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