This Gioia's Chronicles

My "Young and Restless" Days

2012-01-27T13:20:00.000-08:00

Having a best friend gives great perspective about the journey through life that we have the good fortune to travel together. Recently Nancy and I were talking about being middle-aged, how these “new” “older” bodies we are sporting are taking some getting used to. We discussed what we missed most about our younger selves and we came up with the fact we both miss the attention we once received. We both, in our own way, had the looks and body to turn a few heads in our day.

One memory we still laugh over is when the two of us, back in the late 1970s, were walking down the street in Simi Valley, California. As a car drove by us we heard a loud wolf-whistle and then a CRASH. The driver apparently, in looking at us, rear-ended another vehicle. Ahhh, youthful boasting.

There will be moments when a memory will pop into my head and I’ll have to smile because of the feelings it evokes. One recent one involves meeting an actor maybe a year after I’d moved to southern California. It was how I met James Beach and the experience of our short-lived relationship that is sweet in my mind because it showed how both naïve and ballsy I was back then.

I hadn’t been in California for very long. I had moved there when I was 19 to attend Moorpark College’s Exotic Animal Training and Management Program. It was 1977 and being in California after living a lifetime in small town America was invigorating for me. You know that feeling when you are young that the world is just waiting for You? That nothing is impossible? That’s just how I felt.

There was a story in the local newspaper announcing that Actors and Others for Animals would be holding an event in the L.A. area. I decided to go to the event. While there, I was surrounded by crowds of people pushing and shoving as they tried to glimpse the actors participating. I’m short and I couldn’t see a thing. When I made it up to a roped-off area I still could see the actors were kept separated from the throng. At some point I overheard someone say something about being a volunteer. I had a moment of brilliance, or so I thought, and went up to one of the rope-keepers and announced that I was a volunteer sent over to help with crowd control. My nervy move worked! The rope was lifted and I was on the other side.

My memory of what took place next is somewhat fuzzy; but I remember that I didn’t do any work at all. I was escorted into a trailer and pretended I was supposed to be there. Inside I sat down at a table with actors I recognized: Mark Hamil of Star Wars fame (very nice guy), Melissa Gilbert, Little House on the Prairie actress (snotty brat), and one I did not recognize but an actor nonetheless, James Beach.

The day ended with my head in the clouds from my experience. James asked to see me again and for many months we dated; he taking me to restaurants a huge step-up from what my budget could afford, he came to my 21^st birthday party, and I was his date for a party honoring a soap opera I’d watched for years and one he was an occasional actor on: The Young and the Restless. This is a memory that I’m not as proud of, but one that is pretty funny.

I was so anxious about looking good that I ate nothing the day of the event. I borrowed one of my roommate’s dresses, a really cute one that I wanted to look perfect in. I think I did. At the event waiters walked by serving hor dourves and champagne. I was introduced to many of the actors from the show, the one I most remember was the one who played, “Snapper,” actor David Hasselhoff. That’s about all I remember.

The combination of nerves, empty stomach and champagne drove me soon to the ladies room where first I puked, then passed out on the floor by the toilet. I awoke to one of the bathroom attendants reaching under the door, shaking my foot and saying, “Lady, are you okay?”

I found my way back to my date. James took me to his home. Up to this point we had simply dated, had not gotten intimate. This could have been James’s “lucky night” but being the gentleman that he was, he tucked me into his bed and let me sleep it off.

I don’t remember the last time I saw James. I don’t know whatever became of him; even doing an Internet search turns up nothing. While James is lost to me except in memories, he did give me two photos of himself that I keep along with my other most treasured keepsakes. Those photos and his sweet words to me: "To my Lisa, I have met 3 women in my life who were ladies, you are two of them. With all my love and respect, James Beach" along with those tender memories, will have to be enough.

Yes, growing older is bittersweet, but I am so grateful I have those experiences to recall. And as I have often thought, when I’m ninety-years old, I’ll look back on the memories I am making right now and recall that they, too, were sweet ones.

A Necessary Nose Job?

2012-01-18T11:09:00.000-08:00

I thought my breathing difficulties were a result of allergies. For a few years now I’ve been trying both traditional and unconventional methods to find relief. I have seen general practitioners who have prescribed every allergy medicine there is, including those horrible up-the-nose sprays; I’ve done Chinese herbs, acupuncture and cupping (see Can Acupuncture Cure My Allergies), and have come to consider the use of the Neti pot a daily necessity.

Come to find out, however, that my problem isn’t pollen but anatomy. My nose is too big AND too small!

As a kid, you know when your entire body is transforming into its adult look, some parts progress differently than others? Well, it took a while for my face to catch up with my nose. For years I dreamed of changing my big, hooked nose, removing the prominent bump and sporting a more subtle one with a cute up-turned tip. I hated having profile pictures taken and avoided them at all costs.

See! Too big for my face!

Thank goodness I made it through those awkward years and came to embrace my look, which includes a nose that, in my opinion, fits just right on my face. I’m glad I didn’t fix it as my youthful vanity yearned to do. Now, it seems, it may need fixing after all.

After the umpteenth doctor visit resulted in a recommendation to see a specialist, I was informed I have a pronounced deviated septum. The doctor asked if I’d ever broken my nose, which I have not. It was all three of my brothers who have.

A broken nose looks good on my brothers, Jim and Joe,
it wouldn't flatter me, though

However, I admit, with a nose my size and with my tendency to be clumsy (see My Own Worst Enemy) my nose has seen its share of solid objects such as doors and floors, so many of them I have “gotten my nose out of joint” a time or two. The doctor also remarked that my nostrils are very narrow; I may have a large schnoz in length, but the width is what is causing me problems. Whatever accumulates (my friend, Linda Lou will just hate this reference, she doesn’t like snot references) gets congested and has nowhere to go.

The solution to this problem might have to be surgery. Yuck! When discussing this with the doctor I was asked if there was anything else on my nose I’d like to fix, “Many people take this opportunity to change their look,” he remarked. I wasn’t sure if this was a trick question, trying to get me to admit my motivation was all a ploy to get insurance to pay for a new nose, but I said, “NO!” I like my nose just the way it is. I just wish it would allow me to breathe without having to use a finger – not UP it, but to the side of it, opening the nostril to allow air to get in. My thoughtful husband actually took a picture (not posted here for obvious reasons of vanity) of my sleeping in this pose.

I have a follow-up visit with a plastic surgeon that specializes in noses next week. We’ll see what he has to say. While I hate the idea of surgery, the thought of living several more decades with labored breathing thanks to the nose I inherited from my dad seems less desirable.

That old saying, “Be careful what you wish for” really is true. Maybe if I’d not wished for a nose job in my youth, this wouldn’t be happening to me now!

Taming the Wild Beast

2012-01-10T19:29:00.000-08:00

Taming animals is one of those skills I am really good at. I just brought home a young Lovebird
who has never been handled before and it will be fun to see him (or her?) get used to me and become a pet.

I have the patience required for this type of task; I can sit for hours watching an animal and allowing them the time needed to accept me. I know I would have been as good as my hero Jane Goodall or DianeFossey, two primatologists whose work I admire. When did I discover this talent to tame?

When I was ten years old my grandmother sent me across the country to Aberdeen, Washing to spend a few weeks with an uncle. In the cluster of homes where they lived, I wandered around the property and came across a shaggy dog that was terrified of people. I spent hours coaxing the dog to come to me and the satisfaction I felt when he did has stayed with me all of these years.

When John and I owned Acres of Animals Pet Shop we purchased a Lesser Sulphur-crested Cockatoo from a bird breeder. “Use this one as a breeder, that’s all she’s good for,” we were told. This poor thing was in the worst shape. She was so petrified of people even looking her way she flew into the bars of the cage. This behavior resulted, at some point, in her top beak-point breaking so it was blunt rather than sharp as it should be. Her feathers were as mangy as that Washington dog’s; they were broken and every time she hit the cage, another would break and bleed. I thought I’d see if I could tame her.

It took a few weeks. I would turn out the lights so the room was dark (birds cannot see in the dark). With thick gloves on I would reach into the cage and grab her as quickly as I could so she would not bolt and hurt herself. Then, I would hold her against my chest speaking softly, stroking her. Just like this little Lovebird she would wait for an opportune moment and try to get away but I would have a firm, yet gentle hold on her. I did this routine several times a day.

One afternoon I was multitasking; I was holding “Pee Wee” (she was so small and fragile, that seemed a perfect name for her) while eating a bean burrito. A small bean had landed just outside my mouth and Pee Wee stretched her neck and took it. She ate that bean while sitting in my lap. I was able to release my hold on her and from that moment on she never tried to escape from me.

It was another one of those moments that sealed my love of animals and inspires me to reach out to them to show them some humans are worth knowing.

To this day I continue my efforts. Just read North Las Vegas Cat Tales.

There’s a new cat on the property that I just know was left behind. He meows when I talk to him but he is just not ready to accept that I won’t hurt him. I have been able to get rather close to him when he feeds but he stays just out of reach of me. I hope he allows me the opportunity to give him some contact; he looks haggard and sad (that’s called anthropomorphism, placing human emotions onto animals). I’ll let you know if I am a success.

I have a few talents that I’m proud of, and being an Animal Tamer is one I am happy to possess.

A Progressive Resolution

2012-01-01T16:15:00.000-08:00

I asked my husband what he would like to see or have happen in 2012. It took him a minute to think about it, but before answering he asked me what I hoped for. I said something peculiar: “Progress.” When he finally answered he had more concrete goals: get our mortgage refinancing completed (it’s been taking months!). pay off his truck; you know, practical stuff.

I’m still trying to figure out my response.

Progress. What am I looking for progress on? True, with the economic slump came a halt in our immediate plans to move to Oregon, but the dream is still alive; I haven't given up on that.

Employment for me has been spotty, with student enrollments causing cancellation of classes, leaving our finances on shaky ground. Do I plan on making my work life more stable by finding a more secure job and income? I am not ready for that commitment just yet, but it may be inevitable.

Our property is coming along nicely. We’ve expanded from around the perimeter of the house to plant trees, vegetables, and flowers on many more sections.

Maybe I envision the progress I’m making on the grounds as part of my 2012 plan.

Or, maybe that much-talked about European trip will finally take place. I want to travel so badly. There are so many places I have yet to see, even right here in my own country. Maybe that’s what I’ll be concentrating on.

Whatever my progress is, I’m excited about what will unfold in this new year. This picture of me and John on this New Year’s Eve

show a couple who have progressed from young marrieds to middle-agers on the cusp of their quarter-century together. The progress of time shows on our faces, but the smiles haven’t faded; for that I am grateful.

What do you see for yourself in 2012? Whatever it is, I hope you attain it. I also hope you have continued health and happiness.

Keep checking my blog and I’ll keep you all updated on my Progress!

in 2012.

See You Next Year

2011-12-12T10:17:00.000-08:00

I have been terribly remiss in keeping This Gioia's Chronicles updated. Three grandchildren living in southern California and monthly trips to visit, 30 college students, five chickens, a pig, 4 dogs, 8 cats, and a garden, not to mention a house and a husband are keeping me pretty busy.

So, dear Readers - I am taking a break until after the New Year. Not only will I be organizing and deep cleaning the house and celebrating the holidays, I will be working on some projects that will, hopefully, generate some much-needed financial support.

Thank you to all of you for visiting my little blog. I hope your holidays are filled with love and warmth, and I hope you know how much your support means to me.

Take care and see you in 2012!

Profound Reminder

2011-11-29T10:49:00.000-08:00

Regrets? I Have Not One.

2011-11-11T21:31:00.000-08:00

One of the philosophies I’ve carried is that I have no regrets in life. Yes, there are some decisions and choices I’ve made that, if I had the chance (and the knowledge of the outcome), I wonder if I’d repeat, but I have always accepted the path I’ve chosen and refuse to feel any regret. It’s been my good fortune to have had wondrous experiences and discovered silver linings in each and every moment of my life – even if some of them challenged my sanity and happiness.

I remember my best friend telling me that just because I was pregnant with my first child, I didn’t have to marry the father. I didn’t heed that advice and married anyhow. The marriage was not a good one and lasted only six years. However, out of it I got my second daughter and eventually two grandsons. No regrets there whatsoever.

I turned down many opportunities that might have taken me to great heights in both career and life experience. Instead, I’m a minimalist in life and work, but am exceedingly rich in how much time I can devote to my family, something my own mother was robbed of.

As I look back on my life, fifty-four years of it, and the opportunities I have been presented with and the choices I’ve made, I’m pretty satisfied.

Do I wish there were things I could say I’ve done so far? Sure. I have only traveled overseas twice, not nearly enough for the places I have yet to see. Do I wish I had started my writing career twenty or thirty years earlier? Most definitely. Would I be prouder if I’d stood up for myself in the countless situations where someone had hurt me? You bet.

But I am happy with the risks I have taken, the time I did speak out, the decisions I’ve made to bring me to this juncture in my life. I have always said that I wish reincarnation were a true thing – then I could look forward to living all those lives I simply cannot be fit into just one lifetime. I would be a geologist, actress, world traveler; I would be rich beyond imagination. I would be a most humble being devoting my life to the betterment of others. I would be a wanderer, with no fixed home, but making the world and those I encounter my family life and experience. Yes, I would love to have five or more lifetimes to live.

But, since I have only this one I will accept it for what it is, allow myself to cherish each and every moment from the choices I’ve made, the people I’ve happened to meet, the places I have found myself living.

There are no regrets, just reflections, on a life well lived and of a future yet to unfold. I hope that you, too, can say the same.

If you had more than one lifetime, what would YOU do, be, become?

A Rock and a Walk

2011-10-26T16:59:00.000-07:00

I love taking walks. Walks are not only good for exercise of the body; for me they are a way to work out things that are causing me distress. When I am in need of such therapy, I take something along with me that helps focus my thoughts on positive outcomes to my worry.

Worry stones have been around for a long time, but I have taken the concept a step further.

As a rock collector I have an assortment of rocks of different shapes, sizes, colors, and origins.

In many of the places I’ve visited I will look to the ground in search of a rock that “speaks” to me, one or more that really catches my eye and pocket it. I’ve brought home rocks from my paternal grandfather’s village in Sicily, rocks from Native America Indian lands I’ve traveled through, rocks from my hometown in New York. When people I know are going someplace I’ve never been, I ask them to please remember to bring back a rock for me; I may never get there myself. I collect rocks that will remind me of a moment with someone I’ve shared a place with; in my collection is a rock that reads: Aiden Red Rock, March 2005,” gathered during a hike I took with Aiden when he was just 3-years-old.

I feel an odd connection to things of the earth and you can’t get more “earthy” than a rock. When I’m walking, I hold a rock that represents to me the person I am worried about or the thing I’m trying to work out.

After my walk if I feel I need to concentrate even more, I will slip the rock in my bra, close to my heart and walk my day and sleep my nights with it there. It helps me to focus my positive thoughts and energies to the thing I wish to change.

The pink rock was with me when I was praying Adrian would get away from the situation that was putting her and my grandchildren in danger (A Woman's Fight, A Woman's Grace); the rock with holes is a touchstone for anything I am concerned with; the striated one is helping me send grandson Aiden encouragement to make better choices. The heart-shaped rock is just cool so I thought I'd share it.

As I walk I rub the stone and I send a mantra of positive thoughts into the wind, hoping that my words and my intentions reach the ears and the hearts of those I am worried about. I don’t know if my “magical thinking” works, but I have to say, it helps me cope. And, I have seen my daughter come home safely; many of the worries I’ve had about work, money, life in general have worked themselves out (honestly, I didn’t put those holes in the rock with my rubbing!); and after a brisk rock and a walk I sleep better at night. So, for me this method works.

More of my collection of rocks – these are just a few of them.

Anyone want to send me rocks from their location? I’d love to receive them.

Anyone have a similar coping method? I’d love to hear what you do.

And, let me know if you try my “rock and a walk” idea and if it worked for you.

The Things We Leave Behind

2011-10-10T13:59:00.000-07:00

When was the last time you peeked into your past?

Where are all your treasured mementos:

photographs of ancestors, your childhood, your children growing up
the scrapbook you created as a high school student filled with movie ticket stubs, a clipping of your best friend’s hair, a love note from your boyfriend
the cross-stitch or quilt you started but never found the time to finish
the antique dresser or bed handed down to you from great-grandparents that just never fit into your home décor

My friend shared with me a story about a woman she knows that is overwhelmed by the things that her parents and grandparents left behind when they died. As executor of the estate she is undertaking the task of removing generations of collectibles that fill, from floor to ceiling, the house and several outbuildings on two acres.

For two years I have been begging one of my cousins to “get up in the attic” of her parent’s home because I am told there are movies and photographs that were made during the time my own parents were alive and of all us kids growing up. Her mom and dad refuse to allow it because there’s no way to sift through the mountain of stuff, saying it can be dealt with when they are gone.

My own mother-in-law has filled every one of the bedrooms left behind by her five grown children with a doll collection that spills out into every other room in the house.

Spot the "real" doll

That, too, will have to be dealt with when she passes on; unless of course we want to pay the mortgage to keep them where they are.

I am left with some interesting thoughts about this practice of collecting: One, I completely understand the need to hang on to treasured mementos. I have written about it in Treasures Lost and Found and Touching the Past.

I love revisiting my past by opening a box full of them and reliving the moment in time. On the other hand, I think it is asking a lot of your children or other relatives to have to take on the chore of organizing, storing, or selling the things collected over the course of years and years. I also think it’s sad that a third party, an auctioneer or estate buyer will end up making a profit from the service they provide. Lastly, I think that people like my aunt and uncle are missing an amazing opportunity by ignoring the chance to go through their collectibles; think of the joy it would bring to remember long-ago moments, as well as (and perhaps the most important of all) to share the memories and stories with their kin – lest they be lost forever.

Can clinging to tangible links to our history be a burden or a gift? How are you dealing with the items left behind by your family? How are you preparing for your own passing of treasures?

I Got Nothing............ to say, that is

2011-10-08T19:23:00.000-07:00

Can it be that I’ve run out of things to say? For two days now I’ve sat with an open screen staring at a blank white page just waiting for an inspiration to write about. The few times this has happened I have felt an obligation to write a post long overdue and checked out previously written posts in order to recycle one, figuring no one would notice. But every time I’ve tried I just couldn’t bring myself to cheat like that and I’ve always come up with something to write about. Seems I’m stuck right now with a post to write and nothing to say!

I’ve always been that kind of writer; when something strikes me I am inspired to write about it. My past posts have often been written on the spur of the moment or when an idea yearns to get out of my head. I’ve written about my childhood, parents, children, husband, getting older, garden, and the many idiosyncrasies that make up “Me.” I almost feel as though I’ve said it all. I even, for a brief moment, considered closing my blog up and putting my efforts into other formats of writing – maybe even ones that would actually make me some money, but I’m not ready for that step just yet.

So, dear readers, bear with me as I post this boring message as I await the inspiration that will prompt another delightful installment of This Gioia’s Chronicles. In the meantime, allow me to share a photo or two to make your stopping by a little worth it.

Sometimes this is just how I feel!

Until I think of something really funnny!

And remember that I have so much, and so many to be grateful for

That it's okay to have an off-day once in a while!

Because seriously, Life is Good.

Until next time…… Peace and Happiness to All.

Just Say "No!" It's Not As Easy As It Should Be. Why I Need To Learn To Be Assertive.

2011-10-01T13:52:00.000-07:00

My husband doesn’t think I’m assertive enough.

I shared with him an incident that took place just a few days ago that really set him off. A colleague of mine became enthralled with my exposed, toenail painted feet. I was so taken aback by his interest and his gall in touching them when I had my feet propped up on a chair that I assumed it was an impulsive act so I said nothing. Nor did I say anything when the action was repeated; I just moved my feet to the floor, stood up and said it was time for me to go. He did another out-of-character act that I allowed - he hugged me. Again I did not protest the encroachment into my personal space.

My husband says I should have spoken up immediately and let this man know his actions were most inappropriate, but I did not. I said it was because I didn’t want to be rude nor did I want to make him feel bad.

This, I know and my husband has made loud and clear, is a problem of mine.

You’d think at my age I would have developed the skill to assert myself by now. I am assertive in many other aspects of my life; just try and mess with my family and see what happens,

but to stand up for myself has always been a challenge. The above-mentioned scenario has happened over and over in my life and I can say that I can recall perhaps only a couple of times where I have stopped a man from going too far, but never have I vocally (or better yet physically) expressed the outrage I should have.

Is my reaction common in women? Is it a result of childhood abuse or conditioning? Whatever the reason, one time I set out to try and develop an appropriate reaction to such inappropriate advances.

When I was a university student I experienced an incident that caused me to question my ability to be a good role model for my daughters. I allowed myself to be in a situation that while it was happening I knew should be stopped, yet I didn’t want to make a scene so I instead removed myself from the situation as soon as possible. Once on my own I scolded myself for being so gullible and not wanting to confront the man who made me so uncomfortable.

I went to classes later that day and headed to the Women’s Center on campus. I asked if there were programs available to help women become more assertive and when they said there was not, I asked if I could start one.

For that entire semester I facilitated group meetings with women who felt as I did, that they needed to be more assertive in their lives. It was a wonderful program and one that I am proud of.

However, the lessons learned have been all but forgotten, as is evidenced by my most recent encounter. It’s hard to admit these failing in myself, especially as my husband said, I present myself as being so empowered and strong. Why do I allow my feelings to be placed aside in order not to hurt the feelings of a man I have no obligation to protect?

My good friend Celeste is someone whom I have admired for her ability to be outraged. She told me a story once about being in a drive through and the person in the car behind her began to honk their horn in impatience. As they became increasingly rude, she reached down below her seat and pulled out a crowbar. She got out of the car and headed to the one behind her. Apologies came fast and furious from the occupant and without a word Celeste had stood up for herself. I often think about that and wish I could think in the moment on how to act.

Maybe I need to start holstering a crowbar....

....

Fifty-Four and Counting

2011-09-22T10:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday...................

Today.......

And in between a whole lot of:

Laughter

Loss

Loving

Dances danced

Babies born

Friendships nurtured

Foods enjoyed

Gardens planted

Journeys made

Heart singing

Heart conditioning

Heart breaking

Stories watched

Stories written

Stories yet to be made

My past

My present

My future

My life

It has been, is, and will continue to be…

Amazing.

Fall Colors and My Autumn Blues

2011-09-07T09:24:00.000-07:00

It’s September and right from the very first day of the month, the air feels different with a change in temperature. While this is my most favorite time of year, I find the coming season brings with it something unwanted.

Every fall for the last several years I have experienced a depression that I now anticipate in the hopes I can ward it off. For a while I didn’t associate the blue/black feelings with the coming of autumn, but then I began to pay attention to their impact on me and made the connection. I have been successful in turning my mood around, but I can feel, right in the back of my mind, the looming possibility of a full-blown depression, expressed often in curse words spewing from my mouth over the littlest thing, the nit-picking of character flaws of everyone around me (my poor husband generally receives the brunt of this), and beating myself up over perceived inadequacies. While I am much better now that I am aware of the problem, there were times when I would drive my car someplace secluded where I could have a good, hard cry; the ugly kind where you lose your breath and feel that your world is coming apart at the very seams.

I self-analyzed these episodes and concluded that my depression is most likely a compilation of several factors.

The summers are always hard on me in the desert. I struggle to keep the flowers, trees and vegetables I’ve planted from succumbing to the intense heat.

Our property just after we moved in, 2005

I rarely get any produce during those hot months, whereas in the other areas I’ve lived, New York and California, produce is in abundance from a backyard garden, roadside stands and hiking ventures.

I also had trouble dealing with the heat as I went through the “hot” phases of menopause. Thankfully, I’m on the other side of that change of life so my skin doesn’t feel like it’s on fire anymore.

When I was young, growing up in New York, I was always outside. I witnessed the trees changing colors, felt the cold temperature on my face while I inhaled the smells of autumn and heard the crunching of leaves under my feet. I miss that more than anything because it doesn’t happen in Las Vegas. There are no pumpkin patches or harvest festivals, no place to go and buy a basket of apples or get some fresh-pressed cider. This longing plays a big role in my autumn blues.

Another reason might be more deeply rooted in what the month of October signifies for me; that’s the month my parents died (October - In Memoriam). Ever since I was little my grandmother acknowledged my mother’s birthday (October 2) and her death day (October 17). We went to her grave and lay flowers for her.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I recognized my father’s death date of October 26; his name and an acknowledgement of his death did not occur in our house during my childhood.

Since October is now Domestic Violence Awareness Month, it is impossible for me to ignore the connections.

Since I have become self-aware of my propensity for depression in the fall, I have taken steps to prevent it overcoming me. I have educated myself on how to create and maintain fruitful gardens even in this desert environment.

One section of my garden today

I try and visit places that expose me to the autumn experience: two years ago it was Oregon,

last year my hometown in New York;

although this is tricky as I return to my Las Vegas home heavy-hearted leaving it all behind me. But, I focus on the positives, which works to balance it all out for me. And when I find myself spinning negative thoughts in my head or swearing at something silly, I reprimand myself and focus on the blessings I am so fortunate to have in my life.

I feel it is important to allow yourself to go through the many phases and feelings that this journey in life has to offer. I also feel it is very important to look closely at yourself to discover what makes you tick, and that includes looking deep within to find out how you can be the best that you can be. I may not be exactly where I want to be at times, but I know that the power is within me to create my own happiness, no matter where I am or what time of year it is.

I seems to be working for me.

Celebrities Might Be Selling It, But I'm Not Buying

2011-09-02T11:01:00.000-07:00

Have your shopping habits changed much since the economy took a nose dive? Do you still drive as often and as far as you used to, or is gas usage been reserved for work and no play? While my household is well aware of the money crunch, we haven’t suffered too much as we have pretty much lived a frugal lifestyle, a habit instilled in me from my upbringing and out of necessity, but most of all because I don’t like, excuse the pun, buying into commercialism; which is why I wish I could institute a boycott of celebrity-driven marketing tactics.

When I see mega-millionaires on commercials or in print ads urging consumers to buy everything from hair product to diet aids, I get really pissed. Like Eva Longoria buys mascara or hair color off the shelf at WalMart. Especially in this economy when people are struggling to feed their families and keep creditors at bay, celebrities are raking in even more money reaching out to those gullible enough to believe that if works for Kim Kardashian, it will work for them.

I applaud those in London that pulled advertising with airbrushed images of actress Julia Roberts and model Christy Turlington (see L'Oreal rapped for airbrushed...) and praise Dove for placing women with curves in their marketing campaigns.

Am I just a disgruntled middle-age woman or does anyone agree with me? Do you, on principle, avoid buying products hawked by celebrities? If so, where are you finding them because everything it seems has a name and a face to it. Maybe it’s time to find and buy our products from independent companies and send the message to corporations that we just aren’t “buying” their propaganda anymore.

Anyone with me?

A Woman's Fight, A Woman's Grace

2011-08-24T20:38:00.000-07:00

“I once was lost, but now I’m found.” Those are the words from one of my very favorite songs, Amazing Grace. I don’t identify so much with the song on a personal level; rather I just love the words and the music of it. However, the song, worded somewhat differently, holds a greater meaning for me as it applies to one of my children.

My youngest daughter, Adrian, came out of the womb stubborn and with a mind of her own.

Adrian knows what she wants, goes for it, and if mistakes happen, she chalks it up to life experience and learns from it. She’s a lot like her mom in that way. In my case, I really had no mother to turn to in times of indecision and crisis; I turned to my friends who were the greatest support system and saw me through.

For Adrian, for better or for worse, she has had a mom in her life that paid very close attention to the path she walked and made a lot of noise when it was clear she was headed in the wrong direction. That has caused some strife in our relationship from time to time, but in the long run it has made her and I extremely close. The reason is because no matter what decisions she made, and some have cost her great heartache and radically changed the life she might have led, she knew I was there for her. That’s what a mom does and Adrian knows that better than ever now because she, too, is a mom.

Adrian is in the fight of her life. She made some choices that have resulted in a battle over the custody of her youngest son, 15 month old Noble. What was one of the choice she made? To leave a relationship that was toxic, abusive, frightening, and unhealthy.

When Adrian was in this relationship I feared for her and for my beloved Aiden. I feared with all of my heart that she was lost to me; she was confused about what the definition of “love” is – love is not painful, nor scary, nor hurtful. She accepted this for a while until something inside of her demanded she survive, and she did. That’s why I am so drawn to the song, “…once was lost but now am found.” When she was pregnant she found the courage to leave and for that I have never been prouder of her.

Her life is far from easy right now, but she is going to see this through and come out the winner. No matter the cost financially, no matter the years it may take, Adrian, along with the help of a wide-reaching support of family and friends, will survive. After all she did it once, and she has the most important reason to do so – her sons.

I have hesitated about sharing this story up to now for several reasons. One, it’s not my story to tell. However, I have my daughter’s blessing to do so. Second, I know that the man who is out to destroy her life because she dared to leave him reads this blog looking for anything he might use against her. But now I feel it appropriate, and necessary, to get some of this stress off of my chest and I have always found relief in writing.

I have also, like before, found an amazing support system; this time among my blog friends and followers and frankly, right now, I can use all they can spare.

If my story and that of my brave, hard-working daughter can help anyone who finds themselves in a similar situation, then my sharing will be repaid tenfold. If anyone in the blog-reading world has advice or resources they feel can help Adrian, I welcome their suggestions and thank them with all of my heart.

Here is to the fierceness and tenderness of women everywhere.

For more information on domestic abuse and the help that is there for women in an abusive relationship, please go to Domestic Violence.Org

Who's Lucky?

2011-08-18T18:01:00.000-07:00

I have been fortunate to have had many loves in my life, of the four-legged kind. Dogs have played a central role in every year I’ve lived, from small to large, I can’t recall a time when I haven’t been in the company of a dog.

My father owned dogs, German Shepards, and my aunt, his sister, claims he owned the first white German Shepard in the area where we lived. The first dog I can recall from childhood was Princess, a Border Collie, and since her I’ve owned that breed time and again. I can recall every single dog I’ve had the privilege of knowing.

"Peanut," my first all-mine dog. We played hide 'n seek with the mailbox.

I got "Babe" right after arriving in California.
He was lost on the wedding night to my first husband - an omen, maybe?

"Bo" was the first dog John (my second husband) and I loved and lost together.

"Tiffany" and "Dusty"

"Cochise" the dog that broke our hearts when it was his time

"Ivy"

To date, there are four that make their home with me and my husband:

Maya, a Mini-Pincher/Shitzu mix at 6 weeks

Grubb, a funny-looking Jack Russell

Candy, Pit Bull

and

Lucky, breed unknown.

It’s Lucky that I’m going to write about as today is our Lucky Anniversary.

One year ago today he came into my life. I wrote about his rescue in a two-part blog: Animal Heaven I & II. I wanted to provide an update on the year of Lucky.

Generally, young dogs are hyper and destructive, requiring a great deal of training and vigilance to keep them out of trouble. While Lucky is a healthy and active dog, there is a calmness to him that is usually found in older dogs. As I write this he sits to the side of my chair, his preferred spot whenever I’m working at the computer. Once he figured out that he was indeed big enough to jump, he found his way onto our bed and enjoys snoozing curled up by my side.

I have enjoyed watching his growth and development (within three months he went from 7 lbs. to 35 lbs!) and marveled at his unique personality. I love this dog.

When we first got him I had every intention of placing him in a new home. At the time we already had four dogs (Zeke has since been put down)

"Zeke"

and another was just not in my plans. I tried to find a home for him: friends, Facebook appeals, the local animal societies, but in the end I knew he was destined to be with us. I could still hear my grandson, Aiden, saying, “Nana, we should name him Lucky because he was lucky we found him,” so how could I let him go?

Aiden and his pal, Lucky, September, 2010

The thing is, every time I look at him, my heart breaks just a little more. Why? Because I worry about all the dogs, especially his litter mates, that I can’t save. When I look into Lucky’s eyes I see that desperate plea that was there when I plucked him, all flea, tick and worm infested, starving and dehydrated, and know there are so many more out there just like him.

I know I can't save them all, but it's a hard reality to accept.

His name is Lucky, but the truth is, I'm the Lucky One.

Bedtime (yep, there are two humans under those covers!)

(Borrowed from the winerackstore.com website)

Journey's End - for this summer, at least

2011-08-11T00:02:00.000-07:00

Well, this year’s journey with Aiden has come to an end, or nearly so, as tomorrow we will be back in Las Vegas. I sit in a hotel room in Fallon, Nevada, several hours from our final destination; Aiden is fast asleep with two dogs (secreted into the room) curled up around him. Why is it that a week can pass by in the blink of an eye? It’s true - time flies when fun is happening.

Visiting with friends in Atascadero and Berkeley, California was mainly for my benefit, but I know Aiden had a wonderful time, as well. My friends were impressed by him – “He’s so handsome,” they gushed. John enjoyed having a little boy around and Joe and Sue loved showing him the “Bay Trail.” But for Aiden, the true adventure and place to be was with Uncle Nigel in Oregon.

Together they joked, squirted one another with water guns, fished from a boat (Aiden caught six and put two in the family pond), had coffee and hot chocolate together at Coffee Heaven, dug dirt with a backhoe, and built a fort. Everything a little (and big) boy should do in the summer and crammed into four days! It was magic to watch and I love the memories he made.

Back to reality and soon both Aiden and I are back in school. I am grateful for the safe journey we had and for the friends whose hospitality was so generously given. I am looking forward to taking Rain and Noble on their own road trips someday soon.

Enjoy the photos from our road trip:

Forever Friends

2011-08-06T16:51:00.000-07:00

It used to really hurt me that I lost the friendship of people I considered lifelong friends. There is the one who accused me of “attacking” her when I expressed my deep concern at her anorexic condition and completely cut me out of her life; then the one who dropped me because I had to say I can no longer care for her cats and they would need to be placed elsewhere. An aunt of mine, one of the people I was closest to on the planet, stopped talking to me two years ago because I commented that I was sad as a child I was prevented from knowing my father’s family (see my post What Price Those Words).

The loss of these individuals in my life has been a great lesson for me, but one that evolved from “Maybe I shouldn’t have said or done something” to “It’s their loss, not mine.” Not that I believe my friendship is so special that the loss of it is so great; rather I feel sorry that the bitterness they carry around with them prevents them from experiencing what I have with so many true friends: an unconditional (See Breakable Unbreakable Bonds), lifelong connection that means the world to me.

I thought of this as I sat at the kitchen table Wednesday catching up with Cyndi, my college-day friend. This visit came after a nine-year gap. You know how it is, we move on with our lives, which often take us to different places. I left California for Las Vegas; Cyndi to central California. We lose touch for a while but when we reconnect we fall right back into a great place of friendship. When we are together, it is as if we are those young, idealistic nineteen-year-olds again; like to no time had passed at all between us. It is the most special, wonderful thing to be able to sit across from a friend whom I’ve known since before our lives were truly started. We are both in the menopause years, yet, we recalled our lives before it all unfolded.

August 1979, Santa Monica, CA

My friend Cyndi married the most interesting and loving man, twenty-plus years her senior. His name is John and he and I happen to share the same birthday. (On a side note, John also happens to be the subject of a book, the bestselling docu-novel written by Gay Talese called, Thy Neighbor’s Wife).

John, Cyndi, and Sienna at home

Being with Cyndi reminds me of two things: that a true friend never abandons another and that love and friendship, if it is real, is unconditional and everlasting.

Yes, it hurt to lose those that felt my friendship wasn’t worth repairing after a perceived slight, but I am so loved by others that it makes up for it.

A Grandma and Grandson Take to the Road

2011-08-03T08:37:00.000-07:00

“Aiden, exactly one month ago you turned 9 years old!”

That’s what I told my grandson as he swam in the hotel pool last night. We are on another Nana-Grandson road trip and today’s destination is Atascadero, California. There I will be visiting Cyndi, my college friend and her husband, John. It’s been a few years since we’ve seen one another so I am really looking forward to the visit.

This is the third road trip I’ve taken with Aiden. Two years ago we attempted to drive to my hometown in New York. We made it just across the Kansas-Missouri border and then turned around. Read about the reasons for that aborted journey at New York a Bust.

Last year we went to Oregon, where we are headed this time around. The drive home last year nearly did me in (I did the whole drive at one shot), so this year Aiden and I are taking the drive in small, do-able chunks.

Making these memories with Aiden is one of the things I really look forward to. The two of us surprisingly have a great deal in common and a lot to talk about together, even though there’s over forty years age difference between us. So far, he’s not found quality time with Nana to be an obligation but an adventure.

I’m sure when the teenage years hit, that will all change. But for now, I’m soaking it all in and making our time together full of adventure.

Stay tuned for more updates from the road.

Call Me Chatty Cathy

2011-07-23T16:00:00.000-07:00

You know those people who you are barely aquainted with that feel the need to tell you their whole life story? Ask a simple question and those people go on and on chronicling their entire existence without taking a single breath.

Ever meet someone like that? Well, now you have.

I am one of those people!

My daughters would get so annoyed at me out in public when I would just talk to anybody about anything.

A young woman is interning with me on several projects. She is a non-talker,

which for someone like me is excruciating to be around. I have to fill in all the silent moments with incessant conversation.

Today, my neighbor asked a simple, mundane question and by the time I made myself stop talking, I’d shared with him about three pretty personal life stories.

I’ve been this way my entire life. I always got in trouble in school for talking too much.

My grandmother, worried about my husky, raspy voice and throat cancer took me to a specialist all the way in Buffalo. I’m sure it cost a lot of money. I know she had to take a day off of work for the appointment.

After the examination the doctor called my grandmother and me into his office and gave her the diagnosis.

“She talks too much.”

Rather than be mad at me for the waste of time and money, my grandmother laughed all the way home.

I know when I’m doing, too. There’s a little person inside my head that tells me so but by that time I’m already in the middle of my exposé and I think it would be rude to stop. I really wonder what is going through the mind of my trapped victim as their eyes glaze over and they probably think, “All I asked her was, ‘how’s it going?’”

Yes, I’m one of those people that if you know their tendency you try to avoid at all cost. And that’s just when I’m sober. Imagine sitting with me over a bottle of good wine……………….

I love My Blogging Friends

2011-07-20T16:04:00.000-07:00

The blogging world is just the place for me - I have established friendships with people I have never met, who are my counterparts because we love to write and to share with the outside world. Each of us recognizes the effort it takes to maintain a blog and once in awhile we acknowledge that we just need to have a little fun. My blogging buddy, Just Stuff From a Boomer, has honored me with a mention in her blog and given me material for today's post.

The game is fun - I am to share seven random facts about myself and then pass the game on to five other bloggers. So, let's see what I come up with!

1. I have a secret desire to start walking and never stop and see where my feet take me. I am hungry for the adventure of the unknown: places to see and people to meet.

2. As much as I love the efficiency and swiftness of email, I love to receive U.S. Postal mail, especially when a package arrives!

3. No matter how hard I try to be organized, I can't seem to stop making messy piles or leaving cupboard doors open.

4. I have seen the miniseries, Lonesome Dove, at least 50 times. I'm in love with Gus McCrae, Robert Duvall's character and I wish I could meet him to tell him.

6. I will only write with a fat pen.

7. Sometimes I think I want to be famous but other times I am so embarassed to be recognized for doing something important.

There. My seven required facts. Now, Just Stuff asked some other questions that I'd like to answer:

Do you always sleep on the same side of the bed? Not just at home, but in hotels, when you rearrange furniture,etc. I am not that consistent! However, I do need to fall asleep on my left side.

Can the food on your plate touch? Yes, not a problem for me. In fact, I like to mix because flavors are enhanced.

My favorite soda, when I drink it is Vernor's Ginger Ale - nothing better!

Do you shut the bathroom door when no one is home? Nope. Too much trouble. And speaking of trouble, if I don't and my husband is in earshot I get into lots of it. He hates the sound of tinkling water.

Now, to pass the honor on and hope those I list will play the game as well.

Sweet Tea

Mystical Journeys

Apparent Parent

Middle Age Ramblings

This Stop Willoughby

Please stop by these wonderful blogs and share your thoughts. This writing business is a lonely one at times, but thank goodness for cyber-friends.

Jaycee's Lighting the Way

2011-07-12T19:14:00.000-07:00

I am only on page 58 of Jaycee Dugard’s just released book, “A Stolen Life.”

What was it about this story that made me head to Barnes & Noble shortly after it opened, pluck down twenty-plus dollars and crack the spine the minute I got home? Just reading the introduction caused me anxiety; then the description of the moment she was stolen was too much and I had to put the book down to collect myself. Hours later I tackled it again, only to feel such an overwhelming sense of anxiety and outrage, I had to stop.

Why do I need to read this tale when I refuse to watch television news or read beyond the sensational headlines of newspapers? Why subject myself to what I am pretty sure will be a sleepless night as I ponder what that brave, innocent, frightened child endured? Why? Because her story matters, and because her bravery in telling it deserves to be acknowledged. And, most of all, because of what she is saying, in all of its gory detail, will shine the light on a practice that has happened to countless little girls and boys the world over; not in as horrific a fashion, but so much so that no child is safe from the predators out there.

I know I wasn’t.

When I began this blog two years ago I set out to tell my story. Over the course of that time I have shared many, some poignantly revealing, some funny, all of them sharing with my readers the journey I’ve taken to survive a life filled with trauma and loss. On one occasion I attempted to write about my own experience with sexual abuse. I titled it “The House on Kraus.” I posted the blog but after less than an hour, I removed it. I saw that in that span of time, one person had accessed the story and that was one more than I was comfortable with.

For all of my ability to reveal the heartache and pain I experienced at the loss of my parents when I was a year old, there was this one story I was unable to tell. I know it’s because I feel shame. I know it’s because to tell the story right, I need to tell it in detail and I just can’t do it. To tell the story I would have to unlock feelings that I have shoved deep down inside of me, telling myself that sexual abuse of that young girl that was me is nothing compared to the bigger story of my life.

But I know I don’t really believe that. I know because when my girls were little, I never let them out of my sight. I know because I have a warped draw sometimes to sexual fantasies that revisit those moments with my abusers. I know because Jaycee Dugard’s story has tapped into something inside of me that has awakened what happened to me over forty years ago. I know because I want to castrate Jaycee’s abuser and every other one I see reported on in the news.

I will continue to read Jaycee’s story. Just as it was difficult for her write it: “I want to not be afraid of letting people know what really happened to me all those long years ago.” “When I was first found I was adamant that there would be no book, no one would ever know what happened” (pg. 49), it will be difficult for me to read her words.

Jaycee, you will be heard. You will be seen, after not being seen for eighteen years. And, sweetheart, if you are able to give me and so many others an ounce of the courage you possess, we can finally, once and for all, expose these monsters and banish them forever. After reading your book, perhaps I, too, can release the feelings of shame and begin to tell my own story.

Mammo Mia

2011-07-05T10:18:00.000-07:00

Mamma mia! My mammogram chronicles continue.........

Went in last Friday for the follow-up on the questionable screening I had two weeks before (I See One Hundred In My Horizon). The first thing on the agenda was what they call a "spot compression," a more detailed look at the area of the breast where density had changed from a screening in 2008. Spot compression means just that - they need a much closer look at a particular spot deep within the breast tissue and they must compress the breast to do that. I've written about the squish experience before (Boob Job and Pink Ribbon Day) but, oh, boy, this was worse. No breathing or moving allowed, just grimace and bear it. That done, I was escorted to the ultrasound room.

The technician was nice and allowed me to ask as many questions as I wanted.

"What do you see?"

"How can you tell the difference between nothing and cancer?"

"What's that black spot?" "How do you know it's a fluid-filled cyst?"

"How do you handle it when you see someone's scan and it's obviously cancer?"

"Does mine look okay?"

To all of those questions I was given professional, truthful answers, which I so much appreciated. Her words convinced me in the wisdom of screening and the power of knowledge.

I have two very dear over-fifty friends, both of them highly intelligent and worldly: one has spent decades in therapy working on her mental stability, the other decades working in the heath care field as a nurse, yet. they are both woefully lax in caring for their physical well-being. Neither one has had a colonoscopy, a simple, albeit semi-uncomfortable procedure that is HIGHLY effective in catching colon-cancer early on. Colon cancer is HIGHLY fatal if allowed to progress unchecked. They both need to heed my persistent nagging and get screened NOW.

Asking questions, just as I did, is another way we can protect ourselves, as well.

The tech shared a story of a 40-something woman who came in and upon getting her ultrasound, it was painfully clear to the technician that cancer was looming in her breast tissue. Her job is not to tell the patient the news, all she can do is say, "Your doctor will be in touch."

Six months later the same woman returned and upon another examination it showed her cancer had spread considerably. When asked why she had not been in to see her doctor, the woman replied, "No one called me." The tech never saw the woman again, however, from the advanced stage of the cancer in the second screening, she did not feel optimistic about that young woman's outcome.

The lesson in these two examples, at least from my perspective, is to be proactive: don’t shy away from unpleasantness, take advantage of the medical opportunities we have that can keep us health AND ask questions and demand answers that satisfy you.

As for the tech’s answer to my last question, “How does mine look?”, she said “Good.” As wonderful and professional as she was, and I thank her for her care of me, I will follow up on my own and MAKE SURE that everything is good.

That’s my responsibility to myself and it’s one I take very seriously. I hope YOU will, too.
I've asked the ultrasound technician to be a guest contributor to this blog, providing the health care professional's perspective on cancer screening, so look for that post in the near future.

To Aiden, With Love

2011-07-01T16:28:00.000-07:00

Each of us parents want our kids to have what we did not, to live a little bit better lives than the ones we experienced; to not make the same mistakes or travel the same rough roads we did. I recall so clearly when I had to accept that my daughters would travel their own paths, make their own way in this world, including repeating mistakes I made or experiences I wish I’d avoided. It began when my youngest daughter said to me, “I’m pregnant.”

She was too young. She had not planned for this, and the father of the baby was as immature in mind and life experience as she was. It took her awhile to tell me. She assumed I would - what? Disown her? Abandon her? While this was the LAST thing I wanted for her at that time in her life, I could not, would not treat her differently than I had her whole life – she would have my love, support, and whatever else she needed.

I allowed her to make her own choice and when she said, “Mom, if I did anything to stop this pregnancy I could not look at myself in the mirror, I said, Okay then, we’ll make this work.”

That was nine years ago.

I wasn’t there for the birth of my first grandchild. I had been given an amazing opportunity to work in Yosemite for the summer and wouldn’t you know the day after I left to report to work, my daughter went into labor. But I believe in the power of the Universe and this experience solidified my faith in Its wisdom.

My best friend since the age of 9, Nancy, is the godmother to both my girls.

She and her husband decided long ago that they would not have children, so Erin and Adrian became hers by extension. Nancy has always been there for me no matter what the circumstance and when I called upon her to take my place at Adrian’s side, she readily agreed. This would be the first time she witnessed a birth. She was amazing and although I felt I was missing a beautiful moment, I was so grateful Nancy could be there and so happy for her to have this experience.

I was on the phone the whole time Adrian was in labor. We knew it was a boy, knew what his name would be. I could not be there in person, but I was able to be there in spirit.

On his birth day I purchased a book from the Yosemite National Park bookstore. I made my first entry and this is what I wrote:

Since that day I have come to know this little boy who is, along with his new brother, Noble and his little cousin, Rain, the greatest joy of my life. Aiden is funny like his mother. He is tender, yet shows his protective side when necessary; he would (and says so) defend his mother, his brother, and me to any “bad guy that would dare try.” Aiden is very much like his mother; he doesn’t want to be told what to do, rather he wants to make his own way in this world, and that includes any mistakes that he has to make in order to learn from them.

I have been there to mark his birth day ever since I missed the first one. I have had the privilege to watch him become an amazing little man. I am so grateful that I am here to know him.

And that little book that I started writing in nine years ago? It is filled with my words and those of many others that have had the good fortune to know Aiden. He will know that from the very moment of his birth he was cherished by me and many others.

Happy Birthday Aiden. Thank you for teaching me that there are no mistakes in this world. You were my very first lesson in that.

And if any of my readers wish to, I invite you to send a submission to Aiden’s Book.

I will print them out and add them to it.

Newborn Aiden

Mother and son

I look just like my daddy!

Aunt Nancy

Fun with Nana

Welcoming baby brother

Two boys tired after play

Cousins

Holding a Mammoth tooth fossil

Waiting Room

2011-06-27T11:41:00.000-07:00

Guess I'll have to get used to waiting.

Went to the appointment with my doctor so she could tell me why my recent mammogram has had me summoned. I had a pretty busy weekend so didn't have much of a chance to ponder the possibilities and listening to a book on tape driving to the appointment kept me occupied. Once in the waiting room and then the consultation room, my tummy started that churning I get whenever I have to do a public speech or take a test I dread. My doctor, Martha Drohobyczer, is wonderful; hence she is very busy. So, it took her awhile to get to me. When she does, she is always thorough and spends as much time with you as needed.

What she said is that a dense area on my left breast had changed from a 2008 examination. It needs to be checked out. So, another five days from now I will have a more extensive (more radiation is how Martha explained it) mammogram, as well as an ultrasound.

“Ninety percent of these follow-ups turn out just fine,” my doctor assured me. “We just want the report to come back clear.”

Sounds good to me.

But, I will have more waiting to do.

I have the mammogram film copies I asked for from my recent exam so I am going to check them out and see if I can find what alerted them.

In the meantime, I have a very busy life to attend to so there won’t be much room for worry.

But for a person like me, waiting is excruciating! I just want to know what I’m dealing with so I can do just that – deal with it.

I felt such a connection with women these past days and hours, knowing that the phone call flagging me that all was not right is a call none of us wants to receive. Waiting for the doctor to tell us her concerns is another event we hope to avoid. While each of us has to endure the fears all alone in our minds, it is comforting to know that we all share something and that in reality, none of us is alone. Not when it comes to the thought we will be taken from our families too soon. That knowledge gives me much comfort. And I plan on being one of the ninety percent – a rank I will share with many others.

I See One Hundred On My Horizon - Damnit!

2011-06-25T07:02:00.000-07:00

The phone call comes in the middle of just another regular day. My husband and I were having a mundane conversation when my cell rang. Caller I.D. shows it’s the doctor’s office. In those split second thoughts that your mind has the capability of processing, this is what went through my mind: Are they calling to confirm an appointment? No, I just had one. Oh, they are just calling to say (as they have many times before), “Your mammogram results are it. Everything looks good.”

But that’s not what the doctor’s receptionist said. Instead, it was “The doctor wants you to come in to discuss the results.”

That certainly changed the tone of the day.

Why can’t they alleviate all worry and just tell you over the phone what they want to say, for cripe’s sake? Instead I have to wait five days for an appointment to open up.

Of course I tell myself that it’s nothing. I tell my husband that, too. And my best friend. I don’t want to tell my children; why worry them for nothing? But my mind, that amazing internal computer that is capable of split second processing won’t let me stick with just the positive thoughts.

No, it takes me to all the possibilities. Makes me think about the what-ifs?

I don’t want my children to have to face something scary.
Who would take care of my dogs?
Chemo scares the living you-know-what out of me.
Why not me? Why would I be so special not to have this happen to me?
I’m not ready to go anywhere.
I want to live to be one hundred – a healthy 100.

I filled the weekend with lots of activity, time with the kids – no time to think. Not until all is quiet and I’m supposed to be sleeping. That’s why I had to write about it because my therapy has always been to get it out of the head so it can’t fester.

Today is Saturday. I’ll be back home on Monday and at the doctor’s office at 10 A.M.

It’s going to be just fine.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

I wonder if this is what every woman goes through when the phone rings with this kind of news.

The Greatest Gift This Father's Day? Forgiveness.

2011-06-18T10:39:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is Father’s Day. On Facebook lots of my Friends are putting up pictures of their fathers, sending a message to all of their Friends to post a photo of their own to share with everyone what their father means to them. In the past I have posted a photograph of my father, Joseph Gioia, as my profile picture.

This year, even though the prompts from my FB Friends have me considering doing so again this year, I hesitate. Why?

Lately I have been working on a project that involves going through family photographs and home movies. I am putting together a compilation of these in the hopes of creating a documentary film. Working with a filmmaker I have finally committed to finishing this project, which I literally started over thirty years ago. However, the process has made me do some deep thinking and I am struggling with emotions that are difficult to face. Mainly, I am finally facing the feelings I have for my father.

No matter what my research has turned up: that my father was a man with flaws, a man who loved his family and did his best to give them everything that his station in life could afford, I see him as the man who destroyed us. Growing up, I was given the impression he was somewhat of a monster; a controlling husband who lost ultimate control one fateful night and took the life of his wife. To avoid paying the ultimate price himself, quite possibly the electric chair, he took the coward’s way out and killed himself.

That’s the story I always knew until I sought answers myself.

What I discovered is that his actions, while not ever, ever justified, were spurred by events that tested his manhood, fatherhood, and self-preservation. He was raised in a culture where the man’s honor must reign. He feared the loss of what he held most dear. The spark that smoldered in him was fueled by alcohol. All of these factors contributed to the night he lost his control and pulled a trigger, forever changing the lives of the Joseph Gioia family of Batavia, New York.

While I can only guess as to his thoughts after he realized what he had done, I know from my research that he was despondent and I would surmise sorry to the depths of his soul. I believe he killed himself mostly because he thought he deserved it and that his family, mainly his four children, would be better off without a convicted murderer to look up to.

Was he right? That is a question that plagues me.

If he were still on this earth, I could ask him the questions that haunt me.

What happened that night? Did you love our mom? Us? Are you sorry?

If he were still with us I would be able to look upon his face in real time, not gaze longingly at it on a television screen looking for signs that we are related. I would be able to hear his voice, not wonder if the sound that comes out of my brothers matches that of his. Most of all, I would not, and this is a difficult confession to make, feel a connection to older Italian men; strangers who by virtue of their look and surname draw me to them, not in a sexual way, but in search of a paternal bond, one of which I have never experienced.

So, this Father’s Day, rather than play the game all of my Facebook Friends are playing, honoring their dads with a picture of past, happy times, I will honor my father in a different way. As I splice together the photos and film footage of our family during happy times,

I will try and find the compassion within me to forgive him. I should like to honor him by sharing the truth that I found out about him and our mother: that humans are fallible, and even though parents are never supposed to disappoint us, sometimes it happens.

If I had the miraculous opportunity to speak to my father, I would thank him for giving me life, for providing my brothers with memories both sweet and bitter (at least they have memories), and for his love of photography and filmmaking. Without the last I would not have any images or evidence of my intact family prior to it being lost forever.

Pink Ribbon Day

2011-06-15T13:52:00.000-07:00

Well, it was that time of year again - my yearly check-up at the mammographers. So, I thought I'd repost my experience from a year ago because it was pretty much the same. This time, however, I had a "frontal" shot, what the tech called a cleavage view because, according to her, "you're too big for this room."

Huh?

I believe she meant my, err, breast size would have been better served in a room with a machine that could handle it. Now that's a comment I'll treasure.

Having the procedure was just as uncomfortable as always: squish here, squash there; "DON'T BREATHE!" After it was all done she showed me the images. Interesting. So interesting I asked if I could have copies and she had them made for me. So, now in my old age, when the balloons have deflated I can pull out the scans and say, "Those were the days!"

Reminder to all of my female friends and followers - Please get your mammogram done. As uncomfortable as the experience is, the alternative is much, much worse. So please, make your appointment today.

This post is dedicated to my late sister-in-law
Sharon Mitchell Gioia

August 8, 1959 - August 4, 2006

BOOB JOB - ANOTHER YEAR, ANOTHER MAMMOGRAM

Posted June 15, 2010

They can put a man on the moon…………..right? We’ve heard that cliché numerous times when we wish for some new breakthrough in technology that will make our lives easier, but for Cripe’s sake, can’t they make getting mammograms easier?????????

Yesterday was my dreaded yearly appointment. I don’t usually have too much trouble but this time it was a pain in the boobs! Men just have no idea the indignities women have to put up with to maintain a healthy body. I won’t go into the stirrups and the foot-long Q-tip used to check the nether regions; today it’s all about the squish-machine. Try taking my considerable breast flesh and making it as flat as a Sicilian pizza! Not a pretty picture and a painful, and if I had any shame, humiliating experience to boot.

First, you walk into the room with all your own clothes on except the cute little pink hospital-type top they give you. “Take it off,” the attendant says.

“Off completely?” I ask like I don’t know – I’ve done this enough. But the feeling is awkward just the same. I tried to be cute and hummed the stripper’s song as I disrobed but my new soon-to-be-intimate friend replied, “We don’t need the dance, honey, it’s no big deal.”

Next it’s time to step up to the plate – literally. The machine has these transparent plates that can be set at different angles: flat and sideways. You are told to get close, really close and then the kindly woman hefts your breast and lays it upon the serving platter.

You lose all sense of shame here as she manipulates your boob like it’s a roll of dough ready for kneading.

It’s pushed this way and that, getting it into position and THEN the top plate makes its way down, down, down until it cannot go any further. YIKES. For someone like me, someone whose OB-GYN doctor once described her as having “large, pendulous breasts” (I was as traumatized by that description of me as I was when, in high school, someone described me as “spastic”) this is not a pleasant experience. Although I can’t imagine it any easier or less-painful for an A-cup woman, as one of my blessedly-smaller-breasted friends once shared, because the plates just scrap down on the chest trying to gather some flesh to squish.

Anyhow, once the two plates are in place with my boob looking like Madonna donning those cone breasts she used to wear in her act, the attendants rush to safe cover so they can zap me. “Don’t breathe, don’t breathe,” I’m told. “ZZZZZZZZ (the sound of the radiation going off), then, “Okay, breathe and relax” and the plates are released. Whew! But, it’s not over yet! Remember, we got two of these puppies and they both need equal treatment. After the pancake squish it’s time for the sideways shot. This time when the plates come together my boob looks like an enormous pimple about to be popped; now isn’t that an even prettier image?

The whole process takes about fifteen minutes; that is if you don’t breathe or move while the X-ray is being taken and if the position of your boob on the plate is just right. I had to do one of the takes over again and by the time I was released my breasts looked like I’d been on my honeymoon – but without the fun memories.

I said to my new breast-friends, “I feel sorry for you having to touch strangers’ boobs all day long.” The response was, “I like this job much better than the one where I have to stick a probe up you-know-where.” I guess I would have to agree. Anyway, both of my mammogram technicians, Laurie and Lori, were wonderful; they joked with me, were as gentle as they could be given the technology they had to work with, and they had warm and soft hands – what more could I have asked for?

It will be another year before I have to have another exam. By then my breasts will be a little bit lower due to gravitational pull and most likely a little heavier, too. If Laurie/Lori keep doing this kind of work they’ll never have to go to the gym to lift weights, they are getting plenty of bicep work on the job. In the meantime, I’ll nurse my girls with ice packs and thank them for staying healthy. And I’ll begrudgingly thank modern medicine for providing technology, no matter how cumbersome, because they are saving lives. But seriously, if we can put a man on the moon……………..

Have Food, Will Can

2011-06-09T22:40:00.000-07:00

Since I took a recent Master Canning class, one that would teach me how to preserve food by water bath or pressure cooker canning, I have been putting food up like the end of the world is happening next week.

My family and friends are looking at me like I’m manic or something. I don’t blame them; I have been a bit obsessed with it. For the past two weeks I’ve canned beets, cauliflower, meat, salsa, and jam. I can’t wait for more produce to be in season and in abundance. I told my husband he needs to dig me a root cellar because frankly, I don’t know where I’m going to store all this.

Why am I going through all this trouble when I could just as easily go to a wide variety of grocery stores within a mile radius of my house? It’s because I have to.

John and I hardly ever have meals together anymore. His work schedule is not conducive to family meal times as he usually is home well after the dinner hour. My kids aren’t home anymore so I don’t have the responsibility for cooking for them. I love to bake but cookies, homemade bread and pies aren’t good for my middle-aged waistline so I avoid that domestic task. The thing is I love to create in the kitchen. Check out Domestic Goodness and Making Memories in the Kitchen. If I can’t make meals or baked goods, I have to do something. And I love the idea of making foods that I know exactly what goes in and how fresh they are. Canning seems to be a perfect fit for me.

I come from people who created family life around food and the dining room table.

John and I watch the Tom Selleck show, Blue Bloods and every time their brood sits around their table for their regular Sunday meal, I cry.

I miss family meals so much! I don’t even have a dining room in my house; just a counter with four tall chairs. John and I, and even our occasional guests usually end up sitting at the coffee table to take our meals.

So, my creative, domestic outlet is being satisfied by making pretty things in glass jars.

If life gives you lemons (or your kids do because their backyard tree is full of them),

make lemonade – then can it!

So Long Oprah. Call Me!

2011-05-23T21:03:00.000-07:00

My time has run out to be a featured guest on the Oprah Winfrey Show.

I just know that if I had gotten up there on stage and told my story, Oprah would become a lifelong friend. Well, that's what I tell myself, anyway.

I do, however, have an Oprah story. I was this close to being a guest, but it didn't work out. Here's what happened.

Like everyone else I was, and still am, an Oprah show watcher. Some shows I am not interested in, some are so touching that I want to watch them over and over; and then there are those that frustrate me. It was the theme of one of these shows that prompted me to write a letter to the show. You know those reunion shows where long-lost family members are reunited? There's all the crying and hugging, not just from the principles on the show, but in the audience and in living rooms of those watching. I was one of the biggest criers, sobbing so hard when I watched those shows I'd feel sick and sad. Why? Because a reunion like those presented on the show would never, ever be something I could experience.

I long to meet my biological mom and dad. The void in my life that is a result of their deaths when I was just a baby is huge. I have no memory of them and the idea that I could somehow meet them and know them is a dream I can never realize.

As heart breaking as that part of my life is, I am so grateful for what I do have. I have a wonderful life filled with love that allows me to forget my loss. But, when I’d see those shows I would sob and feel sorry for myself. That’s what I wrote to Oprah.

That was in the early 1990s. One afternoon the phone rang and it was a producer from the Oprah Winfrey Show. I couldn’t believe it. The woman on the other line asked me lots of questions about my letter, my story, and then she invited me to be a guest on the show! Of course I said yes. I was flown to Chicago, picked up at the airport by one of those chauffeurs with a sign, and driven to Harpo Studios. There I was met by the producer who had contacted me.

There was a problem, she said. Instead of being just one of a few guests for the show the next day, they wanted to build a whole show around the theme of loss. They asked if I would be willing to come back for another taping. I would, of course, still be welcome to attend the next day’s taping. I said sure (who wouldn’t?) and was sent to my hotel where I was given the Royal treatment. Everything was taken care of: the room, meals (room service!), and let me tell you, this wasn’t Motel 6. I remember calling my husband and saying to him, “Rich IS better!”

The next day a driver picked me up, took me to the studio where I was escorted into the Green Room where I got to sit with and chat with the upcoming show guests. The only one I remember is Mary Pipher, the author of Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls. We chatted and I felt quite special. Once, the door opened and standing just outside was Oprah herself. She nodded at me and said, “Hello.” That was my Oprah moment.

When it was time to tape the show I got to sit right up front. I was just another audience member but I felt like I had a little secret; I was going to be a guest one day in the near future!

But, it never happened.

The producers wanted to bring my brother, Michael, to be a guest with me. At first, he was all for it. It was the beginning of his healing process. My brother, age eight when our parents died (Joey was six, Jimmy was four) was very much damaged by the tragedy. For a long time he could not talk about it. When the healing began, it was a very tenuous process. When it started to get close to the actual participation in being a guest on a nationally televised program where our past would be exposed for all the world, he backed down. “I have a family and I live in a small town,” he said. He just didn’t want to bring such a burden onto his family. I understood, but was disappointed.

So, my Oprah opportunity passed. I wonder if it had come to fruition what would have come of it? I know, because it’s Oprah and not Jerry Springer or Maury Povich, that it would not have been sensationalized, but it still would have been exposing.

I do feel that my story and that of my brothers would be powerful: one that describes how love of family and a will to see the good in life can overcome even the most devastating loss and heartbreak.

What’s making me cry these days? Watching Shania Twain tell her story on Oprah’s new television network, OWN. I see so much of my own story in many of these kinds of shows. I’ve always said that my story is just one of many that each and every one of us carries; some are tougher to bear than others but none is more or less painful than another’s because pain cuts deeply, no matter what the circumstances.

And who knows? Maybe my phone will ring yet and someone will say, “Hello? This is Oprah Winfrey calling………”

About Face

2011-05-20T14:24:00.000-07:00

My grandson Aiden, the cutest kid in the universe (that was until his brother and cousin made their appearance a year ago) is going through that awkward stage. His teeth are falling out and are being replaced by his adult set. His face is changing from that cute, pudgy kid to a freckle-faced boy.

He has the best wavy hair, yet, he insists his mother buzz-cut it.

When I look at him I am reminded of my own awkward childhood phases and remind myself that we all go through the ugly duck to swan stage.

Some of us transform naturally and some need a little help along the way. For me, I’m grateful for my peers, Susan Dey, and a beauty book whose title eludes me but I recall fondly as being my bible when I was a kid.

I really didn’t have anyone to turn to when it came to asking the questions a preteen kid needed answers to. My grandmother was old school and she didn’t believe in imparting wisdom on issues pertaining to vanity. Here are a few examples of what I mean:

During the 1970s, the era when feminism burst into our collective consciousnesses and the media, television commercials just started advertising for women’s products. I recall seeing one and saying to my grandmother, “What’s a tampon?” Her face blanched and she burst out, “Those are only for married women. And, don’t ever ask me that again!” I didn’t understand what the big deal was but I understood her warning loud and clear.

When I told my grandmother I wanted to shave my legs like all my friends were doing, she told me it was nonsense. To illustrate her point she lifted her skirt to show me her own legs. “See!” she exclaimed. “I never shaved my legs and now I haven’t got any hair on them at all.” She failed to explain that at her age the hairs on her legs had just naturally worn off.

I begged my grandmother to let me pierce my ears. It took lots and lots of convincing but she finally relented. I had them done at the Eastern Hills Mall at Transit Town in Clarence, which was a whole lot safer and less painful then when I’d let my girlfriends ice my ears and use a safety pin, a method I had tried without my grandmother’s consent. And when I begged for contact lenses I had to pull out all the teenage angst I could muster before she agreed. I had become a cheerleader in my sophomore year of high school and I would have rather died than wear glasses out on the floor. Trouble was I couldn’t see a thing without them.

I am so grateful that my grandmother acquiesced to my requests even if she didn’t agree or understand them.

What does Susan Dey, the actress who played Laurie on The Partridge Family television show have to do with any of this? She wrote a book, an autobiography I guess and the one thing I recall she said was how she kept her lips looking red like cherries. She bit them. She also said she pinched her cheeks to make them nice and pink. It was another book I must have gotten out of the school library that was also a huge help in my quest to find the pretty in me. It was a book on beauty. The name is completely lost to me but it shared all sorts of advice on how to wash and style your hair, apply makeup, and dress. I think I checked that book out for the whole school year and read it countless times.

Lastly, it was my peers that I looked to when it came to being up-to-date with things like fashion. To this day I am no fashion maven; I go for what’s comfortable and try to maintain my own style, but in high school I would copy the way my friends put their clothes together and try to emulate them. In our house and with my grandmother’s frugal countenance, there wasn’t a lot of money for shopping sprees. But, I managed to make a lot of outfits out of a few and got by well enough.

I’m pretty sure Aiden, whose all boy, could care less about his looks and how to dress, at least at this stage of his life. As for me, I’m still learning from books, magazines, and my friends. It’s sometimes hit and miss, but generally I manage to get it right.

My Body and Resolve- A Work in Progress

2011-05-06T07:08:00.000-07:00

Just after the first few days of the new year, I began a workout and diet program that I committed to and surprisingly stuck with. I purchased a Groupon (if you haven’t signed up for this yet, you must!) for a 20-day Boot Camp. When I first saw the deal I kept hesitating; my finger itched to click my mouse on “buy” but I couldn’t help but question whether or not I could do it. Me? Boot Camp? After a little investigation on the offer’s website, I found I could have a choice of the boot camp or revolution training. So, I bought it. 20 days for $25.00.

Next, I signed up for a 28-day challenge offered by our local Whole Foods Market called “The Engine 2” diet.

For the whole month of February I followed a plant-based eating regimen. I purchased the book, which in all respects if very well written; but I could have saved myself the money because the philosophy behind the diet is something I am familiar with. Eat “live” food, don’t eat meat, and incorporate lots of whole grains into every meal. What was different was the omission of any oils and animal products. Basically, for a month I’d be a vegan. In a previous post I admitted I was not ready to be a vegetarian, much less a vegan, but I figured I could handle this limited experiment. So, I dove in with great enthusiasm.

I decided to try these two programs because, frankly, I could not stand the body I was living in. As one who pays attention to instinct, I knew when I started avoiding mirrors and cameras, deleting photographs I shunned looking at, it was time to do something. The truth of the matter is, I wasn’t yet ready to stop having my picture taken with my grandchildren and I wanted my family to want to take and display them.

So, I took the leap of faith that if I paid for it, I would see it through.

The combination of revolution training – that is resistance machines mixed with cardio, and the vegan diet really worked! And, I stuck with it. For eight weeks I went to the gym three times a week (if I had to miss a day I made sure to walk) and ate the prescribed foods with nary a cheat. By the fifth or sixth week I noticed a difference – my pants were falling off my butt! Really! I was like those kids who find that look fashionable, hiking up their trousers every couple of steps. The best part was I was proud to share a recent photograph of myself, compared to the one taken of me a few months earlier. Even better? My daughter said, “You look good. Whatever you are doing, keep it up.”

So, did I? Kind-of.

I said to my husband, “I hate Easter! “

“How come?” He asked. “Because of the peeps?”

He knows me too well. For the weeks leading up to Easter I resisted the temptation to buy, cure (by that I mean leave out in the open air until they are nice and stale), and gorge on peeps. Even when my best friend Nancy thought she was being nice by buying some for me, then eating them with relish right in front of me, I stayed firm. Until one weak moment when I bought four packs. By the time the third pack was furtively (my husband never knew!) consumed, I was disgusted with myself and threw out number four. Then, yeah – I did it again a couple weeks later. Same thing; eat three, shove number four into the depths of the trash.

After that I ate pastry, made cookies and homemade bread, and pretty much fell off the Engine.

It hasn’t all been for naught, however. I am back to working out because I felt the weight creep back on. I go to the local YMCA now and do my workouts on my own; no trainer prompting with “keep it up, come on, PUSH IT!” But I do well on my own. I also have eliminated many things from my diet: processed sugar (of course, after my fall from grace), table salt, meat (I’ll eat chicken once in a while); and I eats lots more fruits, fresh vegetables and really interesting grains such as farrow and quinoa.

Sure, I’m mad at myself for my slip-up, but I think I turned a corner and realize that the foods I grew up with: meat, potatoes, pasta, was meant for a different era. I also truly understand that any diet, in order for it to work must be in conjunction with exercise.

I have come to realize that if I want to live long and (key word here) healthy, I had to accept some changes.

I’m a work in progress, and my philosophy is, it’s never too late to start.

This picture was taken in Sept. 2010. That's Paula, little Rain's other grandma. She looks fantastic! Me? I look so bloated and fat! I hated this one and wished I could have posted it on Facebook but was too mortified.

This photo was taken in April. I was proud to share it. By the way, both pictures are with beautiful Rain.

Memory Triggers Good and Bad

2011-04-20T11:03:00.000-07:00

There are so many things that trigger memories, many of them have to do with the senses: smell, taste, hearing, and vision; but there are also places and actions that can spur a memory recall, some of them good, some not so welcome. I find that the older I get and, I suppose, the more experiences I have, the more often these triggers are tripped and I remember something or someone. The inspiration for this particular post topic came recently when I was blow drying my hair.

Because my hair is thick and wavy, I blow dry my hair with my head upside down. I learned this trick from my cousin Wendy, a childhood best friend and a professional hair stylist.

“Never dry your hair from the top down,” she told me years ago.

Since then I have followed her advice. Although that comment came, I’d guess thirty years ago, I still have Wendy pop into my head when I do this routine task. Not too long ago I called her when this happened to share with her that I was thinking of her.

My Aunt Rita is another person who I learned a lot from. I lived with my aunt and her brood many times throughout my life. I'm sure I've never told her this stuff, but it was from her that I learned how to put on a bra and shave my legs. And nothing brings back sweet memories more than a meal of pork chops, rice with gravy, and applesauce. That was one of the meals Aunt Rita made and when I make it I am taken back to those days living with their large family and being counted as one of them.

The many dishes I make that I learned from watching my grandmother make the loss of her in 1998 a little less sad.

Eating a cucumber fresh from my garden reminds of my big brother, Mike. I visited him at his home in Gowanda, New York many years ago and he proudly plucked one of these vegetables from his own garden and convinced me to take a bite, even though it hadn’t been peeled. It was the delicious! Now, I wash, not peel my own organic vegetables. It was Michael, again, that I think of every time I shower with Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint soap.

Then, there are the memories I wish I could banish from my mind and consciousness. Sometimes I can’t figure out why they crop up when they do. Why is it that I always think of a woman I had a particularly deep conflict with when I am emptying the dishwasher? Why, when I’m in the garden pulling weeds do I think of the man who caused my family such distress? I can only conclude they come up when they do because those were the locations where I spent time contemplating the problem and looking for solutions.

These are just a couple of examples of incessant thoughts that come uninvited into my head that I find, if I don’t acknowledge them and replace them with happy thoughts, I obsess over. There are some more that are much too personal to share here, but I will say they pop up at the worst times and those are the ones I wish I could banish forever.

For a while, I really thought I was going crazy because I couldn’t control the thoughts. Having songs play over and over in my head give me the same feeling. A little research proves I'm not nuts- that phenomenon is called "earworms!" When these negative thoughts and reruns get stuck in my head, I have had to come up with methods to rid myself of them. Whenever they make an appearance, I overpower them with affirmations that I repeat over and over. It might sound like I am nuts, but I have to say the trick works.

If having to deal with some unpleasant memories is the price I have to pay to keep all of those wonderful ones in my mind, I am glad to do it. Hey, I’m just thrilled that I still have memory recall; to me, losing my memories would be as horrible as losing my sight.

What are your memory triggers?

“A moment lasts all of a second,
but the memory lives on forever.”

Look in the mirror and what do I see? An old lady looking back at me!

2011-04-11T09:01:00.000-07:00

It’s happening. I have entered the old-lady-itis stage of life. Yep, it’s arrived proclaiming, “I’m here! No fear! Get used to it!” How do I know it’s here and not just around the corner? Let me count the ways.

· I used to color my hair for fun, oh, maybe twice a year or so. Then I took to putting the $7.98 box of hair color purchase into my quarterly budget because I’d notice a stray gray here and there. Now, according to my calendar calculations, I am going to the professionals every four weeks because my temples glimmer with silver that are too noticeable to ignore.

· The McDonald’s cashiers rarely question my senior coffee claim anymore.

· I get words and names mixed up. I’m calling one of my dogs by the name of a pet that died eight years ago. When I make appointments, March is May or April is August and I don’t know the difference until someone points it out to me.

· “You’ve told me that story already,” is mentioned to me on a regular basis.

· My son-in-law claims he was “only joking” when he asked his wife “where the old lady is.”

· I pass gas* when just walking sometimes, never knowing when the humiliating sound will occur. (*Okay, I also have the old-lady prude thing going on because I had to come back and change the "f" word that refers to passing gas because I couldn't stop thinking about it and being embarassed that I'd used it here for all the world to see!)

· Speaking of humiliating sounds, I grunt and groan when getting up off the couch or bending down to pick up something off the floor.

· My best friend said, “Yeah, right!” when I said let’s pretend that the babies we were each carrying were our own. She didn’t think it was a believable prank anymore.

· No matter how hot it is I have to wear shirts with sleeves, especially in my college class because the arm flaps are distracting to my students.

· Shorts, cropped pants and bathing suits are no longer an option.

· My hairdresser insists on giving me bangs to cover up the forehead wrinkles.

· Getting eight-hours of sleep is a nostalgic memory.

· I don’t care anymore that my husband sees my full-body Spanx in the laundry, or on my body, for that matter.

· I shun the camera because I can’t figure out “my good side” anymore.

And, I remind myself that someday in the future I will look back at this time and long for how good I looked at 53!

Farewell to Four-legged Friends

2011-03-30T10:18:00.000-07:00

When John and I moved back to Las Vegas after living four years in New York State, we returned without one of our beloved dogs. Cochise, a frisky, devoted and beautiful Rottweiler/Doberman mix had been put to sleep a few months prior to our departure. Oh, did John and I cry over that decision! It was time for him, however, and we knew it, so as hard as it was, we knew we were doing what was best for him.

Cochise loved water

Cochise, Tiffany, Dusty, and Lady - all in Doggy Heaven

Last week, I had to make that decision once again. After our return to Las Vegas we waited before thinking we should get another big dog. As is the case with us, however, an animal that needs looking after usually finds its way to us. That’s how we obtained Zeke. A friend of ours who happens to be a veterinarian had come by to welcome us home. We casually mentioned that if he came across any dogs, let us know. As it happened, he knew of one we might be interested in. His staff had arrived at work one day about three months earlier and found a dog tied to a light pole outside the clinic. John and I couldn’t stand the idea of a big dog being confined to a kennel for so long so we said we’d take him.

That’s how Zeke came to live with us. He was a big dog; a Shepard-mix, handsome and sweet. But, he came to us traumatized. For the longest time he would not readily enter a dark room, go around corners, nor go into small places. On walks he would stop short if there were trash bags on the curb or any large, foreboding looking object blocking our way. It took years to coax Zeke into realizing that he was safe. Once he came to that conclusion, he showed no fear and became a great watch dog.

Zeke loved to play and even in his last year, when it was difficult to get up from his bed or climb up and down our porch stairs, he could muster enough to run with me a bit, once his limbs warmed up. I knew it was time to start thinking about letting him go, but I kept putting the idea to the back of my mind. It became harder and harder to ignore it, however, and every time I looked at him I thought about the inevitable. Last Friday I once again brought it up with John. “I don’t want to be there,” he said.

Knowing I would have to do this on my own, knowing there was no sense in putting it off, I coaxed Zeke into the back seat of my car. He showed enthusiasm as he had always loved going for car rides. I was fine from that moment on until the vet came into the room; then, my face crumpled and I turned away to cry. I soon collected myself to shake the doctor’s hand. Within fifteen minutes, Zekey was asleep for good. He went gently. I stayed with him and bid him farewell.

Bye, Zekey. Thanks for the memories.

I’ve done this many times over the years; it can’t be avoided when you have had as many animals as I have, but it doesn’t get any easier. I am grateful, however, that I have the strength to let go so the animals can pass away peacefully and not live with pain and suffering.

I know it’s not an idea that everyone would agree with, but I can’t help but think that people should be so lucky.

An Apparent Parent

2011-03-21T10:05:00.000-07:00

“She’s such a mother, isn’t she?”

My daughter said those words to a friend of hers as I placed a plate of cheese and crackers on the coffee table. Dinner was still about 30 minutes from being ready and I wanted to ensure my guests were not going hungry. Yes, I guess I am a “mother,” the good kind, not the one with a swear word after it.

Years ago I attended a function for my daughter’s school where she and several students were being honored for their academic accomplishments. I mingled with other parents, many of them prominent members of the local community; their name tags identifying them with their company names. My tag just had my name on it. When someone asked me what I did, the words came out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. “I’m just a parent.”

At the time I was a full-time student working toward my master’s degree and was not gainfully employed. I felt “less-than” amongst my peers who were successful in business.

It was when my daughter went up to the podium and gave a speech that I realized just what a fool I was. Being “just a parent” to that incredible young woman I gave birth to and raised made me the most successful person in the room.

Since that day I have joined the ranks of the successful; I am a practicing historian, college professor, and still chase dreams of glory. But I also cook everything from scratch for dinner guests, teach my children and grandchildren the beauty and practicality of planting a garden, make sure the kids are bathed and well-fed, and cuddle and kiss them incessantly.

Yep. I’m a mother alright. I would not want any other label placed on me.

If you like this post, you might like the blog written by new blog pal, Mark Wilcox at Apparent Parent. Check it out!

Treasures Lost and Found

2011-03-15T20:26:00.000-07:00

I try and give myself one day a week when I don’t do any work-work. The computer stays off if I can help it and I resist the urge to go through my notes in preparation for my college classes. In doing so, I find many other things to occupy my time. If I’m feeling up to it I will put on my work boots and gloves and go outside to work in my yard.

One of my garden projects

Sometimes I head to the storage shed on our property and reorganize my treasures. That’s what I did two Sundays ago and I came across things I knew were stored there but I had not seen in quite a while.

One of those long-lost treasures was Annabelle, my childhood troll doll.

Annabelle. Her hair is nearly gone and is fragile to the touch

So happy was I to see her again that I promised never to relegate her to a box in a shed. She now sits on my night stand where I can acknowledge her and wish her a good night and good day.

Annabelle (I have no idea how I came to give her that name) is a piece of my history that evokes keen memories of me as a little girl. In the third grade I took her to school with me every day. In my desk, one of those desks that had the lift-up top, I had a whole house set-up for her; there she would wait until the school day ended and we could go home together. She was my constant companion, keeping the lonely little girl I was occupied in a place of imagination. I told Annabelle secrets no one else would hear.

Many times over the years I would find her in one of my boxes. Each and every reconnect with her would prompt a recall of memory that involved the two of us. With so many years between that little girl and the middle-aged woman I am now, many memories are lost to time passing. But having this tangible piece of childhood to remind me keeps certain precious memories within reach.

I have many such containers that hold these treasures. Some are scrapbooks, photo albums, old trunks, and boxes of every size, shape, and material.

Just a couple of the boxes I have holding treasures

And another storage place, filled to the brim

The house I live in is so small that it is necessary to house these items in the shed, but I find I have to “visit” them on a fairly regular basis. I get such joy in touching things from my past: the ballerina doll my grandmother gave me on my 10th birthday; the childish drawings I made, my children made; the love letters between me and my husband; the fur clippings of animals I have loved and lost; the cats-eye glasses that were my first pair. Perhaps these things would be trash-worthy to some; for sure when I have passed on they will be meaningless to anyone else, but to me they are as priceless as items in the Smithsonian.

At fifty-three years of age I know that my collecting days are not over, yet I find I save less that pertains to me and more on what will be important to my children and grandchildren. I am the Keeper of Things and take my job very seriously. Just hearing eight-year-old grandson Aiden’s joy when I presented him with the scrapbook of his young life to date is all the encouragement I need.

What childhood treasures have you kept? What feelings and emotions to you experience when you come across them?

Photographic Memories

2011-03-04T09:13:00.000-08:00

When I finally obtained photographs of my parents, many years after they had died, I couldn’t take my eyes off the images. Not only did I stare at their faces looking for features similar to my own, I also scrutinized the background images. I checked out the setting, be it a kitchen or in front of a Christmas tree; I sought out the familiar things that make up a life: photos on a mantle, leavings of an eaten meal; it was evidence of a life lived that I guess I was searching for.

My mom with brother, Joey. I think she is at her mother's home

My dad in front of the house we lived in, playing ball with my brothers

My parents on the right, maybe getting ready for an evening out

My dad in the middle, his brother, Dick on right and a friend. Going fishing.

My mom holding Joey, with brother Mike to the right. Maybe this is in the yard of our home in Batavia

Since then I have become a photograph hunter. I love to collect old photographs and they don’t even have to be of people I know.

I remember one of my history professors once asked the class what we looked for in old photographs and how they affected us. My response, “I see myself in the photo” took her aback. She couldn’t understand what I was saying. It’s not like I see an image of myself in the picture; it’s hard to describe but I become so immersed in the scene that I can almost feel a part of it. The best I can do to relate how it feels is what the book character, Harry Potter, feels when he falls into the pensive, a magical bowl of liquid memory.

Some time ago I found a great film on the Documentary Channel called, “Other Peoples’ Pictures.” It showcased several individuals who scour flea markets and yard sales looking for photographs. They each had particular themes in mind in their searches, seeking out pictures of strangers, buying and displaying them. I knew exactly why they were obsessed because I do the same thing. In antique stores I head to the section that has photographs. I especially like daguerreotypes, the early method of photography. The dour faces of the individuals who are no longer on earth fascinate me.

I am as much a photograph hound taking pictures as I am collecting them. Knowing how significant the found pictures of my mom and dad are to me I can’t help but feel I’m doing a service for my descendents by chronicling life as I live it. I hope they appreciate the effort. One of the things I find disgraceful is seeing contemporary photographs discarded: children’s school pictures, an unknown family portrait. I think it is sad no one cherishes the pictures enough to pass them down in the family. I hope the appreciation I, and others like me have, will suffice in honoring the images of those looking out from the place where they are frozen in time.

24-Hour Town Has Its Perks

2011-02-26T17:46:00.000-08:00

Another installment in my quest to find the best of Las Vegas.

I say I want the quiet life that a small town offers; a place where you can see the sky darken naturally;

not one neon lit so that the stars hardly shine.

But I have to say, when I do find myself living off the grid I know it will be a culture shock and one that will take a little getting used to.

Living in a large town, especially one that boasts that it never sleeps, I have gotten used to the convenience of things. I’m a night-owl, but I do like the idea that if I need something, say cold medicine or a bite to satisfy a craving, I can find it at any given hour of the day. Just last week I decided to check out the neighborhood thrift stores. It was 7:30 PM. There are three close to my house: two Goodwills and Deseret. I knew Goodwill stayed open until nine, but I didn’t expect the Mormon-operated store to be, but it was. And I wasn’t the only one on the lookout for good deals; all three stores were packed with shoppers.

Just another example of what I’ll miss when it comes time for me to Leave Las Vegas.

Dream Weaver

2011-02-25T08:51:00.000-08:00

The past few mornings I’ve awoken with the remnants of my dreams still fresh in my sleepy mind. I’ve been having some doozy dreams, too; they are vivid and really “out there.”

One was inspired I’m sure, by my DVRing of the Johnny Depp, Helen Bonham Carter film, Alice in Wonderland. Another, by glimpsing a cover story of England’s Prince William and his bride-to-be; the dream had me surrounded by English people. Well, that dream could also be sparked by my college lectures; I’m teaching students about the American Revolution. Whatever the case, I’m logging some really interesting dreamtime and enjoying every slumbering minute.

As is the case with most dreams, I work out lots of everyday issues and psychological distress while I’m asleep. For a really long time I dreamt about my grandmother’s house. I was lost inside and couldn’t find my way out; I went from room to room looking for something. I used to have flying dreams but they stopped long ago and I miss them. The dreams I have when I’m under a lot of stress are not in the least bit helpful; in fact, they cause me to wake up more stressed than ever. These dreams have me remembering that I have animals in cages in my yard that I have forgotten to feed and clean. Hundreds of animals await my attention and the guilt I feel at neglecting them has me tossing a turning as I attempt to check on their welfare.

I keep a notebook close at hand to write the details of dreams I remember, especially those I believe have a message for me. Just like my decades-old journal, I can reread my notes about dreams I had years ago and am able to recall them as if they were dreamt the night before.

I wonder what purpose my documentation of my life and dreams serve? Perhaps when I’m an old lady I’ll find comfort in the memories I’ve chronicled, both conscious and unconscious. I doubt anyone but me will care about them; I don’t expect them to be enshrined in any museum when I’m long gone.

No, my dreams and thoughts serve only me, allowing me the opportunity to enter a time machine of my own making and relive moments that are I would otherwise have long forgotten. I'll keep writing them as long as they keep visiting me, and maybe someday their messages will be easy to interpret. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the escape. Dream on.

Happy 100th Post to Me - and a new idea!

2011-02-18T12:19:00.000-08:00

As many of my blog readers know, I’ve been planning on an exodus from Las Vegas.

Just read past posts like "Happiness is in the Eye of the Beholder" and "There's no Place Like Home".

I would have thought it would have happened by now; I told my husband when we purchased our current home, “Fine! I’ll move there but we are only staying 2 years!” That was six years ago, come this May. With the current economic status and the housing market, it doesn’t look like we are getting out of town any time soon. So, I’ve made my mind up to find the best of Las Vegas and learn to appreciate it as my, I can’t believe I’m saying this, home town.

It’s not that I don’t know how the great things about Las Vegas, I do; it’s just it’s not the kind of place I ever saw myself in for long. But, here I am and ever the optimist, I've decided to find out the best of Las Vegas. Negativity has never been my style and I expect this project will improve my attitude significantly and make the waiting much easier to bear.

I came up with this idea months ago and have gone a few adventures since. My intent was to start another blog, one titled “Leaving Las Vegas: the best of what I’m leaving behind” or something like that. However, the prospect of starting a whole new blog and keeping up on it just didn’t appeal to me. In fact, I started to hyperventilate, a condition I am prone to when I get overwhelmed with gotta-dos. Instead of a separate blog, I am going to add a blog a week (or two, we’ll see how it goes) exclusively for highlighting Las Vegas and its hidden treasures.

It is appropriate, as well, as this blog posting is my 100th post! That’s cause for celebration because I have a really hard time sticking with things; just read my post, ADHD and My Family Tree. As I hope to have a book written and published sometime before my foot step into my grave, this blog was, and is, a way for me to approach the work in small, do-able bites. Once again I have a great friend who believes in me to thank for pushing me to write a blog, check out this talented, funny, and generous women, Linda Lou. She’s a hoot and saw something in me that I couldn’t see myself; talent and something worthwhile to say. I told Linda that she is going to be at the top of my book’s acknowledgment page, a promise I hope to keep soon.

Now that I’ve rambled on and on, it’s time to share a few of my Las Vegas experiences. Stay tuned for more to come.

Great band playing at the Paris Hotel and Casino, 10-2010

Meeting Mr. Tony Curtis (June, 2010). He kissed my hand!

Getting invited to see The Shades of Sinatra tribute group, 2-2011

Night before Halloween on the Las Vegas Strip - really!

The "What Ifs" of Life

2011-02-06T12:04:00.000-08:00

Life is chock full of “what ifs.”

At present I am in southern California, a place I called home for ten years when I migrated here from my home in western New York. I spend a lot of time here in Simi Valley and Moorpark, where I lived on over 30 acres of open land before it became a city park backed by a major shopping center. Every time I come for a visit I am reminded of my years here and sometimes wish I still called California home. What if, I often wonder, I had been able to come up with the money to purchase the land before it was developed in the name of progress? I can tell you that the money that was so hard to come by back then in the late 1980s would have quadrupled by now. Only if I’d not been too poor!

My girls in the yard of our Moorpark home, circa 1983

It’s easy to look back over one’s life and question the choices we’ve made. Regrets, in my opinion, are a waste of time; but reflection is a worthy activity.

I’ve had people ask me, “what if your parents had lived?” To that I’m pretty sure of my answer: I would no doubt be a devoted daughter still living in the same small town that I was born in. I come to that conclusion based on seeing my cousins doing just that. Although I seem to have inherited my mother’s gregarious nature, I am pretty sure I would not have strayed too far from home. But, who knows?

Batavia, New York

When I was trying to get into the exclusive Exotic Animal Training and Management Program at Moorpark College, it was more chance than determination that saw me succeed. I was in Spokane, Washington at the time the letter inviting me for an interview arrived at my New York address, so I was not aware I needed to respond before my spot was taken. The assistant director of the program, Lynne Doria, was just about to do just that when she happened to mention me, someone she didn’t even know, to her then-boyfriend, a guy who happened to come from Buffalo, New York, same as me. He prodded her to “give the girl another chance.” The second notice made it to me; I got my interview and my spot in the program. What if I’d missed that shot? All I can say is I am so grateful to that man I’ve never met.

Performiing in EATM's Big Top Circus, 1979

What ifs can drive you crazy!

What if I’d been born an Afghanistan woman, not a free American?

What if the guy who offered me a ride that I naively accepted on a walk home from school in junior high, who reached over and stroked my leg hadn’t stopped and let me out when I said, “That’s my house! Let me out!”?

What if I’d never allowed my first husband to convince me to marry him? I would not have the two amazing women who made me a proud Mom in my life. Nor would their offspring be here to give me great joy.

What if I had not trusted myself enough to go back to school? Would I fall back on being a waitress for the rest of my life? I know I wouldn’t be writing. I would not have the opportunity to research and teach, as I am doing now. The choice to put myself out there with the risk of failure was frightening, but oh, the benefits I’ve reaped.

Yes, what ifs are fun to reflect upon and provide a wonderful opportunity to see life’s journey from then until now. There are, to be sure, moments I wish I could take back, roads I almost wish I’d traveled, but as I mentioned I don’t believe in regrets. And, hey, there are a lot more choices ahead of me where I can contemplate future “what ifs.”

For everything you have missed, you have gained something else.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hands of Time

2011-01-18T12:34:00.000-08:00

Having been married for nearly a quarter-century, my husband and I have fallen into the same trap many long-term couples have; we are in a rut. He has his interests, I have mine. I don’t play golf and he isn’t drawn to browsing through book stores. He has television shows that I find boring; he can’t understand why I watch dramas. To balance out the activities that keep us apart, we make a conscious effort to find things to do together that we both enjoy. One of those is road trips.

On a recent trip up the California coast

We have not had a great deal of time to devote to these excursions, but have managed to get a few in over the last year. On one particular trip, with John driving and me occupying my hyperactive self in the passenger seat, I looked over and was drawn to my husband’s hands. His wedding ring glinted in the sunlight and seeing it I was taken back to our wedding day.

With all the promise of our life together before us, we took a photograph of our hands sporting the symbols that committed us - one to the other.

On our wedding day, 1988

Neither one of us had any idea what the years ahead would be like; but in that moment we carried the belief that our lives would forever be entwined, although the odds of it were not necessarily on our side.

Our present-day hands, just like our lives, have aged some. Both, I am proud to say have stood the test of time.

Two decades later: the rings changed, but not the symbol behind them

We are complete opposites, John and I.

Me? I’m restless, forever looking beyond what is in front of me and dreaming of what could be. I like change and when I can’t have it in a big way, say a new career (I’ve had at least four) my need for change manifests itself in rearranging the things around me. I move furniture around my house on a regular basis, each time insisting that the “new” arrangement was how it should have been all along. John refuses to allow me access to a chainsaw; he fears what the trees, fences, or building outside would look like after I had my way with them. John, on the other hand thrives on consistency.

Routine could be John’s middle name. He likes things to stay the same, has even acknowledged that at times when something messes with the routine it messes with his whole day. John is comfortable with the familiar; it gives him peace of mind. I honestly don’t know how he has managed to live this long with a whirlwind such as me, but for some reason, it has worked.

That’s not to say we haven’t had our moments; what couple hasn’t that have been together for so many years? What’s the key? We’ve talked about it, among ourselves during intimate conversations, with our daughters as they have navigated through life and loves, with friends who marvel that we have withstood the test of time. The answers we have come up with are friendship, respect, and, well, frankly, love. John is not my best friend, not in the true sense. I keep things from him and he from me; things we can only share with a guy or girl friend. But, we are best of friends, nonetheless; he knows my heart and I, his.

We have an undying respect for one another. In all of our years together we have never, ever uttered a swear word at the other, nor have we called the other a disparaging name. This is the one thing most people we tell cannot believe. But, it’s true. We don’t allow others to speak poorly of the other; in the true sense we have one another’s back.

Love, the thing that brought us to that day of vow-making, has grown and changed over the years. When I think of life without John, I can’t fathom it; he is so much a part of me that the very thought of his absence is too difficult to contemplate. I may seek change in everything else I do, but in my life with this one man I just want it to continue. In a few months John’s mother and father will be celebrating their 60th anniversary.

John's mom and dad, still laughing and loving

I hope that John and I can follow them on that same wonderful path. I will take another photograph of our hands on that momentous occasion.

This life with John has been the best road trip I’ve ever taken. I can’t wait to look in the rearview mirror once we’ve reached our destination.

Empty Nest, Full Heart

2011-01-06T19:40:00.000-08:00

It's been eight months since I welcomed my two new grandchildren, Rain and Noble, into the family.

They join eight-year-old Aiden and my life could not be more blessed.

Getting to this juncture has not always been easy, but love has made any obstacles, fears, and worries pale in comparison to the joy of watching my babies' babies grow.

Aiden is getting older, is no longer as willing to cuddle next to me, to think my words are unchallengeable; that's why it's so wonderful to have new babies who need to be held, kissed, snuggled with, and who smile at the very presence of you.

Oh, how I missed my babies when they'd become all grown up, but this chance to love their offspring makes up for it tenfold.

Each one of my daughters approaches motherhood in their own unique way. Erin is by-the-book, follows doctors' orders without question, and worries about all the things first-time moms worry about. Adrian, who has already done such an admirable job with her first son, a third grader who has just tested for the Gifted and Talented program in his school and is reading at a fifth-grade level (testament of her nurturing) is much more at ease in her role as mother to her second child.

She has excellent help, too; Aiden adores his little brother and takes his role very seriously. When I asked him recently if he wished he'd had a brother a little older to play with, he said that Noble was "perfect just the way he is." Seems Noble feels the same and lights up every time his brother makes those funny faces at him.

The sisters, who were never as close as I would have liked, neither in childhood nor adulthood, have developed a beautiful bond due to their shared motherhood experiences. They help one another out with the care of one another's children and all the things that need to be taken care of. The babies, too, are developing a beautiful bond as they are just three weeks apart in age and have been together from the beginning.

Just as their moms have different personalities and parenting styles, the children are expressing their own unique personalities, as well. Rain, docile and sweet, loves food, can put herself to sleep without fuss, and makes few demands. Noble is quite the opposite. A screamer from the start, he lets his wants known loud and clear. He chatters a lot and is very much a mamma's boy.

The two babies are very entertaining. So far, there has been no issue over the possession of toys; they play very well together. Just wait until they understand the concept of "mine!"

For the moment my life is quiet. It's empty-nest here at my house as the holiday visits are over. While I relish the extra time I have to myself, I miss the kids and the commotion terribly. Looks like another trip to the "Full House" is in order soon.

In the meantime, my rocking chair sits in the corner looking as desolate as my heart feels.

It Isn't Much to Look at But the Gift is Priceless

2010-12-19T22:11:00.000-08:00

I just couldn’t wait for my oldest daughter, Erin to open her Christmas present this year. She was at my house with her husband and baby, Rain, her first child, born this past April. The present under wraps was hardly a prize; it was thirty years old and looked it, but it was priceless in sentiment. When she first unwrapped it she said, “Why are you giving me my music box?” When I said, “Open it,” I believe she understood.

This music box was a gift for my first child’s first Christmas. That was December. I could not afford a fancy gift back then but I splurged on this one. I added a note to my baby, one that told her how precious she was to me although I’d known her for just one month.

When I found the music box in our attic I had only planned on giving it to her so she could take it home. I opened the little drawer attached and took out the note I wrote so many years ago.

I carefully unfolded it and began to read and then an odd thing happened: the clown behind the glass began to dance. This is a music box that you wind up and when you open the drawer the little clown marionette dances to the song, “Send in the Clowns.” However, I had not wound up the box and the drawer had been open for a good five minutes before the dancing began, when I was halfway through reading the letter with tears brimming on my lids.

Now, there’s probably a perfectly good, scientific explanation for the clown dancing in this case, but frankly I prefer to see it as a sign.

Once I’d read my long-ago letter to my first daughter, the thought came to me that I should now write a letter to her daughter, my first granddaughter for her first Christmas. Rain is the love of my daughter’s heart, just as Erin is to me. I felt it only fitting to write a note for Rain so that thirty years from now she could be reminded just how precious and loved she is, even before we know the woman that she will become.

When I wrote to the infant Erin, our life together as mother and daughter had yet to unfold. Erin has never disappointed me; rather she has made me the proudest mom and I have loved being a part of her journey through life. Married now, working in the animal field, and raising her child with love and affection, I am so grateful that I can be here to witness it all. My own mother, dead just after my first birthday, was not so fortunate. That is why the moments I have had with Erin, her sister, and my three grandchildren are so precious to me. It is this continuity that I strive so hard to maintain. My own history was stripped from me so to create and preserve it for my own progeny is a gift as precious as life for me.

The look on Erin’s face as she read first the letter addressed to her and then the one to her daughter said I am on the right track. It was a moment etched in my mind that I will carry with me forever. And someday hopefully, Rain’s own children will know who I am by these gestures of love and carry on the tradition created by me on that Christmas just thirty short years ago.

The only thing you take with you when you're gone is what you leave behind. -- John Allston

Scary Television and Movies - Not For This Scardy-Cat

2010-12-06T17:19:00.000-08:00

Grey's Anatomy is one of my favorite shows, but when I watch it I miss I would guess a third of each episode. That's because I spend much of my viewing time not watching it. I am either looking off to the side and seeing the action in my peripheral vision, or I'm watching the top half of the screen, shielding the rest of it with my outstretched hand.

I can't handle the gory stuff. I know it's fake but they make it so realistic and I am completely inept at overcoming the sight of the blood and surgical procedures. Why do they have to show such explicit stuff? Do people really get into seeing it? Isn't their imagination of a scalpel slicing through flesh, or a limb fractured in multiple places, or a blood spurting from an artery enough? Do they really need to see it visually?

I have always been queasy when it comes to human injuries. I say human because I can help an animal that's been critically injured without a moment's hesitation. When my beloved poodle-mix dog, Peanut, was unfortunately smooshed in front of my grandmother's house by a semi, I stoically used a shovel to lift his lifeless body and bring him home to bury. I will always stop on the side of the road if I see fresh road kill in case the animal is suffering and I can be of some help.

In the case of a human-involved road accident, however, I am pretty sure I will be arrested for that rule that you are supposed to help an accident victim; I just couldn't bring myself to see whatever mutilation has occurred. I know I don't have that kind of courage in me. I think it started when I was a little girl and one of my neighbor friends, Linda Senchoway, broke her arm when we were playing on the swings in my back yard. She fell off the swing and began to cry. As she held up her crooked arm she began to walk toward me and I backed away in complete horror and fear. I still regret that action but realize its impact as I can recall that moment all these years later.

Another memory is of living with my grandmother during the years when she was becoming slower and more fragile with age. I was in our kitchen, she in the bathroom. I heard a loud thud and then she groaned. I was struck paralyzed; I did not want to go in there to see my grandma hurt. Luckily, it was a minor fall, she'd stepped on the floor heater vent and her leg fell through. She was not hurt and I survived that scare, as did she.

I just don't get the draw to movies that show images of maiming and bloodshed. I don't go see horror movies, especially the ones that depict scenes of carnage that can happen in real life.

Take Texas Chainsaw Massacre or Saw, for example. I've seen neither but the first one is pretty self-explanatory and the second probably is too. I remember my daughter, Erin, seeing one of my car license plates with the letters SAW in the mix. She didn't like looking at it because it reminded her of that movie. That's my point; why watch images of things that will haunt you forever? What I really don't like about those movies is the idea that someone out there might be vulnerable and mentally unstable enough to watch a movie like that and carry out the actions they saw on the big screen.

That's my rant for this post. I'll keep watching Grey's Anatomy and continue to miss most of the show because I'm saving my brain space for positive images and good thoughts. I plan on having sweet, not scary, dreams tonight.

What Not To Wear No Matter What the Ads Say!

2010-11-29T22:58:00.000-08:00

"You look so hot."

As I stood before my husband of twenty-plus years, I waited with anticipation for him to say those words. I was standing before him in my new "Not Your Daughter's Jeans," the jeans I had contemplated buying for so long and finally splurged on, paying a whopping $100.00 for. The sales lady did a great job, as did the manufacturer of the jeans; I fit comfortably into a whole size smaller than what I usually wear. I've been wearing these jeans proudly for two weeks, wearing them in place of all others because I knew how they flattered me, held in my curves and gave me the confidence to accept my 53-year-old, middle-aged spreading body. "I look hot!" and I strutted like I knew it!

So, after a trip to the mall where my husband pecked me on the lips - in public! - something he hasn't done in ages, I just knew it was because of my jeans and the body they gave me.

So, when he asked, "Where did you get those jeans?" I couldn't wait to gush after he told me just how good I looked.

Then, he said, "They don't flatter you at all."

He apologized for having to tell me, told me my figure is so much better than what the jeans do for it and added, "YOUR HIPS STICK OUT AND WHEN I WALKED BEHIND YOU YOUR BUTT LOOKED HUGE!"

I was mortified, truly mortified and all the pep talks I've been giving myself to accept myself just the way I am went right out the window.

I laughed it off, told him they were supposed to be the best fit, marketed to women like me, and of course I never mentioned the price I'd paid for them because he wouldn't believe it. I am the ultimate thrift store shopper, I never, ever, ever pay regular price for clothes, except this time I paid a hundred dollars for a pair of jeans that prompted my usually always complimentary husband to tell me I looked fat!

I don't care if I've washed the jeans a couple of times, cripe I've worn them so often I've had to, but that store is getting their jeans back and I'm taking my $100.00 and going to Target and buying five pairs of the men's Wranglers for twenty-bucks I've been wearing for years.

Buyer Beware! Take a girlfriend or a husband with you when you shop so you can get the truth when you try on clothes and they will be sure to tell you "WHAT NOT TO WEAR!"

Domestic Goodness

2010-11-19T07:24:00.000-08:00

When it’s cold, which Las Vegas has thankfully become, I become very domestic. I bake bread, make hearty meals and lots of soup. Our friend, Tom, who visits often from his beachfront house in Key West, Florida said, “Boy, when the weather changes, you cook a lot” and he’s right. Although I am always complaining I haven’t enough time in the day to do things, I always manage to whip up a three-course meal. The trouble is, there’s only the two of us so I share as much as I can; otherwise I would be as big as my (bless her departed soul) Italian Aunt Jean who was a wide as she was short. Nothing makes me happier than making food and feeding people, but I will admit I wouldn’t want to do it every single day.

Recently my daughters came for a visit, as did a couple of out-of-town friends. Their arrival happened on the same day John and I had returned from our recent road trip. Needless to say, it was the beginning of a very hectic, physically and mentally taxing weekend. In addition to all the things I had to catch up on after a vacation, I had people to feed. By Sunday evening’s dinner I was completely exhausted. But the meal was, if I do say so myself (which I am as I’m the one writing this), amazing: Roasted penne pasta in my homemade red sauce, baked squash, fresh brussel sprouts, toasted garlic bread, bread pudding (I had to use up stale bread), and homemade pumpkin pie.

Table set and ready to dig in

As I sat back with a full belly and an even fuller glass of wine, I watched my guests eating and talking with complete exhausted contentment. I did this. I brought these people together in my home and made them feel welcome. I admit it; I had tears in my eyes and a smile on my face (I’m sure the wine was having an effect). This is what life and family and the human experience should be all about. One of our guests said that I should live in a compound where all my family could live in close proximity of one another and I said that’s exactly what I have wished for. Unfortunately, these gatherings take place only on occasion.

When my husband owned and operated Signature Café in Attica, New York from around 1999 to 2001, I had a similar experience. I made five soups a week, which our customers raved about. Along with John, I fed the masses that frequented our establishment with homemade, hearty meals and shared in gossip, everyday talk, and friendship. We loved it. Unfortunately, too many things prevented us from staying in business: high taxes, high cost of operation, and not enough income to sustain us. The memory of our little café in the little village will always remain one of our fondest.

Lisa and John standing proud in their cafe

Signing the wall in Signature Cafe

Again, I admit I wouldn’t be able to, nor want to sustain the amount of work it takes to feed so many on a regular basis, but oh, how I loved doing it.

Things are quiet around our house now but the holidays are upon us and I know that I will have good smells wafting from my kitchen and jumbled conversation from the full house of guests soon enough. I’m looking forward to it but am enjoying the peace and quiet while again.

Truth Be Told

2010-11-13T21:31:00.000-08:00

Recently our eight-year-old grandson Aiden hit a milestone; he learned about telling the truth.

We, meaning Papa John, Nana (Me), and Aiden were on a road trip this past weekend. The three of us always have a good time; Aiden just happens to like his grandma and grandpa enough to spend a lot of time with us.

We had stopped to eat lunch and when back on the road we noticed a produce stand, which I always have to stop at like some people have to go to yard sales. Aiden and I got out of the truck while Papa stayed in. While I shopped Aiden, being the little boy he is, tromped out to a nearby plowed field. When I finished the two of us piled back in the truck and we headed out of town.

About five miles out I said, “Where’s my cell phone?” It wasn’t in the little slot where I keep in on the dash when we are driving. I looked on the floor, on the seat, in the bags, and in my purse to no avail. I didn’t recall taking it with me when I went to buy the veggies, but I could have.

After searching in vain, John pulled over on the highway and I did a more thorough search. I got a sinking feeling that I’d lost my $200.00 phone and preparing myself for the hassle ahead, not to mention the embarrassment of doing something so careless. Aiden kept saying, “Calm down, Nana.” He also said, “You know you are forgetful because you're getting old.”

A day earlier he had made me laugh with a similar comment. When I did something, I can’t remember what. he’d patted my arm and said, “Its age, Nana, its age.” I laughed at that then but this time I feared he was getting a little to close to the truth. Apologizing to my husband as he made a u-turn so we could go back to the stand to look, I felt like I was too old to be making such a mistake.

When we got there the people said they had not found my phone. It was then that Aiden tugged on my sleeve and said, “Nana, when we got out of the truck before I took your phone and put it in my pocket.” He said he did it because he thought “someone might call,” which of course was his cover story; he took it just because. He showed that the phone was no longer in his coat pocket and it was then I remembered he had been running through a plowed field. I motioned for John to come and told him the story; if anyone can find a needle in a haystack or a black cell phone in a field of dirt, it’s my husband. Luckily, with the help of the others we located it quickly – and I mean luck because I really believed we were out of it.

Back in the truck a silent Aiden received a tongue-lashing from a Papa who very rarely disciplines him. As we continued on our way Aiden felt the weight of our disappointment and kept quiet for many a mile. Sometime later I spoke up. I told him I was very upset not only because he had taken my phone without permission, but hurt because he had made me feel as though I was responsible. He had also made it seem as though I was old and forgetful (a mortal sin in itself!). However, I continued, he had been brave enough to tell us the truth; he’d made a mistake and admitted it and for that I was very proud of him. I told him that we all make mistakes and the mark of a person with character is when they can admit it and face the consequences.

Eventually, our boy came around and he once again participated in our road trip adventure.

What his actions reminded me of is when I was around his age I did something that caused me to tell a big ‘ole lie that I eventually had to admit to. It was awful and a memory that is seared in my mind.

My childhood caregiver was my grandmother. While she worked during the week I came home to an empty house every day after school. One day I was at the top of our stairs playing with a basketball when I lost my grip on it. It bounced down the stairs and right through the window of the front door, smashing the glass. I was horrified and didn’t know how to explain it when my grandmother came home. So, I made up a story that someone had tried to break into the house. My grandmother called the police. That little lie kept getting bigger and bigger until I could no longer contain it.

I was terrified because I didn’t know how to get myself out of it. I eventually told one of my brothers the truth and he acted as my buffer, telling the police and our grandmother that it was me who had broken the glass.

I don’t recall getting punished or even a lecture, but I do know I learned a big lesson that day: Telling the truth is scary but a lie takes on a life of its own.

I hope Aiden retains this memory so when his own child has to decide on telling the truth or not, he or she will have enough faith and trust in their father to make the right choice and Aiden will remember his own childhood moment of truth.

No More Hiding?

2010-10-25T13:06:00.000-07:00

I teach American History and just in the microcosm of my class I see the divisions in political and religious ideology that divides our country. The national divisions come to light as I teach about America in its early days and use contemporary issues to make the meanings relevant. This, in turn, creates interesting discussions that my students engage in and that I try hard to only moderate, keeping my personal opinions undetected.

I am in awe of and often confused by the great divide in perspectives and opinions; how one person’s beliefs can be so different from someone else’s and how convinced each one is in the truth of their convictions. Although I enjoy the debates my students engage in, I am personally very uncomfortable watching debates that involve screaming, shouting, and finger pointing that in the end have accomplished little in the way of swaying the opposition.

I hold my beliefs close and the only way the outside world knows of my stand is in how I live my life. I don’t try to change minds through discourse, and if asked what I think about an issue I try to defer if I feel it will lead to a conflict of interests. On the other hand I have been known to speak up and show my hand, which has given me a “reputation” and has lost me a few fans. Here are some of the issues I’ve dared express an opinion on:

Religion

Early on in my relationship with my future second husband I had a conversation with his mother and grandmother, stout Christians who believe the Baptist faith is the one and only true faith. I went no further at the time in challenging them other than to say, “You mean my grandmother, one of the most spiritual women I know is going to Hell because she is a Catholic?” Their response was truly the beginning of my break from association with any organized religion. “Honey,” they both said, “that’s why God brought you to us so we could tell you the truth and you could share it with her.” I could go on sharing many other conversations and encounters with my in-laws that show just how much of a Black Sheep I am in this “you must be born again” family, but for now my respect for my husband’s family trumps my need to relieve myself of deep-seated opinions.

In another case, I have been branded an atheist by a former sister-in-law who had a problem with shielding my children from her aggressive pro-life indoctrination. My young daughter came to me once and asked, “Mom, what’s an atheist? That’s what Aunty is calling you.” This is one time I did place myself in a confrontation; protecting my children has prompted such reaction in me many times.

I am far from the anti-God others have painted me to be. I am a very spiritual being that doesn’t happen to prescribe to someone else’s definition of what it means. I am very comfortable with my religious belief system but have found that others are not.

Politics

From EmoticonsOnly

It’s difficult for me to admit that I would rather not think about politics, being an American History instructor and all, but the topic makes me cringe. I wish I did not have to involve myself at all, nor make a decision come election time, but teaching how significant the right to vote has been for those disenfranchised in our history, I cannot, in good conscience, ignore this right and privilege.

I lean to the left in my politics. I have come to my choice based on my personal life experience, education, and a strong pull towards tolerance and inclusion. I despise the rhetoric of politicians and avoid listening to their agendas as much as I can. Instead, I vote and hope. I put my faith in those that claim to have a common ideology with me, promise to put their ideas into practice, and have the means to do so. I have been sorely disappointed by whom I have put my faith in, but continue to back that faction because the other side is so far from my beliefs.

I stopped being a Catholic because if I could not believe wholeheartedly in everything it represented, I could not stand behind it. In my political backings, I wish I could walk away if I don’t believe 100% in the person I’ve chosen, but it’s a bit trickier than that. So, I hope for the best. As I illustrate to my class, it’s a two steps forward, one step back tug of war in American politics and history. That’s what makes this country and the people who hold their beliefs so wonderful and so frustrating.

Domestic Abuse

I have been banned from associating with a young woman with whom I used to work with and who I admired for her intelligence and work ethic. It was her husband, a man whom I had repeatedly spoken out against that forced her to relinquish ties with me. He is an abuser; she an enabler. How difficult it was for me to lose that friendship but, as a friend, I could not stand by and keep my fears and feelings quiet. When such an issue hit even closer to home I walked a very tenuous line while I tried to, and ultimately succeeded in, helping someone get away from an abuser.

My writing of this blog was meant to help me put together my life in a way that I would eventually publish the story. Some of the posts have been so truthful and revealing that I have felt a twinge of regret at the exposure of my inner-most self, as well as the loss I have endured from some who found my revelations not to their liking. There is so much more I want to say, so much more I wish to share. Finding the courage to do so is taxing, yet I find I cannot resist the pull.

Perhaps it’s time for me to stop hiding behind the veil of non-committal endorsement and allow my true self to emerge. The question is, am I up for the challenge?

Memory Lane of My Mind

2010-10-22T10:57:00.000-07:00

What’s your earliest memory? A recent trip back to the town where I grew up set off a storm of childhood memories in my head as any trip down memory lane will do.

While I have my own memories I find fascinating the recollections of people who knew me while I was a baby and child and are willing to share them with me. It’s like this whole other part of myself that I never knew existed is introduced to me for the first time.

I love my memories and I especially love when I have dreams that take me back in time, giving me the opportunity to revisit moments in my past I long for. What are my first memories? A few stand out most prevalently.

I recall being told by my Uncle Paul, one of my mother’s brothers, that I could not go outside with the rest of the family until I learned to tie my shoes.

I seem to remember that I tried and tried, but don’t think I mastered the task at that time. I know I cried in frustration and perhaps I was given a reprieve because I associate that memory with peanut butter and fluffernutter sandwiches, which I hate the thought of.

Another memory is of me in kindergarten, spurred by a drive past my old school while on my trip home.

East Pembroke Central School where I went to kindergarten

It was naptime. I can still hear my child’s voice saying to my nap neighbor, “There an ant in your hair.” If memory serves me right the little girl screamed, went into hysterics and I got into loads of trouble.

My oldest brother Michael shared one of his memories of me, one I have absolutely no recollection of. Apparently I was sitting on the grass in our grandmother’s huge front lawn. My brother was, in his words “messing around” with darts and through one high and far into the air. He realized too late the flying dart was headed in my direction and took off running toward me in the hopes of avoiding disaster. The dart landed right in my leg just as he reached me and before I knew what had happened, he scooped it out of my leg. Blood and pain followed and in a matter of seconds I reacted the same as my little kindergarten friend; with screams and howls. I have no scar and no memory that I can find but it’s a great little story and I’m glad he shared it with me.

My two daughters have recently given birth and it was wonderful for me to be able to share with them my own pregnancy and birth experiences, comparing mine to their own.

That is one thing I missed out on, talking with my own mother about the things moms and daughters share. I can be grateful that I had the chance to experience the bonding with my girls. Another really great thing I get to do with my children, now that they are all grown up is to share with them books I read and loved when they were little. My girls both share my love of reading and now I get to provide titles of great books I read and was inspired by in the hopes they will like them, too.

It’s the creation of a shared history that really moves me. It’s also the one thing that my brothers and I hold so dear, for while we each have little to no memory of our mother and father, we have one another and in that one connection a true link to who we are and where we came from.

Lisa and her brothers, 1962

Around 1990

There's No Place Like Home

2010-10-13T11:28:00.000-07:00

I am back in western New York for a quick visit. Arriving late last night I didn’t get to see the glorious fall colors from my airplane, but had my first cup of coffee on a damp porch with autumn leaves gently falling all around me. There are people to see and places to visit, but frankly, the only thing I want to do is walk in the woods. I mentioned that to my friend, Kathy, and told her if she doesn’t hear from me later today to send out a search party; not kidding, I have a tendency to get lost easily.

But getting lost in the woods of western New York wouldn’t be so bad because it beautiful and peaceful. Being here and walking among the overgrown landscape, the old growth trees, and seeing wildlife brings back so many memories. I used to spend hours alone in the woods; every season brought a different look and experience. Spring is when everything new comes back to life: buds on the trees, greenery poking through the last pockets of snow and creatures relishing the warmer days. Summer you fight off the mosquitoes but can harvest medicinal herbs and gather material for wild crafts. In the fall, all you have to do is be present; your senses take over and in the winter the snow mutes all sound and you feel as though you are in a fairy land.

I’ve already visited one cemetery; the one where my grandmother is buried.

As I walked among the headstones I saw familiar names, names I recall from high school or people I remember knowing as a child. In an upcoming blog I will elaborate on my hobby of cemetery trolling. After that I went to my favorite out-of-the-way restaurant; Salvania’s in Batavia. Their pasta sauce is as good as mine so my tummy is nice and full.

Next, the Holland Land Office Museum to renew my membership. It’s a great little museum that deserves so much support so it can be showcased the way such a historic landmark should be. Now, I’m at the library checking in with my college students; my vacations are working vacations.

Grubb is the cutie-pie on the left

The rest of the trip is going to be great. An auction today, pizza and wine with family tonight. Tomorrow a estate sale (You don’t know great finds and deals until you’ve been to an auction or estate sale in these small towns!), dinner at an historic home turned Bed and Breakfast, then Friday – Amish Country! Last time I went through Amish Country I came home with my little dog, Grubb. Wonder what I’ll find this time around.

In between all of this place-hopping I need to see some people. I won’t get to see them all and I’ll pay the price for that, but I’ll do the best I can. In the meantime, stay tuned because being here inspires a lot of topics to write about and so I think my blog will have plenty of postings in the next few days.

It’s good to be “home!”

It's That Time of Year Again

2010-10-03T10:34:00.000-07:00

What I miss most is autumn. Living in a desert there is little chance to witness the change of seasons. I have habitually gone through depression as the fall season takes hold and I have wondered what it is about this time of year that causes me to go into a funk; is it the memory of the autumns of my childhood, the crisp, cold air, the array of colors as the leaves change or is it the significance of the month of October, the month my parents died and was marked my entire childhood by trips to a cemetery to pay homage to a mom I never knew? It might be a combination of both these things; all I know is that my favorite time of year is one I have not been able to enjoy for many seasons now.

As a child I remember how September was a month I waited for with great anticipation. Rather than January, September was, for me, the start of a new year. My birthday happens in that month and what child doesn’t gleefully await her day? My birthday happens to be on the first day of fall, so it is no wonder I associate such a special day with my favorite season. The new school year starts and although many aspects of school life were difficult for me; I wasn’t the brightest kid and I got into trouble all the time for talking too much - I associate the first day of school with a sense of excitement and promise. And my childhood activities were filled with hours and hours outdoors, where I could breathe in that wonderful air surrounded by a deep blue, cloud scattered sky cut with autumn leaves changing from green to orange, red, and yellow.

Despite some pretty awful experiences (which I have yet the courage to write about), I had a pretty awesome childhood that brings me great joy to remember. That, I believe, is why fall in a dry, arid, white world is so hard for me to go through.

You would think if I just went and visited a place where the seasons change that it would satisfy me, but it just makes the depression deeper. Last October I was in Oregon and the rural countryside looked much like my childhood home with fields of pumpkins ready to be picked and apples and cider sold at roadside stands.

The trip didn’t ease my longing, it just made it worse. I came home wanting so much to be there and not here. My poor husband, who is not ready to make the plunge just yet as our life is pretty secure here, watched helplessly as I cried about wanting to move. He is so sweet; he said to me, “I’ll get us there, don’t worry. I can’t have you crying.” Knowing he cares that much about my happiness makes the wait a little easier.

So how much of my depression is associated with the month of October and the loss of my parents? Perhaps on a subconscious level there is a lot I can attribute to it; but it wasn’t until I was well into adulthood, after having researched my family story, did I begin the process of grieving. Prior to that it was just a story to me; I felt no emotional attachment, much less sadness because I never felt the loss, not until much later. I guess it stands to reason now that I do know the significance of the month that its appearance once a year has to have some bearing on my association of the time of year and my overall sadness.

Whatever it is I am bracing for a month of trying to keep my head afloat and my spirits high.

I am taking a quick trip to New York in a couple of weeks; I haven’t been there in three years and I miss it. Visiting my hometown, the people and the memories especially at this time of year puts a strain on that optimism I have to keep strong, but acknowledgement goes a long way in understanding the cause so I have a jump on keeping the depression at bay. At least I will be able to close my eyes, take a deep breath of the magnificent air and pretend, just for a moment that I am once again that child with no other care in the world than to anticipate what comes next in my “new year.”

Are You Psychic?

2010-09-19T10:49:00.000-07:00

Do you have psychic abilities?

It’s hard to believe that such a thing exists but I know from personal experience there are moments in life that are unexplainable. I believe we all have what is called a sixth sense but it varies with each person, by degree and experience. My “psychic” ability generally has to do with encounters.

For example, there have been many incidents in my life when I am in a public place and I look at a stranger’s face and for some odd reason a person comes to mind. The stranger looks nothing like the person that pops into my head but more often than not as I round a corner the very person I was thinking of is there.

For the most part that’s the extent of my experience, which to some could be chalked up to coincidence. Perhaps, but one experience changed my mind and led me to believe that it was much more than mere coincidence.

During the 1990s I worked as a waitress in a now-defunct restaurant located in Dillard’s Department Store at the Fashion Show Mall in Las Vegas. I went to a table to greet new customers and get their order. It was a man and woman at the table and something about the woman struck me as familiar. How I came to the realization of who she was is a mystery to me. “Did you go to Clarence High School?” I asked.

She answered, “Yes.”

“Do you live here in Las Vegas?” I asked.

Once again they answered, “Yes.” Her husband was a local music teacher and she, well, I can’t remember what she said. But they had been living in Vegas for a few years.

Clarence is located in New York where I grew up but left when I was nineteen. I went to Clarence High only for my freshman year, transferring to another school where I graduated from before leaving western New York for good. In addition, I knew very few people from Clarence, save for the friends from my immediate neighborhood.

How I knew this woman was from that school was crazy, especially because she was not in my grade but two years ahead of me. Some might say I have a good memory but I have a short attention span and am by no means in possession of a photographic memory. Yet, I didn’t place too much stock in the recognition other than to be amazed at the coincidence of it all. After enjoying the wonder of it we said our farewells.

A month or so later my husband, children and I went back to New York for a visit. Our base was Corfu where I called home. Of course visiting took us to other towns and one of them was Clarence where we found ourselves one afternoon when we decided to find a place to eat.

We got out of our car and at first headed to one restaurant but halfway across the road we changed our minds and chose a different spot. Because our group was so large we headed to the back of the restaurant and parked ourselves. At one point I got up and went to the front counter. Guess who was there? The same man and woman I’d met at Dillard’s. It was such a shock to see them; what are the chances of such an encounter? 3,000 miles away, in the same little town, in the same little restaurant, at the same time; my belief in coincidence was really shaken now.

But, that wasn’t the last time I would question it.

For some reason my husband and I decided we needed to change our plane reservations adding an extra day to our vacation. On the day of departure we were in the lounge awaiting our flight when we encountered, you guessed it, our “new” friends.

By now I came to the conclusion that there was a divine reason why this couple kept turning up and believed time would reveal the reason. That never happened.

It turned out that the couple had no ride home from the airport. We offered them one. After we dropped them off, remarking the whole time about the strange set of circumstances that led to our paths repeatedly crossing, we said goodbye. I have not run into them again, not in over ten years. Were we just supposed to give them a ride home? That's it?

I’ll share one other unexplained moment and leave the question about the existence of psychic abilities to you.

When my husband and I were dating, this was around 1986, we were in bed sleeping. Around 3:00 am we were both woken up by a knocking on the wall outside of my bedroom. It didn’t happen once but three times. Knock, Knock, Knock. After an investigation we found no one about. We didn’t know what to make of it but we soon forgot the incident. The next evening we were in the car with his parents on our way to dinner.

His mother said, “The strangest thing happened last night. I was woken up around 3:00 in the morning with a knocking on the wall outside our bedroom.”

We looked at one another, our mouths wide open. We shared our own experience but to this day have no explanation for how or why this knocking occurred to us, much less to his mother at the exact same time.

All I can come up with is that things beyond our control or reason occur in this world. Sure it would be nice to know why, but it’s really okay with me. I like knowing that mystery exists in this human experience of ours. Frankly, I love these unexplained experiences; I am in awe of how the Universe graces me with little nuggets of wonder.

I can’t wait to see what awaits me around the next corner………………….

What are your psychic experiences? Do tell.

A Year To Call My Own

2010-09-11T07:42:00.000-07:00

Of my fifty years on this earth, I have lived only one of them on my own. That was 1979 to 1980. Even though I was the only person paying the rent on my humble abode, I was never truly alone and in reflection all of these years later, I wish I would have taken advantage of the short time to really get to know myself. Instead, I was on the cusp of making choices that would form the path the rest of my life would journey down. But for that one year, I was all mine.

When I want to end a love relationship I find it difficult to just say, “We’re over.” I’m too gullible and I find myself back and forth, unable to break the ties for good. My solution, then, is to physically remove myself; basically I flee the state hoping that geographic distance can do what my heart cannot. That’s what happened in 1979. It was time to break it off with Michael but he wasn’t making it easy.

I’ll show him I said. Using what little money I had I purchased a 1970 Willy Jeep truck, a camper that fit over the bed, packed up all my belongings, which included my dog Babe, my cat Natasha, Zeppo my cockatiel, and headed north.

Once again I was optimistic that everything would turn out alright. I had nothing but a location to go to; no job or friendly face awaited me; as usual I leapt first and hoped for the best. In Jacksonville, Oregon I had heard about Dogs for the Deaf. Wally Ross, one of my mentors during my EATM years told me that a fellow animal trainer by the name of Roy Kabat had started a program in Oregon and that I might be able to get a job there. That’s all the motivation I needed so off I went.

Getting settled took a bit of doing, but once again things just fell into place and soon I had a job and a place to live. Of course I don’t do things the normal way; my “home” was in my camper (I soon traded up and rented a travel trailer) and parked myself on the Applegate River. The property I stayed on belonged to one Harlan Paige Bosworth, an old man whose land was used for the annual summer jazz festival and who graciously allowed my presence. I literally had the river, a campfire, and the sounds, sights, and smells of nature right outside my front door. It was heaven.

Can't you just hear the sound of the river?

Babe, my constant companion

The first job I acquired and kept throughout my time there was at a steak house. I also talked my way into the Dogs for the Deaf job so everything was working out just as I’d hoped. If only Michael, the jilted love I’d left behind in California would have left me alone. Instead, he was a constant presence in my sanctuary and eventually he would once again wear me down.

Within a year I would find myself packed up and heading south. I would be a wife by summer and a mother by next fall. My year alone on the river would become a sweet memory lost to the years of making a life that was ahead of me.

It’s when I look at the pictures of that time in Oregon that I yearn for the simple life I led; aside from all the emotional turmoil I was in, it really was a year of wonder. And it was all mine.

I'll find my way back there again someday, soon.

Animal Heaven - Part I

2010-08-27T10:12:00.000-07:00

This post is presented in two parts because it is much too long to read at one sitting. I do hope you will read it all the way through; the message is worth it. Thank you for stopping by. Please, please feel free to comment - I love to hear what my readers have to say!

If there is a Heaven I know just what I want to do for eternity. When I arrive at the gate and the gatekeeper hands out assignments, I hope he/she sends me to be the assistant of St. Francis of Assisi. St. Francis is legendary for his love and dedication to animals. This morning as I sat in my own little heaven, surrounded by my menagerie of pets, I knew that to be among animals and to be responsible for their care would be a job I could do forever. In Heaven the animals would never suffer, there would be plenty of love and food galore, and none would ever want for anything. I wish it were the same here on earth.

I shield myself from exposure to sad things when it comes to animals; that means I don’t go to animal shelters and I turn the channel when ads or programs show abused animals. I step up, however, when I’m confronted with an animal in need. I have come to the rescue of more animals in my lifetime than I can count. It started as a young child when I came across a nest of baby birds or rabbits. In my naiveté I assumed because the mommy was gone the babies had been abandoned. I would take them home and try to care for them only to have them die. That was my first lesson in letting nature do her job without interference – sometimes. Nature is both giving and cruel, as are people, and without help, sometimes the weakest become the most vulnerable and suffer at the hands of both. This was never more apparent to me then a recent trip through the magnificently beautiful, yet harsh land of the Four Corners region of the United States.

On my way to Mesa Verde National Park I stopped at a McDonalds for a break. There was a black lab dog running through the parking lot. Suddenly I heard both a motorbike and barking and when I looked up I saw the dog chasing the bike as it headed out of the lot. Coming in was an SUV, which the dog ran headfirst into; the sound of impact was loud. The dog ran off and I hoped it was okay; needless to say watching it was hard on me. When I headed into the restaurant I saw the dog; it was sitting next to its apparent owner. “Sir,” I said, “your dog just got hit by a car!” His response shocked and disgusted me, “That’s okay, its happened before. It’s a good lesson for him.” The dog looked okay but I know he had to be injured. As there was nothing more I could do I walked away but have thought about that poor creature many times since. My next encounter was just as difficult for me to forget.

Stopping at a gas station I encountered around seven adult dogs sitting in the bay areas. They were skinny and panting; some I could see were nursing mothers. They were obviously looking for handouts so of course I complied giving each of them a bit of beef jerky. I wasn’t as worried about them as I knew they were old enough to fend for themselves, especially when fools for animals like me happened by. It was the next stop on my way back home that has caused me the most distress both emotionally and financially.

It was by chance that I stopped at one of the many remote outposts where the Native People set up plywood booths to sell their wares. When I let my own dogs out for a stretch I soon lost sight of them. “Where are my dogs?” I asked aloud. A young girl behind a counter said, “They are trying to play with this abandoned puppy.” Uh oh. Those are words that I can’t hear. “May I see?” I asked. Under the stand was a small, frightened pup. I immediately picked it up and held it close. I soon learned that wasn’t such a good idea as upon close inspection I discovered what a poor state the pooch was in: he was loaded, I mean loaded with ticks. From the inside of his ears to every crevice of his body those loathsome parasites were attached. His eyes were crusty as was his shoddily-docked tail.

Picture taken just after rescue on 8-8-10

Upon hearing the words abandoned puppy I already knew I would be taking the animal with me to find a home for it, but when I realized what condition it was in I panicked a bit. How would I transport it in my packed car? The ticks alone, not to mention worry about disease, caused me to rethink my decision. But I knew I could not leave him; there was no way that was an option. It took a bit of thinking but I acted on instinct and did the best I could under the circumstances.

I carry with me Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint Soap, a natural castile soap infused with pure peppermint oil. I asked one of the vendors if anyone had both a bucket and a box. Luckily someone had both. I could see both disdain and compassion on the faces of the people as they watched me go to work. I bathed the puppy hoping the soap would dislodge most of the ticks. Unfortunately, I found I had to remove them by hand, a job I hated doing. But I was determined and just did it. Satisfied I had many of the larger ones off and hoping the soap would work on the others I dried the puppy and placed him in a box lined with paper and towel. I worried about the ride home which would take about four hours. I placed box and all in the very back of my car and set off; stopping once at a store to get food that when presented to the puppy was wolfed down. As difficult and nerve-wracking as the trip was, we made it home. My daughter, another animal caregiver, was waiting with flea and tick shampoo, as well as tweezers and when I handed her the puppy, she picked up where I left off. We weren’t out of the woods yet.

Still worried about the ticks and illness, I kept the puppy outside in a secure area away from our house and pets. The next morning he went to the veterinarian. I explained to the vet that rescue was something I did on a regular basis, meaning I spend a lot of money I can’t afford to spend and that I would need to be very conservative in the treatment. I found a sympathetic ear (a rarity) and considered myself lucky to be charged only $140.00. The treatment included a bath, hand-picking ticks ranging in size from minute to engorged, fluids for severe dehydration, and deworming. When I brought the little guy home, and for the next week, he seemed to thrive on several small meals a day and the company of our pack, both human and canine. One week to the day of his rescue, however, he stopped eating and drinking and became lethargic. The next four days were touch-and-go as to whether his valiant effort to survive would work.

Fearing he was carrying the dreaded dog disease of Parvo or distemper I kept him isolated. I left him alone for the first day, not forcing any food or liquid on him, taking him out to urinate and see if diarrhea followed. Thankfully it didn’t.

Feeling very unwell 8-17-10

By the third day he was on Pedialyte® for rehydration but felt he needed more fluids than I could provide. Another trip to the vet and a decision came next. The vet that first saw the puppy was off and the one that examined him showed little compassion for the situation. All I wanted was for the puppy to be placed on fluids to give it a boost. The estimate to do so was $233.00. I declined and took him home to carry on my own treatment and hope for the best. My instincts and experience paid off.

I was pretty sure the puppy was not stricken with a disease; he showed none of the aggressive symptoms. Rather, I believed that the procedures he was subjected to were too much for his malnourished and weak body to process. I was right. By the fourth day I incorporated food along with the liquids. He had no interest in eating so using a syringe and liquefied dog food, along with the high-calorie food supplement Nutri-Cal, I force fed him. By the evening of the fourth day he was perking up. Although his body has suffered (you can see his rib and hip bones), I knew if I progressed slowly he just might make it. By morning he was spry, playfully chasing a ball and our dogs and cats. He ate brown rice and cooked chicken all on his own.

Feeling much better and ready to play 8-26-10

With a lot of small meals and lots of love and exercise, I think we’ll have a healthy, happy puppy on our hands. This, of course, is the last thing I need! With the number of dogs and cats (many of them “fixed” ferals), and a pig, I don’t need another mouth to feed or dog to care for, but I am not sure I can part with one whose story I am so wrapped up in. So, I’ve done what I do best and came up with a way to use this opportunity for good.

Continued..................

Animal Heaven - Part II

2010-08-27T10:01:00.000-07:00

This is part two of Animal Heaven. To read part one, click here

About five years ago I incorporated a non-profit in Nevada: Acres of Animals, Inc. My intent was to provide a sanctuary for animals that were abused and neglected or to care for them until a suitable home could be found. I never followed through, however, in getting the non-profit tax status filed. I am rectifying that and have started the process of doing so now. That way I can solicit donations and do fundraising to help the animals I just know are in my future that need rescuing. Once in place I plan on using this happy, healthy puppy to help me educate and inform.

Going to places like the Indian reservation and other poverty-stricken communities, Acres of Animals will provide services to help people treat their animals more humanely. To that end, education is a must and I know just where to start: the young people. Perhaps they are like I used to be, innately drawn to animals and their desire to help them is instinctual. Convince the young people and they will elicit the change that is needed.

So I will ask forgiveness of my faithful blog readers. I promised myself I would never use my blog as a way to generate income using ads to do so. But I think this experience warrants a change of mind. I will at some point in the near future provide a link to accept donations on behalf of the animals I take in. Anyone interested in providing a good home to one, please let me know.

My grandson, Aiden, with me at the time of the puppy’s rescue thought long and hard on what to name him. He came up with the name, “Lucky,” because he reasoned, “He was lucky we came by when we did.” I’m pretty sure that we are the lucky ones.

Initiation into thePack
Video taken in 8-27-10, 11 days after rescue

In the video is "Lucky" with Candy (pit bull I think reminds the puppy of his mother, Mya and Ivy. Another dog, Grubb, is not interested in welcoming the new addition)