and visitation. This creates another entire social structure which most of us don't even realize exists. These are the people who waited for hours in an overcrowded, well secured, reception area along side of us, to make contact with a lost loved one.

As numbers are called, and families move slowly forward to be searched and run through security, the pressure of a time limit hangs over every one's head. It doesn't matter if one has driven hours to make this visit. Nor does it matter if they have waited even longer for their number to be called. There is always the chance that because of the overcrowding, they may not make it through security before the time restriction of visitation is reached and lock down occurs. Those who are unlucky enough to be the next number on the list are turned back to their cars and a long ride home. This time we were among the last group of guests who made it through security and were allowed inside the facility.

The visit with Steve was animated and upbeat. We force fed him horribly over priced vending machine treats which he doesn't normally have access too except during visitation. We were surrounded by families and more children then one could imagine. It wasn't sad or depressing. Even under these conditions, the human spirit survives and even thrives because love and support is provided through visitation. Their families give these inmates the hope needed to endure their incarcerations. Some have been providing this active support for twenty six years or more. I cannot even begin to imagine the enormity of such a commitment. How easy it would be to just walk away from someone who has made a critical mistake and neither deserves nor expects such a sacrifice.

With all the pressure and stress that the holidays bring; all the worry about the right meal preparations, seating arrangements, and petty family arguments; I found more love and real family commitment behind those prison walls than I have seen during all of the other holiday celebrations. It's made me feel a little better about Thanksgiving!

First Snow

The first snow, and the woods at the Western Reserve is calling me. Holidays are so stressful. I almost wish we could do without them and just celebrate each day one day at a time. The only tonic I know of for a weary soul is the silence and aloneness that nature provides. And I am one weary traveler today. So I will search the woods for answers, ask the trees for advice, soak in the music of the birds and enjoy one brief moment of true peace.

Maybe there's something too broken in me to fix. I'm hoping I can trust the woods today and the ocean next week to make repairs and restore my faith in the promise of an uncomplicated life. I'm all out of answers right now.

Behind Closed Doors / A Short Story

The squad car pulled up alongside a woman who appeared to be wandering aimlessly down the berm of the Twenty Fifth Street Bridge. The officers left their vehicle and approached her cautiously, sensitive to the possibility of any suicidal tendency's she might be harboring. She starred straight ahead and continued her slow steady pace, seemingly unaware of their presence.

"Ma'am." the officer quarried. "Ma'am. Pedestrians are not allowed on the bridge. Can we give you a lift into town? Ma'am are you alright?"
She stopped, then and turned slowly to look blankly into the officer's face.

"Can I see some ID please?" His request firm, but gentle.

Without a word, she began searching her pockets in what appeared to be a feeble attempt to comply with the order. At last her trembling hands produced an envelope from somewhere inside her jacket. She handed it to the policeman and began to weep. Silent, silver, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she made no attempt to brush them away.She spoke at last, with great effort, whispering, pleading. "My children. I have two children. They're home alone. I .. I.. left them there."


"When did you leave them?" The officer demanded.


"I...I..d d don't remember." She stammered and began to sob, collapsing on to the pavement.


The envelope contained the medical records of one, Mary Anne Preston, who resided at 52692 Bridge Water Lane. Upon further examination, the records indicated a recent medication change for the treatment of schizophrenia. An unfilled prescription lay nestled between the folded sheets.

++++++++++++


From the downtown police station, a squad car was dispatched to the Preston address in the hopes of retrieving two minor children. Officers Benjamin Quinn, and Bart Wilson responded to the call, winding their way through the urban development in search of the address.They pulled into the driveway of a large century house, neatly landscaped, with the address displayed in bold bronze numbers on the cedar shake siding. Exiting their vehicle, they strode quickly to the front door of the residence. Unable to catch a glimpse of the interior because of the tightly drawn drapery, they pressed the door bell and listened for the sounds of children's voices. They heard nothing.


Once again they rang the bell and got no response. Could the report be wrong, they wondered? Were there really two small children left alone inside this home? With a tone of authority, Officer Quinn rapped loudly on the wooden barrier and called out, "This is officer Quinn of the Preston Police Department. Please open the door!"


From within, a frightened child's voice called out, "Go away! Mom's not here. She said not to open the door to anybody."


Lowering his voice, so as not to further frighten the child, Ben began to reason with her. "It's OK sweetie. We found your mom. She's sick and she asked us to come and bring you to her. You need to open the door. Is there anybody else in there with you?"


The tiny voice from within began to plead once again. "My brother Tommy is here. I have to take care of him. Please, please go away. Mom said no one. Tommy is scared. You're scaring him."

A second child began to wail hysterically as if to confirm her accusations.The officers listened helplessly as the screams rose to a frantic pitch. Ben tried again and again to convince the little girl to open the door. She responded at last by grabbing her brother and dragging him away from the door seeking a hiding place. As the cries of panic faded quickly into the furthest recesses of the house, Ben made eye contact with his partner. Wilson nodded, and together they slammed their shoulders into the old wooden door, shattering the frame and the lock.

Once inside, the odor hit them like a physical presence. Then the complete and utter chaos within the home took their breathe away. Only a narrow path winding between piles of strewn garbage, dirty clothes and dishes encrusted with dried and moldy left overs, led them beyond the front door to the room where the children were hiding. This was not a temporary living condition. Such filth could only be the result of months of neglect. How long, they wondered, had these children lived like this?

Carefully, the two men edged their way between the piles of garbage searching for the two small refugees. They found them at last cowering in the corner of the equally disgusting bathroom. The young girl, Officer Quinn guessed she was about eight or nine years old, had her arms wrapped protectively around her little brother. She eyed the officers warily, making no attempt to leave her hiding place. Ben knelt down on the filth encrusted tiles and opened his arms to them. Only Tommy sought comfort in this mans embrace, leaving his sisters arms for the security only an adult could give him.

As he gathered the boy into his arms, tears filled Ben's eyes. How was it possible to have victims when there was no crime? There were no bad guys here, no one to hold accountable for the trauma inflicted on these children. How does one fight mental illness, poverty and ignorance? He had a badge, a gun and years of training which provided all he needed to protect the innocent, and yet they were useless against these silent enemies.

These were the events that forever changed us, he thought. This is what molded children into who they would become. What would it do to these tiny victims? Would it break them, or make them stronger? He could rescue them now, but he knew he was playing only a small part in the outcome of their future, and certainly the terror of their rescue would also be a part of today's memory. He could see it in the young girls eyes. He would never know the rest of story, for only time would reveal its final chapter.

Addicted

I said it couldn't happen to me. I even made fun of my friends who had fallen prey to the addiction themselves. They kept trying to draw me into their habit, but I just laughed and said it was too stupid to even consider. Then one day, consumed with boredom, I tried it. It was the beginning of the end for me. After only a few weeks, I must admit my shame and confess, "My name is Sandy and I'm a Farmville-aholic!

Yes I now own a small farm on FB and it has become the first thing I check every morning and the last thing I log into before bed each night. I own horses, cows, sheep, chickens, and even an ugly duckling which promises to turn into a swan in a few more days. I not only feed these animals and milk my cows, I even have my avatar pet them which produces little hearts which float from the tops of their heads and makes them moo or cluck or whatever noise they make.

I visit my neighbors farms and fertilize their crops to earn bonus points which will eventually allow me to expand my farm. Someday I may even earn enough to build a house. Right now I only have a chicken coop as buildings are expensive. With winter coming, I am working hard to at least provide my livestock with a barn. Until then I continue to plow, plant and harvest my existing crops in an effort to become a successful virtual-farmer in this tough economy.

Go ahead and shake your heads. Whisper about the waste of time and the foolishness of my habit, but until you've tried it, keep your judgements to yourself. It could happen to you!

No Wisdom Within Me

Today I find no wisdom within me

Only sad observations of life at it's most difficult

I see a child with a broken heart

A young woman with poison in her blood

An aged senior weeping bitterness through every pore.

I would mend the broken heart

Administer antidote for the poisoned blood

Bathe away the angry sweat

If only I possessed such power.

Heal them, I cannot

Today I find no wisdom within me.

The Gods of War

I read a sci/fi piece this morning which was written by a sweet spirited young woman who lives in France with her husband and contributes to the Ditalinipress blog. In it she describes perfectly the transformation of a boy from citizen to soldier. It moved me. Actually, it broke my heart. Eva has allowed me to quote her paragraph in my own blog.

"After two years of training in weaponry, stamina, and strategy, he was sent to the Empire's mutable Eastern borders and in time, he found that he liked the life of a soldier. He felt elemental and strong. He knew war had always been and always would be and he formed an idea that he and the other soldiers were conduits for the gods, and he was to allow the inevitable, warring passions of Earth to work through him for the greatest outcome of all. Whenever he felt like he couldn't take another step, or felt dizzy with hunger, he'd say: Stay empty, empty, its an honor to host this transfiguring force."

Most of my children, including my daughters, have served in the military at one time or another. Thankfully, none saw combat, but they were trained by the "Gods of War", better known as our governments, to become soldiers. Trained, as Eva explains, to be "conduits for the Gods........to allow the inevitable warring passions of Earth to work through (them) for the greatest outcome of all."

Is it just me, or does anyone else see the sadness, the wrongness of all this? Past, present or futuristic sci/fi, nothing seems to change. The Gods of War remain. However, we have the right, to turn our backs on them, to refuse to worship and offer up our children on their alters of sacrifice. May the better angels within us deny them their deity and keep our children filled with the strength of wisdom and peace.

Staying/ A Short Story

It's midnight and she sits alone in the nursery. The child within her rests high, pressing against her lungs and making breathing difficult. The oak rocker allows her to lean back and expand her lungs more easily. She gazes at the crib and imagines it one month from now filled with precious life. She has spent months sanding the crib and repainting it until it shines like new, perfectly restored with the love she has poured into it. Everything is ready. Everything is perfect, or nearly everything. The fully loaded twelve gauge shotgun lays across her thighs just beneath her swollen stomach. She rocks slowly, cradling the unborn child and the weapon.

He'd missed dinner again and he hadn't called. She'd waited, knowing it was payday and that the chances of his getting home on time were slim. He would cash his check at the bar, lose track of time, and stumble home sometime after dark. But it was midnight and she also knew that he'd left the bar at ten, because she had called. He was with someone again. She could even guess who it was. At the company picnic just the week before, she had seen the glances , heard the whispers, of the people around her. She'd noticed a young red head stealing glances at her husband. She knew, he was with her now. He'd come home smelling of whiskey and perfume.

Not this time, she thinks. Not ever again. She'd kill him first. She rocks slowly and stares at the empty crib and then down at the shotgun. She caresses the cold steel, allowing her anger to build. She will finish this once and for all.

Suddenly her body spasms and her eyes fly open. She has fallen asleep and been jerked awake by that feeling of falling that she experienced more and more frequently as her muscles strained under the added weight of the baby. The clock glows 3:30. He isn't coming home this time. Her body is stiff and aching as she rises from the chair. The fight has been wrung from her. The anger replaced with despair and fatigue.

She unloads the shotgun, and locks it back in the gun case. Standing in the doorway of the nursery, she takes in what once seemed to be a promise of happiness and new life, and allows the tears to fall. She turns then and begins to put a new plan into action. Pulling a suitcase from the closet, she fills it with whatever she needs to begin the journey to a new life for herself and her baby. When she is finished she lays down on the bed, fully clothed, and allows sleep to overtake her once again.

Just before dawn, he slips into bed beside her. The stink of whiskey and sex awakens her. Swallowing the bile that rises in her throat, she waits until his breathing becomes more regular and he falls into a deep drunken slumber. Rising quickly and quietly she, pulls the packed suitcase from its hiding place beneath the bed and heads confidently out the back door to the car, shutting out the pain and disappointment which has been her life with him.

She runs to the car, but before she can open the trunk, she stops and stares in disbelief . The suitcase falls from her hand and she drops to her knees. The car. What has he done to the car? The side is scratched and caved in from the door to the rear bumper. The back tire is flat. He has run it off the side of the road in a drunken stupor and made her escape impossible. No. He could not do this. She would not let him. Not this time.

Running back to the bedroom she begins to shake him awake, screaming hysterically. "Get up! Get up you bastard. You mother fucking bastard! You get up and fix that flat tire. Do it now! Right fucking now!"

Her screams penetrate his drunkenness. He senses the insanity within the words, feels the spit hit his face and manages to sit up in the bed. This time he's gone too far. He's pushed her over an edge he had not known was there. Fending off her frantic blows, he rises slowly from the bed.

"Get your ass out there now" She screams. He struggles to his feet and heads obediently outside to the car while she trails him cursing and screaming. Without a word, he fixes the flat and puts her suitcase in the trunk. He doesn't want to lose her. Doesn't want to lose the baby he's fathered. But he knows nothing he says now can stop her . He watches her climb into the drivers seat and slam the door. As she peels out of the drive in reverse, he simply turns and walks silently back into the house. This cannot be undone.

She is alone now behind the wheel of a car going ....where? Does it matter? So long as it is away from him and the betrayal and cruelty which has been her life until this moment. But where? Her mother would never take her in. How far will a high school education take her and her child? Where will her baby lay its head every night? Certainly not in the crib which she has prepared. Who will care for her child while she works every day? Even though he is cruel and does not come home at night to her, does it matter? She has a child to raise now. Someone to love and nurture. Who can do this better than her, and how can she do it without him?

She slows the car to a stop, taking a tissue from the glove box to wipe her tears. She takes a deep breath, turns the car around, and heads back toward the house. Back to him, to security. How important can love be when one has a baby to care for? She will make this work, somehow.

He hears the car in the drive. Listens for the door and her footsteps in the hall. Through the haze of alcohol, he smiles. She will stay. For now, she will stay.

SCI/FI Project

This was the November writing assignment for DP. A scifi/fantasty post. I used an old post in which I had described my daughter Sarah's bouts with night terrors when she was six years old. I had entitled the short piece "Night Terrors" I took that brief description and attempted to turn it into a sci/fi piece. Not sure how successful I've been, but just the memory of her night terrors still stands my hair on end.

Night Terrors

Heart stopping screams awaken me as she cries out once again from her bedroom down the hall. She is caught between sleeping and waking, unable to make the transition safely. Another night terror.

I rush to her side, seeing her as always, bolt upright, eyes wide open, saliva running from her lips; in mid scream. I try to hold her, comfort and waken her, but she stares at me and whispers, "SHHH. He'll hear you".

I do not touch her. Do not speak. The hair on my arms and neck stands on end, because I do not know who "He" is and am afraid that she may be right. Perhaps he really is in the room with us watching and waiting. And so, I sit beside her silently trapped in this night terror with her. Wondering if we will ever be free from it, If we will ever feel safe again.

It's been three months since she's slept through the night in peace. I thought at first it was just normal childhood nightmares and they would pass, but I see now that such optimism was foolish. He is in her mind now and uses her to hear what goes on around her, just as he uses all of the children now. She knows he is there and fights to keep her secrets from him.

We were so naive to give our children over to this invasive terror. But those who tried to warn us were labeled conspiracy theory alarmists. They spoke of side effects, lack of testing, hasty production and over zealous scientists. We listened instead to the government and the media as they flashed headlines of pandemic, death, and the most at risk population, our precious children. We led them as lambs to the slaughter, thinking we were providing safety and protection. We parents didn't participate. There was a shortage of supplies, we were told, and so we bore the risk of infection ourselves in order to provide for our offspring. What parent wouldn't make such a sacrifice? But now, too late we have discovered it was the children who were lain on the alter not us.

Is he really here with us now in the darkness? Or has her mind been tricked into this constant state of terror? Either way, we remain together locked in this nightmare, unable to undo what has been done. And I think to myself, it was just a vaccine, a simple vaccine.

United Way Or A Better Way?

Yesterday I said goodbye to some of the finest men and women it has been my privilege to work with. I attended a farewell gathering where we paid tribute to the people of the ILL department which has been closed due to budget cuts. Here at CCPL the reality of layoffs has hit home, and we now begin the mourning of the loss of our friends and co workers.

To my shock and dismay, management chose this exact moment to kick off their annual United Way campaign. They have plastered the walls with colorful posters in a poorly timed effort to launch another successful fund raising drive. The library takes pride in the generosity of its hard working employees, and over the years, we have been generous, and have always made our fund raising goals. In my opinion, however, perhaps a funeral is not the right time or place to launch what now feels like a politically motivated charity campaign. It seems as if an effort is being made to sweep the bad PR of layoffs quickly under the rug and replace it with the good PR of the library's contributions to the community.

What would have been the harm in waiting a few weeks until we'd said our goodbyes and shed our tears? Our generosity would not have changed and the bitter taste of loss would not have clouded our thoughts. As it now stands, I find it difficult, no, I find it impossible to pledge my wages to a community fund drive while Katie struggles to provide for her four year old daughter. My enthusiasm ebbs and stalls while my thoughts center around Donna's attempts to pay both her mortgage and her health insurance.

I have supported United Way for many years but today I simply cannot. I prefer to send my contributions to my unemployed friends in love and anonymity. I will not help CCPL management put on a generous front to the community while watching them close and lock the doors of work and opportunity on my co-workers. Charity Begins at Home, or so I've heard it said. I believe it's time we started taking care of our own.

Behind The Headlines

How many times have you scanned a news headline and read; Six Die In Late Night Crash, Three Arrested For Home Invasion, Twenty One Workers Let Go At Local Business, and wondered just who these people are? Or have you become so use to the chaos that you simply move on to another headline, not bothering to read further and note the names behind the news.


Recently we at CCPL (Cuyahoga County Public Library) have been in the news. Our headlines read, Library Announces Reduction In Staff. The neatly "crafted" article goes on to say: Four million dollars worth of cutbacks in wages and benefits are expected. What that really means is that forty one flesh and blood people, friends and co-workers of mine, will join the ranks of the unemployed.

I managed to survive this round of lay offs by the skin of my teeth and a few years seniority. I may not be so lucky next year. While I continue to work, I want to remember the faces of those who once sat beside me. I'd like to share their faces with you in an effort to humanize the tragedy behind this economic death spiral we are now in. With their permission, I present to you a few of the real victims of this latest headline.




Katie is a thirty one year old divorced single mother. She and her four year old daughter live with her mom because court ordered child support has remained unpaid for as long as she can remember. Katie has worked in the Acquisitions department for a little over a year. During this time she has worked hard both on the job and off. She was one of the dedicated employees who manned the phone banks last fall in an effort to get the tax levy passed for the library. She also went door to door to deliver the message to the local tax payers and stood out front at the polls when election day arrived. Thanks to her, and others like her, the levy was passed. Her reward for this outstanding effort is unemployment.


Well, not exactly unemployment. Katie has been offered a job at the Strongsville branch as a part time (twenty hour) page. The lowest paid job in the system with half the hours she had before. Her health care benefits will be cut accordingly. She had begun the enrollment process for night classes at college. Now that too must be put on hold. Katie's smile and her boundless energy will be missed. CCPL has thrown away one of its finest assets.

Debbie is a forty six year old wife and mother of two college bound daughters. She has worked in the Processing department for slightly less than one year and therefore was one of the first to be cut in the lay offs. There are no options for her. She must apply for unemployment. While her job loss is not as tragic as some others, there is a ripple effect to her loss of income.


Debbie's income was the family's main source for college tuition. Her oldest daughter will have to begin classes this fall without that help. Still, not a tragedy, as hard work and sacrifice can make a college degree possible for both girls. However there is another ripple effect which comes into play. Debbie's elderly mother is on a fixed income and living in a house, which in this economy, she has been unable to sell. Like many other Americans, her main source of equity for retirement is in that house. Debbie's income was helping to pay her moms bills and buy groceries when Social Security couldn't be stretched far enough. The cost of her unemployment reaches far beyond the family's desire for a second income.


One last ironic twist to Debbie's situation. A year ago she was a part time page at one of the library branches. She applied for the job in Processing and won out over nearly one hundred other applicants. She learned quickly and met our daily quotas with ease. Now, because she is just a few months short of the required one year probation period she can not even go back to her page job. Lay off was her only option.

Donna is a fifty six year old divorced woman living alone at this time with no dependents. She has been self sufficient for many years, trying to save for retirement through a frugal life style. Donna has worked in the Processing department for a little more than five years. Thrilled at having landed full time work at CCPL and completing the mandatory one year probation period, she made the decision to become a home owner. Though she has no credit card debt she now has a mortgage along with the usual property taxes, insurance and utilities bills.

Like most independent women her age she faces a health care crisis if she loses her insurance benefits. She simply can not afford the monthly cost of insurance through Cobra or any other agency. Donna has lost her full time position and, like Katie, has been placed in a branch as a part time page with a thirty hour work week. Whether this cut in pay, hours, and benefits will make it possible for her to make her mortgage payments and keep her insurance, remains to be seen. I identify more with Donna than anyone else, as we are only a few years apart in age. I simply cannot imagine the courage it will take for her to pull through this financial crisis.


Remember, if you will, these real people behind the headlines.

Pissed Off In Parma

Like most of my baby boomer peers, I have spent my entire life believing that hard work, honesty and integrity would get me through to my golden years. I invested my money, my time, and my trust in the government, CEOs, bankers, unions, and even law enforcement. All have failed me. Each in turn proving to be less wise, less moral and certainly less trustworthy than myself. If I had ignored the advice of all of those placed above me in this society, at least the consequences I have suffered would be due to my own inadequacies and not theirs. At this point it is too late to strike out on my own, or should I say too early? I must depend on the whimsies of the union and the management at CCPL to decide whether or not I will be granted the last five years of work needed for me to retire. I must depend on the government to allot me a small portion of the social security I have paid all these years, and I can only hope that the CEOs who have miss handled my investments will not end up with it all in their pockets instead of mine. Seems lately all I do is walk around pissed off at the bureaucracy that I am trapped in.

I would love to funnel this anger into some constructive action which might prove helpful in solving the dilemma I currently face. However there is simply nothing I can do except wait for the bureaucrats to decide my future. My son in law suggests that I begin working on a solid resume. I can't imagine that a fifty nine year old woman with a high school education would require a resume to secure employment at a local nursing home as an aide, or to ask the question "Would you like fries with that?" I suspect it's the unemployed man with the PHD who will need a resume to procure suitable employment.

I've heard some say they will really pray for me. Seems like I could do that for myself, if I thought it would truly fix the problem. Personally I think God has better things to do than pull strings at Monster.com for me. If He is wiser than the rest of us (which I believe He is) then He should be concentrating on poverty, hunger, disease and world peace. I'd prefer He continued to use his artistry to create the sunrises and sunsets that still amaze me rather than become my own personal Headhunter.

And then there's that simply stated suggestion of, "Since you can't do anything about it, why don't you just stop worrying and making yourself sick over it?" Ahhhh if only I could. But unfortunately, the delete on my MAC does not work on my brain. Like telling the widower after many years, that it's time to stop grieving, or the divorced single mother to take joy in her children and simply move on with her life. Like assuring the homeless that trusting in God for their next meal or place of shelter will bring solution to their current state of affairs, you waste your words on them and on me. Face unemployment in your golden years , and then come back to me with advice.

So what do I do with this anger? Honestly, I haven't a clue. I write, I continue to show up at my place of employment which has become morgue like, and I share my fears with my family and my partner. I vent through the written word, earn what I can while I still can, and forgive those who love me for their inability to make me feel better. I don't know if it will be all right in the end, I just know that it will BE.

Groundhog Day

With all the stress of the possible work layoffs, and my current health problems, I looked forward to last weekend as a way to escape it all. My new meds gave me enough of a window of comfort to allow a bit of wilderness adventure free from this urban jungle we both live in. The experience exceeded my expectations. We enjoyed both time alone and time with friends, and laughed and talked ourselves silly.

The original plan was to drive about two hours south east of Akron to a cabin in the woods which Rudy has shared with his hunting buddies for many years. We packed his guns, ammo, full camouflage gear, and predator calls, into the truck in hopes of hunting coyote. The only coyote we saw was from the window of the truck as we rounded the last hills before the cabin. It was large and running at a full gallop across the hills. We were dressed in full camo and ready to go in search of him and his brothers. Unfortunately it was windy with a pretty good threat of storms, so we chose to leave the guns behind and just try calling them in to our cameras.

The stiff winds blew the sound of the calls away and out of the hearing range of any hidden predators in the area. So we simply began a slow and steady hike through the woods and hills surrounding the cabin. I had little or no energy in the heat but Rudy was patient as always and we took it slow and careful with lots of pit stops. The fields were peppered with beautiful wild flowers and the scenery was breathtaking. We arrived back at the cabin just ahead of the raindrops, headed to the truck and continued to the home of a friend of Rudy's to spend the rest of the weekend.

Sharon and Maury were such kind hosts. They own hundreds of acres in Harrison county just a few minutes from the tiny town 0f Cadiz. Their land encompasses thick woods, scattered beaver ponds and acres of open reclaimed coal mining hills. Shortly after our arrival, we were invited to hop on their four wheelers and take a tour of their property. The first ride of the afternoon was scary for me. I've never liked motorcycles or ATVs of any kind. Give me a bicycle or my own two legs over an engine any day. After a while, though, I began to relax and simply enjoy the view from the rear of the four wheeler and it was fantastic.

We returned to the Hernadez home for steak and chicken on the grill. We ate while the men swapped ridiculous hunting stories which kept us choking with laughter. After dinner and just before sunset, we remounted the four wheelers and went for another ride. We headed for the hills and valleys of the reclaimed coal mining area in search of deer. It began to feel like we were on safari in the Serengeti plains of Africa. Herds of ten or more deer ran across our line of sight at every single hill top and turn. Amazing bucks with the biggest antlers I've ever seen ran virtually beside us as we tried to keep up with them. One particular buck simply stared at us from a safe distance never showing any concern for our noisy vehicles. As we stopped to stare him down, he squatted slightly and dumped a load of deer droppings that would have made any hunter proud. After this little show of disrespect, he held his head high and simply walked off. "Take that mighty hunters" He seemed to say. We laughed till we cried.

Since deer hunting is no longer a sport Rudy participates in and we were unable to call in any coyotes, he was hungering to show off his talents as a hunter and sharpshooter. The only thing available to him were the groundhog infested fields outside of the Hernadez home. The damage a groundhog can do to a field is mind boggling. Like rats in an abandoned warehouse, these critters continually pop their heads out of their holes in the fields where farmers try to grow crops. Because of the size, depth, and frequency of these holes, tractors become disabled or worse yet, tip over onto their drivers, livestock and humans alike break legs, and crops are destroyed. Rudy hates groundhogs! At Maury's request, we began a groundhog hunt from the car port of his home. I was the spotter and Rudy was the marksman. We bagged four of the little varmits in one afternoon before we called it quits.

Sunday we awoke to steaming cups of coffee which Rudy and I downed from the comfort of the patio facing the open fields. All was peaceful until I saw a groundhog pop up his little head about one hundred feet from us. I made the mistake of pointing him out to Rudy saying, "He's laughing at you because you don't have a gun in your hand." Challenge issued, Rudy rose from his seat, put down his cup of coffee, and began to stalk the groundhog. The hunt was on. Mr G would pop up and Rudy would freeze. As soon as it's head went down he snuck up a few more feet on the clueless critter. I watched in disbelief as suddenly Rudy sprang at the groundhog and began chasing it around the field. Now Rudy's heart is bigger and stronger than his legs, so at one point he over ran his abilities and took a serious tumble. With tears streaming down my face, I cheered him on. He sprang up, once again, and caught the groundhog at the next turn booting it right in the ass. Then, with a John Travolta swagger, he lifted all five fingers of his right hand claiming his fifth groundhog hit of the weekend. The groundhog took what was left of his pride and ducked back into his burrow, but Rudy claimed a kick as good as a kill.

These are the things our memories together are made of and it's hard to even imagine what other people do on weekends anymore. What we have may not be normal but I wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world.

What Now?

I'd been moving right along with my life, enjoying grandchildren, friends, a great loving relationship, and financial stability. I'd even begun looking around me instead of upwards in anticipation of that "shoe" dropping on me once again. I had, in fact, relaxed, removed my shoes, and kicked back and simply lived each day to the fullest. I let my guard down for once in my life. Then the sky opened up and it began to rain iron toed boots.

The governor made his budget cuts and the libraries suffered repercussions. The bottom line came down last night from the CCPL board of directors. They will cut one half million dollars in job positions this year. I'm high enough on the seniority list so that I will probably dodge that bullet. However, they are going to continue the cuts into the next year by eliminating 1.7 million dollars in job positions. I cannot survive such a direct hit. I will be laid off sometime in 2010, just as I complete fifteen years of service for the library. My retirement funds will be decimated.

I received this news while recuperating at home from a Colonoscopy which I had endured that same day. The testing was done based on some rather nasty symptoms which I'd been suffering over the past two months. Use your imagination, as details would make the faint of heart weak. With Rudy's love and physical help I returned from the ordeal with two possible diagnosis. One would be colon cancer (which I highly doubt). The other is the invasion of a multitude of parasites which probably hitched a ride while I was in Cancun last May. Samples of the visible eggs and larvae were removed and sent to the lab for identification. I now sit here waiting for the Doctor to call and at least give me the name of the parasite, and method of treatment. The biopsies won't be ready for ten to fourteen days.

And so, after a brief respite from worry, while relaxing and looking down, I got blindsided by this whole situation. Life without my job? I cannot imagine that. Creepy crawlies or cancer in my body? Well, that too is way beyond anything my mind can conjure up right now. I feel no need for tears, no hysteria, no fear of the unknown, nothing. I don't think that makes me brave. I think it probably just makes me numb. I'm spending this day alternating between swinging on my porch swing, laying on the couch, and searching the web for medical knowledge. I'm faced with the reality that there is honestly nothing else I can do. I throw this question into the emptiness around me, "What now?", and no answers appear forthcoming.

Chillin' at the Beetle Motel

Some weekends are better than others and some are just different. After a week of stressing over possible layoffs I just wanted to kick back and enjoy the simple life. No fifty miles of biking, no wild partying with the neighbors, no expensive dinners, not even fishing. Just front porch sitting and weeding the garden. With the exception of watching my granddaughter's T-ball championship on Saturday morning, we kept the excitement to a minimum.

We did however, have one dirty little chore that needed to be done. We had to find a way to get rid of the Japanese beetles that were eating the raspberry bushes. Rudy had tried spraying them with pesticides last week, but that meant we couldn't eat the berries. He said I'd grow a third eye if I did. It was almost worth risking a chemically induced transformation, seeing those plump red berries going to waste. But I waited, hoping that after the rain washed the chemicals away, the beetles would be gone. Sunday morning, after the Saturday night rainstorms, we checked the bushes only to note that they were once again swarming with those nasty little bugs. Rudy said, " We gotta find a Japanese Beetle Trap today." A what? They build little traps for oriental pests? My imagination teemed with possibilities.

Over the past few months I have slowly grown to trust Rudy's knowledge of the outdoors. So I followed him to Petities Garden Center and waited patiently in the car while he went in search of the infamous beetle trap. For $11.99 he purchased a trap which appeared to be one of those "some assembly required" deals. The box stated that the trap was baited with both an enticing food scent and , get this, pheromones. We were gonna lure those little buggers with their own sexual desires right into our beetle motel. I watched as Rudy put together this weird little structure, and hung it from a branch near the berry bushes. Then we stepped back and waited for the party begin.

Hundreds of beetles flew from the berry bushes and began to swarm around the beetle trap, lured by the promise of food and sex. I know you're thinking there's something seriously wrong with Rudy and I, but I swear, it was an amazing thing to watch. We laughed and cheered as those little devils slipped painlessly into the trap seeking some kind of unrealistic reward. Not much different then us, I guess, but then we are suppose to have the larger brains. I felt as though we were winning a war without even firing a shot. No chemicals, no nuclear weapons, just luring them with their own greed and lust. Kinda makes you stop and think doesn't it? Do we really need to worry about chemical warfare and bombs? Seems like we're doing just fine destroying ourselves on our own.

If you have a strong stomach and you want proof of our beetle mania, check out the picture and guess how many Japanese Beetles are in the trap.

Flutterbys and Fauna

We went on an amazing bike ride this past weekend. Thirty miles round trip on the Kokosing Gap Trail. This particular bike trail runs between Danville and Mount Vernon Ohio, through some of the most beautiful woodlands and marshes imaginable. Halfway to Mount Vernon, we noticed a privately run butterfly garden which was graciously open to the public. We parked our bikes and entered an oasis of tranquility and beauty. The first sight to catch our eye was a hummingbird moth which was feasting on a Bea Balm flower. I'd never seen such a creature and thought perhaps it was a miniature hummingbird. Trust Rudy to know the species, and put a name to it. Actually a moth because of its two tiny antennae, it perfectly mimics a humming bird hovering above the flowers.




Our next sighting was a fritilarry butterfly dining on a cone flower. I was
able to identify it because of the pictures posted at the entrance to the
gardens. I had never seen this particular species of butterfly and was happy
to make the discovery. We noted several other wonderful "flutterby"
creatures before exiting the gardens and remounting our bikes.



We continued along this beautiful trail, passing both woodlands and marshes, enjoying the shade provided by the trees. We were able to ride side by side most of the trip because no one seemed to be on the trail that day. We caught occasional glimpses of the river as it meandered near the path every now and then. At one point we noticed what appeared to be a leather back turtle the size of a large serving platter floating just below the surface of the water. That was another amazing discovery. Unlike the Cuyahoga or the Tuscarawas rivers, this water was clear and clean and beautiful. In fact, as we approached Mount Vernon, we noted children of all ages wading in its waters. Several teens were enjoying a rope swing which hung over the river. They swung out as high and as far as they dared before letting go and splashing into the cool clear waters below. Made me wish I were a kid again and could join them.

In Mount Vernon, we discovered a fantastic little restaurant which gave us a chance to refuel before making the fifteen mile return trip to Danville. It provided us with an inexpensive treasure of great food served by a fantastically friendly waitress. Stomachs full, we got back on our bikes in anticipation of an uneventful ride back to our vehicle. But we were wrong. One last surprise awaited us.

As we peddled back along the wooded return trail, I suddenly spotted the most
brilliantly colored bird I had ever seen. Unfortunately I did not have time to
point it out to Rudy and share the sight with him. Obviously a song bird, this
feathered beauty was entirely scarlet except for its jet black wings. I described
it to Rudy and he thought that perhaps it was a tanager. I couldn't wait to get
home to research it on the web and see if he was right. No surprise, he was
absolutely correct . It was a scarlet tanager. Another new addition to my flora
and fauna knowledge.

It was a wonderful day from start to finish. We arrived at the truck exhausted and feeling great about the whole experience. Just another great memory which Rudy and I will be able to tuck away for all those long winter days when it seems summer is simply an illusion.

Platitude Adjustment

I don't usually bother with politics, because as far as I'm concerned, it's a lot like bull shit; smelly, messy, and not worth walking through much less talking about. However, I have watched the economy of Ohio, and more specifically Cleveland, deteriorate to the point where I no longer have a friend or relative who isn't either on layoff, threatened by one, or had their hours and or health care benefits cut. Now I too am joining the ranks of Americans who have to walk through this shit storm which Obama has neatly entitled " Change." If the governor cuts the libraries of Ohio out of his budget plans, we at CCPL will be faced with some tough decisions. One of which, will probably be employee cut backs. Now that's what I call change; and let me tell you change isn't always a good thing.

A Platitude is some cute way of making something bad seem not so bad . My favorite example is the overused, "When life gives you lemons, just make lemonade." I personally do not like lemonade and when life throws lemons at me I tend to call it as I see it and throw them right back. Lemons suck! "The Change" sucks! Platitudes don't make a bad situation better. They blind us to the truth and tend to numb us into complacency instead of focusing on the problem at hand.

Apparently Obama has yet to experience that delightful period in a woman's life which we once called menopause. That's when a woman turns into a mean, sweaty, angry, out of control, brainless, maniac. I know because I've been there and I didn't much like it. Calling it "The Change" didn't make it any better. Obama seems to think that by calling this out of control, economic shit storm "Change" we will swallow the bitter pill of unemployment a little easier. Well big "O" I got news for you. America is in menopause and the next five to ten years aren't going to be pretty. We need a Platitude Adjustment. How about "The Truth Will Set You Free."

Gone Fishing

This was the June assignment for the Ditalini Press. Compose a piece that takes place entirely in or on a body of water.

It's a beautiful sunny Saturday, and the lake looks like pure glass as we approach it. I take it all in from my perch high atop my Dad's shoulders. We reach the end of the pier, and he lifts me easily into the shiny red boat with the black motor: settling me onto the passenger seat. Our rods and tackle box are already on board, along with a big cooler. Dad steps in quickly, unties the boat, and slides behind the wheel. He grins at me and says, "We're goin' fishin' girl!"

With a turn of the key, the engine roars to life. I don't like the noise. It's loud and scary. Then Dad thrusts the throttle into gear and, as the boat leaps forward, I am thrown back into my seat. "Isn't this fun?" Dad yells over the engine noise. I'm scared. I can't swim, and it doesn't really feel like fun to me. But, I say, "Yes." anyway.

I turn and ask him, "Don't I need a life jacket? Mom said to be sure to wear one." He laughs and shouts back at me, "Mom's not here, and life jackets are for sissies. You're not a sissy are you?" I say, "No", but I think maybe I am, because I want to wear a life jacket like Mom said. Ashes from Dad's cigarette are blown into my face and they burn. I brush them away quickly, and try not to cry. Dad doesn't like cry babies or sissies.

He leans over and says, "Hey, Buddy, Want to drive?" I say, "No. That's OK Dad. You drive." He frowns and says, "Don't be a baby. I want to go in back and adjust the motor. I need you to steer straight ahead while I go do that. You're my co-pilot aren't you? Now don't make any turns. Just keep straight ahead. OK?" I don't want to drive the boat. My heart is racing and my stomach's flip flopping, but I slide into the drivers seat and grip the wheel, because I don't want to disappoint him. I say, "Sure, Dad. I'm your co-pilot."

He smiles and goes in back to work on the motor. We fly across the water. I steer straight ahead and it seems like the shore is coming up really, really fast. But Dad said not to turn the wheel. I'm so scared. The tears are coming out of my eyes, and I can't stop them this time. I'm even afraid I'm going to wet my pants. Hurry, Dad. Please, hurry.

At last he is there beside me again taking the wheel. He pats me on the head and says, "Good job." I look away and scoot back into the passenger seat. Then he looks at me, frowning, and barks, "Oh my God! You're not crying are you?" I say nothing. I wipe away the tears and hang my head in shame. I've ruined everything by being a baby. Why can't I just be brave like he wants me to be?

Dad tosses an empty brown bottle over the side and grabs another one from the cooler. He opens it quickly, then turns the boat, cutting back around and bumping over our wake. We bounce off our seats, and he laughs and drinks from the brown bottle again and yells above the wind, "Let's go catch us some fish!"

Fish Tales

My father taught me to fish when I was barely three years old. My first fish was landed through a hole in the ice and it was nearly as tall as I was. I carried it proudly across the ice and each time it flopped, I flopped right along with it, and fell down. I probably don't really remember this incident, but the black and white photo of my first prize catch has been ingrained in my memory.

My dad was a drunk, and when he was under the influence of alcohol he was just plain mean. But on the days when he was sober, he taught me everything I know about hunting and fishing, including how to bait my own hook and clean and cook whatever I caught. These are some of the very rare and very precious memories I have of an otherwise hellish childhood. Because of this, the love of the outdoors and the ability to hunt and fish is the one gift he left me and I treasure it.

A good psychiatrist would probably tell you that I've spent my entire life trying to find a mate just like my dad (minus the drinking of course). And they might be right. Up until now, I've been unsuccessful. I thought that age brought wisdom, so I chose older men. I imagined that ego meant self confidence, so I wasted years with self centered ego maniacs. It's hard to find a real outdoors man in the heart of Cleveland so I settled for the Urban Cowboys who only pretended to like the outdoors as much as I did. They couldn't name the varieties of trees, birds or any other kind of wildlife. I ended up spending weekends alone hiking, biking and occasionally kayaking throughout the metro parks. I had discovered the real truth in life is that: "It is better to be alone than to wish that you were."

Then I met Rudy. A slightly red necked Italian who actually knows more about the outdoors than I do. He can spot a deer hidden in the woods long before I can. When I couldn't name a particular bird he simply said it was a Junco. Truthfully, I doubted his knowledge and when I got home that day I looked up the bird on the Internet. I'd never heard of a Junco but I had heard a lot of BS answers from wanna be woodsmen. Sure enough there was the bird we'd seen; and it was called a Junco. I became a believer.

A couple of weeks ago, Rudy took me fishing at Mogador lake. I hadn't been fishing in over fifteen years and to say that I was excited would have been an understatement. We got up before dawn, loaded the pick up with gear and bait that he'd purchased the day before, and headed out to the lake. Arriving just as the sun was coming up, we had the entire place to ourselves. We parked the truck and began hiking through the woods along the shore, searching for one of the many good fishing sites he knew of.

We ended up on a point of land which gave us clear access to the lake. The water was like glass; the only ripples coming from the fish which rose to the surface all around us. Then we baited up and cast our lines. I was amazed when we both landed our first fish of the day on that very first cast. We spent the next three hours in fish heaven hooking bluegill, crappie, and sunfish. I know that because he named every one of them for me. In all, we ended up with sixty seven pan fish. We carried our prize back to the truck and headed home to yet one more surprise.

My dad taught me to clean fish and that meant scaling the little buggers, gutting them, cutting off their heads, and removing the fins. With sixty seven pan fish that's one long tedious chore and I fully expected to participate. However, Rudy knew another way to clean fish; a better way. He set up an outdoor cleaning table, and went to work filleting even the smallest of our catch. He handed each fillet to me and I used a second fillet knife to slice the meat from the skin. Together we laughed and completed the task in record time. Men in the neighborhood came to stare in amazement at the procedure. They all wanted to learn the technique and Rudy modestly showed them. Once again, I became a believer.That night we had a fantastic fish fry. We both took turns in the kitchen preparing the meal, washing it down with wine and laughter.

Looks like I've found someone who makes it more fun to be with than to be alone. Someone who really loves the same things I do. Is he my father? Hell no. He's younger and cuter and kinder. Best of all, we are creating new memories, good memories, which are no longer tainted with the dark side of alcoholism. I've always dreamed of growing old with someone, but was beginning to think it was too late. After all I am already old, and time has become a precious commodity. I have learned however, that as long as one doesn't give up on life and on love, there is always a second chance waiting for us.

The Good The Bad and The Crazy

Seems to me that when someone does or says something that hurts anothers feelings, they need to own the consequences. Never mind the right or wrong of whats been done. Say it's an honest deed or word, but the obvious result will be injury to another. I hate it when the recipient replies with an "ouch", and then the perpetrator of the wound denies their actions or their intent to cause pain. I've been a recipient of such an injury (note I did not say victim). I have reacted by saying "Damn that kinda hurts." and what do I get? Backpedaling, double talk, and even worse, my God it's my own fault to begin with. I'm feeling pain, and I'm being told that I've inflicted it upon myself. Now that's just not fair!

Case in point. Another family holiday outing, Memorial Day. The annual picnic of tension, family drama, back biting and just more fun and games. Sarah has managed to take the avoidance road once again by being on call at the hospital. No one notices that she sets her own schedule. No fault no foul. She escapes without injury. Myself? No excuses. Besides I have a new grandson and I'm eager to meet him. He was born on Mothers Day while I was on vacation in Cancun. I returned from Mexico on the 16th and am looking forward to the picnic in spite of the fact that I know it will be the usual family fiasco. Seeing Mathew for the first time is worth the sacrifice. Not to mention the fact that I miss my Boo.

Then along comes the Swine Flu. A chance for the media to grab headlines with scare tactics. Of course the public falls for it. Flights are canceled, and hotels lose reservations left and right. I don't give it a second thought. I go. I have a great time. I'm perfectly healthy. I return home tanned and rested and ready to meet my grandson.

Only problem is my daughter, Wendy, and my son in law have fallen for the headlines too. They are terrified that I might be carrying the swine flu, and they request a reasonable quarantine, before seeing the grand kids. OK...I don't have to agree, but I can certainly respect their opinion and assume that Memorial Day (10 days after my homecoming) will be considered a safe quarantine period. Not so says my son in law. A fourteen day quarantine is required. That means, no Memorial Day picnic with the family for me. Should I laugh or cry? Get down on my knees and thank God for the freedom of spending a truly fun and relaxing weekend with people outside of my family, or be pissed because I've been refused an audience with my new grandchild? I am both.

I accept their decree with a reasonable amount of dignity. I understand that being uninvited to a family picnic is not the end of the world and I make arrangements with Wendy to visit on June first. A ridiculously safe 16 days after my return from the land of disease and terror. I don't mention the fact that taking a one week old baby to church on Sunday seems a little risky to me. I guess Christian germs don't cause sickness anymore. But I'm not bitter.

Rudy and I have an absolutely wonderful Memorial Day weekend. We discover a fantastic Mom and Pop Italian restaurant in Euclid and spend an enjoyable evening dining and visiting with Sarah and her boyfriend, Jim. All day Sunday we bar-b-que with friends and bask in the unusually perfect Cleveland weather. Life is perfect. I've forgotten the injury. We've planned an easy day on Monday recuperating from the active weekend. We have promised to join friends for a birthday dinner that evening. All is good and right in the world.

Then I get a call from Wendy. She asks if we would like to come to the Memorial day picnic after all? What? Apparently, at the eleventh hour, they've researched the swine flu and discovered it only has a five day incubation period. Go figure. Amazing what you can learn from the Internet at the last minute. I explain calmly that we've already made plans. She suggests that we take at least an hour out of our busy schedule to drop in on the picnic and see Mathew and Boo. When I remind her of the fact that they were the ones to insist on the two week quarantine, she says that I didn't give them a chance to think things through and research the flu. Are you kidding? So this is my fault?

Yes. Apparently I have caused my own pain and now I don't even care enough to visit my new grandson. Suddenly I'm the bad guy and I have no idea how this all happened. But you know what? She's right. I don't care. I understand that parents are over protective. I understand that kids expect us to be there when they need us, but not when they don't. I realize that I really shouldn't have a life outside of motherhood. But guess what? I do! And I'm not ashamed of it. I learned a long time ago that "If you are damned if you do and damned if you don't.......then don't" So I didn't go to the picnic and I won't see my new grandson until June first, and I had a wonderful Memorial Day Weekend anyway.

It's Only Money

This post is the May assignment for the Ditalini Press.

Imagine that you are to receive an inheritance from a wealthy relative. You must, however use the money to start a business of your own. What kind of enterprise would you create?

"Ms Petska, Ms Byrd, I brought you here today to discuss your Uncle Jim's will and the inheritance that you will both be receiving from it."

"Honestly, Mr Brandt, I didn't know Uncle Jim had included us in his will. This is a complete surprise to my sister and I. Right Beth?"

"Hell yes, Kit. I had no clue."

" The amount you will each receive is substantial, but there are some stipulations in the will regarding the release of these funds to you."

"What kind of stipulations?"

"Well, Ms Petska."

"Call me Kit, please."

"All right. As you know, Kit, your uncle was quite the entrepreneur. He believed in free enterprise and was able to amass this huge estate because of his success. He wants to pass this opportunity on to you, his nieces. Give you a chance to build a business of your own, with a little financial help from him. It's a great opportunity for both of you."

"That's wonderful. Don't you think Beth? Our own businesses. I could open the knitting shop I've always dreamed of."

"A business? But I already have a job. Why would I want a business?"

"Everyone wants a business of their own Beth."

"No, not everyone. I don't want one. I've never liked being in charge. I hate the pressure of being responsible for everything. I just want to put in my forty hours and go home. I want to travel and garden and feed the birds and squirrels in my back yard. Maybe volunteer more often. Couldn't I just do that with the money?"

"No, Ms Byrd. I'm afraid not. Your Uncle was very specific in his will regarding the use of your inheritance. Either you invest in a business of your own, or you get nothing."

"But why? Who says owning a business is more important than just living, just breathing every day? Why must everyone have a goal? Isn't being alive good enough?"

"Beth. You're being silly. Just take the money and we'll figure something out for you. You like to cook. You could open a restaurant."

"A restaurant? Are you kidding? I cook because it relaxes me. I volunteer at the soup kitchen because its fun and it feels good. What part of putting out cookie cutter meals for nameless, thankless people seems fun to you?"

"Come on Sis, be reasonable. There must be something you've always wanted to build, to achieve, to leave as a legacy. Like Uncle Jim did."

"Yeah. A family, a relationship, friends, and an appreciation for just breathing in and out every day. I've done that. I'm doing that. I want people to know that I loved them and that I gave everything I had to make life better for myself and for them. That's my legacy. A business is just money and I earn all I need at my job. I don't want the money Mr Brandt. Give it to my sister. Hell give it to whoever you'd like."

"But Ms Byrd, This is the chance of a lifetime and you're just throwing it away."

"That's your opinion. I've had a lifetime already and I don't need any more chances. I'm happy. Life is good. It's only money, only money."

Everything New Is Old

I seek out the current headlines with great unease, as I anticipate my semi annual vacation to Mexico. I've become hardened to the financial disasters posted in the daily news. After all, I have a steady job with the county and my future seems secure. I am only a few years from retirement. However, now, I am touched by the runaway press coverage of the swine flu outbreak. My vacation is in jeopardy and I'm thinking that's just not fair. I work all year for this time off. I plan ahead, book in advance and prepay everything so that I can have one week of stress free pleasure. Is that too much to ask? Poor me.

Then I read a piece from a fellow blogger who completed our April assignment to the Ditalini Press. Her story, though it be fictional, is based on historical fact and it brings the reality of history repeating itself home to me. She writes of a man leaving to serve his country in what was called the Great War. He survives combat and is brought down instead by the flu epidemic of 1918. The short story reminds me that today's headlines are the same as they were one hundred years ago. We still have men going to war, just in a different part of the globe. We still have poverty and financial crisis, and even the flu hasn't changed all that much. So what's my point? What is it I'm feeling when I see today blurring into yesterday?

Maybe I worry too much. Maybe I feel too sorry for myself, thinking I'm the only one struggling to simply live in peace. If, in all these years, nothing has changed, then what is the point of stressing over today's headlines? Did it help those who died in all the other Great Wars? Did it keep the very young, very old, and very poor from dieing of the flu? Will it help me or those I love to survive any of the same crisis? Of course not. The human race just seems so frail and it's struggle so futile. So perhaps I should stop stressing and just enjoy whatever this day, this very moment, brings me. If pain and disappointment are destined for me, then at least when they find me I won't have wasted these great times worrying about it. I'm going on vacation and it's going to be wonderful. I'm lucky to have the time, money and ability to make the trip. History be damned!

Hodgekins Journey

On Friday Rudy's daughter, Mindy, was diagnosed with Hodgekin's Lymphoma. She called and gabbed freely with her dad while he and I cooked pulled pork and got food set up for a baby shower that we were putting on for my oldest daughter. Mindy talked forever without really saying anything, and it left us slightly confused but certainly not worried. She never mentioned her illness.

After the excitement of a fun and successful baby shower, we spent Sunday relaxing and enjoying an unexpected day of sunny Cleveland weather. Mindy called again. This time she said that she needed to have a serious talk with her dad, and she broke the news of her diagnoses to him. She'd decided to wait until after the shower to tell him so that he could enjoy the party with me. I've never seen such an awesome display of selflessness, especially in one so young.

Both Rudy and I talked with her over the next two days discussing prognosis, treatment, fears and hopes. We learned a lot about this disease in a very short time thanks to the Internet. Hodgekin's has a 90% to 95 % cure rate and that's sweet music to a parents ears. However, Mindy will have to endure twelve weeks of intensive chemo and steroid treatment which will most likely result in hair loss, edema, and extreme bouts of nausea . She's in California and her Dad and the rest of her family is right here in Ohio. Mindy has earned a place of honor in my heart along with Boo for being so tough and brave at so young an age. She too has the heart of a lion.

I am here to support and love them both as they struggle to get through the next twelve weeks journey while being miles apart. I have no doubt they will grow closer and stronger through it all. It kills me to see Rudy's pain, and yet I know that he is not the one forced to pay the awful ransom that chemo demands in exchange for remission. I watch, amazed at their ability to survive through humor and positive thinking.

When her dad promised Mindy that he would shave his head the moment she began to lose her hair, she came back with whit. She and I laughed at the fact that his sacrifice was small since he doesn't have much hair to shave. She even suggested that she mail some of her golden locks to him since he needed it more than she did. The banter went on and on until laughter replaced tears and love overcame fear.

Mindy's journey will not be an easy one, and Rudy will feel her pain every step of the way, but they will both survive. They have given me permission to document the next twelve weeks through this blog. I don't believe that bad things happen for a reason, or that there is any kind of purpose in suffering. I do, however, believe that shit happens and when it does, good people, strong people, find a way to make something wonderful out of the chaos they've been given. I can't wait to see what Mindy and her dad create.

Peep S'mores

Just wanted to share a great way to use left over Easter candy. I've created the perfect
Peep S'more. These guys actually have entire web sites dedicated to the teaching of their history, and unique birthing as quintuplets. Cute they may be, but believe me, they are delicious as S'mores.

Shakedown Bike Cruise

The gods smiled on Cleveland yesterday and the sun shone on a perfect day. So we grabbed our bikes, loaded them on to the bike rack and headed for the tow path. Our shakedown cruise was planned for a Manchester to Barberton run: a simple nine mile round trip along the Tuscarawas river. The route was a little too urban for my liking but it was a good first run. The ducks and geese were in full mating mode and they were already paired off for the season. At one point I made the mistake of asking Rudy what those ducks were doing across the river. He gave me a duh look and I went, "Oh". What threw me was the third drake mallard that was sitting one foot from the couple, just watching! I guess even male ducks are pigs.


What surprised me most were the hundreds of turtles we saw basking on every available log along the shores. Some areas looked like little turtle truck stops, as ten or more of them lined up side by side each in their own little parking space. Just listening to the birds after a long winter of cold silence, was a treat. Robins, Juncos, Red Winged Blackbirds, Cardinals, and I think I even spotted a King Fisher. We had trouble staying on the path because our eyes kept looking in every direction except the road ahead. Not a good thing to do on that section of the tow path, as there is little or no room between the path and a five foot drop into the already murky waters of the river. Unfortunately the river is quite polluted along that section. We'd already made a pact that if one of us went in, the other would go for help rather than assist in a personal rescue. There are limits to love and loyalty.

We made good time and got back to the truck with our legs only slightly fatigued and our bellies rumbling. We checked the park map and noted another fantastic ride available just south of Barberton that ran from Clinton to as far south as one could hope for. Looks like we have a great summer ahead of us. So many parks, so little time.

Shopping Rage

I hate to shop! Whether it be groceries, shoes, purses or jewelry; it doesn't matter. I don't want to shop for it. I've never understood the fascination that some women have for this pastime. Pushing a noisy, rudderless, cart down over crowded aisles, searching for an illusive product with an overinflated price tag. What part of that is fun? And then the final annoyance of having to stand in line forever to pay for ones selections. More than fifteen minutes in a store and I begin to experience what Rudy affectionately calls "Shopping Rage".

Because of this problem, I limit my visits to Marcs Discount store and go only when I must purchase necessities. A couple of days ago I made the dreaded trip with a list of three simple items. In and out. That was the plan. As I exited my car, I noted no less than six people, all over the age of seventy, leaning on their carts and slowly making their way to the entrance. I groaned, "Oh God". I'd forgotten it was Wednesday, Senior discount day. No matter. I only needed three things.

Knowing the aisles well, I easily grabbed the items on my list and made a dash for the check out. My lucky day. A check out with only one gentleman in front of me and he appeared to be without a shopping cart. I pulled in behind him. Too late, I noted the pile of change he had dumped on the counter before him. All pennies, dimes and nickles. Before I could switch to another lane, my exit was blocked by two stealthy geriatric shoppers and their carts.

The gentleman before me began to slowly count his change in an attempt to purchase a pack of cigarettes. I leaned to one side and took a stance that screamed pure annoyance. After discovering he truly did have enough money to purchase the cigarettes, the clerk asked him what brand he wanted.
He said " Mavericks please."
She replied, "We don't carry that brand, sir."
"Yes you do." He retorted. "I always buy them here." They continued to argue the point.

I was in hell. My hands began to shake and my breathing was reduced to long exaggerated sighs of impatience. I rolled my eyes as I turned to the person in line behind me, seeking sympathy. I got none. As the man slowly reclaimed his change and began to exit the store, my brain shouted after him, "If you have to buy cigarettes with spare change, what difference does it make what brand it is? Asshole! Why don't you save that change? You might need it to buy yourself a new lunge someday!"

Having vented my anger, if only in my imagination, I felt a little better. I smiled smugly at the clerk, placed my four litre box of Chardonnay, a king size chocolate bar, and a four pack of Ultra Soft Charmin on the counter, and handed her a crisp new twenty dollar bill. Good for me! Now that's shopping!

April Showers

It's just another rainy day in Cleveland and I'm only half way through the work week. Coffee in hand, I postpone my ten hour work day by, day dreaming and surfing the web. I miss biking on the tow path. I miss just sitting out on my balcony watching the sunrise. The forced inactivity of the Cleveland winter has padded me with the usual extra 10 pounds, and I miss my thinner, more athletic, self.
We took the opportunity this past weekend to grab a three mile hike in the metro parks. Moderate terrain but plenty of hills to get the heart pumping. A literal walk in the park for us under normal circumstances. However, after a winter of puzzle making, movie watching, cooking and eating, our muscles screamed "Hell no" to our little adventure. The following day we could barely walk. I for one felt every bit of my 59 years. Fortunately, we saw humor in each others pain which kept depression and disappointment at bay.
They say that April showers bring May flowers. For me, they bring my annual Cancun vacation one step closer. I'm ready for the sunshine, the ocean, and the relaxation. I'm hoping that afterwards, I will return to a Cleveland that is no longer in hibernation. Hurry summer!

On Target Review

Shortly after purchasing my porch swing from Target, I received an e-mail inviting me to post a review for said product. I like my new swing. Heck, I love my new swing. The instructions may have been garbage, but since I wasn't the one who had to assemble it, I could forgive that tiny little flaw. I decided to write a glowing review and post it for all the world to see on the Target web site. I had the time to spare and thought "How long could it take?"

I followed the link provided in the e-mail to the site where I was to post my review. I was met with another request. Please register. Register? Why? They knew who I was. They'd sent me the e-mail. They had my credit card number from my on line purchase and my address to which they delivered the product. Hell, they knew me better than my boyfriend. After all, I've never given Rudy my credit card number.

I shrugged off my annoyance and began the registration process. Once again I thought, "How long could it take?" Name, address, phone number, e-mail address, birthday, sex? Slightly perturbed, I plugged in all the usual info and hit the enter button. One more request appeared on screen, Please create a password for your account. My account? What account? I was simply trying to write a review. I hate creating passwords! I can never remember them anyway, so whats the point? The only thing a password protects my accounts from is ME.

However, I am not a quitter, so I obediently typed in "abuela" and hit enter. In red letters, the following reprimand appeared on the screen. Your password must be 8 digits long and contain both numbers and letters. Well why didn't they say so in the first place? I typed in "abuela$%#*" and hit enter. Once again in red letters I was informed Your password cannot contain any characters or symbols. What the %#*&#? OK "abuela60" I hit enter. A new screen appeared with the following request, Please retype your password to verify. Shit! I knew I'd forget it! No problem, there was a little box there for seniors like myself to click on when we loose track of those pesky passwords. "Forgot your password? Please enter your e-mail address and we will mail your password to you." Wonderful! I minimized the Target site and logged into my e-mail account where I found the password prompt for "abuela60". I wrote it down this time and went back into the Target review site.

At long last I actually made my way to the window that opened on to a clear white screen. Like a fresh clean piece of paper, it was waiting for me to write my review. First, however, I was asked to rate the swing on a 1 to 5 star rating scale. I really wanted to give it a 5, and almost did, but the instructions really were bad, so I indicated a 4 star rating instead. After which, I began my glowing review:


"I got a really great deal on this product from Target with a sale price and free shipping. It arrived within a few days of purchase. It is sturdy, comfortable and perfect for the patio. "(Almost done)..............


Suddenly a warning from Microsoft popped on to my screen: "The server has encountered a problem and needs to shut down. We are sorry for any inconvenience. Would you like to send a report?" Multiple choice answers appeared: A. send report B. don't send. Where was C.? The one that says NO DON'T SHUT DOWN! Right before my very eyes, the screen began dissolving from top to bottom, erasing my unfinished review, and revealing only my desk top background. Fortunately its a picture of Rudy with his shirt off, grinning at me like a fox. If not for his silly grin, I might have been tempted to throw the keyboard through the monitor.

I'd had enough for the evening. Somehow I'd lost my enthusiasm for my swing. As I said before, I am not a quitter, and so, tomorrow, when I am more calm and have more time, I will try once again to write my review. This time it will be short and sweet and more to the point. "This product is a piece of crap!"

Tai -Died

Those who know me, or read my blog, have come to understand that I live a very simple life with limited responsibilities. Ergo, I don't do pets anymore, except for one very extraordinary fish named Tai. He's a Betta fish, which means he must live alone because of his penchant for fighting with other fish. I admire, and perhaps even mirror that characteristic, and we've become great room mates. I named him Tai Chi as a joke. He has been my constant companion for the past two years. He is the strong silent type who gives me the space I need and yet provides a sense of another life within these apartment walls. All he requires is that I feed him every other day and change his water once a month. In exchange, he provides beauty, life, and the feng shui which I so desperately need. For the past two weeks Tai has been off his feed, so to speak. I sensed that he was nearing the end of his life journey, but didn't really dwell on it.

Tonight was my granddaughter, Boos' first chance in several months to enjoy an overnight with grandma. We had great plans for the evening. A quick pizza followed by a swim in the pool and then popcorn and a movie in bed. However, she decided to feed Tai before we left for the pool. She came to me and said that Tai was swimming on his side at the bottom of the bowl. Bummer!

Boo has an aquarium of her own and is well versed in the fragile life of fish, but I really didn't want to ruin our night with a fish funeral. Somewhere within the deep recesses of my mind, all I could think of was the phrase, "Tai-died" and the sick sense of pun-like humor that those words conjured. There must be something seriously twisted within me, but come-on; you have to admit, it's an unusual play on words.

Anyway, I sent Boo to the bathroom to change into her swim suit while I quickly grabbed a slotted spoon and fished Tai out of his bowl. Oops! With Boo in the bathroom, I couldn't give Tai the typical burial at sea via the commode. I searched frantically for a quick, simple, solution to the problem. That's when I saw the empty pizza box sitting on the cupboard. Voila! An over sized fish coffin in the making. I plopped him quickly into the pizza box and ran the box to the garbage shoot in the laundry room down the hall.

Boo exited the bathroom with her swim suit on and we made a dash for the pool. The rest of the evening was a complete success. As I write this, she sleeps within the comfort and warmth of my big bed. Tomorrow, or perhaps next week, I can easily acquire another Beta fish to replace Tai. Or not....... Perhaps it's too soon?

How amazing to experience all of this in one evening; love, family, death and yet, humor. There must be balance and priority in life. I love, I laugh, therefor I live an extraordinary life!

The Mill

This post is the April assignment for the Ditalini Press
We were to take this picture of an old mill and create a piece revolving around it. No rules, just use the old mill! The result follows: fact or fiction? you guess.


I remember the summer of '68 when graduation was quickly receding in the rear view mirror of my life and a limitless future ran before me. I was young. I had my high school diploma, an old beat up car, and the possibility of moving away as quickly as possible from the cold and bitterness of my mothers home.

It was so hot that summer. Temps hovered in the 90's with a humidity unheard of for Wisconsin. Air conditioning in cars meant opening the windows, hitting the gas pedal, and driving like hell to beat the heat radiating from the pavement. Gas was cheap, so driving was the average Americans form of entertainment. It was my favorite way to spend an afternoon.

One torrid Saturday afternoon, after listening to my mothers endless tirade of complaints, I donned a perky sundress, and hopped into my car to escape once again. Even with sweat dampening the back of my dress, I felt cool and free and hopeful. I began to fly aimlessly down the back roads of the Wisconsin Kettle Moraine area. Just knowing the Indians had been here long ago, made me feel a part of the landscape. With my dark complexion, long straight black hair, and facial bone structure, I could easily pass for those who had come before me. I imagined that I could find some cool forest retreat where I could spend the day alone and at peace with only the ghosts of past generations to keep me company.

Time and miles fell silently behind me, until I came upon a gravel road which appeared to lead no where. The rutted lane ran through a wooded acreage. The coolness of the trees appealed to me, so I turned on to it. I slowed as the dust from the road began to rise around me and pour into the windows of my car. The lane seemed to be following a small stream. After a while, I came upon a broken down wooden gate which made it impossible to go any further by car. It was cool along the edge of the woods and so I left my car parked in the shade and continued to follow the lane on foot.

About half a mile down, the stream began to widen into a river which was being fed by many similar streams along the way. I noticed a slight clearing ahead and continued toward it. Suddenly, the lane made a sharp turn and as I rounded the corner I was struck with a vision of fairy like quality. Peeking out from the woods and underbrush along the river was an old mill. Silent now, it seemed to have become a part of the vegetation itself. Shadow and light played tricks on my eyes, as mist from the water moistened the moss along the masonry base of the structure making it appear to take on an emerald glow with diamonds sparkling wherever the sunlight fell.

Once men had built this structure to enhance their lives. It was apparent that a mill this size would have accommodated an entire community in their efforts to turn corn and wheat into flour. But now the people were gone and only this structure remained. The earth had reclaimed what man had tried to take possession of. Even the ivy which covered most of the stone walls, seemed to say "This is ours once again." I was mesmerized by the serene silence of this once bustling area. How foolish was man to change such peace into disharmony and even chaos. How much better for nature to reclaim what was always hers.

I approached the waters edge with reverence and caught the reflection of the ivy covered masonry mirrored on its surface. Looking deeper, I saw my own reflection, quietly smiling back at me. I wanted to remain forever in this magical place, but I was young with my future stretching before me. I knew that I would have to live amidst the chaos of what we call civilization . For now, I would have to endure my mothers bitterness. Soon I would enter the factories, put in an eight hour day and come home to an efficiency apartment. Someday I would marry and have children and become entrenched in the day to day necessity of working for a living.

I turned from the mill and began the slow and painful walk back to my car; back to the reality which was my life. I left my peaceful spirit behind me among the ivy and the moss, and headed back to the concrete jungle which I called home. In my heart, I hoped that someday, if I worked very hard and did what was expected of me, I would return to this place or one just like it and retire outside of the grasp of mankind where I would allow nature to reclaim what was rightfully hers, and be at peace again.