Beans on a String

I wouldn't say that I have excelled in writing obituaries, or delivering eulogies, although I have done a few over the past few years.  Often times, an uncontrollable abundance of words flow from my mouth, and the filter gets dislodged along the way.  People are either left laughing or crying; I hope for the first, but am okay with the second.  It's cathartic, or so someone said.

What can I say about Betty McArthur Estep?  In her 90s, she could still write a wonderful letter, filled with newsy information, bits of family history and even a recipe or two.  As she began to age, I noticed the letters began to grow shorter, and you could see the instability in her handwriting; I presumed her hand was quivering from fatigue.  But the letters came, and I felt supremely blessed with the arrival of every handwritten note.

When I first met Betty, my husband John had brought me to a McArthur/Burns family reunion in London, KY.  I drank too much on the plane, got a bit sick, made a jack ass of myself and got off the plane and into eye shot of my new brother in law Walter (Mac) and my young nephew Rob.  I can only imagine what my new, gracious country folk family were thinking - "Boy, John sure knows how to pick 'em."  I'm all about first impressions, so I went all out.  I wondered if Walter ever told John to return me to the land of fruit and nuts that is California.

Having never experienced a true southern family reunion, I knew nothing of canning, quilting, pie making.  I was from a large Irish Catholic family where we were more likely to throw darts at each other as foreplay to dinner. So, here, in the dead of July, I found myself amongst a large group of Kentucky southerners, and a table that reached from here to the next county, filled with every imaginable food dish possible.

As I surveyed the dishes, I can upon something that resembled a pile of worms  found in a garden.  I stared at  that dish, trying to examine it from numerous angles, hoping that I might be able to identify what was in a large bowl in front of me.  "What the hell is this?", I whispered to my husband.  "Shuckey Beans", as he placed an enormous helping on his plate.  I considered passing the  mystery dish all together when John insisted I try just a bit. 

Bravery can be a strong suit, but at that point in my life, trying different foods was not my purple heart heroism award.  I suddenly felt a great, imposing presence behind me.  I looked over my right shoulder and then gazed up towards the tall trees.  There behind me stood one of the tallest, ominous, stern, bible loving faces, clothed in a somewhat plain dress, glasses and gray hair women I had ever seen.  Eyes burned holes straight through me and could have ignited anything.

There, in all her glory, was the woman who had prepared the bean dish, doubling as earthworms.  I suddenly felt the taste of my own leather shoe in my mouth and most like shrunk 5 inches in height.  My face turned red, my knees trembled and I slowly reached for my husband's now absent hand.  "Oh Lord', I thought...I'm about to have someone mark me, "Return to Sender".

As a courtesy, I placed a small amount of Betty's beans on my plate, and sought out a quiet spot where I might be able to retreat to Yankee territory or hide amongst the cattle grazing in the adjacent field.  Surely these people aren't going to kill me on the first night.  I began to taste the food I had selected, bite by bite, slowly allowing the food to dance upon my palate so that I could play..."Identify the food".  Finally I could no longer avoid the brown, worm shaped things on my plate.  One bite. 

"Hey, these are pretty good", I thought.  A rich aroma of hickory filled my nostrils, and the sweet taste of honey, brown sugar, ham stock and butter filled my mouth.  "These are NOT earthworms"  3 helpings later, I had stuffed my stomach full of "shuckey beans".  They were divine.  I couldn't get enough of them.

I often wondered if Betty saw me going back to the mile long table and filling my plate with what I had mistaken for worms.  Was it the eagerness to consume this dish that tasted like something from heaven or that I made a point of thanking her for the lovely dish she had prepared?  Either way, I believe great strides were made that day in London, Kentucky.

For us Yankees, a "Shuckey Bean"  is a string bean that after harvest, is strong up with twine, hung neatly in a root cellar and dried.  No doubt, this was a custom handed down from generation to generation by the tough as nails Appalachian women in Betty's family (The McArthurs).  These beans hung in root cellars and then were "revived" by soaking them overnight. 

The first batch that Betty sent me about a year after the McArthur/Burns family reunion arrived just in time to be prepared for a family dinner with John's brother Jimmy and then partner, now husband Jim Daugherty.  At the time, I was still into the Martha Stewart fad of actually cooking.  Jim Daugherty and I were like old friends in the kitchen.  I made a ham and Jim helped me prepare a blueberry cobbler that was to die for.  The Shuckey Beans came out and were introduced to the ham stock.  I have my own way of preparing a ham.  I make a very rich, aromatic and flavorful stock.  Those southern beans from the wilds of Appalachia simmered for quite a spell in a Yankee/California stock until they split wide open and turned a brownish color; like the earthworms I thought they were years ago.  Home made buttermilk biscuits, corn bread and Irish mashed potatoes were part of the menu.  It was divine.

I had begun to write to Betty a few times a year, along with her remaining sisters, Margaret and Mary Lou, lovingly referred to as "Punk".  I wrote with great fervor of the feast I had created with the very beans she had shipped to me.

Those 3 sisters brought such humor to me.  I would write each auntie their own letter; those gals would copy and send the letter to the next one in order to be sure no one missed a bit of news.  I would later write one letter, and Xerox it 2 times and send it and the original to the Appalachian aunties.

One custom I found out was that John's mother Ms. Juanita (McArthur) and Auntie Betty shared the same birthday, Christmas day.  As another "lucky" lady, my birthday falls a week later.  I never had the honor of meeting my mother in law. as she had died suddenly of a brain bleed earlier in John's life; in fact he was in the U.S. Navy, overseas, when he received notice of his mother's untimely passing.  At any rate, Auntie Betty and Ms. Juanita, along with Christmas cards, would make sure that both received a birthday card.  Those "combo" cards and gifts can be such a sublime habit.

I have always enjoyed writing letters to my elders.  So much can be learned from the notes.  The pages contain history of a family.  The southern way of life had been so very rough for the McArthur/Burns clan back in the days living at the foot of the beautiful, mysterious and often times deadly Appalachian mountains.  Their way of life was decades behind how I was raised.  I felt almost unworthy to even begin to believe that a letter from a young lady in California would be good enough for them.

The first few letters went well.  I would receive either a phone call from one of the sisters, or 3 letters in return.  Each hand written in long form (BTW, an art form we need to rediscover) discussing their daily adventures, and I could close my eyes to be transported to Benham, Gate City, Harlan, Webber City and imagine their lives. 

My first and thus far only trip to Benham, KY where my husband was raised, shocked me out of my too good for anything attitude and towards a deep respect for the southern Appalachian way of life.  Steep mountains almost overtook the small coal mining town, where the sun hit the streets from about 10 to 3 p.m., then would cast everything into chilled shadows.  Poverty was evident everywhere.  I realized that these coal mining families had an abundance of love and the fierce determination to survive. Upon seeing the house where my husband was raised, I felt guilty.  But, as I walked through the back door of the house on Spruce Street, I had an epiphany.  It's not the amount of money that one has but the love within their hearts.  It filled me with utter joy.

As the years passed by, I continued to write to the three sisters.  Margaret was widowed, with children and had very long sweeping penmanship.  Sometimes pictures were included of grandchildren, cousins, etc.  Margaret was the first to pass away.  Then there is Punk.  She is a hoot.  The story goes that Ms. Juanita and Punk would sneak booze into red solo cups or coffee cups, and drink (innocent drinking), hiding their rambunctious behavior from Betty who was a devout Scottish Presbyterian.  At the family reunion, Punk and I did the same thing; filling red solo cups with wine, and then sitting outside, on the patio swing, giggling and believing we were getting away with murder. I still laud my telephone calls to Punk.

To carry on in my mother-in-law's shoes, I wrote Auntie Betty a birthday card every year.  20 years of exchanging letters and birthday cards.  Even though we had only met once, a solid and life lasting relationship was formed through those cards.  There was a sense of comraderie between two Capricorns lost in a world of wrapping paper and a jolly man making a late night appearance down a chimney. 

In one of my letters to Betty this past June, I told her about my son Bryan's excellence in cooking.  I let her know of the fond memories of the infamous experience with Shuckey Beans, during the summer of 1993.  Before I knew it, a small square box arrived, filled with long strands of beans; dried and strung, ready to go.  Just a few weeks ago, I made mention to John that we would have beans with the ham I was going to prepare for Christmas Dinner.  How would I know Betty would leave us before Christmas?

Dozens of letters fill a box.  I look at them, re-reading each line.  Pages filled with years of advice as to how to raise a family, how to laugh, to pray, to find God, to live each day as if it were your last.

A green bean, a stern woman, a family reunion, 20 years of letters and birthday cards taught me, the Yankee from California how to embrace life, cherish family and most of all that a bean on string is the path to happiness.

Pour Me Another Shot

The rich amber color, the once peaty smell, the slight tingle as it passed my lips - it was my poison and my passion.  "It" was Irish Whisky. 

More often than not, I would find myself lingering on about my lover.  All that encompassed my life, my time, my thoughts; everything fell by the wayside at the mention of Whisky.

Songs are composed about the drink.  From Willie Nelson to Miranda Lambert, lyrics celebrate the spellbinding powers of whisky.  Love songs, drinking songs, victory songs, stupid & silly songs - even lamp shades on your head antics.

By 14 I was under the mesmerizing addiction of whisky.  Small sips from my parents' somewhat limited alcohol stash knew my name.  Of course, in those days, my palatable sense of addiction was not so astute.  If it erased the pain, I'd try it.  Never in a million years will I acquire an infinity for Crème de Menthe; even if it's a grasshopper.  But, neatly stowed away was the liquor cabinet in my parents' living room. If it had an alcohol content percentage, I would drink from it.  I will never know if my parents caught on to my samplings; and I'm quite sure I wasn't the only one of my siblings nipping at the cooking sherry.

What makes an alcoholic?  Addiction, the taste, the feelings that follow; becoming numb to the outside world?  I am of the firm belief that there is no real strong scientific evidence to prove or disprove the causes of addiction.

My personal love affair, riddled with self-loathing and unbelievably low self-esteem became part of me at an early age.  The introduction of booze was born during my teen-age years; confusion mixed with all the hormonal fireworks occurring made booze all the more comforting.  From the first sip, I knew I would be fighting a life time, full fledged war.  I would be the only soldier on my team, the only POW, the only casualty. 

Many a mistake were made while under the influence.  No one is perfect, but my compass pointed in all directions - truth be told, I was unable to locate "magnetic north", and the needle spun in all directions.  Unable to get my bearings straight, I wandered aimlessly through life, nipping at the bottle during the entire journey.  A finish line was nothing but a clever distraction for me.  My compass was just how many ounces remained in the whisky bottle.

Some doors never open.  They remain locked.  Fear keeps them bolted shut.  Complete and utter despair enveloped me during my teen-age years.  Coming of age was like a jigsaw puzzle, missing a piece.  I remained in a constant state of apprehension.  My home life was frightening.  My parents did their best, but as an adopted child, there was never a level of comfort for belonging to a family unit.  I'm not blaming anyone, but I do wish that my parents could have been better at recognizing the signs. 

I crawled into a deep hole, a secret hiding place, where no one could hurt me.  At least that's what I thought.  Yet, there was truly never a safe zone.  Persistent anxiety crippled me.  My only sense of calm was when I was buzzed.  My total transformation into the adult club of alcoholism did not arrive until after my 25th birthday. 

I was sexually assaulted when I was 17.  It is only now that I feel safe in letting go of that secret.  While my rapist will remain nameless, he did take my innocence.  The strength and psychological resilience which I prided myself in, had become translucent.  My veil was beginning to erode before my very eyes. I never told my parents.  I carried that baggage with me; the feeling of being violated.  There was an abundance; an over-flowing silent scream inside my marred psyche praying for a release and a Band-Aid.

I was blessed with 3, yes 3 beautiful miracles in my early years.  I suffered a late term miscarriage at the age of 17.  That left a huge hole in my heart.  Then, in 1983 I was blessed by the birth of my daughter Eryn Corry.  I love her with all of my heart.  In 1984, I lost my son Michael Ryan shortly after he was born.  The sting and ripping grief from that has never left me.  Guilt, extreme sadness and a huge void are ever present reminders of a little blond headed boy.  1985 brought another boy, Bryan Scott who is nothing short of a miracle.  He is the kind of son that every mother dreams of.  He stands by me no matter what. 

The 1994 death of my beloved Daddy pushed me over the edge.  Every single cell in my body ceased to exist the night he died.  The man that loved me the most, loved my children, was the best pa-pa, the softball, baseball, soccer coach, Saturday afternoon hiker who was my best friend left my already fragile world.  My life shattered on that rainy night.  Even now, 21 years later, the mere mention of his name renders me helpless.  So many events or circumstances left scars, but the death of my Daddy, my "Secret Pal"  left me caught in an almost terminal whirlwind.  Drinking became a full time play.

There are some who presume that what they see on the outside is the true reflection of a person.  What a facade!  Dig deep and you'll find a woman who is insecure, scared to death, wrought with fear and crippled by anxiety.  6 years ago I did not know how to deal with the list.  Hiding it was my main mission. 

Suddenly, and without so much as a warning, God put me face to face with someone who was battling breast cancer.  "She's fighting for her life", I thought.  "And look what I'm doing to mine".  That was June 9th.  Cold turkey - and I'm not talking left over Thanksgiving dinner-I put down the bottle and have not looked back.

While I may have become sober, I hurt many people along the way.  I'd like to believe I have been able to make amends to those I've hurt.  I am crestfallen that those I harmed the most were my precious gifts in life - my children.  My son, Bryan has forgiven me.  He has a million reasons not to.  I was absent for most of his childhood.  Not physically, but emotionally and mentally.  He forgave me.  And he did so with no boundaries.  He remains to this day, one of my strongest supporters.  The love that my heart and mind hold towards him is bounteous.

My beautiful daughter Eryn Corry has not been as forgiving.  I love her regardless and always will.  She has every right to have the grudge she has.  My prayer is that eventually she opens her heart.  Perhaps with the birth of her son Christopher, my handsome little grandson, she may come to terms with my failures as a mother.  I wanted to be her role model, someone she admired.  How can I even begin to cast any blame upon her.  As with Bryan, I was physically there, but emotionally I was far, far away. 

The most paramount emotion I have garnered from my years as an alcoholic is that of forgiveness -Towards people who hurt me; the rapist, those who skewered me with cruelty and often time brought me to me knees with despair. In exchange, I hope that those affected by my drinking can forgive me.  Mostly I seek that forgiveness from my dear husband John and the 2 glorious gifts from God - my children.

6 years seems like a lifetime to me.  But, it's also marks the day I took stock in my life, catalogued every fear, poor decision, empty whisky bottle, threw them in the garbage and reclaimed my life. 

It's been a good day.

Daddy's Wool Jacket

That day in March was long.  A soft rain fell.  It's not often that a thousand days can pass without so much as a second thought, but then, before you are aware of it, the sun ebbs away and a stillness fills the emptiness that is night.  There is no sound.   That night; that long night in March, a soft, gentle rain fell on the sand and against the windows.  As you gazed out towards the ocean, a reflection looked back, and with every breath, the window fogged.

Daddy was a smart dresser. Trousers, carefully creased, silk ties, crisp shirts and a suit jacket. As a little girl, I found myself earning dimes and quarters by pressing my Daddy's dress shirts, monogrammed handkerchiefs and other linens set aside for attention.  To this day I find ironing to be one of the most relaxing, rewarding and strangely addictive household duties.  As a little girl, being able to be responsible for my Daddy's dapper appearance gave me a sense of pride.  Those were the days of dreams.

Fast forward some 30 years, to a small beach side community, and you could still see that same dapper appearance.  The characteristics were still present, although somewhat dulled by age.  The rich heathers, greys and mossy colors of Daddy's wool jackets were still calming to gaze at.  The jacket that once fit a strapping young man, now hung loosely on an older man whose disease owned his frame. A nicely pressed handkerchief could be found in one of the pockets, as well as a rosary and most likely a prayer card.

The jacket still conveyed a sense of character; it drew a vein of respect and appeared like a well told tale; the type of story the Irish are famous for.  There would be no tall tale on that long day in March.  Daddy's gentle spirit tired easily, but his hands, bony now from age and disease still held an air of distinction.  Daddy's hands wiped tears from 2 daughters' eyes, guided 2 brothers' in baseball, danced with grandchildren and embraced my mother.

Cancer knows no financial bracket.  The disease truly does not discriminate.  If you've a beating heart, then you're ripe for the disease.  Once dashingly handsome with black wavy hair, dancing Irish eyes and a generous smile, dimmed from the daily grind of an overpowering cancer.  The end was close.

The jacket smelled of moth balls. There was a small tear in the silk lining.  Regardless of these small imperfections, the jacket held its distinguishable traits.  It had been worn with pride.

That last evening, the Pacific Coast brought forth a fine Irish rain.  Soft and steady, it fell like a serenade, a love story calling back a long lost son.  Far off in the distance, Daddy could  hear the melody of the rain falling.  Surrounded by those who loved Daddy, we gathered around his bedside in the living room.  As a family, we honored our Daddy's last wishes to be able to die at home; to admire the poetic beauty of the crashing waves cascading against the rock.   Memories of years with his children and grandchildren flooded his mind.  There were the happy explorations of small tide pools with little creatures hidden within the cracks and crevices.  The days at the beach with Daddy.

Saturday evening came.  The priest arrived for the final anointing of the sick.  We gathered  around Daddy.  Private discussions had taken place; one by one, over the course of a week.  Apologies, recollections - the "should have", wish I "would have" and "if only" were offered.  A daydream gave Daddy the last bit of pure joy as he walked towards the tunnel of light.  And then, with night drawing to a close, soft rain caressing the sand, and the sound of the mighty ocean splashing against the rocks, Daddy took his final sigh of relief.  It was over.  No drama.

The rosary a few days later, an open casket for those that needed closure, and I looked at my Daddy in his plain, simple and beautiful casket.  A rosary has been intertwined upon his hand.  I did not want to accept his death then nor do I now. 

And there, a small frame ravaged by the cruelty of cancer laid a gentle man.  An Irishman.  A father, husband, grandfather, friend - a gentle soul.  And as if they were companions for their lifetimes - Daddy wears his tweed styled, wool jacket.  The wool jacket.  It was something else, indeed.

**This is dedicated to the memory of my dearest Daddy, Peter J. Gartlan, who left this world far too early.  On a rich, rainy Irish night on March 4, 1995, Daddy went home to heaven. 69 years were not enough.  He had so much more to accomplish.  There were unfinished jokes.  Hugs left unhugged.  Daddy, you are missed.  20 years later and you are still my Secret Pal**

Much love forever and always,
Your daughter, Ann Corry

Blurbs from the 'Burbs

Sticking to New Year's resolutions are never easy.  More often than not, they are made while either heavily marinated in liquid libations of liquor or during some well intentioned examination of failures and dreams within ourselves.

Aside from the usual promises of dieting and eating healthy during 2015, my other resolution was to write more often.  2011-2014 had been torturous.  A moderately severe back injury coupled with serious complications including blood clots and a pulmonary embolism had me sidelined for most of 3 years: 3 long, wasted years.

Chronic pain can be, well, a real pain in the ass.  Pharmacology might as well have become my major for life.  Already somewhat educated in medicine, I read my MRI reports, blood test results, patient summaries with lackluster enthusiasm.  To brighten the situation, I bought a pink flowered walking cane, to replace the bland blue that I had come to rely upon.  And then came the well meaning comments of "your cane matches your clothes so perfectly".  How did it come to this?

So, as 2014 was making its exit, I decided I'd reached my limit and kicked my own ass into gear.  The dieting has been going fairly well.  I'm on track and bad habits are falling away from the picture.  The weight never comes off as a dieter wishes, but at least it's falling off.

My biggest obstacle was to start writing more often.  I love to write.  It releases stress, allows me to vent, gives me peace of mind and most importantly, let's my soul soar!  Living in a fog of narcotics, blood thinners, etc...my creative vein seemed to dry up.  Sure, I continued to write; sometimes serious topics and then, much to some of my friends' dismay, the political rants and raves were bounced around.  Truth be told - I enjoy the rants more.

When my husband began a new job that required a tremendous amount of travel, and time away from home, I knew I'd be in need of activities to stimulate my mind.  I'm not a very good housewife.  Gone are the days of creating some culinary feast.  I've never been good at sewing or other creative crafty things.  So, writing has been my outlet.  It's therapy for me.  And it sure is cheaper as well.

Today FOX News reported that Mitt Romney has decided not to run for the Presidency in 2016.  While I am a conservative & Republican, I couldn't help but sigh a breath of relief.  Mr. Romney is a great gentleman, but sometimes, the third time's a charm mantra is way off. 

The shenanigans of the current clown in the White House has made me even more passionate to see who comes out of the GOP and leads our country back to its once proper place in the world.  Whomever emerges from a list of at least 14 hopefuls, the GOP needs to put forth a candidate who can put a smack down on Mrs. "What Difference Does It Make" Clinton.

So, that's my thoughts for today, 1/30/15.  Exciting?  Maybe yes, maybe no.  But either way, One month into resolutions, I'm determined to stick with it.  I'm going to trim the fat - I hope our government can do the same.

A Letter to Al Sharpton - Obama's Advisor

Dear Al: 

Or do you prefer Rev.?  What's with you? 

While most of your public life has been filled with turmoil, ridicule, race baiting, spewing lies, creating half-truths and being like gasoline on a fire, the latest stunt or plea for attention in your imaginary wheel of so-called racism is laughable. 

Calling an "emergency meeting" as to the lack of black actors and actress being nominated for this years Oscars takes the cake.  I'm left wondering if I should laugh or cry.

With all the turmoil around the world; terrorism alive as was evidenced in recent event in Sydney, AU and Paris, France - why on Earth do you equate the Oscars deserved of an emergency meeting?  Beg your pardon, but who the flip cares?

Did Mommy and Daddy not give you enough attention as a little boy?  Were you wronged on the playground after a kickball game?  Did someone steal a pencil from your desk?  You behave like a spoiled brat. 

Have you ever considered a job in construction?  This would be an ideal profession for you.  No one is more capable of moving a molehill into a mountain.  You can move a mound of shit with so much finesse. 

Could it be that the Oscars and those who make the decisions simply did not find any black person who gave a performance that was worthy of a nomination?  Why does it always come down to color with you? 

You need a vacation.  I suggest you visit our brave men and women serving in the middle east, if they'll have you.  There you will find a rainbow of nationalities.  Each and every person of color is treated with equality.  They all get the same chow, the same deluxe sleeping cot, they are all banding together, the same boots that get filled with sand from time to time, the same OD green fatigues,  and the best of our troops is their willingness to consider every person within their group a brother or sister.  They all bleed red.

Consider it, and even better, let me offer you the airfare to get you there. 

Sincerely,

An American Who is Fed Up With Your Bullshit.

Tweeting RHOA Style

With my husband gone to Kentucky, visiting the McArthur Clan, I've been finding new and exciting ways in which to occupy my time.  I refer to it as "Real Houseives of Aurora" (RHOA for short).

Deeply rooted into Day 4 of my Christmas Day oath to start the mighty diet, blog more, exercise until my limbs fall off and in general be a better person, I attest to "so far, so good".  Greek yogurt is my friend.  Water bottles are placed in strategic zones throughout the house to ensure that I get 64 oz. delivered to placate the hunger pangs.  Dog leashes are now in both cars to allow the spur of a moment dog walk!  The 6lb min-pin isn't sure what the heck is happening.

In between the various pledges I rendered unto myself, I re-enlisted in Twitter.  Social media is, at least for me, a path towards finding people who share my same point of view on various topics; mostly conservatism and irritation towards the current administration, dismal societal groups, i.e. Ferguson rioters, anti-police/law/military protesters, and the pinheads who wear t-shirts proclaiming, "I Can't Breath [sic]."  The latter being one of my favorites. 

My husband can attest to my recent frustration with the news.  An ardent FOX News viewer, I find myself yelling at the television.  I look forward to Bill O'Reilly's "Word of the Day" as the way to quell my anger with the earlier segments.  Just how many nitwits live in this great country?  Apparently quite a few.  That statistic is at least satisfying with the fact that FOX News is the number one cable news network. 

Most nights you can find me bantering with pundits with opposing points of view, albeit couch side.  I realize the television can not register my opinions, but I enjoy sharing them regardless.  Facebook is fun, but Twitter is a somewhat instantaneous.  I suspect my husband would relish time a bit more if I were not having one sided arguments with the news.  So, social media has become somewhat of a companion of sorts.

In the end, social media is the new path to communicating with one's fellow man, the sharing of opinions, views and dialogue.  Sadly, it also has created a world wherein face to face exchanges are far and few between.  There's the juxtaposition.

Big butts, jello and jiggles

With 2015 almost upon us, I decided to jump start my body overhaul early.  What better time to tackle the curse of menopause, sagging breasts, big butt syndrome and all that nonsense then Christmas.  Tis the season of all things chocolate, sugar, savory and cheese.  All big RED flags on my plate.

The holiday started off ok.  By 1300 I was famished and convinced that I had not eaten in days, when it had only be a mere 4 hours.  By the end of the day, I was convinced beyond the shadow of a giant sugar cookie that I would die in my sleep of starvation. 

One great standard is that the United States counts weight in pounds rather than stones.  After a great Christmas eve conversation with my cousin Louise (in Australia), I realized that it sounds far more esoteric to measure out weight in stones than pounds.  But, after doing the conversion, those stones became giant boulders, and the fairytale became more of a horror flick! 

I made it through the first day!  Now begins day two.  That carb shake and banana do not taste as good as a slab of bacon alongside.  Of course, I've heard people say, "Bacon goes with everything"!  Luckily, the pre-diet grocery store festival did not include bacon.  I loaded up on fruits, lean cuisine meals, carb shakes, green veggies...all the yummies that say, "healthy eater". 

Ironically, this week's edition of People magazine arrived in my mailbox featuring ordinary Joes and Josephines who had lost half their body weight by eating sensibly, exercising and staying determined.  I read their take on meals, snacks, etc that gave me the extra boost I will need. My little min-pin Lady Byrd will provide the walking I need until I can get my failing back remedied and move on to the bike. 

What is it about age and expanding waistlines?  Where do spare tires come from?  How did the lunch lady find me and sling a ladle full of arm flab upon my bones?  The gray hair was fine.  I accepted that with gusto.  I believed it added character and a sense of refinement.  The crows' feet that landed on my face - again, I wasn't too concerned.  "Maybe it can be the lines of wisdom" - that's the big FAT façade I told myself.  But, to suffer the indignity of my ass being bigger than my head; well, that's just too much.

Of course, I really have no one to blame but (there's **that** word again) myself.  Trips to Macaroni Grill, or a Snicker's Bar are on me.  I accept that.  Giving up alcohol was easy compared to leaving espresso cake at the store!  And who am I kidding when ordering a green tea frap from Starbucks? 

So, Christmas...you've come and gone taking all your naughtiness with you.  I've got a jump on the all too common New Year's resolution to lose the extra baby weight from my youngest baby of 29 years.  2015 will be my year.  I can do it. 

For Greatness of our Military

November we remember our Veterans.  Today, as I recover from recent surgery in the ever evolving saga that is my spine, I watched Black Hawk Down.  The  1999 film, based upon the battle in Mogadishu, Somalia which left 18 military heroes dead,  struck a chord, as it has done every time I watch it.

Our veterans, as well as current military members, deserve so much more than they receive.  Our media, for the most part (certain mainstream media being much more guilty than others) seem to thrive upon a negative headline rather than the countless positives that emanate from our brave soldiers.

Why is it that society can't grasp the heart of our military and what they and their families endure for US, the free of the United States?  Consider recent events in every corner of our world.  Does the average citizen care to entertain the bravery that still is alive, battling terrorism, ISIS, Al Qeada?  Are you brave enough to look into the eyes of a soldier caught in the talons of PTSD and its mind demons?  We take so much for granted, yet never consider the cost.

My husband, a Naval Veteran and I had the honor to hear author and USNavy SEAL Jason Redman speak when he was in Steamboat Springs, Colorado this past spring.  He wore his bravery on his face; battle scars obvious.  But his words resounded the line:  "Overcome".  While always patriotic, respectful and ardent supporters of our U.S. Military family members, hearing Jason speak of his time in the throws of fierce battle, loss of team members and then the long but victorious battle of rebuilding his battered body, one couldn't help but have a sense of awe to what Jason,  as well as others in our braves forces have endured.

Why do they do it?  It certainly couldn't be the great pay, vacations, exotic locations - none of those are really part of the military experience.  A soldier does it for the guy next to him, his fellow man, his best friend...the soldier next to him.  They do it because they value a silent call that echoes something greater than themselves.  They do it for us; so we can lay our heads down at night, knowing we're safe because of that one soldier who thought of freedom, its cost and everything but themselves.

... “The best day and the worst day of my life was when I served in Mogadishu, Somalia, on October 3, 1993, as a part of Task Force Ranger.”  Retired Command Sgt. Maj. Robert Gallagher 1962-2014

When Laughter Hides the Demon

Say it.  Go ahead - say it.  Depression.  Take it in, ponder on the word and let it permeate the air.  It's a rough road to travel, filled with potholes, hidden divots and obstacles. It's a condition which society isn't too keen on tackling or embracing. 

Here I sit,  reeling from the shocking news of Robin Williams' death from an apparent suicide.  My gut is in turmoil and my head is spinning.  The final curtain call for a man who spent his life making people laugh was not splendid.  But behind the laughter is a nasty demon, twiddling his thumbs, plotting his line of attack. 

Depression is real.  It can sneak into a room; a slow, steady beam of darkness or it can charge forward like a bull in a china shop, breaking everything in its' sight.  It does not discriminate.  It does not recognize color, creed, age or sex.  Medications can impede its' appetite, but in the dark recesses of the human spirit, depression hides, waiting for its' cue to reappear.

I speak from experience.  Depression is part of my daily life.  It has been an uninvited burden to my experience.  Since childhood, I have had this nasty demon sitting beside me.  Between addiction and depression, the road  has been a challenge.  With age has come the strength to battle the enemy; sometimes I win, sometimes I lose.  Thank God for anti-depressants.

So, are you wondering why I share this?  Let's drop the bullshit and get to it.  It seems as though no one wants to talk about the big white elephant in the room - shit, let's make the elephant neon pink with party streamers.  Society will tweet, facebook and report to great lengths about Mr.Williams' condition.  There will be appropriate discussions about suicide and depression.  And then the demon will retreat to his hidden space; waiting for his next attack.  The news will begin its' circle again.  But society never wants to really get to the meat of the matter.  There is NO cure for depression and addiction .  We fight for cures for everything from cancer to AIDS; but the less "popular" diagnosis of depression is on the back burner.

My roller coaster ride has been thrilling.  Jeez, is that the word I want to use?  Intense.  Yes, that's how I will define it.  Intense.  Extreme highs and lows, tears and laughter.  So, there you have it.  I battle with addiction to alcohol.  I am very, very happy that I had my "come to Jesus" moment and whipped booze's rear end.  Depression is another story.  It's part of who Ann is. But, I feel blessed with the people in my life who encourage me, stand by my side and keep me centered.  What a gift.

My hope is that society will take depression and addiction seriously.  For every tweet or statement about Mr. Williams' sad exit,  there are a thousand more people walking around contemplating suicide, looking through a window, staring at nothing and praying for help.  What will happen to those people?  We need to have compassion for those who suffer from the incurable disease of depression.  I know it's a scary word; something we'd rather tuck away into a little space and forget about. 

I implore those who are reading my blog today to take a moment to consider the people in their lives who might be suffering from depression.  Don't be afraid to talk to those who suffer from depression or addiction. We are not pariahs.  We are your mother, father, sister, brother, friend and even the stranger sitting next to you in Starbucks.  We are the comedian who makes you laugh.  We are the neighbor you wave to every morning.  We are the teacher at school, the co-worker you share your weekend stories with.

We are Ann.

BBQs and ice cream

20+ years of marriage have me wondering if my dear husband really knows me.  By all means, he does have some items down to a tee.  For this my dear husband, I am eternally grateful.  I adore you and feel blessed by your presence.

BUT, warnings beware for you loving husbands out there who venture to the grocery store.  STOP!  Think about this brazen while well-intentioned move.  What may seem like a wise decision at first, might get you feeling a bit unappreciated at the end.

I often wondered whether or not my spouse actually "hears" me when I am speaking either directly to him, or making comments to an experience we're sharing together.  I start with the comment, and if after 2-3 vocalizations, I am met with no response or even more contemptible, a grunt or non-committal, "uh-huh" or "yeah" - I begin tossing out one liners.  "I am pregnant, I maxed the credit card, I bought a new car, I'm moving to the beach".  If there is no indication that the one liners are absorbed, it is  then that I stand over my partner of life and turn off the power to whatever distracts him.

Today hubby announced he was going to the local Wal-Mart to buy a BBQ.  This is a great purchase since we enjoying having grilled food.  Ah, good hubby, good man.  As with Target, our local Wal-Mart is a "Super" as well.  I love this perk as having a grocery store and retail store in one is a great fun. 

My goal, while the man of my dreams was shopping for the epitome of testosterone, a grill - was to complete my domestic Sunday chores - ah fresh laundry,  watch a bit of House Hunters International, and put my face on, walk the dog, etc.  I figured that John wanted to wander the world of wacky Wal-Mart.  Surely he'd return before grocery shopping, or even attempting such a feat. 

I was wrong.  Wrong on so many levels.  If after 20 years, one is not capable of  completing grocery shopping netting items that both partners enjoy - well, then...off with your head!

John purchased  Haagen-Dazs Gelato.  Ok..impressive.  He knows I love Haagen Dazs.  Oh, big party foul - Sea Salt Caramel.  This is disturbing for me.  It proves my point - the one I mentioned early on at the beginning of this.  You know.  The one where I stated the plain and simple fact that I may speak but that doesn't mean John hears or listens.  I had purchased a pint of Ben & Jerry's salted caramel cored ice cream.  I made a point of telling John that while I do love caramel - the salted stuff simply is NOT for me.  Upon putting the fresh pint in the freezer, I played it low and asked, "Oh, are you trying the gelato"?  He told me it was for me.  You never want to hurt delicate man feelings. 

So, with a deep breath, and keeping in mind that John is a truly sensitive soul, likely to take all this personally..."John, did you even hear what I said the other night when I told you that I did not care for the salted caramel"? I will not mention that Lemon Meringue pie - another item I don't care for.  Who knew!

The grill looks nice by the way.

Before the Swiming Pool

Summers were my favorite season when I was a youngster growing up in the San Fernando Valley.  There was a big solo screen movie theater on Reseda Blvd./Devonshire St.  I recall being mesmerized by the rated G film, "Island of the Blue Dolphins",  based upon an alleged historical event of a Chumash Indian girl escaping Anacapa Island, and to what is now Santa Barbara, CA. 

There were bike rides to McDonald's,  for a hamburger, fries and vanilla shake for the ungodly price of $3.  We lived on Yolanda Ave./San Fernando Mission Blvd., right below Tampa Street and Wilbur Avenue.  There were bike rides everywhere now that I recall.  An easy 10 minute ride got you to Alpha Beta and collective allowances, between 4 kids,  the first work as a team could get you a bag of Oreo Cookies and a coke.  We even used wooden laundry clips and playing cards from one of mom's bridge sets and attached them to the spoke of a wheel to get that real motorcycle sound. 

It was the days of street lights; knowing freedom until those light came on.  As we grew older, they could be timed to a tee, and punishments became almost nil.  You could have all the friends you needed within walking distance or a short bike ride.  There were not the high crimes and misdemeanors that have turned almost any neighborhood in the Valley to a target for little kids and allowed gangs or pedophiles to run the show.

One summer, 1975 if memory serves me correct, my parents put an in-ground swimming pool in the backyard.  Suddenly, we were going to be the most popular house on the street; at least back then I thought so.  We weren't the only house, but one of a few.  May to the end of June was a giant dirt hole, followed by disgusting cement/re bar hole that seemed to take forever to finish.  Finally came the day of spraying the plaster, placing the tile and then another agonizing 72 hr wait until everything "set".  The unveiling of the solar blanket could not come quickly enough.  But when it did, there was no stopping us.  4 kids and their friends from the neighborhood took turns launching themselves from the diving board, and performing the hi tech cannonball on unsuspecting observers.

I enjoy looking back before the pool and greenish blond hair my mother was always trying to rectify on my toe head, from the over chlorinated pool at Northridge Park.  The days of the sprinkler.  The days of running through the sprinklers playing "tag" and avoiding a missed pile of dog poo on a very wet lawn.  Then came the fun "Has-bro" hose devices that with one easy application would turn the garden hose into a whirling yellow headed monster or a "Slipn'Slide" where at least one kid sat out the remainder of a summer due to hitting a camouflaged sprinkler head or broken arm.  But, man those crazy devices were fun.

Sometimes I wonder if kids today realize the joy of summer vacations, BBQs, camping trips with tents, trips to the beach house, fort building, tree climbing and waiting for the sound of the ice cream man. Life before the pool.

Words of the Screen - Speak to Me

A good friend of mine recently returned to her computer and her artistic gift.  The timeless talent that is writing.  Boy, am I happy that she did!  She described the absence as an "unintended hiatus".  She has an obvious gift, and sharing it has motivated me to return to my musings. 

As I look through my blog catalog, I saw my last entry was in December, 2013.  Far too long to be away from an activity that brings so much joy to my heart.

During a recent trip home to CA to visit my son, friends and the beach, I made a point of borrowing one of my husband's cameras.  He was so excited to describe how to use the camera; perhaps he ponderered the idea - a protégé in the making? I should have taken notes.

Alas, I'm still on the Ansel Adams back burner - if I could tackle turning the device on - I just might capture a prolific moment in the day of the life of...

A stroll on the Port Hueneme Pier was splendid as usual.   The ocean's serenade was like that of an opera.  The characters had their places on the stage; each aria pitch perfect.  And then I came upon the finest voice in the grand show - the dog.

This scraggly fellow let out an occasional moan, followed by a gruff "ruff" .  Fisherman were on the north and south side of the pier, and when a fish was hooked, "Hallelujah" could be heard above the roar of the waves.  The rough sailor of a dog took it all in stride, as if he were the maestro of the entire production, directing each musician to take their cue.

While I am certain my husband is relieved at my decision to put down the camera, I do, however, hope he will be happy to read that I am in front of the keyboard again, pouring out a word or two, and letting my imagination run away from time to time.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Truth be told, this is not my favorite time of year.  Shoppers assaulting each other over games and tech products, Santas in abundance, screaming children, stores stocking Christmas products even before Halloween is over and often times, party goers simply nipping at the Magical Rum Punch just a wee bit too much.

But, this year I thought I should dig deep into my Grinch Bag and pull out some little bit of happy memories and jot them down.

I like to think of the Wonder Years, Rudolph, Frosty and Charlie Brown as having all been somewhat modeled after the Gartlan years on Yolanda Avenue.  A "wonder" we didn't kill each other, someone always had a "red nose", someone had a chill, but then suffered a "meltdown" and finally, a little Christmas tree and Snoopy came to the rescue.

The 60s were an adventure.  I was whole-heartily convinced my parents were on some sort of fashion-interior decorating acid trip when they initially purchased what was probably back then, stylish and smooth furniture.  You know the type...avocado green shag carpet, some sort of bizarre yellow ...was it Goldenrod...not to be confused with GoldenSeal, although I suppose if my parents were into the smoking of the herb, they might confuse their furniture with a really warped trip. No, my parents were the epitome of the all American 60s family, right down to the Plymouth station wagon in hideous yellow, with no air-conditioning, and my Dad's hunter green Ford LTD with an AM/FM radio. 

My dad Peter was one hell of an excellent man.  Always dapper in his business suits, running out the door to sell real estate in the San Fernando Valley, and Mom packing lunches and sending us off to school.  We even had Carmen, the nanny, who I still hold with deep affinity.  There were swingsets, slides, fort building, a swimming pool, a dog and a cat.  There were raucous fights between siblings, time-outs, "go to your room", "you're grounded" moments that still waft in and out of my  recollections.  Some pretty awful, some pretty awesome.

Christmas was a 50-50 deal to me.  Some memories I have are terrible.  I still feel the scars today, and it's affected my interpretation and general dislike of the holiday.  But, then there are the golden moments, where the dreams of a little girl come true, and joy moved me more,  just as they do today.

We had our traditions.  Every family does.  We were into the St. Nick Day, and the giving of an ornament for the tree marking that particular year.  The purchasing of the tree; I suppose some Rotary tree lot, or church sponsored deal.  The tree trimming was completed by the whole family to start with, followed by the lackluster appearances as we got older.  And then there was my parents' Epiphany Parties after the holidays.

We had a fairly nice sized living room which you did not dare enter without good intentions.  A white sofa, a few nice chairs, a piano, fireplace and a ....HI-FI!  My Dad would turn on the record player and load up Bing Crosby's White Christmas, still one of my favorites.  And in the corner of that green shag carpeted room, my parents would place the Christmas tree.

Always above 6 feet, although not too much, the delivery of the tree was a grand day.  It's as though you just knew Santa was lurking somewhere; maybe the backyard, in the attic, the garage, the side yard.  He was somewhere.  Although a staunch, Irish Catholic family, we still have some Santa tossed in with the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  My mother had a lovely crèche which was fun to unwrap from a box held together with twine, and over-sprayed with fake snow, Christmas tree lights that no doubt had seen better days, and loads of ornaments.  Some years it was the tinsel all the way around, other years it was the dripping type tinsel, that was forever being pulled at by the immensely obtuse and completely too heavy, Kirby vacuum cleaner.  Thankfully, as far as I can recall, there never was flocked trees.  I tend to imagine that being odd since we lived in southern California, and it rarely snowed.

Dad really had a thing for Christmas.  He'd make it a Saturday task to hang outdoor lights, and then move inside for decorating.  He'd always buy some extra boughs of tree branches.  After the tree was decked from head to toe, and even sometime leaning from one side or the other, Dad went to town on the rest of the house.  He would take snippets from the extra boughs, and before you knew it, the place looked like a Douglas Fir walked right in the house and exploded.  Little twigs of green, tucked into the corner of a frame, or on a shelf.  The stuff was everywhere.  I still wonder, but never can recall asking, what Christmas was like for my dad when he was a young lad in Ireland. I guess that's on the "shoulda, coulda, woulda" list.

If we were really committed to it, the family would do the Christmas eve Midnight Mass, and then were allowed to open ONE gift before retiring for the night.  This habit was easier, when we were older, but as kids, we never seemed to get past 10p.m. 

Usually Santa made his appearance sometime after midnight, and one of us would wake up the other kids, and 8 eyeballs would pop open in the wee hours...0400 to see what Santa had left.  I think back now to how I might have reacted if a bunch of kids appeared at my bedside telling me to wake up.  My parents handled it in stride.

There was the Dolan and Waggoner families who would come for the Christmas dinner, the stories shared over a fantastic meal prepared by my mother, who, quite possibly, made the best sweet dinner rolls shaped in a Christmas tree ever.  Turkey, trimmings, dessert.  It was a gut busting event.  Dad had a thing for Almond Rocha, so by dinner time we had either eaten too much of that, or See's Candies, and became sick off candy cane overdosing.  And no Christmas ever passed in our house without first being required to attend Mass.

I still recall counting out change in Bullock's Department Store, at the foot of an escalator, so I could buy my Dad a bottle of British Sterling.  We never did the little red ship cologne, but went big on the sterling stuff.  There were times spent telling Santa about Barbie dolls, toys, electric rollers, perfume, and the popular but unrealistic, new car. 

Sometimes I dream of being able to go back to those memories and actively re-live them.  But, like all things past, you visit them a bit, put them away in a box, and tie it with twine until the next Christmas rolls around.

Queen of the Double Wide on Wheels

Sammy Kershaw serenaded the country audience back in the '90s with "Queen of My Double Wide Trailer", and I found myself astonished as to who might want to live in a trailer park.  Those were the days when I was more of a snob.

Words that come back around to take a large chunk out of my ass - a big bite ... here I sit, in my RV, in a trailer park, writing about this very topic. 

We bought a RV in March, 2013.  Our condo recently went under contract, and hopefully will close at the end of November.  We've been living in very rural North Routt County, Clark, Colorado since Father's Day weekend.  Off grid has been an adventure.  No internet, no cable.  Water being brought in, rather than just turning on a faucet.  It's been a reality check, but a great reality check.

So, when winter came knocking a few weeks ago, the logistics had to be reconsidered.  In an area that easily sees up to 500 inches + of snow, living in the back 40 was not going to be very wise.  We moved in to town this past weekend, and smack dab in to the KOA campground.  A real life trailer park.

Looking around at the diversity of RVs, I am blown away.  You have the hippie stoner dudes who live in a small Streamline; I'm not sure how they all fit in there.  Next to them, a large 5th wheel Voltage with 2 slide-outs; I believe they are hunters, as I have not seen them since we arrived, and it's rifle season.  Last night an immense 5th wheel rolled in, pulled by a semi-cab, with license plates from Montana; a real palace - 3 slide outs.  They stayed one night. 

Today 2 friends from ski patrol moved in.  One has been coming here for 11 years, and filled me in on the skinny as to who lives here during the winter season.  He told me about some couple who own a million dollar rig, are also "swingers" and were on the hunt for people to swing with them - that sounds like the people I envisioned to living in a trailer park. 

I'm still a snob, although I've mellowed over the years.  A trailer park will do that to you!

Idiosyncrasies of Men

A recent conversation with my brother had me thinking that he had figured out the female race.  Oh, how wrong he is!

As I sit here at The Clark Store, plugged into my lifeline, otherwise known as the free wifi table, I can easily overhear the guys' take on life.  Oh how I wish my brother was here.

4 men, all with coffee or cokes, grubby clothes from shoveling shit - all types of "shit" and an odor or cow poo and mud, are discussing today's issues.  They are the champions of the world, or so they think.  It's enlightening to hear the conversations that range from moving big piece of wood with a skid steer, to family visits, how the "little lady" NEEDS their help for chores around the house, doctor visits, the price for a head of cattle, sharing pictures on their smart phones, sports scores, shooting bear,  outfitters in town,  killing, preparing, seasoning and then eating bear.  They are also discussing who pulled which tag for where, who has the BIGGEST, ha ha.....elk.  I'm loving it. Oh, and don't forget the guy who just killed the "biggest moose I ever saw, down in Soda Creek".

I know where all the great hunting spots are now; not that I really care to  know.  I'd rather hunt democrats.  But, in case you need to know...down near Ted Turner's ranch, boy scout ranch, Cimarron, soda creek, brown's park, 20mile.  Of course, if you're not from the Rockies, these locations might need a Garmin to locate. 

I love my brother dearly.  Aside from being my brother, he is my friend.  But he is slightly clueless when it comes to how he perceives women vs men.  These 4 ranchers at the table next to me are even sharing recipes as to the proper way to make jerky; while one even laments that he has never heard of a jerky cutter. 

Even more entertaining, is one young buck talking about how "tight his AR-15" is.  What would an old fashion man party be without gun talk.  But then again, Steamboat did just host a female gun shoot. 

Life is good, and every once in awhile it's very, very informative to hear how the opposite sex perceives the never ending battle between the sexes. 

Government Shut Down - Get A Pet Instead

It's been a long two months since I have written anything on my personal blog.  I have been devoting my time to my husband's blog site (www.mollydogimages.com)  and also traveling a bit before the snow flies.  Truth be told, it's already begun its flight.  Ugh, the white stuff - which I disdain.  I suppose residing in the Rocky Mountains has something to do with the weather that follows fall.  Silly me.

Living off grid has advantages and disadvantages.  Peace, tranquility, unencumbered lifestyle - you get all this and more when you reside in your RV, on a piece of property.  However, the down side, if you were to even consider it such would be the small toilet, small stove, the amazing one gallon shower, no Internet, television, cable reception, etc.  Mix it all together, and I believe it balances everything out in the long run.

The government shut down.  I've been just ready to explode over this news.  One of the things that irks me more than anything is that Congress, the Senate and THE POTUS are still receiving their paychecks, while other government workers are being furloughed.  Can anyone recognize the hypocrisy of that one?  In states like Utah, where multiple National Parks are located, a force government closure will deeply resonate through the pocketbooks of those who rely upon tourism that comes from nature's ample parks.  Even here in Colorado, we've been affected.  The closure of Trailridge Road means that those who were nearly wiped out during the recent flooding are pretty much stuck with very, very limited ways to escape.  Up until the government closure, at least some of those stuck in Lyons, Drake, etc were able to utilize Trailridge Road.  No more.  Does anyone in Washington, D.C. even listen or care about the "little person" suffering?  Does the wooden headed Nancy Pelosi or Harry Reid care an ounce for those who are without fresh water?

So, I've been away from my own blog for 2 months.  During that time, I enrolled in school.  I'm taking small steps to further my medical career.  I am the oldest person in my class.  That's okay with me.  With age comes experience, and perhaps an ability to add something to the subject at hand.

While away from life in general, I've been surfing the 'net more often and come upon many, many rescue sites for animals.  I've always had a yearning; somewhat of a mythical draw towards animals.  They love unconditionally, they do not judge.  Everyday has the potential for something new.  I love it. http://www.vrcpitbull.net/dog/ , Is one of my favorite websites along with http://bestfriends.org/.  If dreams could come true, I'd love to work for either of
these organizations.  Their mission statements are a near to exact of my sentiments towards life. 



Look into the eyes of this happy little creature , named Brinkley, that lives at www.villalobos.com in Louisiana, and tell me his little smile doesn't bring instantaneous relief to a heavy day.



Or this handsome man, named Douglas who lives at www.bestfriends.org in southern Utah.  There are close to 1500 animals at this red rocked sanctuary, and they are always looking for volunteers.  Having spent a few volunteer visits to Best Friends, I never felt more loved.  There were special cats and dogs that just captured my heart.  In fact, when our beloved Mac dog died, we had him buried at Angels Landing, within the shade of red rocks on the Best Friends' grounds.  The place is magical.

So, while the government dicks around with our future, I try to look at it one day at a time.  To see deer in our front yard, or simply helping a small bird who flew into a glass porch door, we look at the marvels of the animal kingdom, and almost can forget what is happening around the rest of the work.

 

 

HAVE A GREAT DAY - GO PET A DOG, SCRATCH A CAT'S EARS, OR LISTEN TO NATURE.

Let's Talk PEACE

Most Christians have heard of him by now.  St. Francis Assisi.  Born in Umbria in 1182, Francis was responsible for the birth of the Franciscan and Dominican orders.  He quite literally lived the Bible, the Gospels, and spreading the word of PEACE.  Not just a verbal announcement of Peace, but in his everyday life's work.  A man of small stature, Francis exuded JOY.  Building a house, brick by brick, constructed of peace, happiness and a sincere longing and passion for others to experience the utter serenity that Jesus Christ taught throughout the Gospels.  St. Francis also received the Stigmata; a replication of the wounds that Christ suffered during his Crucifixion. 

So, how do I go from my usual rants and raves on all this political or of high anxiety, to a topic that is completely the polar opposite of that world?  Great question.  A catholic myself, I chose as my patron saint, Francis of Assisi.  A true believer of his message, I also reveled in the fact that St. Francis is the patron saint of animals, and the State of Colorado.  Those that know me well shouldn't be surprised when I say that I have rescued my fair share of wayward animals, much to the dismay of my parents when I was young, and now to my loving and tolerant husband John, who shrugs off a new furry friend as "well here we go again'. 

This weekend, our beloved Monsignor Tom celebrated his 60th anniversary (and 85th birthday) of taking the Holy Orders.  The joyous event was held at the Steamboat Sheraton Grand Ballroom.  And it was GRAND!   Fr. Tom, a Brooklyn native, known for is good nature, sharp wit and dry humor, packed the joint.  It was a Rolling Stones concert, sans the Stones.  Fr. Tom had past and present parishioners in attendance to witness a spectacular moment.  People from Aspen, Vail, New York, the Bahamas, New Zealand - all over the country were packed into the standing room only palladium to witness and be blessed by Fr. Tom.  Mass was celebrated with the presence of 8 priests, an abbot from nearby St. Benedict Abbey in Snowmass, CO and of course our own Fr. Ernst and Deacon John Franklin. 

The guest of honor was there, in his wheelchair, but alert and gregarious as always.  Time and age has begun to show in Fr. Tom's ability to stand for any length of time.  His voice quivered when he stood to address the congregation after Mass was over.  His sermon was to the point, direct and shot straight to the heart.  PEACE, JOY AND LOVE.  Fr. Tom called us to learn from the newly appointed Holy Father Pope Francis.  He spoke of the ability to truly immerse ourselves in the spirit of what St. Francis of Assisi lived, and what our Pope Francis preaches to Catholics, in fact all people, all over the world.  The message isn't complicated.  In fact, it takes absolutely no extra time, strength or complication.  It's the Golden Rule.  Treat others with respect.  Love with unlimited power.  Exude peace in your everyday life.  Toss a smile towards someone you may not know.  These actions go a long way in making others feel better, and all the while, giving yourself a shot of gratitude for your own life.

A few years ago, I read the book, "The Shack".  I did not give it much thought, as I perused the shelves in the book section of Target.  I was on one of my many rendezvous to Moab, Utah where I garner my strength from the red rocks and peaceful beauty of the simplistic desert scape.  I often stop in Grand Junction, Colorado to hit the potty, and perhaps grab a few books.  I read almost anything available, and relish I each and every book I hold.  Has anyone ever experienced the joy of holding a book?  Sweet feelings!

At any rate, where was I? Oh yes, "The Shack".  Starting out as a family who is grieving and attempting to come to grips from the horrific murder of their young daughter Missy, Mack, the father,  is having a difficult time with his relationship with GOD.  Now  listen - before the eye rolling begins.  No matter your religious, spiritual or high power beliefs, most of the free world has some sort of conversation and repertoire with GOD.  We all experience a unique bond with the big guy.  So, as the book carries on, Mack begins his long journey and then mystical meeting with God and the Holy Trinity.  I fear that divulging anymore of the grit to the story will give away the final chapters and revelations that Mack experiences - but let's just say, I see some St. Francis all over the book.

St. Francis upon his death bed was to have recited Psalm 141., the Psalm of David.  He lived his life for the Gospel, for servitude to the poor of spirit, the weak of heart and to teach the love of GOD.  If during your reading of my blog entry today, you take an extra 5 minutes to consider the lesson to be learned from St. Francis, I can't help but wonder...

WHAT WOULD LIFE BE LIKE WITH A LITTLE MORE PEACE, JOY & LOVE?

Baiting a Hook - Fishing Tips

Recent headlines have left some groups whirling in a dirty dust pile.  All the colors of the rainbow have been brought to the forefront of the human gene pool.  You can be black. You can be white.  Hispanic, Asian, etc.  You can be half, or a 1/3, 1/4.  To hear some media outlets describe race, it sounds like a recipe for baking an upside down pineapple cake with chocolate frosting and whip cream.  Ludicrous.

The way I see it, liberal media spends far too much time poking a stick in the race card.  It's as if a small child, with a sharp stick, is prodding and poking at a very ripe, and very dead carcass  The carcass in this case being America.  An America as we knew it was.  As a whole, we humans haven't evolved completely.

News stories report that a dozen or so black teens were murdered in Chicago during the course of the Zimmerman trial.  Where was the outrage and media coverage for those kids?  Did Sharpton and Jackson suddenly become deaf mutes?  Ignoring the obvious facts that crime exists on a constant basis; that statistics from the FBI show proof that 91% of homicides upon blacks were executed by other blacks, doesn't make for happy race baiting fodder.  Sharpton and other race baiters mock and ridicule their own race by ignoring those facts.  Perhaps race baiters garner some sort of macabre personal gratification by pontificating on the nonsense of alleged racial inequality within the borders of America.

Sure, it's easy for me, a white woman, to point a finger at the race baiters and easily see through their thin veils, and realize they are serving only their best interests.  Where was the outrage of liberal media, liberal leaders, race baiters, etc when O.J. Simpson got off vis-à-vis "jury nullification"?  Don't hide in the shadows and imagine or pretend for one moment that Simpson wasn't guilty as sin in the heinous murders of Brown-Simpson and Goldman.  All evidence pointed in that direction. 

My mother recently said to me..."You don't need to be so outspoken.  Sometimes it's better to sit quietly"...  Ah, Mother.  I'm not a radical by any means, but when I see something that is wrong, I am going to say something.  I'm not a sideline kind of girl.  I'm not a pick a fight kind of gal, either. 

I often wonder about blacks, and their choices of role models.  There are so many positive, wonderful blacks who have excelled in society, government, medicine, music and history.   If I can, as a white woman, see all these incredible attributes, why then do the youth of today pivot towards the negative?   Is it a lack of higher education, or the absence of a male father figure in their upbringing?  Is it the drug scene, and the money, bling, cars and women? 

What it would it be like if race baiters switched bait, and started tossing a line out to the positive role models that exist in abundance?  Why not promote education, staying in school, defying the false enticements of the drug scene?  Why do race baiters dangle victim bait in front of the kids who have yet to form solid opinions, and push them into the belief system that society as a whole "owes" them something?  What about the positive notion that hard work does pay off.  That being a moral, decent person is something to be proud of?

The tackle box is full of bait, but sadly, and at the expense of today's floundering youth, the likes of the Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton and liberal media are hooking our children, and then tossing them back out into a sea of troubles.

The Wilds of the Animals - Or Angry Rioters

So, ..................a huge sigh.  I've been thinking about animals.  Our move to the country has been enlightening to say the least.  I have no television, cable reception, and my phone gets Internet, but it drains the battery, and I have failed to master pecking out messages on a tiny keyboard.
Every morning, I drive 8 miles to a local grocery, café, etc to plug into an outlet and get my addiction.  It's brutal. 

Without modern technology, I have been blessed with an abundance of time to enjoy nature in all its glory.  I take the time to listen the birds, or the sound of the wind as it passes through the tall grass.  It's mesmerizing.  Deer amble through the hayfield.  Other small creatures make their way through adjacent fields, and the river gives passage to the trout and all life in the small piece of heaven we reside on.   The wilds of the Rocky Mountains go on about their lives all around us.  We are but a tiny, almost invisible spec of pollen in the big picture.

I look at the animals and what they must endure to ensure their survival.  They are tough.  If roads, cars and hunters weren't a daily source of turmoil, animals are part of the huge cycle of life.  Eat, or be eaten.  They are smart.  They survive against odds that mankind can't even begin to fathom. 

And now we come to the segment of "angry rioters".  Some refer to the rioters, acting like goons as animals.  I believe that is an insult to animals.  Goons destroying property.  Goons on the freeway.  Goons rioting.  All because the justice system worked.  A jury found Zimmerman not guilty on the charges brought forth by the State of Florida.  Color seems to fall into everything nowadays.  Its repugnant, stale and nauseating.  Get over it all ready. 

I watch the animals in the fields.  I see the wind rush through the cottonwoods.  Today, a warm sunny day in the Rocky Mountains, I am once again reminded at the terrors and dangerous obstacles the animal kingdom must face.  A dead deer on the side of the road, victim to a car.  I sigh at the realization that animals face far greater troubles than an idiotic goon rioting on Interstate 10 in Southern California. 


"...With carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouth
Lops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,
Clips short the gesture of breath.
Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut,
And roll with the knocked earth:
Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.
You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,
And dug your grave in my breast."

Dylan Thomas

White Russians, Black Irish, Creepy White Ass Cracker

I swore to myself that I would not touch the race card with a ten foot pole!  But, today I read that CNN  has taken to referring to George Zimmerman as a "white Hispanic".  With that said, the flood gates have opened and all bets are off.

A few weeks ago, I blogged about the colors in a crayon box.  Being raised by socially liberal, Democratic parents, colors were for drawing.  We did not cast labels on human beings.  A person was judged by the "...context of their character..."(MLK's famous speech) and that was it. 

Justice is blind?  Really?  It appears that someone paid for Ms. Justice to get Lasik surgery, because she seems to be very, very keen on the color of defendants lately.  Maybe CNN and heavy breather Chris Matthews took up a collection for blind as a bat, Ms. Justice.

I was very shocked to learn that whites can also be referred to as "creepy white ass crackers".  Maybe Nabisco can produce a line of these tasty little snacks.  The racially charged slang's that are pummeled at whites, Caucasians, homeys, crackers, etc... seem to bounce right off them.  They are, after all, just words.  What did mom & dad teach us?  "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

I'm not implying that slavery was not a wretched, horrible part of history.  BUT, so was the extermination of the Jews under Hitler, the genocide performed by Pol Pot, the massacres of the Tutsi and Hutus, the mass exodus of running, killing and forcing the Americas FIRST people off their lands and onto to barren reservations, straight towards poverty, alcoholism and oblivion.... (the Native American Indian).  So, thus far, in all those evil encrusted acts, one thing is true and accurate.  There was a rainbow of colors being slaughtered.

"I was born and raised a poor black child"...the famous one liner from Steve Martin's, "The Jerk" was funny when the movie debuted, and after watching it in reruns, it's still funny.  But, how many will see it as a heavy duty, subliminal racist sling? 

I was born a white girl in southern California.  I knew there were different shades of colors, but never paid attention to it.  I had and still have friends of all shapes, sizes, colors and religious backgrounds.  I don't look at people through rose colored glasses.  I see just fine with the specs I have on.  Perhaps, as a white woman, I was the only one paying attention to MLK when he gave his famous speech on context of character.

So, here we are, on the cusp of yet another racially charged case of black vs.  creepy white ass cracker.  The main problem with this is that George Zimmerman is a Hispanic male.  The media has played the trial, ad nausea,  even "pausing" for commercials.  Interestingly enough, I've yet to see an ad from Keebler Cookies for creepy white ass crackers. 

We've heard the experts analyzing the case from every angle.  What  if, what if, what if?  In the long run, all I've seen and heard is evidence that supports Zimmerman's report that he was assaulted and battered by Martin, and that Zimmerman acted in self defense.  Was Zimmerman a bit of a cop wanna-be?  Probably?  Could he have been a bit over zealous in his neighborhood watch routine?  Yes.  But... this trial isn't about that.  It's a case of self defense.
 
We read in the headlines how the Sanford P.D. and the state of Florida are gearing up for possible riots when the verdict is announced.  Suddenly, I am looking through my car window, caught in heavy rush hour traffic, on the Hollywood Freeway, after leaving work early. No one in their mind wanted to be caught in the mid-Wilshire district after those verdicts were read - Rodney King. 

What about the poor fellow, Reginald Denny, who on April 29, 1992,  was minding his own business, driving a truck through south central L.A. on Normandie when: 

..."his rig crossed Florence, a group of rioters enraged over the Rodney King verdict rushed toward him, pulled him out of the cab and beat him to within an inch of his life. The attack ended when Damian Monroe Williams took a cinderblock and bashed Denny's skull, fracturing it in 91 places and causing severe brain damage. "Read more: http://www.time.com/time/specials/2007/la_riot/article/0,28804,1614117_1614084_1614511,00.html #ixzz2YqMw7yOS

What does this story say?  Does our system of justice allow for riots if groups feel slighted when things don't go as they want?  Are we really a society that needs to prepare for riots if a "white Hispanic" is found not guilty of second degree murder of a "hoodied" black kid?    Is this what Martin Luther King and  civil rights founding leader Medgar Evans were about?  History  would say no.  The 1963 assassination of Evans, outside his house, in front of his family was key in churning the hatred of blacks and white.  Although it took almost 30 years for justice to prevail,  Byron de la Beckwith was caught, tried,  found guilty, and ultimately died in prison.  Justice was served.  The former KKK member is probably enjoying some sauna time in hell. 

So, why, if a white jury can find Beckwith guilty of a racially charged murder, in the deep south of 1963 -  why can't we have the faith to look towards JUSTICE and rely upon her to do the same in 2013?