Thunk

After an unusually happy day I went to bed, still smiling. I decided to skip the OTC sleeping pills because I didn't think I'd need them and I was concerned about becoming dependent. I let my eyelids relax and close. Ah, sweet sleep would soon overtake me -- NOT. Out of nowhere -- thunk -- I realized that I would never see my Dad again. All these weeks I'd thought I was dealing well with my loss. Then I remembered what Mom said a couple of days ago; the shock has worn off and reality is starting to sink in. Seems like I'd convinced myself that he was simply on a long trip and would be back any day. Tears just started leaking out of my eyes -- no boo-hooing -- just warm tears flowing from the corners of my eyes, down the side of my face and into my ears triggering tormenting tickling. Not gonna get to sleep with that goin' on. So now I sit in our dark living room in front of a bright computer screen, trying to play Solitaire to numb my mind, but it's not working. Instead of the tears pooling in my ears, they're gathering in my cleavage . . .*sigh*

More Phun with Photos

This would make a cool quilt.

Late to bed and late to rise. . .

. . . makes it impossible to get a shower. In recent days, we'd noticed a pretty substantial trickle of water flowing from underground at the corner and down our street. By this morning, it was gushing under parked cars. I pictured them locked in by frozen water around their tires. Located where we are, the city took swift action. Of course this meant that rising from bed at 8:30 a.m., I could not brush my teeth, shower away wild, bed-head hair or even wash my hands. Self-pity disappeared when I checked the weather. Those guys are working with very cold water in a 19 degree windchill! I'm not entirely unselfish, though. I hope they hurry and fix it so that I can flush the toilet!!

Frags # 8

Tragedy to the 5th Power

The photos show four cute girls, ages 5 to 17. Each is described in terms apropos to any beloved child and each had her life snuffed out by the woman who gave them life. The horrific details make for a lurid tail of psychosis and unthinkable violence. Family, friends and neighbors seem unable to comprehend how this tragedy could have unfolded without their knowledge. Oh, they suspected that the young mother was not herself after the death of her partner. He had provided not only food, shelter and clothing, but stability for a very fragile woman and her children. Her semblance of a functioning life ended when he died of cancer last year. At that moment, her mind shut down and she lost her tenuous grip on reality. Rather than mourning her loss and trying to move on, she sank into the deep recesses of her frail mind. This seems to be the only way to understand how she was able to live in a house with the decomposing bodies of her children for 8 months. We may never know what triggered her actions but the outcome is unforgettable. Meetings and hearings will try to determine where the system failed. There will be plenty of finger-pointing and head-shaking, but, in the end, the girls are gone and a community questions how it could have happened. Why didn't family and friends know what was going on? How did neighbors not notice that the girls were there one day and not the next? What did people think when the woman moved all her furniture into the back yard and left an expensive toy in the front yard for anyone who wanted to take it? Have we become a society of people who just don't want to or are afraid to get involved? Thanks to some human rights groups, persons with mental diseases were de-institutionalized years ago because it was their right to live as they wished. How humane is it to allow people to live on heating grates or park benches, wandering the streets, suffering from delusions that medications used to mitigate? We Americans have become so isolated and insulated from our fellow humans for fear of intruding on their rights or having to get personally involved. We park our children in day care, our elders in senior communities, and our mentally and physically challenged folk in special programs. It's a type of segregation that is as harmful to our society as racial segregation. I hope that this tragedy will stimulate thought on what it means to be a community member, not just a resident. Our population is diverse and somewhat transient. Perhaps those factors could be catalysts to make D.C. a different kind of community: one that embraces newcomers and takes care of its own.

Ah, Moonshine!

My faith in the American Way has been restored -- the moonshine business is still going strong and even growing as recently reported in my newspaper. Now, I don't claim to have tried moonshine, though concoctions we made in college may have been similar. But the fine art of turning grain into alcohol will never die. In some rural parts of this country generations of moonshiners and law officers have lived side by side knowing full well what each other did to pay the rent. I would hazard to guess that most NASCAR drivers can claim kin who were moonshiners. Those ole boys really knew how to drive! They souped-up old cars with huge trunks to carry their "produce" to market and to quickly dodge the law when it came sniffin' around. In the mid-1970s I visited a friend who taught school in rural West Virginia. Though I was there for just 3 days, I learned some important lessons: 1) do not fly over the mountains in a puddle jumper in March -- had to skip two of four scheduled stops because of the wind; 2) don't make eye contact with men walking in the road with burlap bags and rifles slung over their shoulders; 3) torrential rains totally eliminate the effectiveness of a septic field; 4) I don't ever want to live in the back woods. Now, don't take me wrong; West Virginia is a beautiful state with scenery second to none. It's just that, back then anyway, there were certain rules and customs to be observed. If you were not wearing over-alls and a flannel shirt, you did NOT want to go into the local grocery store for something to drink -- usually Dr. Pepper. Can't say these rules don't still apply, but if you're planning to go anywhere but a big city, leave the designer duds at home. As for the moonshiners, I can only hope they're not distilling their brews in old car radiators as some used to do cuz anti-freeze can kill ya! Otherwise, bottoms up!

The Invitation -- by Carole Chavanne

Don't walk blindly Around the periphery Of my life. Come in and see And be with me Or go away. Think about it -- isn't that what we do most of the time? We're so tied-up with our own agendas that we ignore many of those around us. Some of my most interesting conversations have been those struck-up with strangers.

Slingshots and Jet Planes

Living a few miles from National Airport (cannot bring myself to call it by it's new name!) we hear and see interesting things. For example: just now an inbound passenger jet caused an outbound jet to make a haul-ass-take-off. We know this because we can actually hear and feel the power of the engines as the pilot floors it to take off in time for the other plane to land on the same runway. That, in turn, reminded me of a memorable take-off from the old Charles Lindbergh Airport in St. Thomas, U.S.V.I. some years ago. When I first visited the Virgin Islands in 1972 with my former college roommate, it took three, separate flights to get to our destination: Tortola, one of the gorgeous British Virgin Islands. We flew into Puerto Rico, switched to a 40-passenger prop plane to St. Thomas which still had a Quonset hut, dirt-floored terminal. Eventually, it was onto a 6-seater/single engine puddle-jumper that landed on what appeared to be a beach on Tortola. It was fun flying below and around the clouds to maintain visual contact with the ground. Years later, spouse and I spent our honeymoon in St. Thomas. Aside from snorkeling way too long and burning the backs of my legs to a crisp, it was a great trip. The runway at St. Thomas has always been short and the first time I had gone down there, we heard about an American jet that had hit the mountain at the end of the runway. This must have been the last straw for the authorities, because they dynamited most of the mountain and extended the runway into a bay at the north end. Waiting for our flight, I looked out the window of the newer terminal to see what we'd be flying. It was only when we went out to climb the very tall stairway to the plane that I realized we were getting into something way too big for this airport. As I expected, the pilot tried to make a casual joke about take-off saying it would be fast and not to worry. Uh huh. . . The normal chatter quickly dropped-off as the plane made it's way to the very end of the runway and, with brakes on, revved the engines to full power. Men and women alike screamed as we took off like a slingshot, dipping slightly, then rolling to the left to avoid what was left of the mountain. Wild cheering and tears of relief didn't phase the flight attendants as they started their routine. Amazing!

Totally Unexpected Freedom

Someone -- who shall remain nameless because I really don't know if it was me or spouse -- poked me in the eye one night this week. It had to have been early morning because I remember having an odd dream about that very thing and waking up with a sore eye. Now, I'm not new to eye trauma -- I've had torn corneas before and burned my eyes under a sunlamp during my fool-hardy teen years, so this was not at all novel. As a matter of fact, it didn't hurt as much as when spouse caught my eye while swinging into his jacket one Christmas Eve. Anyway, make-up just seemed unwise until my eye stopped tearing and the swelling went down. I had promised to take a friend grocery shopping on the same day I was afflicted. She has poor eye-sight, so I had to haul out my reading glasses to read the expiration dates for her. It became a pain in the butt to keep switching between dark to reading glasses, so I put away my shades. The point of all this is that I discovered that my appearance sans make-up doesn't horrify the public!! This is huge for someone who, previously, would not have been caught dead without war paint. As I've aged, I've lightened my look -- don't want to be one of those old crones who insists on turquoise eye shadow, globs of mascara and bright, misplaced rouge. Still, it was unthinkable to go out in public without make-up or large, dark glasses! Holy Cow!! The cashier checked us out without batting an eye. What a revelation to know going out au naturale didn't frighten people. This could start a trend for me: freedom from cosmetics. . . . well maybe not lipstick and blusher, oh, and a little eyebrow pencil just for a bit of definition . . .. ;-}

Hopes for Y2K+8

2007 was a mixed bag for me; filled with absolute joy and intense sorrow. The lessons learned this year were hard-won and life-altering. Attending my 40th high school reunion demonstrated that I need to stop burning my bridges. It has been my habit to live in the present and to jettison the past. By doing that, I now realize that I also abandoned pleasant memories and great friends. In Y2K+8 I'd like to change that. Family has always been a mainstay that, admittedly, I took for granted. We're shocked to hear about siblings who hate each other or off-spring who haven't talked with one or both parents in years. Estrangement is not entirely foreign in my family, but each of us knows the others would be there in an emergency. When we learned in October that our Dad had cancer, all five of his children and their families went into research mode to learn about the latest treatments. Hope was an important element for all of us. Our family had dealt with cancer before and we all decided survival was our goal. Prayer chains among friends and family around the country provided powerful motivation and comfort. Practicality came in the form of chemo-therapy. Two weeks of grueling, expensive treatment brought no improvement, so hospice services were enlisted. Within a week, Dad was gone. The suddenness of his passing stunned all of us, but we agreed that it was better that way because he didn't have to suffer any more. No words were needed to know that our family unit would remain strong and offer whatever support Mom needed or wanted. Love and appreciation take priority now. Family is often a fragile conglomeration of members who are related by genetics, adoption or marriage. Confronting such a huge loss either splits members apart or strengthens family bonds. I plan to do a better job of showing appreciation for my strong, connected family. I also hope to continue Dad's efforts to strengthen the ties between more distant family members. Early on he knew the value of strong family roots, most of which are Norwegian. He wanted very much to learn and share more of his mother's ancestry with living and future generations, a task made more difficult by natural Norwegian reticence. [Note to Nancy: Are you up for it? Maybe we can succeed together.]

Y2K+8 may become one of the most trying and enlightening years of my life and I look forward to the challenge.

Happy New Year!

Slow-Dancing With Boys

Fragrances may be strong memory triggers, but music I listened to in my pre-and-teen-years conjure such vivid memories that I can't help but grin!

Tunes like Acker Bilk's mellow Stranger on the Shore and Henry Mancini's moving Moon River remind me of my first slow dances with boys. At the age of 13, we were all terribly naive about anything romantic, but hormones were starting to shape our imaginations.

During after-school dance classes we learned the box step, cha-cha, waltz, jitter bug and other, choreographed dances popular during the early 60s. There were no gyrations or grinding and only kids that were actually going steady got close for slow dances. The rest of us kept a tense distance to ensure propriety.

I remember the dreamy thoughts I had after dancing with equally shy boys. They concentrated so hard on getting the steps right and not brushing too close to the girls' slightly-developing bodies that their right hands left sweat marks on the backs of our dresses. Of course nerves made the girls' hands equally moist.

THEN. . . in came the twist, monkey, mashed potatoes, froog, the jerk and other dance styles that involved flailing arms and booty shaking, but no hand-holding. I'll admit that they were fun, but they removed romance from dancing. Yeah, there were a few slow dances thrown in to let us catch our breath between fast dances, but it wasn't the same.

Now that I'm a middle-aged type, I think I understand why adults wanted us to stay pure as long as possible -- innocence never can be reclaimed once it is lost or stolen. How sad that today's children seem compelled to give it away so early.

Please forgive me!!

For any of you who wanted to string me up after you tried my recipe for Jack Daniels Balls, I offer profuse apologies. The correct amount of Bourbon for a single recipe is 1/3 cup. Being that I usually make a triple recipe, I had a cup of Bourbon stuck in my head. This was not a joke recipe as was a previous one for rum cake. I hope you found some tasty use for the glop you ended up with -- topping for ice cream or pound cake . . . ? Hope you can forgive me.

Conrad the Cobbler

Before the Cathedral in grandeur rose At Ingleburg where the Danube flows; Before the forest of silver spires Went airily up to the clouds and fires; Before the oak had ready a beam, While yet the arch was stone and dream; There, where the alter was later laid Conrad, the cobbler, plied his trade. It happened one day at the year's white end; Two neighbors called on their old time friend. And they found the shop, so meager and mean Made gay with a hundred boughs of green. Conrad was stitching with face ashine But suddenly stopped as he twitched a twine and said, "Old friends, good news at dawn today. As the cocks were scaring the night away The Lord appeared in a dream to me and said, "I am coming your guest to be!" So I have been busy with feet astir Strewing the floor with branches of fir. The wall was washed, the shelf was shined And over the rafters the holly twined. He comes today and the table is spread With milk and honey and wheaten bread." His friends went home and his face grew still As he watched for the shadow over the sill, The knock, the call, the latch pulled up. The lighted face, the offered cup. He would wash the feet where the spikes had been And kiss the hands were the nails went in. And then at last would sit with Him and break the bread as the day grew dim. As Conrad mused there passed his pane A beggar drenched by the blinding rain. He called him in from the stony street And gave him shoes for his bruised feet. The beggar went and there came a crone Her face with wrinkles of sorrow sown. A bundle of faggots bowed her back And she was spent with wrench and wrack. He gave her his loaf and steadied her load And sent her off on her weary road. Next to his door came a little child Alone and afraid in the world so wide In the big wide world. Catching it up He gave it the milk from the waiting cup And carried it home to its mother's arms Safe and secure from the world's alarms. The sun went down in the crimson West And with it the hope of the Blessed Guest. And Conrad sighed as the world turned gray, "Why is it, Lord, that your feet delay? Did you forget that this was the day?" Then, off in the silence a voice was heard. "Lift up your head for I kept my word. Three times I knocked on your lowly door. Three times my shadow was on your floor. I was the man with the bruised feet. I was the woman you gave to eat. I was the child on the homeless street."

written by Violet Cobb