It Really Is About Time

The time, the time! I’m running out of time! Goodness, talk about the long haul; I thought I would miss Christmas altogether this year. That was one wicked cold, or flu or whatever it was, and I sincerely would not wish it on an enemy. At any rate, here I am finally beginning to feel better with only three days until Christmas.

I will have to hit the floor at a run today if there is any chance to get everything done that I need to. Today, I need to clean the house and perhaps do a load or two of laundry. Tomorrow, I will need to get the gifts wrapped, and that is no small job. On Monday (Christmas Eve) comes the tricky part; I have no idea what we are doing. We may be going to Don’s parents, in which case we will spend the night; or we may be staying home and going there on Christmas Day and if that is the case, we may or may not spend the night. It all depends on two things, one – how Don is feeling (whether or not he is coming down with the bug) and two – what he decides he would like to do.

And so, my friends, I have a busy and confusing couple of days ahead of me (much, I am sure, as you do) and since, though I am feeling better, I am still sort of fuzzy headed and I have a slight headache; I had best get to it before it gets to me.

There is always hope.

Betty

Yucky Old Cold

It is, I believe, the height of stupidity to let something as common (no pun intended) as a cold ruin my favorite time of year. I have, of course been called worse things than stupid and in this instance I humbly consent wear the title because it is precisely what I am being. Albeit I cannot seem to help myself because everything that needs doing for the holidays remains undone.

As I type this post Brenda Lee is signing Rocking Around The Christmas Tree in a weird kind of quadraphonic, tin can voice that reverberates painfully against my poor, pressure stressed eardrums. I cannot stand it so I just turned off the music.

There is so much to do before Christmas! I need to bake the cookies, finish shopping, wrap the gifts, clean the house and make lasagna all before the magical day arrives; I’ll never get it all done unless I feel a little bit better. I will not stress about it though, the meaning of Christmas has nothing to do with all of those bits and pieces of the modern, commercial version of the day. Still, I do love the lights and music and it makes me just a little bit sad to have the enjoyment diminished by a yucky old cold.

I apologize if this all sounds rather fuzzy and stuffed up; personally I think I have done well in just making the attempt to post.

There is always hope.

Betty

There Are Wifely Duties and Then There Is Cookie Dough

One of my “wifely” duties at this time of year is baking sugar cookies, they are Don’s hands down favorite cookie and as far as he is concerned, there is no point in taking the time and bother to bake anything else. Sugar cookies are time consuming and I am about as artistic as dust but that is not the reason I resisted (vigorously) giving in to making the dratted cookies for years. The sad truth of the matter is that I tried every recipe for sugar cookies I could lay my hands on and no matter what I did; I just could not roll the silly dough out. Inevitably it was too soft or too firm or too thin or any of a hundred things that cookie dough can be too much of, it was not a good exercise in confidence building. And there you have it, another of my dirty little secrets; put a rolling pin in my hand and the best you can expect is for me to begin pounding my head with it. Fortunately for Don I found a recipe for sugar cookies that I can manipulate into something that resembles a cookie, and they don’t taste bad either. If you are interested in the recipe go to http://www.kraftfoods.com/ and look for their 4 – in 1 Cookie Dough recipe.

I suppose that is one of the most wonderful things about life, here I am, soon to be 49 years old and I still have no idea what I do best. I have learned a few lessons on things I do not do well, like rolling dough, but I am still searching for that one thing that I do really well. How much fun is that? I cannot imagine having all the answers and no more mysteries to solve.

One thing that is no mystery to me is where and when I got this yucky cold I am suffering with. I had to get it on the plane coming back from Las Vegas last week. It hit me exactly seven days after we returned home. I will spare us all another tirade on germs, suffice it to say, my feelings have not changed on that score. And now, I think it is off to bed for me. I hope I have enough energy to bake the cookies tomorrow; I needed a three hour nap after mixing them.

There is always hope.

Betty

No More Morose Neurontin

Morose; that would be the word I would use to describe the way I feel. And angry, as in it doesn’t take much these days to completely exasperate me. Should I go on and add in confused and frustrated and forgetful and determined to do something about it? Well, I am. Probably not (regrettably) until after the holidays and even then not without Don to help me; but I will do something about it. Namely, I am going to insist that my neurologist take me off of Neurontin and find something else to help with the migraines and trigeminal neuralgia.

Do you know the last time I was on Neurontin my neurologist sent me for counseling because I was depressed? At the time I suspected the Neurontin but there were other factors to consider as well; a history of depression, recently losing my job due to illness and a serious accident that left me with a broken shoulder among other things. All of those things were legitimate reasons to run not walk to a psychiatrist, and I did. But this time, this time I know darned well that all of these emotional problems (well, at least most of them) can be a direct cause of Neurontin. I just logged off http://www.rxlist.com/ where I researched that dread drug and confirmed my fears. Actually depression, though a certified side effect, as well as anger and countless other unpleasant things, has a fairly rare occurrence rate; or so they say. In my case, I am not depressed in a suicidal way but rather in a way that has more to do with perception. I may know I love Christmas but I am having a hard time feeling it. I am easily confused and forgetful and irritated with myself and everyone I come in contact with. I am not motivated to write or read or listen to music, I have no desire to do anything, that is the form my depression has taken.

One of the problems with Neurontin is that you cannot simply stop taking it. It has to be tapered down slowly and carefully to avoid dire complications. Don has got to go in with me when I see the neurologist next month and help me, should I falter, to convince the doctor to take me off of that terrible stuff. I want my happy, if sometimes lonely, life back. Life is for living and I refuse to sit back in a numb, lethargic haze and be a spectator!

I do hope to have something a little brighter to share with you next time. You know, winter is well and truly here in Ohio. We have had our first real snow, meaning it could or should have been shoveled (Don has a way of knowing just how long he can let it go before we are likely to get stuck in the drive). There has been sleet and cold wind, all the players are here and it is beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

There is always hope.

Betty

It's the Little Things ...Like Broken Toes

In the last five years I have had vision problems that no one can find a reason for, but the specialists all agree are there, I have been diagnosed with a neurological disorder that requires drugs I would not test on a rock, there have been broken bones, hernias and many surgeries as well as a tumor and for good measure there have also been cuts, bruises scrapes and blisters; and as you know, my father died during this time. Most everyone I have encountered during these somewhat trying times has commented on how positive my attitude is and how well I cope with each new stumbling block with aplomb. I, in return have said many times, my problems are very small in a really big world (or words to that effect) and I meant every word.

Don and I are preparing for another running/vacation trip next week and I will admit to being nearly breathless with anticipation of our new adventure…or at least I was, until 6:46 a.m. yesterday morning; when I broke my toe. Go ahead, laugh if you must, I am near tears. Not because of the pain (which is surprising big for such a small digit) but because I know that one week is not enough time to be back on my feet, so to speak, and I can tell you from experience that I will be lucky to be walking normally in two weeks. I will also admit that I am feeling a little sorry for myself. That is alright in my view, everyone deserves to have a day here and there when they give in and boo-hoo for a few minutes, it’s good for us as long as we don’t give up and become depressed. But my word, I have so much to do to prepare for this trip! Things that should have been done by now and were put off as we enjoyed a really laid back Thanksgiving here in our home for a change. We did absolutely nothing but watch movies and TV during that long weekend. After all, we had all week to get ready for our trip. Ha, I’ll be lucky to get ordinary every day things done while I am hobbling along on a cane. Packing for a trip (at least for me) requires nearly as much walking as the trip itself. What a mess.

Yes, well…boo-hoo for me. I think it is time to call it a night (or morning according to the clock) and try to get my poor toe comfortable. It really is the little things in life that make a difference.

There is always hope.

Betty

My Bungled Life

There are times when it feels as if I have spent the entirety of my life in one long voiceless cry of “What about me? I need to matter too!” I do not at the moment have the mental faculties to evaluate what that says about me, nor do I have the expertise to analyze it. I believe if I were to seek professional counseling, the best anyone could offer me by way of explanation is that I am broken. Some integral part of my psyche has been shattered and the shards have never collated into a whole again. Taking near lethal doses of Neurontin does nothing to lesson those feelings. I am, in short, an emotional wreck at the moment.

I have what I consider to be quite a conundrum; the reclusive lifestyle I have cultivated, the way I discourage face to face relationships with everyone but Don is just the beginning of it all. I despise the telephone and unfortunately because of that I have lost more than a few friends. It never occurred to me before but I have to say I have always hated the telephone, even as a teenager. The only person I could have talked to for hours on end on the telephone was Don, and that never happened. Going further down the slippery slope, if I really must, I can hold my own in a room with more than three people but again, I must tell you it nearly drives me over the edge. (Remember, all of these are things that Neurontin has nothing to do with.) The bottom line is: anxiety attacks, embarrassment and fear have driven me to create my little corner of the world. I am reaching out and trying. The internet, specifically this Blog has had a huge impact on my self esteem and confidence. A couple of people have been nice enough to correspond with me and I have deliberately kept the correspondence to a minimum because even through this medium I cannot abide the thought of a clingy relationship, and those people have real lives of their own to live. I talked about the anxiety attacks frankly in my early posts here in May, when I met Lee Child. And those occur even if I am only going out for milk.

In an effort to open a door of communication with family members (where I can be in my safe zone) who frequent the internet I opened a new Blog using my name and I sent them all invitations to join my friends list. Only one of them has done that, and she has not e-mailed me or attempted to communicate. That brings me to the point of my conundrum, how in the world do I think I can matter if no one knows I am here? What right do I have to ask what about me?

I am trying to be out there in the open, exposed to the world. The thing is my problems have never included not caring about other people. As I have said here many times, I care deeply about people I have never met and everyone around me. It is a sad thing that in our world today people are more likely to believe I am disingenuous than they are to believe I care. I understand that the healthy thing for me to do is to get out and work on forming a few close relationships. However, I am a coward and unless I meet them here or when Don and I are out traveling or running/walking, I will forever hear that voice calling from deep inside, “I need to matter too.”

And so, it is time to say that I am thankful for the friends I have made here and I am thankful for this life I have been given, even though I have bungled it badly. As for you my friends, travel carefully over this holiday that we can all celebrate.

There is always hope.

Betty

Meditation A New Endeavor

I am researching and attempting to practice meditation. This evening was the first time I actually sat down and tried to open my mind and…well, perhaps I should practice breathing first. I have to tell you when I sat down to light the candle I was fine. It was after I had taken a few cleansing breathes that the image of Hermione (HP and The Prisoner of Azkaban) skipping down the path to Hagrid’s hut and laughing over her shoulder to Harry and Ron (in reference to Professor Trelawney’s class), “Open your inner eye!” came to mind . Needless to say, that did it. The next image that came to mind was one of a dumpy middle-aged housewife, fresh from the shower and wearing her most comfy three sizes to big pj’s, sitting as close to cross-legged as she can get on a pillow on the floor and…well, I am sure you get the picture. Ah well, there is always tomorrow. And I will, I promise, try again.



I really do not have anything profound or enlightening to say this evening. I just wanted to let you know about the meditation thing. I am serious about the subject; I think it might be helpful in managing the migraines. As always, time will tell.


There is always hope.


Betty

I Give Advice

Hope, it is part of the magical air of the season. Hopes can be small or they can be large; I hope this dress still fits or I hope my friends arrive safely. Hope is something I have always had, though it is a thing that was not tangible for me until after my father died. It happened one warm spring day a few months after his death, I was sitting outside on my swing, chain smoking and weeping like a woman who had lost everything. Don was away at a track meet and I do not believe I have ever felt more abandoned, lonely and alone than at that moment. I was wailing, I cannot say whether it was out and loud or if I was only screaming in my mind, “Daddy, I need you!” I only know that suddenly I felt the weight of his large calloused hand on my shoulder, a firm but gentle squeeze and then I heard him say, “I’m here, Punkin.”

Since that day I have lived every day knowing that no matter what, there is always hope. Sometimes we have to encourage it to grow and sometimes there is nothing left but a small grain of sand, but there is always something there from which it will grow. The glory of hope is that you don’t even have to look for it, if you are there, so is hope. I feel fortunate to say that throughout my life I have had lessons in hope; they could have been something as small as hoping I could paint my bedroom blue when I was a kid to something as big as hoping to hear the words, you won’t need chemo-therapy. It is something I cannot imagine living without.

There is always hope.

Betty

The Red Flannel Mittens

I am the type of person who needs to know what is round the next bend. I make sure to admire the scenery along the way, but I am always trying to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead. I cannot seem to help myself it has always been so. I feel cheated if I know nothing of something I could have been worrying about; preparing for all eventualities is my specialty. I believe it goes hand in hand with the annoying propensity to want to be nearly everyone’s mother. Intellectually I know adopting (metaphorically) people who are, in some cases older than I am, will never fill that emptiness that should have been filled by a child; but once again, I cannot seem to help myself. Most people are gracious and kind when I hit them with the news of their adoption, usually with a song or card attached to the announcement. I also believe it is a very big part of the reason I choose to lead a reclusive life. It feels like people can see the raw, gaping whole in my soul that is meant to be a mother; I feel exposed and vulnerable. Therefore, if I know what to expect, how exposed I will be, maybe I can be prepared and spare the world that awful view of nothingness that is me.

We all have our faults and my parents had plenty and some to spare and yet though Daddy leaving us often and for long stretches hurt, we survived and not one of us, as adults doubted his love. Mommy, during her dark and bleak hours of despair and need may have said she wished we had never been born, yet not one of us can pretend today that we do not know she said it because she could not stand to see us suffer and go without milk and bread or warm coats and shoes. Without those hardships, who can say where any of us would be today? I for one believe they made us stronger people. Some of those hardships are the brightest moments of my childhood.

My mother used to sew our clothes, in the good years when we were very young and there were not quite so many of us. One summer (I was about 4 years old) she made me a shorts outfit that I loved so much I can still picture it today. It was a cotton plaid of orange and yellow and green (I had a true infatuation with and admiration for plaid as a pre-schooler). The sleeveless top had ruffles all across the front and the shorts had pockets. Times were good then, and she sewed more because she liked to than because it was economical. She would sit down at her sewing machine and before you knew it, somebody had something pretty and new to wear.

Another sewing story that I recall happened a few years later. Mommy did not have a sewing machine at that point; I am not sure what became of it. It was the first magical snow of winter, deep and heavy, clinging to the trees and beautiful in the full sunlight the morning after the storm. We wanted desperately to go out and play in the snow but we had no gloves and Mommy would not let anyone out of the house without gloves. Rather than endure our tears and fits she somehow produced a length of heavy red flannel, a needle and heavy black thread and she set to making us each a pair of mittens. It was a great game to us as we each in turn knelt in front of the coffee table in the living room and placed our hands on the flannel to have them traced out for mittens made especially for us. In no time at all (and that is saying something for a bunch of house bound kids) we were tromping through the woods and shaking snow down onto each other. I imagine the sound of children’s laughter rang from one end of our hollow to the other that magical day as our red mittens flashed against the white backdrop and quickly became drenched. But Mommy did not know about the wet part.

There is always hope.

Betty

Music, Lights, Snow and Magic

I had originally planed to write this post a little nearer to Christmas but I just cannot wait to tell you about the things that make Christmas more than just another day for me.

Music, I have talked about it recently and I feel it is worth repeating that I believe Christmas music is the most heartfelt music ever written. If that music is performed by anyone with a true love for the subject, it is almost too beautiful for description. Two of my favorite Christmas albums are; Joy by Jewel, two standout songs are O Holy Night and Ave Maria, and Celine Dion's These Are Special Times, her duet with Andrea Bocelli singing The Prayer is quite simply beautiful. The truth is I have too many favorite Christmas albums to name them all and they range from the very commercial Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer soundtrack with Burl Ives to the deeply religious offerings of artists from around the world. In short, music is the cradle in which all the other symbolic imagery sleeps.

Lights; in just another week or two it will be nearly impossible to go anywhere and not see Christmas lights. Even the standard year in year out neon signs at the local diner manage to glow a little more brightly. As poor as we were, there were two things we never went without at Christmas, they were oranges and a Christmas tree. And while I can sincerely say the magic of Christmas would still be there in my heart even if I had neither of these things, I will admit that some small part of me would miss them. I have a vivid memory of laying on my mother's couch as a child and staring at the lights on the tree, completely mesmerized by the twinkling dancing lights that seemed to be emanating from somewhere in the mysterious depths of the pine branches. I would stare at those magical lights for hours on end, turning my head to different angles, and climbing onto the chair back, then lying on the floor, and squinting my eyes and staring at the reflection of the lights on the newly painted sub-flooring.

Snow; oh my, the first snow of winter, for as long as I can remember I spent every day after the first golden leaf fell in early autumn waiting for that magical mystical snow. Children do not see snow the way we do. They see fuzzy, fluffy flakes that are lighter than air; they stick out their tongues to taste the sweet icy goodness of mystery and the moment a flake touches their tongues they burst into delighted squeals of laughter. They see their very world change before their eyes as the snow begins to accumulate, where they once knew a flowerbed to be is now nothing but a vast white carpet. Children are I think, incapable of seeing snow as we do. They would never imagine that schools close for safety reasons or that their parents worry about the commute to work. And that, I think, is how the first snow continues to be magical.

Magic is in the air and the music and the snow and the light. It is in us, around us and for us. All we have to do is enjoy it.

Just in case you are curious, the reason I could not wait to tell you some of the reasons that this is my favorite time of year is that I got to do something today that I have wanted to do since I was knee-high to Rudolph. We put up our Christmas tree today (before Thanksgiving!), I can't believe it but we did.

There is always hope.

Betty

Nocturnal critters

There is, I believe, a chance that in a previous life I was some kind of nocturnal critter. For as long as I can remember, I have had a tendency to wake up about fifteen minuets after I go to bed. Even as a child I just could not get to sleep as early as the other kids did. I can tell you my poor mother tried to get me to sleep at a reasonable hour for years. I cannot remember how old I was when she finally gave up and said that as long as I got up for school she didn’t care how long I stayed up. That was a wise choice on her part because I really could not go to sleep. She understood what I was going through, being a nocturnal creature herself.

The fact that my mother stayed up all night drove my father crazy. He could not understand how anyone could be content staying up all night long. Regrettably, my husband doesn’t understand it either, and there is nothing I can say to help him understand. I don’t understand it myself and to tell you the truth I am so confused about the issue I have no idea where to begin because in typical Betty fashion, I also have tendency to want to get up at 5:00 in the morning if I manage to get to sleep at a reasonable hour. What a conundrum, there are no easy answers here.

The difference between my mother and I on this issue is that I do not have a house full of children that need me during the day and instead of watching TV all night long, I play with the computer or read. I do recall a few times when we did not have a television; she would read the bible or anything else she could get her hands on. There were times in the summer when we would sit outside, just she and I, listen to the night, and watch our little patch of sky waiting for a falling star to wish on. Those have always been the best hours spent with my mother, in the dark of the night, with the blue glow of the television or by the soft light of the stars.

I suppose I should call it a night so I can get up at a reasonable hour, even though I do not feel like going to bed yet. Maybe I’ll go right out.

There is always hope.

Betty

I Love To Walk In the Rain

At precisely this time of year, every year I become just a bit melancholy. I suppose it must be the jumble of memories combined with the barren expanse of the unknown we call tomorrow; maybe it is nothing more than allergies, whatever the cause I have come to expect this strangely sweet sadness. I have posted this quote here before but it is one of my favorites from Charles Kuralt and I think, worthy of repeating, “There is melancholy in the wind and sorrow in the grass”. If I were going to be buried, I would have that quote put on my headstone. Strangely, when this melancholy mood strikes, the best cure I have found is walking in the rain. It has been that way for as long as I can remember when I am troubled just the thought of walking in the rain helps to ease the stress.

I can recall the first time I (along with one of my brothers) made a conscious decision to take a walk in the rain. I do not remember exactly when it was but I suppose I must have been about seven or eight and he six or seven; it had to be some time in late October or early November because all the leaves had fallen but it was not cold enough to deter our enthusiasm for building our own wigwam with fallen sticks and old rags (if memory serves, we may have used a couple of things that were not rags). We were in kid heaven sitting in that colorful, cozy hideaway. We were happily making plans to sleep in our glorious new home when it started to rain. Shock of shocks, our wigwam started to leak! Well, what was there to do but what a real Indian would do inside his wigwam; we built a fire. (Oh, hush now; really just calm down and relax, I am here writing this, and my brother grew into a fine man.) It was only a wee fire and I am pretty sure my mother started screaming before the thought of building a fire actually translated into the act of striking a match. At this point I will only say that we were no longer cold or wet when she finished with us, in fact our behinds were smoking.

Feeling mad and sad, dejected and misunderstood as well as too sore to sit down, we decided to runaway. “But, Bobby,” said I (ever the voice of reason). “It’s raining and we will be in worse trouble if we get sick.”

“Oh no we won’t,” said Bobby (the bravest person I have ever known) “they won’t find us. If we head down the hollow and then back up the creek we can stay in that cave down by the rock, it’ll be okay.”

And off we went, down the hollow and up the creek and then down to the rock. We stopped just shy of the cave and though I cannot tell you what Bobby was thinking I would lay Jacks to Jill that I was thinking about bears and skunks, and the mountain lion Bobby had fought with his bare hands last summer. We stood there, the rain washing away the hurt and sadness, for a long time and then Bobby said, “Awe come on. She’ll be worried about us if we don’t get back by dark”. (Bobby is also one of the wisest men I have ever known.)

Walking back home I clearly remember thinking that I sure hoped it would rain the next time I got my bottom tanned.

There is always hope.

Betty

The Magic Of Music

I think this evening I will take a break from all of the woe is me stuff, because truly, I do not feel that way. I would like instead to invite you to share some of my Christmas/winter memories. There are so many that are for me, moments of light, love and warmth that it almost seems selfish to keep them to myself. Over the next few weeks I will attempt to convey to you what it was like having Christmas and snow and cold in what to some would have been desolate and dire circumstances but are instead for me memories of goodness and love. This is a magical time of year and even at nearly 49 years old that magic has not diminished in my eyes. I hope in the weeks ahead you will see and feel the magic of the season; it is there, just close your eyes and open your heart.

I have been called many things in my lifetime; beautiful was never one of them. For 10 ½ months out of the year I am as plain as the day is long and that suits me just fine; that other month and a half, mid November to January 1, I am, at least in my heart nearly too beautiful to behold. It isn’t really me that is beautiful, but the season. Or at least that is the way it has always felt to me. The air is clearer, smells are spicier and people are nicer and above all the music is more beautiful. Here is a wee secret you may not have guessed about me. I listen to Christmas music all year through because it is the most heartfelt music ever written or performed. That is, I am sure, a very big part of the magic of Christmas, the music.

And speaking of Christmas music, I just purchased two new Christmas albums that are performed by a new favorite artist, Ed Gerhard. Is the internet not the most amazing thing? I am quite positive I would never have heard of Ed Gerhard, much less be able to tell you anything about him prior to the internet. Do let me assure you (if you have never heard of him) you are in for a real treat. Oh, I do wish I knew how to put music clips to this page, no matter; I’ll just have to paint a picture you can hear.

Where to start? Shall we say I had an incontrovertible epiphany when it comes to the subject of acoustic guitar music? No? Sounds painful, doesn’t it? Well, it does sound a little high-nosed, but it was also a lot of fun to write. Perhaps the best testimonial to how beautiful I feel his music is would be to tell you that of all the Christmas music I have ever heard the song I have always liked the least was O Tannenbaum. For me it was always just a silly little piece of music that had no heart; that is until I heard it played on the Christmas album by Ed Gerhard. He pulls the notes from his guitar, each one piercingly sweet and vibrantly clear as they wash over your mind and fill your heart with love and admiration for…of all things, a Christmas tree. And wait until you hear his rendition of Carol of the Bells, the ease with which he performs that particularly complex piece of music is indeed a treat. Another favorite on that album is Variations on Pachelbel’s Canon, incase you are having a difficult time picking up on this; I am smitten with his music. I also purchased his other Christmas album; On A Cold Winter’s Night, it is even more beautiful than Christmas. Warning: DO NOT DRIVE AND LISTEN to this music, it is very relaxing. Thought you should know.

There is always hope.

Betty

Another Day, Another Bumpy Ride

Here I am again, in this place of emotional fuzz and physical depletion. Sorry about that, though I really cannot seem to help myself when I am in this state. This post may or may not make sense, it may convey my anxiety or it may read as though the author is on drugs (which, I most assuredly am) and in need of counseling (which, the rules of probability suggests I might) sooner rather than later. So my friends…to quote a shrunken head, “…it’s going to be a bumpy ride".

Some days are better than others, we have all experienced that. Some people can be happy anywhere, under any circumstance; they can turn their stress filled eyes to heaven and sincerely thank God for His light during this, their darkest of hours. I would like to believe I am one of those people, God knows I am not. Therefore, I must be one of the other people who keep trundling through life, shoulders braced and back bent as I make my way, comforted in the knowledge that my every accomplishment has been achieved from the safety of His shoulders. It is, I believe, a comfort I can not survive without.

Life is the journey, does it really matter what your religious beliefs are (or even if you have any) as long as you have that certain knowledge?

Perhaps that is why I so love to travel by train. Just thinking of being on a train makes me smile; I can feel the sway of the car and hear the chatter of the tracks, and feel the bumping and tugging of the cars as they try to beat each other to the destination. Come to think of it, trains remind me an awful lot of humans :-). We are so often in a hurry to reach our destination that we forget to take a moment and enjoy the scenery we are passing by. We instead try to peer round the next bend or over the plain beyond us straining to get a glimpse of the depot. Odd isn’t it, how once we have reached the depot the journey suddenly becomes a memory?

Once again I have taken a circuitous route. The entire post today is really about how I have not quite adjusted to the increased dosage of Neurontin and the way I am still fuzzy headed and weak because of it to the point of loosing some muscle control. I thought my cold had nearly run its course but now I am having trouble breathing again. In short, I just feel yucky and so I believe I am going to go back to bed. I say now, quite seriously, is life not glorious! I am so thankful for these very small discomforts.

There is always hope.

Betty

There Is Always Hope

It is a little hard to believe that today is November 3 and there are still leaves clinging to the trees. It is true that most of them have (at last) changed color, but they are still there, stubbornly refusing to let go even at the furious pull of the stiff November winds. It is such a beautiful thing, watching those few leaves that have given up the fight and let go, as they skip through the air proudly displaying the full glory of their brilliant colors of red and gold.

If my father were still alive we would spend a good few hours talking about the weather, speculating what the odd behavior could mean. I miss those talks. It was never really about whatever subject we were discussing; we could spend hours talking about nothing. It was about the moment, the time that we were sharing. I am so grateful to be able to wrap myself in the warm glow of those memories. With no real effort I can hear his laughter, see the twinkle in his eyes, and feel the warmth of his calloused hand on my shoulder. He has been gone 2 years and 10 months (on the 9th) now and I do not believe I will ever stop mourning him. Alcoholic or whatever label the world would place on him, he was the brightest and best part of me. If it was not for Don (and I prostrate myself in humble submission to God in thanks for him) I believe I could just crawl into some dark place and lay there to wait for death.

I apologize; I had not intended this to be a morbid post. I guess I am grieving a little more than usual today. Two true loves in my life, my father and my husband, they also happen to be the only people on this earth that I ever felt truly comfortable with. It is a challenge for me, not to be overly protective and paranoid when it comes to Don. He is all that remains of my world. I have a terrible fear of making the same mistake with Don that I made with my father. Daddy was sick for many years before he died and it is excruciatingly difficult to make this confession; I started mourning his loss long before he died. Fat lot of good that did, I missed valuable time with him because I so dreaded the thought of his death that it was easier to let him go (in my heart) and get it over with than it was to drag out the unbearable thought of his future demise. I pray I never do that with Don. Every moment counts, a lesson learned the hard way and one that taught me that there is always hope.

A dark subject indeed, for such a beautiful golden autumn afternoon, albeit one that I must have needed to broach. Ah, well, I feel better for it, at least there is that. Thank you for taking the time to share my grief. Before you go, please do not forget to take a moment and revel in the joy that is living.

There is always hope.

Betty

Great Lake Swimmer and Other Discoveries

Great Lake Swimmer, what a name for a musical group; for that matter wow what a musical group. I urge you to check them out, though I am a little reluctant to try describing musical style. I know what I like and that is about all I know when it comes to music, but they are so great (no pun intended) it just might be fun to try, just this once. So; if the collective creative energy of Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, Arlo Guthrie and Neal Young all merged into a single entity, I believe the result would be the Great Lake Swimmers. Does that help? Does it form a murky picture of smoky basement bars and musical jam sessions that last until every story has been translated to a natural, lyrical rhythm? If the Marley reference in such close company with Dylan, Guthrie and Young sounds a little too discordant, think again. In my opinion, Marley was a brilliant lyricist who also happened to translate the life pulse of words far more effectively than other more decorated wordsmiths. At any rate, I am thrilled that I stumbled upon them while checking out free music downloads at CNET.com. Their web page is cool as well: http://www.greatlakesswimmers.com/.

Another recent discovery having nothing at all to do with music is my propensity for darkness. Obviously migraines demand darkness, what I do not understand is why I crave darkness when I do not have a headache. I also hold my head and cover my eyes even when I am headache free. I wonder if the reason is that I have spent so much time in pain lately that shielding myself has become reflexive. Whatever the reason, it is a little disconcerting to find myself cringing from the light and cowering in corners.

Even having his kids over for another dinner did not help Don’s team make it to state this year. Another season gone and no state competition, the kids were very disappointed but not nearly as disappointed as their coach. I will give him credit; Don is taking it well even though his heart was set on going this year.

I suppose I should end this late night ramble and try again to get some sleep. We went to bed early and I went out like a light only to be awoken by the uncomfortable sound of mucus rattling in my chest. I cannot stand that sound. One should never be able to hear ones self breathe. It just is not natural! I am beginning to think this dratted cold will live longer than I will Well…off I go to sweet dreams.

There is always hope.

Betty

Autumn Isn't Gold This Year

It has been ages, eons at least, since I last tried to convey my thoughts and emotions in a comprehensible fashion. The way I am feeling at the moment (all stuffy and achy) may not be the best time to attempt such a lofty feat as that, but I will give it a go.

The goings on here of late have been, in a country sort of way, rather fast paced and bordering on frantic at times. As I mentioned yesterday (at least I think I did) Don has had a cold and he passed it on to me. The poor guy was so miserable he didn’t sleep in bed for two or three nights and that is quite unlike him. Of course his responsibilities as a coach could not be set aside just because he was sick, his kids depend on him and he coached them to a conference championship. The party we had here for them was an unqualified success. They all had a great time, as did we. This weekend they will be participating in their district championship which is followed by the region championships and then, if all goes well, state. I sincerely hope for all their sakes, Don’s and the kids, that they make it to the state level.

During my occasional lucid moments, I have been thinking about My Name Is Elizabeth and I am becoming quite excited about the thought of actually putting it all down in written form. Already I have discovered a few things about her life that I had not previously known about. Another exciting thing I am looking forward to is the research. She comes from a part of Ohio rich in history and for me at least, fascinating social structure. The people in that region are to this day very class driven in their day to day lives. As soon as I get my head back on straight I intend to jump right in on the research.

One other little piece of research I have started (at the moment I do not believe it ties in with Elizabeth’s story) is the history behind one of my all time favorite songs. It is a ballad from Scotland, written in 1884 about the battle on Culloden Moor in 1746 and the escape of the young Bonnie Prince Charlie by boat to the Isle of Skye. From what little I have discovered in my brief journey concerning the Skye Boat Song, it was written by one Sir Harold Edwin Boulton and it appears he may have had a co-writer in the person of one Annie MacLeod. I am extremely excited about researching this song. It speaks to me every time I hear it I want to cry and I cannot help but wonder if I want to cry for Charlie or for countless dead Scotts who lay down their lives for a cause only they will ever fully comprehend.

On another topic, completely removed from the above, I am quite surprised to relay the fact that the autumn leaves, for the most part, have yet to change color. The woods are far and away greener than they are red or gold. I do have to say I cannot ever recall the leaves not changing and yet that would seem to be the trend. It looks as if the first heavy storm that blows through in the next week or two could just strip the trees bare without our ever having had the pleasure of viewing their fall glory. Sad, that, but there it is.

And so there you have it; a few of my scattered and weary thoughts concerning the things that are foremost in my mind.

There is always hope.

Betty

Believe It Or Not I Am Still Here

Golly, long time, no post. Sorry about that. I can only believe my lack of inspiration (coherent thought, really) is due to the medication. Since my last post, we have been to the ER again and would have been there two times, but for Reed's cold. He was feeling so miserable I just could not make myself ask him to take me. Ah well, we both survived and now I have his cold. Yuk! He is still coughing and hacking and I have such a sore throat it hurts to think about it as well as the sinus and cough thing.

I had an appointment with Dr. Stolfi (neurologist) today. He increased the Neurontin again; I am now taking 600 MG 3 times a day. That takes me back to the dose I was on before I had the bright idea to stop taking it. He also changed my migraine medication to Imitrex and Reglan. I suppose time will tell if the new drugs will help. I am a drug taking mess. High blood pressure and cholesterol, asthma and Trigeminal Neuralgia topped off with a helping of migraines, I hate taking all those pills with a true and deep passion. It seems I cannot get rid of one without substituting it with two more.

I cannot help but wonder has anyone ever died of depression due to taking pills. It seems so bleak at the moment; I tell you truly, I am very depressed about the drugs. I would very much like to go find a nice dark hole and hide myself forever, never to encounter another prescription or pill. The entire thing makes me feel so sorry for people who are really sick. I am so lucky that there is nothing life threatening the matter with me. I thank God for it and I am ashamed to be caught bemoaning my lot when there are countless people truly suffering. With that acknowledgement I can only say…There is always hope.

Betty

Another Party

This morning I was up at 5:00. I really do not care if I am up and about at that time of day, but when I wake up at 3:30 or 4:00 and cannot go back to sleep it makes me frustrated. What in the world can I do at that time of day? This morning, however, was fine. I came to the computer and played around for a while. Don got up at seven, and two hours can go pretty quickly when I am sitting at a keyboard with no distractions. I was trying to write a review for Epinions on The Seeker – The dark Is Rising, but I didn't get anywhere with that.
Don and a friend went shopping and while they were out I cleaned the porch. Oh my, it really needed a little attention. What a mess it was! All is now set to rights and I think there is nothing else to do out there before the party. Oh, I have not mentioned that here yet, have I? Well, we are having a little party for Don's athletes on Thursday, after practice. I have made enough lasagna to feed a small army; we will have salad as well and of course, M&M's. We plan to order a cake on Monday and that should finish things off I think. I am very excited about the whole thing, we always have a Christmas party for them, but this is a first as far as in seasons get together goes.
I am amazed that I am making any sense at all today. I am so drugged I can barely sit up right. I am not joking about that. As soon as I have finished this post, I am going to bed. I am having a terrible time striking the correct keys and the death chill is back with a vengeance I am terrified to eat anything solid, it would probably come right back up. I have been sticking to sugar free pudding all day. When I get up to walk I am listing badly to the left. And my legs do not want to work properly either. I have to go now.
There is always hope.
Betty

How Low Can they Go?

As you can clearly see, I am still twitching. That really is a good descriptive word for me at the moment, as I am still very wobbly and dizzy. The death chill is gone I suppose that is something. I have much to report on and I had best get at it because I have no idea how much longer I can stay awake.

I cleaned house today. Goodness, it needed it desperately. Everything is dusted and set to rights and the floors are vacuumed and mopped. I will admit that I am proud of myself. It isn’t that it is such a difficult job, it is not, it’s just that when my face hurts (and it does so terribly today) and my head is pounding it is nearly unbearable. After I finished cleaning and put away all of my bits and bobs I took a shower and got into my jammies. I am now sitting in our den admiring my work, listening to the New Age Recordings 20th Anniversary Album and writing this post.

Concerning the shower, I saw the most ghastly sight when toweling off. There are parts that are now nearer to my bellybutton than my third chin and I just refuse to believe it is possible for them to go any lower. I mean, how low can they go? Moreover, what about other parts? I have to tell you, I hope I die before my bottom cheeks make it to mid-thigh. No wonder older people have trouble walking. They are tripping over things that ought not be that low! God love’em, I’ll be joining their ranks soon enough. Probably more than you needed to know but forwarned is forarmed :) Does anyone know if women get hair in their ears?

Ah well, I suppose if one thought on it long enough, one might be able to come up with a few things worse than old age.

There is always hope.

Betty

I AM Awaiting My Demise

Boy, that one really sounds over the edge. Awaiting my demise. Well, it is true. I am sitting up waiting to see if the increased dose of Neurontin is going to kill me. I am taking four capsules a day now, starting yesterday.

The thing is, I feel so sick that if I didn't know better, I would swear I really am dying. I have the shakes so bad it is distracting. Every extremity is freezing and has tingling that is very painful. To bet it all, my face hurts from the Trigeminal Neuralgia. So... I am waiting to see if I will wake up in the morning.

It is a big day, tomorrow (today really) and I get weepy if I am too tired so I suppose I should call it a night (morning).

There really is always hope.

Betty

Possessive Jealousy

The thought occurred to me earlier today; I really do have a couple of character quirks. Specifically, I was thinking about what a jealous person I am, and let me tell you it came as quite a shock, that realization. I have never considered my self to be the jealous type but I now see that I am. The revelation came because I was reviewing the important relationships in my life. Regrettably, I must admit that more than a few relationships ended by the way side because of my jealousy.

There is in me, a fierce lioness that will not sit back and watch the people I love be hurt or taken advantage of. Strangely, that area is where I have the most trouble; I will insinuate my self in any situation I believe jeopardizes those dear to me. Oddly enough, people do not appreciate the fact that I am trying to protect them. It is I think, this lioness that is so jealous and I believe jealousy translates into possessive behavior. That is where the real problem starts. These two things feed off each other and grow into a nasty green monster I cannot control.

At the moment I am just too fuzzy headed from Neurontin to be concise. I think I should wait until my head is less foggy to attempt my self-analysis.

There is always hope.

Betty

What a Wonderful World

It occurs to me that I must, at times, sound more than a little unstable. In a way, I find that thought both amusing and disturbing. Why I find it amusing I cannot say (that disturbs me), I find it disturbing because if I would happen to slip off the deep end one day, there would be no one there to catch me. In fact, no one would notice except Don and God help me if it happened during coaching season or when he is preparing for a race of his own. He would have no time for that, at the moment I am quite convinced it would please him if I quietly slipped away. I know I am being irrational, but sometimes I just have to get it out in the open. Do you see? Then I can move on.

I regret to say these feelings are nothing new. I always feel this way during coaching season. Don knows how I feel and somehow or other, we manage to muddle through. A few hugs and a couple of hours of attention and I am good to go for another 3 or 4 weeks. That is why we made a rule when he decided to continue coaching, I get one day a week. The rest of the week he can come and go as he pleases, knowing there will be a meal, a bed and fresh laundry when he needs it. The problem this year, aside from the headaches, is that we are not getting that one day a week. Between coaching, social commitments and headaches it has been impossible. To be fair, I really do not believe hospital days count as my day, even if we are in a dark room alone.

There is a point to all of this. As I sit here in my easy chair listening to a voice that always makes me smile, singing my theme song (I live and breathe every word) I just cannot help wishing that I had had the opportunity to meet Louis Armstrong. I read somewhere that he had never had a Christmas tree until his wife surprised him with one in a hotel room while they were on the road. He lay there in that bed, slept in by so many, held his wife close and and drank in the sight of the Christmas tree lights. I am positive that at that precise moment he had to think to himself, what a wonderful world. In my opinion, his version of that song epitomizes life. No matter how bleak or gloomy, how sad or lonely, it is a wonderful world. And I am thankful to be a part of it. When all is said and done, my passions; Lee Child and Reacher, Cornelia Read and Madeline Dare or Lisa Gardner and Bobby Dodge, Louis Armstrong or New Age music, whatever a passion may be, I think it translates back to the basic fact that passion is also known as living.

There is always hope.

Betty

Random Thoughts on...Stuff

It is one of those days when my thoughts are as bright and random as autumn leaves. Thank goodness we do not, at this point, have those happily colored leaves skipping through the air and cluttering up the garden. We do, however, have other harbingers of the new season. The soy beans are half way through the cycle of turning a coppery gold, the corn stalks are less full and are well on the way to becoming the color of buttered brass we so love to use to decorate mailboxes and doorways. There are cool nights and hot days while the sun angles its way further south. I noticed a fine brown haze hanging in the air a few fields over; our neighbors must be harvesting corn. The insects sing louder this time of year, as if they know their time is running out.

I have been thinking lately (when I could think) about what a traditionalist I am. Given a choice, I will go with tradition every time. My favorite ice cream is vanilla, favorite patterns are plaid and paisley and houndstooth, my favorite fabrics are cotton and silk, tweed and linen. I prefer round cut gems and like my pizza naked, just sauce. I am conservative to a fault and open minded enough to listen to another point of view. If all of that isn’t bad enough, I did something today that no woman should ever do during or just after an illness, I looked in the mirror. OMG indeed! Paste has more color, let me tell you. And my hair, oh my, gray shooting out at weird intervals and fuzzy curls pulled back in a style worn by millions of mid-west housewives. What are we thinking? Ladies, do look in the mirror, please! Great God, I seldom leave the house but even I cannot look at that! I have decided the most diverse thing about me is my passion for New Age music. Wow, now that is living on the edge.

Ah well, life is good. No headache today and I can enjoy the beautiful sunshine. Oh, and least I forget, I can clean. I suppose that would be the thing to do. I would have to crawl under a rock and die if anyone saw my house right now. My motto is, there is more to life than cleaning house, alas, I cannot abide dirt.

There is always hope.

Betty

A New Endeavor

For crying in a bucket! Will it never end? We went to the ER again Friday evening. My headache has finally gone and since I do not dare risk waking the beast, this post once again, is short.

I have decided (and this may well change) as soon as my headaches are under control, I am going to try my hand at writing a book. Just for the fun of it and because poor Elizabeth is begging to have her story told. The working title is not very original and will of course change in time, but now it is “My Name Is Elizabeth”.

Elizabeth Mercer is 4’10” tall, as cute as a baby doll and as fierce as a ferret. She has pinned grown men over 6’ tall to the wall with nothing more than a pointed finger and determination. She can out shoot most of the men of her acquaintance and has had the opportunity in her Appellation community of Sardis, Ohio to prove both her skills in shooting a gun and her determination to protect the only things a man ever gave her that were worth keeping; her children. Her story starts out in 1950’s Sardis, Ohio and moves through to Fly and Woodsfield, in the 2007.

I am both excited and anxious at the thought of writing this book. I can only imagine the challenges in doing such a thing. I hope I am not a failure. For my own sake I think I should define, what I feel will be success in this endeavor. Completion of a book length manuscript that tells a comprehensive story with a beginning a middle and an end would be a huge accomplishment. As you know, there is much more to it than that. I am loaded with how to books including my favorite writing gurus’ books on the subject, Spider, Spin Me a Web: Lawrence Block on Writing Fiction as well as his book, Writing the Novel. All right, you caught me; I guess I have come out now. I have large quantities of books on writing and more than 20 years of Writer’s Digest moldering on my bookshelves. I suppose those along with 48 years experience in living just might be enough to enable me to write a story for my own entertainment.

There is always hope.

Betty

My Sweet Memories

I wonder why people, for no apparent reason, suddenly get melancholy. I am not sure what brought the Easy Bake Oven story to mind. I was not baking and there is no chocolate in the house. However, I decided long ago when that particular state of mind strikes, there is no point fighting it. I am much better off just drifting along; I never know where the current will take me.

I have, in years gone by, tried to talk with my family about the happenings in our lives while we were growing up. My family firmly refuses to talk about those times. When asked if they remember a certain incident my mother and my siblings reply that they have blocked all of that out of their minds. I truly cannot help but wonder why they would want to do such a thing. As dark and bleak and desperate as things often were, we still managed to have good times. Why would anyone choose to remember only the bad when there are so many funny and beautiful things to recall? And yet, they seem offended when I suggest that they should try to remember the sweet, sometimes zany, fun things we did. I, in turn, am just as offended as they are. Regrettably, none of us will ever iron it out.

Because I have not acquired the skill of preventing my mind wondering where it will, I ask your indulgence if I do from time to time, share with you memories that are to me precious. I have to say I feel so sorry for my family. It must have been dark indeed in their hearts all those long years. It makes me feel guilty to reflect back fondly on the sunshine clear memories of playing and working, laughing and crying. I do remember the tears and despair, but they alone are not what shaped me into the person that I am or the person that I want to be.

Perhaps that is part of the reason I have lost my way home. My family still lives and works precisely where they have for time out of mind, in mills and backwoods operations along the Ohio River. Every dollar earned is a struggle to keep. Every possession acquired a source of jealousy and pride. The sweat that blinds their eyes prevents them from seeing just how rich they really are. They have families and friends and interests to occupy their hands and minds. They do not live in homes valued at over $30,000, some live in homes valued at much less, but they are their homes. They can step outside and breathe the air and plant flowers, or just sit and watch the world go by. They see life as a struggle and it is, for everyone, rich or poor we all have our demons to fight. They think I am rich. I think they are richer. I love them.

Enough for today thank you for taking the time to visit me here where I am comfortable.

There is always hope.

Betty

Chocolate Cake and Mommy

When I smell chocolate cake baking, I always think of my mother and Easy Bake Ovens. The three go together and are inseparable in my mind. The Easy Bake Oven was acquired at the county dump on one of our treasure hunting excursions (at least that is what they seemed like to me) it pains me today to think what it must have cost my mother in pride, to be seen there searching for much needed necessities.

It was during one of the major holidays (Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter) and my mother was baking away, making pies, cakes, and cookies. I have no recollection where the other five kids were, or my father for that matter. He must have been living at home though, or she never would have had the money to bake. At any rate, if there was another soul in the house, I cannot recall. I can clearly remember finding the oven at the dump, still its original box; it was as if someone had left me a gift. I was so excited I grabbed it up and squealed, hugging it close, I ran right to my mother. “Oh, Mommy,” I breathed, “Look what I found!” She smiled and said, “Well, lookie there!” And I remember seeing tears streaming down her face as she turned to look at something near the car. I did not understand the tears. I have no idea how old I was at the time, young, I think. I understand the tears now though, and have just shed a few of my own.

The only time I can remember ever using that Easy Bake Oven was, as mentioned previously, that one time during the holidays. It was just the two of us and I so desperately wanted to help her bake. I stood on a chair at the sink, washing out baking pans as she emptied them and pleading to help. She stopped her own work at some point and got out that little oven and set me up with everything that had been in the box, cake pans, cupcake tins spatulas and a wire whisk. We carefully filled one of the cake pans, slid it into the Easy Bake, and waited. This memory is so clear it could have been yesterday! We each took our turn at peering anxiously inside that little oven to check the progress of the cake. (I really think she was quite as curious as I was.) When it was finally done, my mother laughed and said she thought we would do better baking off the rest of my cakes in her oven, it would be a lot faster. That is precisely what we did and then I got to mix my own icing and frost the cakes myself. She ate one of my cakes, praised my work and sent me to bed. I had worked hard! I was the happiest girl in the world that night.

I now realize that the time she took to make one child happy cost her much. She was tired and her back and legs were aching. She had many more things to bake that night and she would be at her work until well after midnight (I know from staying up with her when I was old enough to help) yet she took the time to make one of the happiest memories of my childhood.

There is always hope.

Betty

Wahoo and Beep Beep

I did something today that I have not done all summer long I mowed the grass. Traditionally, starting one year after we moved here, I have done the majority of the mowing and Don did the trimming. However, this summer as you know, has been spent seeking the cool, quiet dark and avoiding sunlight.

It is, I think, rather ridiculous to enjoy something like mowing as much as I do. Nevertheless, there you have it, another dirty little secret out in the open. I can tell you nearly anything you want to know about my 21-hp John Deere L120 riding mower with the V-Twin engine (manufactured by Briggs and Stratton). He is a hunk, with his glossy green paint and bright shinny eyes… I mean headlights and oh my, what a seat he has!  Perfectly padded and bright yellow! Please, do not get me started on his torque! Did you know that greater torque can lead to lower vibration? Are you tempted yet? Ah, the mower of my dreams! What can I say? I am a grain-fed Midwestern gal and I love the sound of a good engine.

There is no point in denying how much fun I have careening round the yard, dodging trees and flowerbeds, swings and the occasional rabbit or groundhog. Woo hoo, what a ride! I wear my floppy straw hat, secured firmly under my chin with an old scarf, a faded and much worn flannel shirt flaps madly behind while my gloved hands firmly grip the steering wheel and a grin wider than the Ohio River is painted on my face.  I fancy myself to be an expert at the fine art of driving my fabulous machine and can readily imagine just how poor Mr. Toad felt when he encountered his first automobile. Beep, beep!

Silly, is it not? A woman of my age enjoying a riding mower is beyond the pale, really. However, it is a good example of how a reclusive life style can lead to eccentric thoughts. I can drive round my yard with a silly grin plastered on my face and no one but the rabbits and crows will ever see it. (I live in fear of one day forgetting to wipe that grin away when out in public.) Still, there are times when I would really like friends to tell me about their own idiosyncrasies. Well, they say everything has a price.

There is always hope.

Betty

The Birthday Party

I was a little surprised at how much I enjoyed myself at the birthday party yesterday. What a sweet young man (he turned 16) such a charmer. Everyone there was obviously devoted to him. It appears he is well cared for and loved, he is in short the apple of his father’s eye. To be truthful, I cannot remember the last time I was at an intimate, personal gathering of friends and family, I was actually quite comfortable.

Of course I will be going to another gathering soon enough. There are as you know, plans for a surprise anniversary party for Irene and Homer.

I have been pondering something one of the women at the party said. One of the women was asking another of the women to come help clean at their church because she was short handed and needed some extra help. She also asked if anyone had an old iron she could use. My first instinct, indeed, what I would have done in days gone by, was to offer my assistance in cleaning the church (I had no idea what or where the church was) and offer up my old iron. I clamped my mouth shut and did not say a word. Should I have volunteered my assistance? Probably... maybe not - I just don't know.

We stopped for ice cream while we were out yesterday and we bumped into Larry and Marda. Larry was his usual droopy-eyed self but Marda looked a little drawn and stressed. She was not quite as open as she usually is. I do wonder what that is all about. I will have to call her in a few days; I do not want to appear to be snooping.

To finish recapping Sunday, I have to say I am so glad I picked the wrong team. That is what I get for being a naysayer. Cleveland beat Cincinnati! The other good news was no headache, which made two full days headache free. It was, once again, a beautiful late summer day, complete with cool but not cold temperatures and sunny skies decorated with the occasional cumulus cloud. In short, it was a perfect day.

There is always hope.

Betty

Prattle and Rattle

Moving forward, yeah, it is a perfect football day. Game one is Cleveland at Cincinnati I can hardly wait. I picked Cincinnati but my heart is with Cleveland (only in football and baseball and basketball of course) and those poor boys have a wee ways to go yet. At any rate, it is another gorgeous late summer day here. Perfect for sports and being outside.

Don and I are invited to a birthday party for one of his athletes this afternoon. He told me the parent of his young athlete went out of his way to invite both of us. He then asked me if I was going and I said I would if he wanted me to and he said it would be nice. Hmm, jeez, I guess he does want me to go.

Prattle and rattle, it seems to be the best I can do today.

There is always hope.

Betty

At A Loss For Words

Good golly day, have you ever sat down at your keyboard and drew a blank? Yuck! This is not at all fun. It is quite unusual for me; there were plenty of things that happened today for me to write about. My problem is stroking (keyboard stroke, stroke the keys, get it?) them to the page. Well, my problem goes a lot deeper than that but lets not get too personal about it, hmm.

The first item of note is that I have been headache free all day. What a nice feeling. Of course, being pain free, I had to see if I could tweak the computers and improve their performance. (Side note: I must have exceptionally high expectations for my computers because I am never entirely satisfied with them.) I have to ask myself, am I into self-inflicted misery? Is that why I cannot seem to leave well enough alone? Do I secretly (so secret even I do not know) crave the hours spent droopy eyed and comatose in front of my monitor waiting for the thing to work properly? So, ponder this, if that is the case, what in the name of Margret did I do for enjoyment before computers came along? No, sorry, I do not believe I am quite that unstable. Anyway, after I got the desktop nice and messed up I moved to the kitchen.

Lasagna, now there is a fun thing to put together on a beautiful, late summer afternoon. I do enjoy cooking and I have not been up to being creative lately, so I enjoyed every moment. While the lasagna was baking, I cleaned up the prep mess and set about seeing what could be salvaged from the salad makings that have been hanging out in my refrigerator for a few days too long. Sadly, I could only salvage about half of it, ah well. My tummy is feeling better so I think I can stand the thought of salad again and the remaining green stuff will be consumed in a timely manner.

And there you have it, my day thus far. Oh dangnabit! I just hate it when I can think of nothing to say. I will try to do better tomorrow.

There is always hope.

Betty

I Made It

Well…that was a lot of stuff and bother about going to the neurologist. He was as always, kind and considerate. As I said from the start here, just the thought of leaving home is enough to cause an anxiety attack. Add the stress of being in the presence of someone who intimidates me (which is regrettably, nearly everyone) and I fall to pieces. How fortuitous that I was in so much pain from a migraine I was actually coherent. If you are interested in a detailed description of a typical anxiety attack, you could read my posts here for the week of May 31. They are explicit.

As for what the doctor said, he agrees with my theory that stopping the Neurontin probably contributed to my current migraine problems and it definitely was the cause of the Trigeminal Neuralgia symptoms returning so forcefully. The result of the visit is a new prescription for Neurontin, he increased my dose of Toprol and gave me a different pain killer for the migraines, the goal being to keep me out of the ER, it is called Ultracet I have taken two today and they have helped. It turns out Neurontin had nothing to do with acquiring a tolerance to pain killers. It is genetic; I have a brother who has the same problem. You can shoot him so full of morphine a junkie would fly to Mars and back and it has no effect on him. There you have it, the answer to my conundrum.

Now for a few quick observations on a movie, a music CD and gloaming. The movie is Snow Cake with Alan Rickman and S (so sorry, cannot spell it right now) Weaver. Rickman portrays a man who was just released from prison. He was there on a murder conviction. He gives a ride to Weaver’s screen daughter, they are in an accident and the girl is killed. Rickman goes to Weaver’s house to say how sorry he is and finds out that she is all alone and autistic. This movie, is for me, too difficult to review. Rickman and Weaver play their parts well but the subject, autism, is just beyond me to comment on. The only thing I know about the terrible condition is that it causes so much emotional pain for the parents and families of its victims as to be unendurable. I cannot help but think that the poor children suffer their own hell. It is beyond me. I just want to take them all in my arms and hold them tight and never let go. Of all things in the world, the one that brings me to my knees every time I encounter it, is seeing someone in pain and being unable to help.

The CD is a brighter topic. Now I am giving away a lot here, I am listening to Donny Osmond and the album is Home at Christmas. Go ahead, laugh and roll your eyes. I have had a crush on him since I was 10. Seriously, it is one of the best Christmas albums you will ever hear.

And gloaming, well when I started that paragraph it was right at gloaming and I still had a little light. It is full dark now and the light is gone, as am I.

There is always hope.

Betty

I Am A Strange One

Actually, I have been called worse things than strange. Jennifer has called me a freak a few times; even Don has been known to throw out the occasional unmentionable name. Today however, has nothing to do with what other people think.

I think it strange that I have worked myself into quite a tizzy about going to see the neurologist tomorrow. Go figure. My great hope is that I will be right as rain in a few days. That is all the time it takes for the proper medicine to kick in.

You know, it has been very kind of you to tuff it out here while I bemoan my headaches and other miseries. I do appreciate it. Regrettably, I am not a talented writer with a captivating voice; able to sweep you off to beautiful adventures or take you to romantic places. I am, just ordinary, homely Betty. That is fine with me. Freak or not, I like myself just fine.

There is always hope.

Betty

The Bitter Regret Of Marda

Unlike her husband, Larry, Marda has a kind face, kind but not pretty. In profile, her face is nearly flat. A heavy brow shadows bright blue, wide set eyes that have a warm twinkle glasses cannot hide. Her hair, once a warm brown with strands of honey, copper, gold and red is beginning to grey and it puffs out in short, frizzy tufts incasing her head in shaggy curls. Her nose is, a little wide, yet still smallish. Marda has a sweet mouth, full lipped with an invitingly friendly smile. She has told me how she hates her complexion, sallow coloring overlaid with a hint of pink that often gives her emotions away. Combine her complexion with round checks, a chin that would be considered weak on a man, slightly droopy jowls and a turkey neck and I am afraid Marda has a rather poor self-image.

For all of her physical shortcomings Marda is a rather pleasant person. She is the woman people feel comfortable walking up to in the grocery store and asking, “Do you know what isle the tuna is in?” Marda has grown quite accustomed to being asked questions like that. Can you watch my cart for a moment? I forgot something; can you hold my place in line? I forgot my discount card at home may I borrow yours? She has become used to it but I assure you, even as she smiles sweetly, waves her hand and nods you off to do whatever it is that needs doing; she resents your assumption. She resents it and quietly seethes under the weight of her anger. She is not angry with you as much as she is angry with herself. The very last thing Marda wants anyone to think of her is that she is nice.

Larry and Marda have been married now for 24 years. While Larry has changed in many aspects, Marda has changed very little. Her sturdy frame remains much the same as it was on her wedding day, albeit she has gained nearly 20 pounds. Still, 20 pounds weight gain when she started out at 230 pounds is not significant. Heaven knows she would have loved to grow an inch or two. Vertically challenged at 5’ almost 1” tall, coupled with her weight can be a little uncomfortable and awkward. For instance, her reach is greatly reduced because the bulk of her belly holds her half an arms length from the cupboards. Interestingly, though she sees her height and weight as unfortunate and she says she would give anything to change it, Marda sees no reason to waste self-pity on what cannot be changed. There are people out there both shorter and heavier. Think what you will of Marda but I caution you, never tell her what a sweet person she is. I predict she will, one day, implode from the contained fury every time someone assumes she is worthy.

We are not what could be termed, close friends, Marda and I, but we are friends of a sort. I know her through Larry, who I first became acquainted with at work. On the rare occasion, over the years, when we have had a girls day out I have grown to like Marda and I see in her a compassionate and caring person. She and I really do not share much in common in the way of interests but we are both childless. Marda once told me she had two regrets in her life. One was having married a man she fears; the other was her choice not to have children. Being the coward that I am, I was too chicken to ask her why she was afraid of Larry. I am ashamed of that cowardice on my part.

As I said, Marda is a likeable person. Sadly, her life has become one of regret and bitterness. She trundles through life doing what she can with limited resources and avoids looking in mirrors because she is fearful that one day, there will be no one looking back. She feels like a coward because she is afraid of Larry and she feels like a failure because of the choices she made.

Now you have met Marda. Why you would take the time and bother to get to know her and her husband would be a mystery to her.

There is always hope.

Betty

Yea! Relief Is In Sight

Relief is in sight. At least I hope so; my appointment with the neurologist has been moved up to this Thursday, the 13th. I do hope to find the answer to my headache problem, though I have a terrible suspicion I my have done this to myself.

I have Trigeminal Neuralgia and I stopped taking one of my medications for it back in January. I believe I had legitimate concerns about taking Neurontin, a drug that affects (coincidentally) the nervous system. It caused (I believe) me to build up a high tolerance for some other drugs; as an example, the last time I had surgery morphine was not at all effective as a pain killer. That terrified me and I decided, without consulting my doctors, it had to be the Neurontin causing the problem. So I weaned myself off it. A few months later, I noticed an increase in the frequency and severity of my migraines. When I was diagnosed with Trigeminal Neuralgia, I was having frequent migraines as well as experiencing vision problems. Consequently, I am certain I did this to myself. Now here is the rub; if this summer of agony has been my own doing and the pain can stop by going back onto neurological medication, dare I do it? If taking those medicines causes a tolerance for antihistamines, sleep aids, painkillers, and even morphine, I am not sure I should take them. The last time I needed painkillers after surgery they had to give me Dilaudid and let me tell you, that is very nasty stuff!

What a conundrum. I just cannot wait to be yelled at for stopping the medicine (extremely factitious here) without consulting a doctor. Okay, okay! Enough of that. Bigger fish to fry here tomorrow. I will introduce you to Larry’s wife. She is a bit of a snob and as Cornelia would say, she is rather snarky, but she has her moments and since I don’t have to live with her, we got on just fine.

There is always hope.

Betty

The Average Man

Why I would want to introduce you to a certain man of my acquaintance, I am not sure. For some reason he comes to mind today and since at one time I thought him a fascinating person and a true friend I thought you might like to meet him.

When I think of Larry, the first term that comes to mind is average. He may well be the definition of the average person. He has a college degree, a Bachelor of something or other. Average annual incomes just shy of $60,000 a year, an average wife, home, vehicles and children he hasn't seen in nearly 25 years (from his first marriage). Think of nearly anything that can be classified as average and Larry fit’s the mold perfectly. With one or two notable exceptions, that is. I do not believe Larry’s physical appearance or behavior qualify as firmly average.

In height, I suppose he is near enough to the term. Half an inch shorter and he could qualify as a short man. The loss of ten pounds would place him in the scrawny range. So, as I said, near enough to average in that respect. The interesting aspects of Larry are in his face. He thinks himself to be a cunning man, sly and covert in his thoughts, yet I can tell you he has one of the most expressive faces I have ever seen. There is no doubt about the thoughts running around in his small head (he is a fine boned man) be those thoughts scorn or acceptance, snide or loving, kind or cruel. It is a very easy thing to discern his thoughts, based on his facial expressions. There are his eyes; beady little blue eyes, closely set and not quite so washed out they can be called icy and yet not deep enough a blue to be called true. And his mouth, thin lipped and straight as a Texas highway, is capable of smiling, though he seldom does. The favored expression worn on those lips is a grimace because, you see, most people mistake it for a smile. Predictably, that tickles Larry; he enjoys the feeling that no one can read his thoughts. Nevertheless, there are those of us who can.

He is a vain man, Larry. However, I cannot fault him there. Most of us are, I believe, to some small extent vain. I do wonder though, just what he sees when he stares into the mirror for long drawn out moments. Does he see his face as others do? A face lined with age, his prominent (but straight) nose beginning to droop with age, badly thinning, spiky grey hair that even he in his vanity never stooped to dying. Does he see the deep wrinkles that now incase his beady little eyes because he will not give in to the glasses he should have worn years ago? What of the hoary eyebrows and ears? I believe he knows but refuses to acknowledge the changes time has stamped so clearly on his countenance. I cannot fault his there either because truth be told, none of us want to acknowledge it.

Regrettably, a few things about Larry are not pleasant. He can be one of the coldest people you will ever encounter and that is a strange contradiction because he is also quite capable of caring and concern for his friends and associates. He has no real closeness with his family, though they do maintain a very convincing social front that suggests the opposite and is commendable. He tends to keep his wife out of sight, figuratively speaking, and he excludes her in his normal daily routine whenever and wherever it is possible to do so. Here again, he can be quite concerned and loving one moment and then calling her whore the next. It was this last that put an end to our friendship and turned my fascination to contempt. Pity, I was fond of him.

Larry does have a darker, mysterious side. You can see it in his face when he cocks his chin just so, to the right, and narrows his small beady eyes while keeping his jaw clenched and his thin lips set in a tight line. You can sense his desire (or is it need?) to inflict pain. Emotionally or physically I was never close enough to him to say (I shutter at the appalling thought) nevertheless, it is there. I believe he can be dangerous and I cannot help but wonder, if he is dangerous, is it on the scale of average danger.

Ah well, I suppose by way of introduction this may give you a small impression of the average man as I see him.

There is always hope.

Betty

I Do Like A Good western

We went to see 3:10 To Yuma yesterday and I am glad we did. I just love westerns though I am not exactly sure why that is. Maybe it harkens back to the days of my youth when I used to watch them with my father. Whatever the reason, I really enjoyed the move. A brief review of 3:10 To Yuma:

Dan Evans (Christian Bale) is a man with noting left to lose. His small, drought stricken Arizona ranch is about to be taken in lieu of payment for his debts. His wife blames him for their problems and his eldest son has a very low opinion of his one legged father.

Dan volunteers to help escort Ben Wade (Russell Crowe), a ruthless and evil outlaw, to Yuma and put him on a prison train in exchange for the money he desperately needs. When his wife, Alice Evans (Dallas Roberts) asks him what he is thinking, why is he doing it Dan replies, "I have been standing on one damned leg for three damn years waiting for God to do me a favor, and he aint listening."

3:10 To Yuma is suspense-filled action packed and gloriously western. The performances by the cast, to a person, were exemplary. Crowe and Bale fill the screen with quiet malice and resigned courage. Of note is the fine performance by Logan Lermar. He held his own against the more experienced actors and had me at the edge of my seat near the end of the film. Alan Todyk as Doc Potter was heartbreakingly courageous and Peter Fonda as Byron McElroy was crusty grit personified. Ben Foster played outlaw Charlie Prince so well I cringed every time his came into view. He was truly vile.

All said I call it a great bang for the buck. If you simply cannot resist a good western, you really must see this remake.

I have written a more comprehensive review on Epinions. So far, my movie reviews are doing well there but I flopped on reviewing my Notebook and that is as it should be, I am no computer expert. Not a movie expert either but I know what I like and I think I am a fair judge of story structure, having read a book or two in my day.

No time for a lengthy post today. I have a headache but I wanted to give you a heads up on the movie. You might want to give it a go.

There is always hope.

Betty

The Stoic Oracle

Of the millions of personality traits, we humans exhibit, I think in my top ten list of least favorite mannerisms is stoicism. I just don’t get it. What in the world, could anyone possibly hope to gain by being stoic? The very definition of the word disturbs me. The admirable part of the definition is someone who shows patience and endurance during adversity. Here, here and bully for you if you possess those fine traits. The part I find so discomfiting is the emphasis in the meaning of somebody impassive: somebody who is unemotional. Muttering Mandy! How could anyone willingly live life being impassive and unemotional? Passivity is well and good in the occasional social circumstance but I am talking about living. For goodness sake, shake it up a bit and invest some emotion in life. I truly detest it when people make the decision to passively sit back and watch the rest of us live. Because I believe, those people are judging us with what they see as wisdom and disdain.

One thing though, I am wondering, do I live a life of passivism? By being reclusive and avoiding, the things that make me uncomfortable like crowds and noisy places am I one of those detested people whom…no. I am not one of those people who watches, judges, and feels as though they are oracular.

Enough!

There is always hope.

Betty

The Wilds of Ohio

Some of the best “ah,” moments in life sneak up on us when we least expect them. Small vignettes so perfectly detailed and exquisitely finished we know they will stay with us for the rest of our lives. Then when needs be, we can pull out one of those wonderful moments that like a finished gem have been tumbled to a fine polish and glow, we can loose our selves in the gentle facets of life. I imagine not even the ravages of time can diminish the beauty of moments like those.

The other evening, while I puttered in the kitchen, I glanced out the window and saw three deer in the yard. I do not know who was more startled, them or me. It was a momma and her two younglings and the young ones were still sporting their spots. We stared, transfixed at each other for a long moment before the young ones flicked their ridiculously big ears and a long shiver racked them from nose to tail; their long spindly legs, like rubberized twigs danced and shifted bringing the rear half forward and then shooting the front straight out in one swift motion. They bounced around the yard, investigating every flowerbed, shrub and tree. Their mother watched placidly as she savored the treat of the saltlick we put out expressly for them. I watched them until gloaming when they wandered back to our wood and their beds. Another “ah” moment filed safely away.

I am indeed a fortunate person, moments like that are frequent here. When we purchased our property it was exceptionally well maintained, no undergrowth in the wood or excessive trees in the yard. I am happy to relay the fact that all of that has changed. Our property is wildlife friendly. Birds, beasts and flowers, we have them all and I am glad of it. We don’t care if the bunnies or deer nibble on the tender young shoots of tulips in the spring. We feed the birds in the winter and water them in the summer. We enjoy watching all the babies in the spring and we eagerly await the appearance of our resident humming birds and hawks. Rabbits, squirrels, groundhogs raccoons and possums all safely reside alongside deer. It is I think a magical place. It is peaceful here.

My mind has been so restless these last few weeks, whether because of headaches or brooding over family matters I cannot say. It is during these down times that I find myself pulling out one of my gems and I lose myself in the gentle glow of my memories.

There is always hope.

Betty

The Houses Of Healing

J.R.R.Tolkien's realm of Middle Earth has for many years been one of my favorite escape destinations. Going back and re-reading my last few posts here suggests to me that it just might be a wise choice to revisit some of my favorite moments in those beautiful books.

Each of the books has something to offer and I could name endless examples of things that delight and frighten me in all of them. It is a very rare thing for me to be able to chose just one item from a group of things that I like; however in this instance it is much less difficult. I have always been drawn to, and repulsed by, the passage in The Return of The King in the chapter titled The Houses of Healing, where Gandalf says to Eomer, concerning his injured sister Eowyn, "But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?" I am drawn in by a kindred spirit who like me, has spoken to the night. I am repulsed because a fox will chew off its' own leg rather than remain caught in a trap and face certain death.

While flipping through the pages of The Return of The King, I had an epiphany. The thing that sets Lee Child and Cornelia Read apart from the rest of the field for me, is voice. They, like Tolkien, have a clearly defined voice. It is more than a cadence or rhythm; the way they shape and move and bend the words, they write with their senses and help us hone our own senses until the voice is heard as clearly as a silver bell on a clear winter night. I had been wondering why, of all the authors I read, why do Lee and Cornelia enthrall me? Now I know and the knowing only strengthens my conviction that they are in rarefied company. Regrettably, finding that voice is not something every writer can do.

There is always hope.

Betty

On Family

In for a penny in for a pound, I may as well get the rest of the venom out of my system so I can be a little more comfortable in my own skin. Please keep in mind the fact that you are only hearing my side of the story. I am quite positive the Blank family could bend your ears back with tales of what a worthless person I am.

My faults are many and I do not believe admitting it mitigates the responsibility. If I were the kind of person who is willing to play the little games and participate in the private politics that form a family dynamic I would at the very least be a more normal person. Sadly, for me, I am not, never have been and most likely never will be good at that kind of thing. In short, what you see is what you get with me. Nothing up the sleeve, I do not play both sides of a bet. When I say I love someone I mean it sincerely. Strangely, I think that may be the crux of my problem here. I married into this family with an open heart prepared to love them because Don loved them. I thought I would be accepted and loved in return because Don loved me. Please know that in no way am I criticizing the Blank Family. The fault was mine because I was too naive to see that I am an in-law. As far as I was concerned family is family and once you are in it is for a lifetime. Regrettably, I was not playing a game. It has taken 30 years for me to riddle that out (I can, as you see, be miserably slow on the uptake) and now that I have, my feelings are hurt beyond repair.

I talk of Don’s family but what of mine. As you know, my father passed a few years ago. Surviving him are my mother, a sister and four brothers as well as numerous nieces and nephews. What of them? Do not, my friend, ever feel sorry for me. They are all alive and as far as I know, they are all doing well enough. My family and I had a falling out. The last time I saw any of them was a month after my fathers’ funeral; he had been very ill, his death certificate lists the cause of death as dehydration. I live several hours away from the rest of my family. My father was living with one of my brothers and his wife. I cannot in my heart blame any of my family for his death, not anymore than I blame myself. It is a long, complicated story, that of my family and I. I am not sure I can ever tell it. But if I do, I vow it will be the full version of the truth as I see it. For now, even with all of the hurt, I love them still and I miss them nearly as much as I miss my father. The road runs two ways. I am one of the loneliest people you ever will meet but I made that choice with both eyes wide open. Did I forsake my family? I think I was forsaken, who can say which version is true, Not I. People need to love and be loved, I have no one to blame for the path I have taken. The weight of my decisions rests squarely on my own shoulders. Believe it or not, I place a very high value on love and I believe that when it comes straight from the heart there is no emotion known to man that has a higher value than love. And no weapon made by man can cut deeper than a shard from a shattered heart.

They complete a circle, I think, the stories of my two families. I really have no idea if any of this paints a clearer picture of why I end my posts the way I do. I hope it helps at least a bit because without compassion I could not survive and without hope, I could feel no compassion.

There is always hope.

Betty