Category: Essays

Things never, ever work out as you think they should.  My fantasy train trip to Oregon has turned into a soft type of nightmare that I don’t think will ever end.

It all started when I thought this would be one great adventure.  Well, an adventure it is, just not the one I imagined. Plus trying to type on a train is not the easiest thing in my world. The tendency of my hands to randomly move around coupled with the trains ability to rattle and jostle to and fro like a demented flea does not produce any sort of logical typing.

First of all, engine trouble coming out of Union Station, WDC. Somewhere in Maryland they brought in another engine. Okay for that. However, due to the engine trouble plus the fact that Amtrak must defer to all commercial trains managed to put me 5 hours behind schedule. 

Boarding in Chicago was business as usual until we came to my car.  Great news – it was a double decker car – not so great news – it was a double decker car.  My Sleeper was on the upper level, great for viewing, not so great for accessibility.  The stairs were very narrow and circular. Once up there, I had to stay there due to my own safety concerns.

Due to the engine trouble and the amount of very long commercial trains, we crossed Montana at night.  I did not got to see Glacier Lake since it was midnight when we went through there. I did see that it was snowing, these large beautiful flakes, but alas, midnight, darkness, so bummer de bummer.

Now, traveling across Washington State into Portland, OR, my  cell phone said I had no service (emergency calls only), no wifi (ever since leaving Chicago), spotty phone service when it does work……I was not a happy traveler. I could not connect with my daughter or the hotel about my delayed arrival.  Eventually all things worked out, made it to Eugene and the adventure continued.

Absolutely wonderful time exploring around Eugene and the Oregon coastline. I discovered 2 new beaches and fell in love again with Hecate Cove. My final stomping grounds.

Then it was leaving the Land of Water to travel to the Land of Sand for what I thought was Part 2 of my adventure.  Tucson was wonderful, family were fantastic, a really great relaxing time was spent there. Walking around the Tucson Zoo with my middle granddaughter was amazing. There was a new baby elephant, a sloth, African Wild Dogs, and beaded statutes everywhere.

BUT THEN IT WAS THE PLANE, THE PLANE, OMG THE PLANE

The ending to my trip should have been simple, a real no-brainer. But American Airlines had a totally different idea of what this meant.  Once boarded, we had to deplane due to a mechanical issue.  Other passengers on the plane consisted of two service dogs, one cat in a carrier, and one very noisy parrot in a carrier. I was sitting there thinking I was in Dr. Doolittle Land……

Instead of traveling from Tucson to Dallas/Fort Worth to WDC, I was routed from Tucson to LAX, to Charlotte (NC), then on to WDC. So my 4:30 pm arrival on Tuesday turned into a 12:30 am on Wednesday. Never, ever, again. It has been almost a week since I returned home and I am still very tired.

Has this made me think about not having additional adventures? Nope, no way possible. However, my next one is about two years away and I plan on taking a cruise through the Inside Passage of Alaska.

Just for sanity’s sake, check back in closer to 2027 and see what I think about this idea. Happy Travels to those of you who love adventure!!!

I attended a memorial service this past week. I am not a fan of memorial services, or anything related to the observation of one’s death.  The one thing I took away from the service was how people’s opinions and thoughts of this person at this time seem to be in direct contrast to what they were when this person was alive.

I know we have all been told not to speak ill of the dead. But what if that is all there is to be said? How does one sugar coat that?

I also realized that there are important things I wanted my children to know regarding what I wanted at the end of my life.  Certainly, no memorial service, no family night, no graveside gathering.  I want none of that. I want one and all to gather together, share some food, good wine, talk about me – good or bad – I just want it to be real as my life was real.  I’ve been good, I’ve been bad, I don’t know if I will be in a better place and if it be heaven or hell.  At times I think hell would be better than the life I have lived through. But I have had an interesting life to be sure, just don’t sugar coat it.

I just wish the phoniness would end.

Celebrations…. why do they exist? And why are they so important?

I used to be a huge fan of holidays – didn’t matter which one, or what was being celebrated. Holidays were fun, time packed with family, food, sometimes presents, always a good time…

But really – looking back at those times in my childhood, they weren’t really good times, packed with family, food, maybe presents, but also carried an undercurrent of tension and discomfort. Outside of this category were always birthdays.

Let’s talk about birthday celebrations as well.  I was born on my oldest brother’s birthday, three days after my Mother’s, and two days before my other brother’s.  My sister’s birthday was two months earlier, five days after my Dad’s.  I don’t remember ever having my own birthday celebration.  It was always combined with my siblings.  I don’t remember having a birthday all to myself until I was married. Then my first husband’s birthday was six days after mine.  It seems like I chased after individually celebrating my birthday almost all my life. 

Now that I am an aging adult, I don’t care much about celebrating birthdays. Yes, the gifts are nice, cake is always a bonus, but I don’t get as excited about them as I always I thought I should.  Perhaps the individualization of the day removed some of the mystique and glamour. 

Or, perhaps I have come to realize that they are just aren’t that important at this time in my life.  Who knew all this would come to this?

Getting Old? OH HELL NO

All at once I discover that I have turned 75, three quarters of a century….I knew this was going to happen…someday…but holy cow, someday finally arrived.

I have outlived my parents, two brothers, two husbands, one brother-in-law, countless aunts and uncles, both sets of grandparents…..wow, all this does tend to make me feel alone in this bad old world.

On the brighter side, all my children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and one sister are still alive and kicking. Very positive note.  The only thing I wish for at this time is that they all outlive me….except my sister maybe.

Have I accomplished all I wanted to do and experience? Well, no, I have not.  Is this upsetting or depressing? Well, no, it is not. I have done just enough to make for an interesting life, still have a couple of things left to accomplish.  Travel, of course, and continuing my Education, and, of course, continuing to write.

So, apparently, I don’t have a lot to say about being this old, or getting older, or regretting not being younger. I think I did not like being younger. I feel like I came into being around 45 or so.  This would make me a youngster of 30 right about now.

I do not believe in the word “old”. Furniture gets old, cars get old, ideas definitely get old.  Anything that is living, whether it be members of the animal kingdom, bird kingdom, or human, DO NOT GET OLD. We, and they, all age.  I am aging, not in place, just aging.  I have never viewed myself as getting old. Old is for those people who whine and complain about aches, pains, who died, and the biggest mistake of all: “I am too old for that, you are too old for that, you shouldn’t do that/dress like that/etc. because you are old”.

Let me state this one more time, I AM NOT OLD. I DO NOT GET OLD. I am aging, gracefully maybe, chaotically yes, happily, definitely.  I am me, I am enjoying me, I am aging!        

GO ME! Not quite to Infinity and Beyond, but at least for another 50 years!!!

Life happens, I get that.  Bumps in the road come along, I get that.  Good things and good people come along; I get that also.  What I don’t get are the negative glitches that come along and can throw you down the rabbit hole.

While navigating through my bill paying duties, I was mistakenly charged twice for a money order.  A rather large money order.  Mistakes happen, machines/equipment can falter/fail.  The rabbit hole aspect of this scenario is proving that I did not receive 2 money orders.  I have a strong feeling that this issue is going to take more than 2 weeks to resolve.

On the positive side, at least all my bills are paid, and I am only slightly overdrawn.  Wow!

As I am aging, I have discovered a newfound respect for money and what you can do with it.  I always took money for granted, I was working, making good money, spending it oh so willy-nilly not thinking about my later years.  Well, here I am in my later years, looking forward to my retirement check each month and wondering what I can buy other than bills and necessities.  I have also discovered that creativity can be the queen in any situation.

At least I am holding my head high, smiling through gritted teeth, and gearing up for Round 3 (and possibly more).

….not making me all that happy. As an older adult, how should summertime be categorized?  Is it easy since there is no school, easy because there is freedom to run and play as we did when we were children? Or is it now more of the same day in and day out with the only difference being the weather?

There certainly are different activities in the summer, but this is so for every seasonal change.  I like summer, spring, and fall.  But I am in love with winter.  I love snow. I love watching it fall from the sky, gathering into small piles as it hits the ground and the wind moves it about.  Snow is so peaceful, so serene, just soothing to me in a way that sunshine and rain cannot accomplish.

I grew up in Kansas City, MO. Every winter we were buried in snow. Every day we bundled up and went out to build snowmen, have snowball fights, make snow angels, and sled if a hill was available to conquer.  I think the best part of these days was when Mother would make hot chocolate for us when we came in at dark. And if we were even luckier, grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for dinner. Oh yes, we played outside pretty much all day.

I moved from the Sonoran Desert in 2006 because I wanted to experience the change of seasons again. But I was really wanting snow, snow, and more snow.  Since then, it has only snowed appreciably twice in these 18 years.  Bummer, bummer, bummer. But despite this failure, I wish and hope every time the winter season begins that this will be the year.  I have jokingly told my children that I wish it would snow up to my windowsill (I have a 6^th floor apartment), so that raises all sorts of alarms in their minds.

Once again, it is summer and time for swimming, picnics, ice cream socials, and nights sitting on the veranda with a mint julep in one hand and the Farmer’s Almanac in the other searching for the winter forecast. 

Summertime and the living is pretty much the same, at least for me.

I have been asked why, oh why, have I published my writings.  It is certainly not for monetary gain, public recognition, or any other mundane commercial reasoning.  I am doing this for myself. Yes, just me wanting to share these thoughts and glimpses into my world.

My world, which by some has been categorized as fictional to say the least, delusional at best.  But is it really?

We all have occurrences in our lives that have been experienced by just ourselves, no other family around. Occurrences that sound unbelievable to others but are so very real to us.

I have been questioned repeatedly by family members about things I recall happening involving my mother.  They were not present when these things happened, so, of course, they did not happen. These instances did not fit in with their perception of our mother, so therefore, never happened, or only happened with my fantasy family. Instances that when defending, make others angry and defensive but elicits a sadness in me.

Perhaps these published writings are a mechanism to bring my fantasy family to life – or to have my actual family realize these glimpses are not dreams or wishes, but real. It does make a person tired and weary of falling into a defensive mode when questioned or disregarded about these situations.  Does publishing these make me less tired and weary?  Not really. It is a mechanism for understanding and acceptance of who I am and how I came to be this person.

I have been blessed with a curiosity gene, sometimes I love it, and sometimes I just wish it would go away.  The why’s of everything can hold my attention for what seems minutes but quickly turns into hours.

Why do our bodies have to deteriorate and does curiosity die before you do? Does ignoring the curious side of you cause you to die sooner out of boredom?  As my mother said, “We get old, we fall apart, we die, deal with it.” I prefer a broader approach.  Referring to medical journals, I learn what causes things to degrade.   It has been said that all cells in our body can only recycle a finite number of times.  Death ends our physical life and to me, losing your curiosity is the beginning of death. 

When my curiosity level is active, I feel alive, I ask questions of everyone which always leads to more questions.  As I continue to be curious about anything and everything, I am alive, I am not dying.  I am holding death at bay. 

Death…I feel like someone, or something has drifted away from me and into death. Such an all-encompassing miasma…feeling like I have missed something vital to my existence or is about to happen and I will not notice its coming or passing.

Perhaps it is the decisions about my life and its purpose that is the root cause of all this. Perhaps it is giving into the limitations presented to me by my aging and declining physical abilities. Mental capacities seem to drift up and away into the morning mist, only to return tomorrow in another form with another facet taken away.

Making plans for my future, however short and limited it will be, is not appealing at all; again, making the decision whether to stay in this land of changing climates, or returning to the desert to see if I can put down roots once again. Maybe that is the key — I have no roots, nothing to bind me to this place. Yes, I have family that is scattered across the United States. Infrequent contact at best, predominately when I reach out to them. I have grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and a sister who also provides infrequent contact. This same pattern seems to repeat itself with friends.

What is the fault, where is the fault, and who is at fault with this continuing pattern of interaction? I have felt that this is somehow derived from my lack of positive parenting skills when the children were home. As a mother, I never directly involved myself in their lives. Yes, I put on quite the public show of a ‘good mother’, but when that door closed with all of ‘them and that’ solidly shut on the outside, that persona dropped, and I returned to that closed off shell of a mom. Sending a child away, hoping for a different life for him, but neglecting to see or recognize the feeling of abandonment he would suffer, eluded me as much as this feeling about something…perhaps the Karma Wheel has turned, and I am unable to utilize the brakes and stop this. Stop this now in its slowly onward moving path.

Pick a simile: at a crossroads or light at the end of the tunnel or the horse before the cart, it does not matter, any and all are applicable to this current statis.

How to turn this around, how to figure this all out, how to continually move forward, never deviating, never stopping, never questioning. Maybe, just maybe, I should take a roadside sobriety test. If I can’t walk in a straight line, then I should go wherever and whenever this crooked path seems to go. Jig to the left for a bit, then jog to the right, stand up, sit down, and what? Fight? Go for the Passive/Aggressive behavior? Give In? Give Up? Quit?

I recently saw a picture of an angry chimpanzee holding a revolver. Caption read: “If you are gonna fight, fight like you are the third monkey in the line, and, Brother, it is beginning to rain.” Could that be my stumbling block, I can’t see past, or through the rain clouds? I am oblivious to the rain, another obstacle, another stumbling block, another diversion.

Death is not always about the physical…sneaky little bastard that it is…slow growing like a cancer…not having the ability to medicate it away…just death: mentally, physically, and certainly emotionally. Perhaps…

Let’s be honest, specifically me.

I have not been a bad parent, a bad person, or sometimes a bad friend. I was just traveling through life mostly unaware.

I did not realize just how precious children are and that you should hold them close. In my youth and lack of direction in what it takes to be a mother, I was indifferent to your needs. I remember something once said to me. One of my sons was in court for a misdemeanor, and I was there. He said to me that he was surprised to see me as he didn’t think I cared – and that surprised me. I did care and do care to this day. I just didn’t know how to show it or vocalize it.

There is no excuse for the paths I sent you down in your early lives. If I were a character in a book, I would be Horton’s mother. But I am not a character in a book, I am not some picture on a page. What am I, what do I look like? I have no answers or insight.

I am just me.

Shouldn’t be too difficult one would think, or would one? The very word is indicative of a person unable to take care of themselves on any functional level and requires 24-hour care. But what if you are just temporarily incapacitated and might be loosely termed an invalid by some? I believe this type of Hibernation is the diminished level of interaction with people outside the residence. My days are spent playing games on both the cell phone and tablet, reading a book or two, and Netflix for binge watching. I am fortunate to be able to do this much but being housebound is no fun at all.
I have a friend who has chosen to give up on life. I think about her often, but I rarely visit. I do believe this could be a little bit of Karma biting me in the butt because I have no visitors, no one to offer to take me out and about. Reasons I have been given: ‘it’s cold outside’, ‘it is difficult and time-consuming to get you out and about, and the best one of all: “Let’s see if we can work something out when the weather is warmer.”
Staying at my granddaughter and grandson’s house has been a blessing. As my condition continues to improve and I am finally able to walk with a cane, I will be able to move to what will be my place, whatever and wherever that may be.
Will I still be in a state of hibernation? I do not know. I guess that is based on my different facets of being back home. Will I be driving? Will I have outside employment? Will I be closer to family and friends? I just don’t know, and I just don’t know if I care.
As this so-called hibernation continues, I feel little pieces of me falling by the wayside. Emotions are more exposed. Crying every day and being able to blame it on the pain caused by physical therapy, having children who do not reach out, and the continual isolation from the outside world surrounds me and threatens to consume me.
So, how does this scenario play out for the invalid who is not an invalid? I am forced to wait until healing has occurred. I am ready, or am I?

I want chocolate covered cherries, but I will get plain cherries with pits. I want my life to be my life, not feel like I am living like someone else. I want peace and harmony but am faced with war and strife. I want to visit my children more than they want to visit me.

I want the rest of my life to be like my favorite ice cream treat. Wonderfully smooth vanilla, nuts mixed in for a crunchy obstacle, chocolate sauce to drown all the good and bad, and of course, that cherry on top that tells me life is as colorful as it is right then.

But what happens when the ice cream melts, and everything comes together in one glorious bumpy, swirled mess? Is this just another stage in life where things are not calm, peaceful, and just so? Or is it a foreshadowing of things I do not want, but are yet to be?

Darkness, but not darkness as you may know it and I have come to recognize it. Midnight, pitch, deep gloom, silky inkiness. When this stage of feeling has not only been reached, but sustained for more than any reasonable, explainable time span, any dark descriptive word will do.
I live underground. No windows, no fresh air, no sunshine, no whatever. Just down a short hall, there is sunshine and fresh air. Just a few steps, just a small determination to stop the darkness and musty smell that might be my soul. Often the considerable effort just to reach it, to go into that brightness, is more than I can comprehend. It has been said that sunshine and fresh air can be a healthy benefit, but how do I know if this is true? How can I grasp this thought like one would a flashlight in the darkness? Would there be wisdom in the light that I cannot perceive in this dark miasma?
All relationships are flavored by this darkness. Do not think of licorice, but something with more bitterness and a slow syrup-y consistence, such as Absinthe. It is dark, murky, and gets your attention in a heartbeat. Like this darkness, it lingers on the tongue and colors the days and times around me.
Absinthe! That’s it. That is the word that perfectly describes me, the total me, in the here and in the now.
Absinthe! Poured liberally but not sweetened to lessen the jolt.
Absinthe and the darkness have become so welcome and familiar to me that I want them to stay, to linger, to continue to color my days and nights. Holding onto this seems to soothe my soul, calm me, blanket me with a false perception that is all too familiar. I cannot, do not, want to give this up, to replace it with light, laughter, and the joy of being around others. It has become my soul.

Fog creeping across the ground, wispily winding around the trees and through the shrubs.  A cold shudder as it softly wraps itself around your body, encasing you in a shroud of mystery and invisibility.

Above all this mist, above the trees, and into the night sky, a sliver of Moon tries to make itself known through the night clouds.  Does it have a purpose, is there a rule about its shape and brightness that we either do not know about or do not care to know? 

Does it signify that there is less to our future than we envisioned when staring at the night sky?  Does it signify that there is more to our future, watching and waiting for life to progress to full circle, only to recede once again to a glimmer of light?

It cannot be ignored or avoided; it is the murkier side of our existence.  The side that shrouds and conceals life’s darkness, disappointments, immersing us into invisibility and nothingness.  Or does this sliver, however bright or dim, signify that we are breaking through the clouds of uncertainty and being offered a glimpse of possibilities to come?

Watching, waiting, perhaps hoping, perhaps trusting, that there is a bright light shining, dispelling the fog, casting off the shroud in the coming days.  Or are we watching, waiting, perhaps dreading, the darkness that comes with the decreasing light and reduces ourselves to a sliver of being?

I am awakened by someone in the room. This person has come to get me, take me away, and do horrible things to me. This tall, thin person is wearing a jacket of some indiscriminate shade of red and seems to have short hair. I cannot make out the face, I cannot determine its sex. I am very afraid. I cry out with a great scream, swinging my arms, trying hard to wake my husband who is sleeping next to me. I cannot awaken him and the person comes nearer and nearer and I struggle harder and harder.

I am in an office working as a receptionist/secretary. I know these people. The boss is a corporate lawyer. He is very curt and abrupt. I sense his displeasure at my having left the company years before. He tries to curtail my activity, limiting me to useless, meaningless tasks. The Chairman of the Board also comes into the room. He greets me warmly with a hug, wishing me well, and says I should never have left. Things could have been discussed, worked out. He tells the attorney to treat me better, to give me responsibilities.

The person in the red jacket is coming after me again. Even though I cannot physically tell if it is a male or female, I get the general feeling it is a female. That impression is stronger in this second visit. She is carrying a book of some sort. While alternating looking at the book and at me, she makes faces of great displeasure and marks in the book with a huge black pen. I am calmer, but still afraid. I still cannot wake the person sleeping next to me,

The swing on the porch is big and white. I am sitting in the swing, clutching a raggedy ann doll made by a friend of my mother’s. It is my favorite doll because she did not make one for my sister. Only me. I am singing a silly childhood song. I cannot remember the words, just the tune. Mother appears and tries to take the doll away from me, tells me to share with my sister because she is better than me. I refuse. Mother jerks me off the swing and spanks me hard. I still refuse to share. She takes the doll away from me and hides it.

That woman is coming after me again. She has a screwdriver and pipe wrench in her hands. She imprisons my head, tells me to hold still, that she has been authorized to look into my head to find out what is wrong, and if necessary, she will remove my soul because I have not taken care of it.

I again scream, trying to wake my husband, my protector. She only laughs at me and says, “Yeah, right, when has a man ever stood up for you? Who do you think gave me permission to do this? Get real, life is but a dream after all.”

I awaken from this dream. It is early morning. The sun is shining on the green grass, making the dew sparkle like chips of ice. The flowers are in full bloom, and I feel at peace. I feel warm and secure. She approaches again. She admonishes me for being so stubborn and trying to hide from her. She tells me that I can never escape her, that whenever I dream, she will be there. I awaken again. I do not dream anymore that night