StoneHorse

HUMAN HAZMAT

2012-02-12T16:39:00.000-05:00

When I was asked to babysit for a friend's new grandson I thought for a moment, then agreed. It would be sweet to have a new baby around. For a few hours. Every once in a while...

Introducing Carmelo

I should have thought twice when his grandfather changed the little guys diaper for the first time. At this stage a little history is necessary. Grandpa spent his entire career responding to societies physical emergencies, first as a firefighter/EMT and inspector, then as a fire chief for ten years. Nothing phase's him. Or so we thought.

Grandpa is even prepared on the road, for someone elses emergency....

At the first sign of an encroaching odor cloud during the day in question The Son beat it for the basement with me fast on his heels. Once down there we heaved a collective heavy sigh of relief. Until,,,, we heard, "HEY, HELP THERE'S POOP EVERYWHERE!!" huh? The Son and I stared at each other in horror. Of course I immediately assessed the situation and said, " You go. It will have less of an emasculating effect on him if another guy is helping." "Oh no,' The Son says, ' YOU have much more experience." I could see this was going nowhere fast so I caved and crawled upstairs. It was horrible, and truly everywhere. Apparently diaper manufacturers think babies poop in nice neat little packets that will stay in place until attended to. They are so wrong on so many levels.

What I didn't realize was the kid would turn into a continual HAZ-MAT CONDITION.
The kid is a human poop factory. The first time I saw the look on that sweet little face I had the normal reaction. "Aw." Much like the 'smile' that is really gas, you gotta admit is an adorable little look on newborns. One almost feels sorry for them during the course of their first really difficult function in life.

It's that look of sheer concentration that puts fear in the hearts of the bravest.

Well, that normally adorable little boy is now six months old, and ever since that first adorable little face indicating he was manufacturing a load in his thankfully disposable diapers, he has the capability of emptying the entire house at the first indication a haz-mat event is in progress. The Son is the first one to flee the scene.

I've never experienced anything like it. I've had two children who were naturally, once babies. I was, at first, so confused I called friends who had children. "Hey, is it just me, or is up to four square feet of oft-times runny baby poop abnormal? Do yah think it's specific to formula-fed babies? I don't ever remember the odor being this bad." I grew weary of hysterical laughter on the other end of the line just before the "You asked for it," and the ensuing dial tone. So much for empathy.

Occasionally he throws a curve ball and just emits enough gas to run a small power plant. He smiles in his little bouncy chair surrounded by the cloud of (nearly visible) stench he himself alone has created, and beams.

It's when the cloud has hung around for a while and the kid begins to scream adults start running for cover and I get out the haz-mat equipment. Yet even with all the appropriate equipment set up in advance, much like his grandfather before me, I was ending up with poop everywhere.

OK, I'm ready, bring it on....

When I discovered normal containment means were not viable options, especially since he has started rolling around while being changed, I needed to re-invent a wheel that would save four loads of laundry every time I babysit.

Deep in my frontal lobe was the faint memory of an adorable baby quilt I had squirrelled away the pattern for, just because it looked too cute hanging over the side of a crib. Thought someday just because it was so odd I would try it, though simply due to the nature of the thing it would not be sensible for a baby.

It's constructed of layers of square flannel, cut on the bias to promote fraying along edges. The more it is washed, the more the edges fray, hence the floofier and cuter it looks. But it is made to chronically shed so I would not recommend it for an actual crib quilt. My ingenuous idea was that with all the nooks and cranny's and floof the thing would serve as a Poop-Containment-Pad (P.C.P)
by failing to allow the hazardous waste to flow outside it's boundaries.

Would yah just look at that terrain...

Luckily I had plenty of flannel fabric leftovers from pajamas I have made over the years. And soooooo.... I began cutting and sewing. By hand. My sewing machine is still M.I.A. from the last move. At last, I finished just in the nick of time. My next assignment is today. He is teething... as parents we all know what that brings with it......

His grandfather has him appropriately equipped with the fireman jammies and dalmation.

'Melo' and his totally gorgeous Mom. (She had the phone surgically removed from her hand shortly after this photo was taken... :} )

Well, today is the day for the trial run of the P.C.P.

And not a moment too soon, he's got that look not 15 minutes in.

HELPFUL HINTS FOR CAT OWNERS....

2012-02-11T21:50:00.000-05:00

CABIN FEVER

2012-02-04T16:55:00.000-05:00

I knew something was wrong when I couldn't write anything worthwhile and only wanted to knit things involving a lot of straight stitch... So I went for a ~~Sunday~~ Saturday drive.

While The Son was painstakingly cutting and applying decals I slipped out. (He Thanks you Warren for the tip :})

Little disappointed the I.D. numbers came out so light.

Though there is no snow to speak of, it was far too cold for this guy to come closer for a good photo op...

Hell no I will not come closer, buy a better camera lady......

Hi, it's not too cold for me to check for carrots....

And as long as I was in the area why not take a spin over to...

Crikey I just love tugboats, even if they are just off the sidewalk.

And extremely large anchors.... once belonged to an honest to goodness whaling ship.

While I was moseying around I decided to take a spin through some PRIME REAL ESTATE .

Ah yes, class distinction in the most final sense...

There were gorgeous monuments confirming the love of those left behind...

But despite this area having had an overabundance of stonemasons who immiagrated from Italy in the 1800's, combined with the area's love of the sea and the consequent wealth it brought to the area so long ago, this was the only indication I could find. A small one at that .

Speaking of a DEATH WISH, which I wasn't but as I said brain has been moosh these days - more than likely frozen - it was the only segway I could come up with for the latest on my reading list.

It's a new release so I only had seven days to read it. I needn't have worried. It was written by a real, honest to goodness MI6 deep undercover, retired spy. Under his real name. Therein lies the death wish, although the book jacket only alludes he lives in England. (Harumph, my foot he does!) But yah gotta know that when someone like him writes a book there is more truth than fiction goin' on.

I continue to be mystified by the three completed novels Steig Laarson delivered to his publisher and promptly dropped dead. Although he was not a spy but a journalist, there are some pretty shaky references to the global financial market. Yup, I was raised by a Conspiracy Theorist. But it's just so much fun.

Now I must be excused. I have more straight stitching, another new release,

and more wood to keep throwing in this monster as it is unfortunately not an airtight Franklin wood stove....

Stay warm, six more weeks and SPRING arrives. Yay.

RC MANIA ....

2012-01-31T12:52:00.000-05:00

It has taken him six years part-time...

But The Son is now on the home stretch, er, literally, stretching the 'skin' on the plane.

Built from scratch, even the ribs inside the plane itself. Needless to say I am impressed.

When he first bought the engine he bolted it to a porch railing and started it up to make sure it worked correctly. We thought the porch would end up in Kansas with some striped stockinged legs sticking out from underneath it...

Somehow I just really wish he would hurry up so I can see it with the decal design . It is really neat.

Need I mention he continues to put me to shame regarding my lighthouse, though a big Thank You to Warren Zoell (http://thegreatcanadianmodelbuilderswebpage.blogspot.com/) for the assist in fixing the short I had in the wiring!

SINCE WE MOVED.... AGAIN.......

2012-01-26T10:47:00.000-05:00

F. Spot Fitzgerald

Poor Spot has developed a strange condition that thus far five (yes, count em, five) "visits" to the vet have not managed to resolve. Despite massive doses of cortisone, antibiotics, topical lotion and - as a last resort - a 'calming collar' the poor thing continues to lose his hair, for the most part on his head, where his beautiful ruff is now nonexistent.

Evidently it itches.

We are now back to our original vet. Dr. O'Grady up north was a sweetheart, but couldn't ever beat Dr. Clark's sense of humor....

HELEN...

2012-01-12T16:17:00.001-05:00

Was really exhausted last night... :}

TRUE CONFESSIONS - PART TWO - LATER THAT EVENING

2012-01-06T13:27:00.002-05:00

( http://hand-made-rescue.blogspot.com/2011/09/true-confessions-part-one-b-e.html contd.)

"There is a critical period during the first four or five years of a child’s life when he can be taught

proper attitudes. These early concepts become rather permanent." - Dobson

On BIRTH ORDER:
First Child

Is only child for period of time; used to being center
of attention.
Believes must gain and hold superiority over other children.
Being right, controlling often important.
May respond to birth of second child by feeling unloved and neglected.
Strives to keep or regain parents’ attention through conformity.

That, most basically through the history of my sister the first born, is in it's entirety, the history of me.

That she controlled me is putting it lightly, but through her need to ~~submerge~~ subdue me in order to maintain the attention of our parents I grew up feeling protected, if not in the most traditional sense of the word. I knew, deep down, my sister would never let anything happen to me that would deprive her of the opportunity to murder me. All kidding aside, she truly did pull me from the path of an oncoming vehicle while we were on a mission to see Nana in the nursing home. While the driver was screaming something about "Damn kids...." my sister was mumbling, "Oh sure ruin my life forever by running over the nuisance...," as she would, much later in life, relate.

And soooo, as she used to say, this most recent Dec. 29th, on what would have been her sixty-fourth birthday, I called my surgeon and left a message in his office. A Thank You for the greatest gift. TIME. For it was also the sixteenth anniversary of my first surgery, in which my surgeon - along with an entire team of expertly skilled assistants - succeeded in allowing me to live a bit longer. It was also the anniversary of the last conversation I had with my sister seventeen years ago, before the cancer began to eat her brain cells preventing her from consciously taking part in current events.

It is with these thoughts in mind I return to the scene of the crimes, the last time my sister allowed our parents inside our own private world, that we never again shared with them.   For good reason...

After returning from our, ahem, adventure through someone else's new home my sister and I were subjected to suspicious glances by our mother, as well as the joy of seeing our dad highly amused, knowing we had done something. He was quite content in remaining ignorant of exactly what we had done, never asking why my sister had marched through their front door with that familiar air of superiority she had perfected in childhood, nor why I slunk in with my hair standing on end, glancing furtively behind me while I tried to be nonchalant in turning on the scanner my mother had purchased when I began working for police departments.     (Despite my mothers inherent intelligence, she never could quite grasp the fact I worked so many miles away the only thing she would hear would be skip during heavy sun spot activity, never my voice on her scanner.) Dad just walked around beaming at my sister and I, that twinkle in his eye never dimming one bit all afternoon.

"Where are you taking your sister for dinner?" Dad had asked.   "Oh, I thought the Tavern." I replied.   "Oh, that's good," my mother remarked knowing it was an unlikely place for my sister and I to get into any mischief in spite of our advancing years. The Laconia Tavern was, at that time, the most expensive and well heeled place to not only eat, but stay over night in the touristy little town. It was, if you will, the town's own Plaza Hotel.   My sister had held her wedding reception there years before. Our mother had informed us earlier in the year rumors about town had been flying over the Tavern closing so I had thought - correctly - it would be a good time to go.

Much later, seated at our linen covered table for two, lead crystal water glasses sparkling in the diffuse light of the restaurant's candelabras, we were approached by our waiter.   "Would you ladies care for anything to drink?"

"Scotch, straight up and keep them comin," was my sisters straight-away reply.   While I was trying to find my voice in addition to failing attempts to pry my jaw off said linen tablecloth, for you see it had dropped that far, my sister never skipped a beat and quickly added, "And we will also have a glass of red house wine please."   Off he went to fill the order, while I was barely managing to speak. "When did you start drinking that for cryin' out loud? And what makes you think red wine will go with my dinner?"        "Oh, well, I found it numbs the throat sufficiently after a radiation treatment. It was Jim's idea, but simply brilliant. Really works. And silly, you never order fish in restaurants."     Oh jeese, leave it to her to not only have a temporary cure for radiation burns in the esophagus, but know what wine to order for me.

Over Waldorf salads and pasta we discussed everything from her radiation treatments and her fear of the giant machine, to the brutal weather in Maine, the primary reason we saw little of each other during the winter. After she ordered dessert - cheesecake with raspberry sauce on the side please - she mentally turned back the clock. "I want to go roller skating now." I nearly choked on rainbow colored sherbet, which would have been a feat in itself. "What?" I coughed , as the sherbet continued sliding down the wrong pipe. I looked straight at her. Her eyes were glassy from the scotch - a lot of scotch though I had failed to keep track - and there it was. That, "I ORDER YOU TO..." look. I was five again and could not flat out refuse for fear of losing an ear. (I still have two.)   Short of a fork to the eye necessitating my excusing myself to go to the hospital to have the fork removed, I could think of nothing better to do but stammer excuses, in the name of my own self-preservation.

"You know I can't roller-skate. Figure skating, that's all I do with skates..." Much to my chagrin I never learned how to remain upright on four little wheels, two of anything was my limit, right down to the wine, with the exception of one water ski.   "No, we are going." was all she said and I knew that was her final declaration on the matter. It was that tone of voice she used, the one where she ordered me to fork over my allowance or suffer the consequences.   I always forked over.

A little while later there we stood at the indoor rink renting roller skates. I bit my tongue when she ordered her size eleven and a halves. I'd been injured too many times as a child asking her if oars came with her canoe-shoes. I requested my eight and a halves and she began muttering how anyone so tall could end up with such little feet. Then she looked me straight in the eye and said, "You know, I had never thought of it before, but I've been reading a lot of National Geographic in doctors offices, and really, mother must have bound your feet in small shoes much like the Chinese bound the female babies feet to keep them small." "Um, yuh think your always rallying for new shoes every other month and me wearing the same ones until the soles wore out had anything to do with it?" "Lets go get a beer," was her reply. "Um, I don't think I heard you correctly."

But I had. "When did you start drinking beer?" "Oh honestly, you're beginning to sound like a broken record with this 'When did you start?' business. When Jim and I went to Germany for an original Oktoberfest. Would you like one?" "No."
"She'll have a dark draft please."

"I don't even like beer, and need I remind you I am the one driving home?"      Then I stepped back for a moment. She was happy, a bit drunk, but happy. Her eyes were twinkling, she couldn't wait to get out on that hardwood floor and start speeding around the enormous rink, much like she sped all over creation in her Monte Carlo with the 351 Cleveland.

Normally she was only an inch shorter than me, but after eight weeks of radiation she appeared to be so much shorter and her normally heavyset, always upright frame appeared to be slouching a bit.       "Why didn't you tell me you were starting the radiation so soon? I would have come up. I had no idea."     She was having none of it and did not want to dwell on in it.    "They said I would be sick, put on your skates."   I gripped my beer stein. "Now." I eased my fingers from the mug handle ever so slightly.     "Well, you go on ahead," as I watched the upper bodies of skaters whizzing past over the really sturdy retaining wall.   She gave me the all to familiar surveying her prey glance and I quickly put on my skates, wondering if that anti-germ spray really works, and if not how many other feet had resided in these skates before me.

The next thing I knew I was gripping the retaining wall trying to inch my way to my sister, who was standing at the break in the wall preparing to enter the danger zone to razzle dazzle everyone on the rink with her smooth moves on four wheels.   "Move a bit faster would you, the place will close before you get on the boards."      Rats. She had figured out my plan.    "I didn't get a chance to finish my beer."     "We'll get more later."    Yup she was on a roll, er, literally.

Off she sped onto the shiny, highly waxed wood surface. I gripped the wall and while attempting to put one foot down on the boards of death, a group of skaters came zipping by, one yelling at me, "Move the foot please."     Oh, great. An entire rink of clones of my sister will be yelling at me in about four seconds. That was enough to get me out there. Sort of. As I was trying to keep the skates from rolling out from underneath me, using two entire arms to grip the mid-chest high retaining wall, my sister sped past. Thinning blond hair whipping behind her she yelled over the music, "Catch up, I'm a lap ahead already."

One must yell I realized. The seventies music was blaring over the loudspeakers. More than likely to drown out the screams of the four-wheel challenged such as myself. I tried to stand upright and survey the situation. The rink was enormous. The skaters were whipping around like it was the Indy 500 and real money was at stake. Just as I was about to execute an attempt to unglue my arms from the wall, I felt a distinct movement in the wall itself.   While maintaining my grip I spotted a mass of human limbs against the wall. I saw a female face that appeared to be screaming but she sounded like John Denver whining about some rocky mountain high. I was thinking they best dig out the dirges if I ever get off this wall as I watched a group of speeders crash into the girl and her pals. The pile up was getting larger and it wasn't even a hockey game.

I waiting until the pile up was cleared, noticed my sister had slowed to a reasonable speed and taken the inside track for the whole disaster, and after those still somewhat mobile had assisted the injured off the rink, I pushed off.

I was rolling ever so slowly towards my sister when she abruptly turned, heading toward me. Crud, how does she do that? She seemed to be speeding up as she approached my shaky self. Next thing I knew she was grabbing my arm and dragging my now bent at the waist form around the rink. "Stand up straight grace," she said as my life flashed before my eyes. Halfway around the really large oval, the lights dimmed. I knew I must be dying.    "Hold on, stop this madness, I'm having a stroke, I'm going blind. Everything is going dark."       "Oh stop it, they dim the lights and turn on the glitter ball at ten o'clock."     Wonderful.

The glitter ball flashed on, then proceeded to throw multicolored squares of light everywhere. I wasn't even finished with my first lap. The lights created a problem with my depth perception when combined with my fear of never making it off this wood alive.   "Take me back, I need to go sit down."        "Oh, well, alright, it's just half a lap more."     "No, take me through the middle."    "I can't. this is a different breed. Haven't you ever watched Roller Derby?"

Well that did it. Now on top of everything else I imagined my helpless self being bashed by every group of skaters approaching from behind.   "Oh hey, what did I ever do to deserve this?"      "You were born silly."      "Um could you speak to mother and dad about that cause it's really not my fault..."

And then it happened.    Out of nowhere a speeder, even by derby standards, came swooshing up behind me and too close. I know now he must have been aiming for me as no one in their right mind would bump into my sister. She was still a formidable figure despite her illness.     Whap.

He brushed past my left side forcing my body upright to absorb the passing impact, my sister momentarily let go of my right arm in the confusion, and still doing about 20 mph, I headed straight into the boards at the near end of the oval, arms flailing.

It wasn't so much the impact that affected me. It was more the humiliation, although someone flew past saying, "Whoa, that one went down hard."       Hey, yuh think?      Up rolled my sister. "You OK?"     "Great, fine. You take me out and get me drunk then bring me here."       "You brought me, it was your treat." she said laughing.    "Well get me off this rink before you call Dad to come and get us."

Four, maybe more, beers later while I was trying to recoup my dignity, we called our father. He snuck down with a friend older than he was to bring us home with the car. We stood outside in the gorgeous summer breeze, shoulders pressed against the other. It was the only way to remain upright.

Dad pulled up with his friend who crawled out of the car, planted his cane firmly on the cement and waited for dad to come around to the passenger side of the Buick.     "I'm drivin' the Volvo," he said to Dad.     "Well, I've never driven one, kinda like to see how the ride is."    "Yah dragged me out at midnight to sneak your two," he glanced over, "drunk daughters home and you're gonna tell me I can't drive the Volvo?"

"What are they doing?" my sister asked.      "Arguing over who is gonna drive my car home."    "What will we tell mother?"     "Nothing, she's never gonna know. Dad has it all worked out."

And he did.      Our mother never found out we had gotten plastered.       She did however, remark on the gigantic bruise on my thigh the next day...

HAPPY NEW YEAR

2012-01-04T10:21:00.000-05:00

CHRISTMAS EVE 2011

2011-12-24T09:04:00.000-05:00

Though the cornfields across the road are brown, the lawn is still green.

No shoveling on Christmas this year.

Merry Christmas From Connecticut :}

THE MOVE FROM THE HOOD...

2011-12-20T16:24:00.000-05:00

Apparently the son packed everything....

Ready for Occupants....

"I picked the smallest crate Mom, can I ride alone, huh? Huh? Can I?"

The sun set on our latest home....

The son was hungry so he made frozen onion rings. The package said to separate the rings on the pan. Should I be worried....

The wreath made it through it through the move, no plug outside so it found a home on a door knob.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS.

DECEMBER 7, 1941

2011-12-06T22:18:00.000-05:00

Still living in INFAMY.

THINK I FINALLY GOT IT...

2011-11-28T21:58:00.001-05:00

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3r_1OGrlTg&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Cut and paste into URL line in case it doesn't come up as a link :}

MOVING AGAIN...

2011-11-27T16:22:00.002-05:00

But such a pleasant move at that. The son and I are headed to the shore where we belong. FINALLY. It may have taken two years to work our way back down to the sea, but as always the wait for anything worthwhile is a joy. While we unpack please enjoy one of BOB?'s favorite pastimes..... his infamous HIGH-FIVE, and now if you will excuse me, I really need to find the box my clothes are in.....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3r_1OGrTg&feature+youtube_gdata_player

Hope Ya'll had a great Thanksgiving.

As usual new Technical Difficulties have cropped up during the move (despite I might add, The Son's insistence is has something to do with operator error... ahem...), please cut and paste the failed link into your URL line to make life easy, and BOB? happy. I'm working with a handicap here, borrowed computer happens be a misbehaving MAC.

VETERAN'S DAY

2011-11-11T14:19:00.000-05:00

Dad With A WWI VETERAN

THE TWENTY-ONE GUN SALUTE

AFTER THE PARADE

1967

THANK YOU TO ALL WHO HAVE SERVED, AND THOSE SERVING NOW.

WHO WOULDA THUNK IT...

2011-11-04T13:11:00.003-04:00

That a little storm like this....

Would cause a total power outage lasting five nights and six days.

The police were out in full force collecting gobs of overtime, oh and watching for miscreants, while the Governor basically cancelled All Hallows Eve.

There were no stores open, two hour lines for gasoline where there was power until the tanks went dry, all the while the son was packing sealed bags of snow into the refrigerator. Luckily we had tanks for the camp stove and cooked on the porch. His booster pack lasted the entire outage to recharge phones, which allowed us to watch NETFLIX on his fancy phone. I should not fail to mention our coldest night was 29 degrees. The warmest 42. Inside. Um, hullo? Texas? Are you there?

Yes, we have two types of stoves. When the supply of canned propane ran out, with no place to buy more, we switched to liquid fuel.

Luckily we had a friend who did not lose power a hundred miles away, and who was the recipient of this Thank You gift, for a chance to warm up.

We spent most of our time snuggling with cats, they with us, and each other...

The Great Gatsby with his charge.

The son's friend showed up two days ago with a care package. Chicken cutlets and toilet paper. Which reminded me of the day before tropical storm IRENE hit. I was walking into the grocery store while people in full panic mode were marching out with carriages loaded with groceries, but the best was a middle aged guy with a cart full of beer and toilet paper, a big grin plastered across his face. Evidently this is a guy thing, like putting the roll so that the toilet paper flows over the top and not from beneath. I may have to seriously research this oddity now. Well anyway, we apologized for the messy place, they said theirs was worse. Halfway through the outage the main drag had power partially restored. A grocery store, Dunkin' Donuts and the Post Office opened. Everyone was polite waiting in line forever for coffee, and plugs were made available at all locations for phone charging and warming up. While cooking on the back porch the day after the Post Office opened, we heard not one disparaging word from the normally cranky postal workers. In fact one jovial sort was heard shouting to his buddy, " I waited in line for forty minutes, got a tankful of gas for the car and a pack of cigarettes. I'm good." Well okay then.

All in all it was a humbling experience, while bringing to light...

How much we rely on electricity.

Now, more than ever, I want a shack in the woods with a wood stove, oh yeah, and a chain saw.

How many people did not fare well due to lack of being prepared.

My NORTH FACE jacket is warmer than the COLUMBIA.

How genuinely afraid people become when the entire city is without power.

Now that life is a bit warmer it's time to start cleaning house. We are back to normal, the dishwasher is running a load, our near-frozen joints are thawing out, while people are out on the sidewalk in the sun laughing.

The only problem left to solve is the one involving Elliot - The Worrier - A.K.A. The Musical Cat. He is not trusting this for it must seem to him by now, a temporary thing.

He remains a basket case..... :}

ON THE BEACH

2011-10-12T20:23:00.000-04:00

Way out past the point normal beach-strollers turn back...

I found this delightful collage on a flat rock...

And added another claw.

WHILE I HAVE BEEN BUSY...

2011-10-12T16:08:00.000-04:00

http://www.youtube.com/user/wpockl?blend=8&ob=5#p/a/u/0/Ld58rI23mm8

The son has been as well. Meet Edgar, the ATTACK CAT... :}

TRUE CONFESSIONS.. - PART ONE - THE B & E

2011-09-19T15:58:00.001-04:00

"You are a bad influence on your sister."

"She's EIGHT years older than me."

"Worse yet."

As fate would have it, I had worn my FREE dog food T-Shirt that day, little did I know...

It all started out, well, innocently enough. My sister had just survived the one and only surgery they would assault her body with in the name of a cure, and while she waited to physically heal enough to endure her first attack of chemotherapy with radiation to follow, I thought she should have a bit of a respite.

We arranged the usual meet halfway at our parents place. By now Dad had long since given up on maintaining the old New England Farmhouse.

Dad would strip and paint one side per year. In 25 years he had painted the entire place, including the three story attached barn, twice.

You are now being served...

Instead, he and our mother had decided to opt for the 55+ mobile home community in an outlying area, far away from city traffic, in fact just far enough out of the city to be inconvienant for 'drop-ins' should my sister or I be shooting by on the highway. Oh they enjoyed our company surely enough, simply 'BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.'

Our kids would be watching our parents to make sure no funny business went on while I took my sister out to dinner. The problem arose when we all arrived at our destination far too early. It was summer, but the popular vacation area we grew up in didn't sport the usual bumper to bumper traffic on week days back then. It was at this point in my life I would discover that the combination of my sister and way too much time on her hands was a dangerous duo better suited to her husband.

While we sat on the steps of the shed - my sister's old Raleigh poking out from the doorway - Dad snapped our picture (she was in the process of admonishing me to "Sit up straight, would you.").

She then decided we should take a stroll around the park to see if there was anyone about we could get to know. Yup, we did that back then. Give us an hour tops and we could tell you who lived where and their entire life story within a mile radius.

As luck would not - for me - have it that day, there were no 55+ out and about. Not even a stray cat wandering by. We walked round the roadway that swirled through clusters of mobile homes of varying age but all in pristine condition, while the sun shot sharp glints into our peripheral vision from huge, blue glass balls sitting in pedestals on perfectly mown lots. We chatted about our lives, her illness, everything we hadn't been able to cram in during our late night-rate phone conversations and oh everything was just as peaceful as it could be until...

I figured out I no longer felt a body moving in stride next to me and wondered how long I had been chatting away to myself. A full 180 later I discovered my sister was twenty feet behind me standing stock still, staring at something. I sauntered back to her position. "What cha lookin' at?" Big mistake.

What she was staking out was a gigantic, brand spankin' new double-wide, still in two pieces, large strips of clear plastic sheeting covering what would soon be the interiors of someone's new home. Her eyes were all glazed over, her tone that of a Stepford Wife. "You know they deliver these things with all new furniture in them." Uh oh. I knew this mode. Our mother had sent me to Boston with the charge card to have my sister take me shopping for school clothes. I had seen my sister throw herself into a physical fight over the last pair of size 10's that she wanted with another like-sized female in Filene's Basement. I stared at her, then at the new double-wide. Things were about to go south here pretty quickly and I didn't even have one of my kids to throw in front of her while shouting, "Think of the children."

My sister. The Princess. In her, "Oh, lets go for a five mile walk on the beach." style outfits.

"I bet you it has one of those new garden-style tubs in it...." The emphasis, as always, was her way of making an outright 'dare yah' out of what normally would be a rhetorical question. I had learned that years ago. The hard way. "I simply must see the interior." "OK, sure, it's clear plastic. We can see through it, right?" "Righto," she replied as she marched in between the pieces.

Evidently the clear plastic sheeting had not faired well during its transport to the final frontier. It was so cloudy we could only see the shadowy outlines of the interior, and only that thanks to the sun shining through the exterior windows on the outside walls. We stared. Well, I stared, what I failed to notice was that my sister's stare had turned into that, "This is not what I had envisioned," glare. I felt a movement beside me and watched as my sister's hand slid up the plastic sheeting. For one silly moment I thought oh, she's just wishing, until on its way back down I watched in horror as one of her perfectly manicured fingernails was etching a large slit in the plastic. "Oops." she dead panned at what must have been by now my saucer sized eyeballs. "Um, you know where I work, right? RIGHT???"

Mr. Berry & Me. Circa 1988

"Oh silly, you know them all." "Might I remind HRH I work in a different state now, I never worked in this area, and it's not like one big family? We don't all know each other."

"Well then, there's a hole in the plastic, let's just make sure everything inside is okay." While synapse between my neurons were crashing into each other in utter confusion, I watched in terror as her classic KEDS, with the little blue rubber square on the heel, slid through the opening of her own creation.

I began to ask myself where this side of my sister had been all my life, as freedom from the free side of the bars flashed before my eyes. Until scenarios I had, up until now, just considered normal - sort of - brought themselves to the forefront of my brain. Like the time she took me white water rafting on the Saco River. When I was 10.

Dad took the photo. No one was getting HIM into one of those things.

At the time I had just considered it another one of my sister's attempts to murder me for coming along eight long years into her perfected nest of our parents home and she had to begin retraining them all over again.

Darn. Can't just leave her in there alone, besides, where I came from I would be considered a LOOK-OUT. I clambered in through the slit after her. "Wipe your feet," she said primly. "On WHAT? The not-NEW-anymore carpet?" but she was already wandering through the living room into the kitchen oogling the new appliances. "Oh Joni, look at this would you? It's like something out of Ozzie and Harriet." "Oh, did they get arrested for a B & E too?" "Oh stop it would you, nothing will happen." Famous last words as our mother used to say. When we had seen every inch of the side we were in I felt secure enough to say, "Okay, We Came, We Saw, We're leaving, there are no Chesterfield sofas here..."

"No, the bathrooms must be on the other side." Oh silly me, I had forgotten about the freakin' garden tub. You know the drill. The 'accidental' slit was made on the opposing side, and we were in.

More poignant photos flashed through my brain, such as this one Dad took on a side trip to our World's Fair vaca.

And this one, where WAS my Tree-Huggin' sister anyway, who killed her, hid the body and replaced her with this, this, well, prospective criminal?

My reverie was interrupted by the imposter cooing, "Ooooh, just come and see this tub." I raced to the end of the side with such speed it began to shake a bit , so that when I arrived at the master 'suite' to find my sister flat out in the garden tub pretending she was surrounded by a bazillion strawberry scented bubbles, she said, "Oh, be careful, remember it's not anchored down yet."

"Sure I can see the headlines now, 'SISTER DUO CAUGHT RED HANDED AFTER TRAILOR TOPPLES OVER, FILM AT ELEVEN.' Now lets get out of here you're scarin' me."

By the time we arrived back at our parents 'manufactured home' I thought I had wiped the horror-stricken look off my face, yet somehow our mother always knew. "What have you done."

"Um, why do you always ask me that anyway?" as her scanner started to sound a tone for an auto accident on the lake road. I paled. She walked away muttering. My father, sittting on the couch made the sign of the cross.

My sister sighed and smiled.

A LITTLE LIGHT READING.....

2011-09-14T11:12:00.000-04:00

Before finishing the story of the B & E. Yes, it's exactly what you think (not really, er, well, sort of...), and yes, the statute of limitations has run out.....more importantly yes, my sister "The Princess" was involved.... :}

SAKONNET POINT RHODE ISLAND

2011-09-09T11:23:00.000-04:00

Courtesy D. Hochberger

My new mantra....

Summer is NOT over...

Summer is NOT over....

BED-HOG BED-SIDE READING...

2011-09-06T08:09:00.000-04:00

Just now and then The Great Gatsby leaves his bedside reading next to the bed where I trip over it, further delaying my hike over him and to my place in the bed, plastered up against the wall, when usually I feel a long white boat shoe stretching out, gently applying pressure to my spine, letting me know I so totally already have quite enough room on the bed, Thank You.

His is, after all, a literary cat......

BED HOG

2011-09-06T01:14:00.000-04:00

25 POUNDS on a QUEEN SIZE

No wonder I'm up late so often.... :}

IF YOU'VE EVER WONDERED......

2011-09-05T23:34:00.001-04:00

Just how HUGE those fire engine truck tires truly are....

I have a 36" inseam. The truck tire is up to my waist.

LOCAL HURRICANE HEROS

His qualifications...

With CT. Senator Richard Bloomingthal

THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

The Next Day

Thw Weeping Willow Faired Well....

And ALLLLL Over the News We were WARNED

To STAY INSIDE...

Which is why I found this Hilarious....

Hurricane Gear.

Power is nearly restored to all parts of the state, streets and roads are cleared of debris and on to the next. Due in tomorrow.

FILED UNDER - ASTUTE OBSERVATIONS

2011-09-03T04:37:00.000-04:00

Bunny & Edgar

Dogs have Masters.

Cats have STAFF.

THE SON'S HURRICANE VIDEOS

2011-08-29T20:39:00.003-04:00

Um yes folks, while I was on the coast pet-sitting with no power and no shower for forty-eight (count em 48) hours my son was 120 miles away driving around taking videos. Kids. Huh?

http://www.youtube.com/user/wpockl

NEWPORT RHODE ISLAND STORM SURGE

Courtesy D. Hochberger

COMPASSION... CAN BE FOUND EVERYWHERE - ANYTIME

2011-08-25T09:00:00.000-04:00

Today's FYI: German Officer Josef Schultz who refused to be part of a firing squad in 1941 and was killed along side 14 civilians.

WHY ARE THEY ALL SO ...... YOUNG?

2011-08-24T12:48:00.002-04:00

Married to a Lunatic Look

Well if you ask me there were far too many GOLDEN HANDSHAKES goin' on at DMV these past years. You know the routine, get the top of the step union people with the fat checks out, along with their burnt out attitudes which made them so easy to talk to on an almost human level...

Divorced from a Lunatic Look

I had driven the 50 miles (yes folks, one way) to have my license renewed. I should, at this point interject that I drive this far as it is the least busiest motor vehicle department in the state. At 8 AM the parking lot was empty, which should have been a clue. But no. I had to park, march up to the door to find a sign announcing "CLOSED. NEW HOURS NO LONGER INCLUDE WEDNESDAYS."    Wonderful, did anyone think to up-date the WEBSITE? Nah.

Arrived at 8:15 AM the next morning to find at least 150 vehicles in the lot. Joy just seems to follow me wherever I go these days. More like clings to my butt for dear life.   Once inside, the normally non-existent line announcing RENEWALS ONLY was a good fifty people long. People already looking tired and cranky, looking well, sort of postal.....

I got in line with my little leather envelope of paperwork when a collective groan crawled through the line and made it's way to my 'only had one coffee' consciousness. An announcement had been made from behind the counter serving my line. When it got to me I was advised by the worn out elderly woman in front of me that the laminator machine was broken and it 'would be a while.'

Another form of excitement was going on in the large part of the waiting area for registrations. The part where you take a deli number, usually in the 300's, and discover your number is in the 700's.    A slightly hysterical motor vehicle employee was saying in a loud tone, obviously to ward off a few hundred inquiries, "I DON'T KNOW WHATS GOING ON. HOW WOULD I KNOW????" Evidently there is one switch to unlock all the cash drawers, and said switch was malfunctioning. My line heaved a heavy sigh of relief. As long as they could take our money we would walk out of the place before the week-end.

Like the Lorrie Morgan song says....

I'm Back Among The Living Again.....

It took a while, but the laminator machine was repaired and my line began moving, people getting pictures taken, names called to come and get the new license. My turn. "Sit in chair TWO please," says a little girl who should be in grade school. I smiled and said, "OK, I'm old, give me a second to rearrange the wrinkles please...." Before I had gotten halfway through my request I was hearing the snap of the camera lens and hearing, "Go take a seat and wait for your name to be called; NEXT." That sick feeling was already a full blown acid bomb in the pit of my stomach as I began to imagine the movie star mug shots seen the the supermarket tabloids at the check out lines.

And soooooo, as my sister used to say, it was without trepidation I posted those past years photos, because the BLUE DRESS makes up for them all!

OKAY I CAN SEE THE HEADLINES NOW.....

2011-08-11T07:07:00.001-04:00

WOMAN ARRESTED AT DMV

"Apparently a physical confrontation ensued after the woman in question was advised 're-dos' are no longer permitted on quite obviously unattractive new license photos. As the back door of the interior handle-less rear seat of the state police vehicle was being slammed shut, she was heard whining, " But I have to live with this picture for SIX years ...."

PRECIOUS

2011-07-28T01:44:00.001-04:00

Has Lips.....

The son feels quite justified in his defining Precious as a 'Closet Kitty.'

I think those lips look suspiciously like a possum's lips. What do you think?!?

FOR YOU DJAN.....

2011-07-22T14:19:00.001-04:00

These boots still need to meet Pack Monadinock....

And yuh, they do need polishing this year!

PS It is 106 degrees in the shade here in the city. Headed back to the shore at 4 PM. Yay.

LIFE ON THE EDGE

2011-07-22T07:23:00.000-04:00

SPF 15 = TAN

Pushing Sixty, does it truly matter anymore....

FACEBOOK

2011-06-30T16:00:00.003-04:00

Although in the past I have avoided issues of a highly personal nature in this blog until recently, I admit my 'regularly scheduled check-up' turned into a highly charged emotional incident this year, and for some, still as yet unknown reason, I felt it just might be my 'time' to check out, if you will.

Let me preface the upcoming words with a, hopefully short ( we all know that's not easy for me ) explanation.   I recently was forced to enter into the social-networking world of FACEBOOK. I had been studiously avoiding it until I was severely chastised by a friend who had not been answering her e-mails. "Whats wrong with you girl? No-one uses e-mail anymore socially. Get on FACEBOOK."   Well.
Alrighty then, I supposed I should truck on into this century, and I got my online account faster than you can say FREE. I'll be darned if I'll be accused of being a dinosaur, despite my advancing-faster-than-I wish years.   Well folks, I'm ready to admit that FACEBOOK is a stinkin' revolution for those looking for old friends ( HI ALAN    ;} ), or just simply someone new to converse with over common interests. It's also a place for those who find their lives unfulfilled, and look for the last puzzle piece, or in my case someone trying to solve a problem they think they have unearthed.   I'm assuming my loyal readers will know where this is going hence,as Paul Harvey would say, "The rest of the story."

I should have assumed that just maybe a few of my loyal followers would have put two and two together by now, and should they have an inclination to search, would locate me on FACEBOOK.   When I initially began this blog, it's sole purpose was to record memories that do not fit elsewhere for my adult children and grandson, for you see being a child of older parents had many advantages, but the greatest disadvantage was by the time my children were old enough to appreciate my individual family members and their inherent humor, they were all, well, dead.   My children need to know where their bizarre sense of humor comes from. If they ever end up taking a psychological survey they will probably need to explain...  In detail...  And as my English Prof. used to say, I'm going waaaay off topic here.

Needless to say, I have found FACEBOOK a quick way to contact people I need to speak to rather quickly, and an amusing past-time while I wait for the insurance company to repair my car that is still OUT OF SERVICE since the February 10th accident. Have I mentioned the 83 year old that crashed into me lives one street over.....?????   Anyhoo......     When I began getting messages through FACEBOOK from blog followers all over the world - can you imagine - ( Brazil, I adore you ) I was forced to make a command decision. It was difficult, but my choice was to keep my 'FRIENDS' list confined to those I actually know, as well as sites associated with my prior employment (quick "Hey,Hi." to all the PD and FD HEROS ). I am still able to recieve and send messages to those not on my actual 'FRIENDS' list, and in this way am able to communicate with those asking questions ( YES, L.H. you will make it through chemo and survive this thing you must unfortunately suffer through ), or those simply needing a leg up ( Russia stay with me... ) or, as most recently occurred, those making a comment, which is why I am here today.

Dearest D.L,

I was nearly in a shock and awe state over your most recent message through FACEBOOK.

Yes I am human! Rarely do I find a need to use exclamation points, but your most recent message deserves one.

If you were here I would buy you a drink ( Tangerine Margurita maybe ? ).

Your discovery that I am indeed 'human' struck me to the core. I had not realized that on certain levels my writing might appear sterilized. I assure you, every entry here has come from my very soul, and in some cases directly from my heart. I never realized that in recounting certain incidents I may have appeared to be somewhat 'removed.'

Certainly, you are correct in assuming I have been scarred in more ways than one can imagine from my life experiences. Though I don't think scarred in this case is appropo. I have learned from the good times, as well as the bad, and yes, I am ready to move into a different phase of my life, and no, my humor has not taken the long road.

Yes; you are correct in assuming I am no longer married to the "hideous mistake," no; I am not remarried, no; the photograph above is not twenty years old, and finally, no; I have no concerns regarding my physical appearance! Yikes, there is that pesky exclamation point again.

I think I can safely state that once those life-altering words or phrases ( It's all cancer. ) have been uttered to anyone; stock of one's life is taken in a strange way. In my case I saw my children's lives flash before my eyes. Lives that were ill-fated to grow without being surrounded by the hilarious shinanagins of my family, without the group laugh - as opposed to a singular one. Which in turn begs the question, "Where is one able to find, outside the confines of blog-land, a person who shares the same offbeat humor? Add to that the same ideas of love and adoration and you have a fatal combination, not likely to be easily matched..

I'll hear nothing of "Don't knock it until you've tried it."   Let me tell you, it's a jungle out there, and I have no desire to be trapsing through the underbrush looking for an elusive pot of gold. In comparing notes with a friend, we have come to the conclusion (the female version), men 'out there' are either looking for a trophy to lock away in a Crystal Cage, or they have a list of requirements not easily found on this fine earth, especially when they are, well, er, shall I delicately whisper, of a certain age.

It has become glaringly obvious to my friend using computer dating sites, that men want and search for the woman fitting their ideas on ideal body style, and most importantly, facial features. Unfortunately it has also become obvious that those men looking for their trophy look at themselves in a time warp mirror, while placing twenty year old pictures of themselves in their prime on their sites. So no, I have no interest in using dating sites, but Thank You Kind Sir for your suggestion.

And Thank You as well, for being such an avid, invisible follower. I have only recently learned of how the computer sites function and did not realize a good percentage of those that appear on my STATS page are actually unable to 'follow' a blog officially. Most of it is still a mystery to me. Its like a car. Turn the key and drive it. If it fails to roll on down the road, send it out for repairs...

I will reluctantly leave it at that, for I have a herd of cats to feed, but in closing let me add, I will certainly make attempts to let the reader know 'how I really feel' when apropriate ( though I was truly not aware I may have been failing in that regard).

Sincerely,

Joni

Thank You to all who continue to search my blog for new entries, as well as reading old ones while marking time. Things have been a bit hectic, and without a vehicle under one's butt, life has a tendency to become a bit difficult.   I have a few entries in the cue I need to polish off, and in the the meantime everyone have a SAFE holiday weekend. Enjoy.

P.S. Thank You to all who continue to amuse me with thier blogs (MurrMurr, Jerry, Robert, DJan, Alan, the list goes on and on).   You are keeping me amused through this difficult time)      :}

HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOTTEN

2011-05-30T12:14:00.000-04:00

ON THIS MEMORIAL DAY....

To THANK ALL THOSE who continue to sacrifice their own lives, for the safety of our own.

WAITING

2011-05-30T11:42:00.000-04:00

There is no logical explanation why it should be such a difficult time. This time. I've been through this before yet, somehow the timing seems off. Waking up each morning feeling something is horribly wrong in my world but not remembering what it is. Realizing I''ve not yet written those most important final letters to my children in which I express through unretractable written words what they have given my life, the joy and yes, even the heartache, that has served to make them the two adults I am most proud of. Wondering where the time has gone, and what have I done with it, that has truly mattered...

Resisting the urge to grasp the prayer card sent to me so thoughtfully, until it wrinkles in my cold-sweat covered hand (Thank You Joe and Father Christian R. Oravec, T.O.R. and all the Franciscan Friars).

It occurs to me I have no unfinished business, my only plans to this point and beyond, were to help any human or animal that crossed my path through the knowledge and abilities learned over the course of my career. Knowing that my children will continue the tradition solves any concerns in that area.

My son will care for the city cat. He is leaving small dead animal presents for us. He Thanks Us. My daughter will continue to care for and rehab wild creatures.

Though I never was fortunate to have that one true love of my life to share a lifetime with, I have had my love for life, and the joy seeing happiness in others brings me.

Somewhere in that hospital, someone knows my future, or lack thereof. Somewhere a radiologist has gone over my test results and knows. I will not know until Wednesday. I've always taken a certain amount of pride in maintaining my composure, regardless of what disaster unfolds before me. If I may be pardoned for being quite frank, it's pissin' me off this time.

Now if you will kindly excuse me, I think I think I see a homeless man wandering around I must drag in off the street and force him to allow me to help him........ ;}

I CANNOT DO BETTER....

2011-05-29T09:40:00.000-04:00

Than this.... Please Remember Our Veterans in your Hearts and Minds.

UPDATE ON HELEN

2011-05-22T19:12:00.000-04:00

Due to the many e-mails and msgs I have received regarding little Helen and her sister Runner (don't ask), my son took a few pictures for me with his phone, then - through his vast knowledge of all things technical - somehow put the pictures on his computer, enabling me to post a new picture of Helen.
She is on her last four days of steroids, has had no further problems and we are hoping beyond all hope that she will maintain her state of general well-being. Her only stumbling block appears to be psychological. Though her moments of insecurity appear to be diminishing over time, since her illness she will have little anxiety attacks, and trot like a little Tennessee Walker into the cat-carrier she went to the vet. in, enjoy a long nap in her 'safe-house,' before joining the general population.

Aw, come on BOB?, Helen needs her 15 minutes of FAME alone....

She has brought all her favorite things to her house and leaves them there.

Um, Precious, that goes for you as well....

Well that was tougher than we expected.

HELEN

Precious refuses to be left out of the limelight...

Edgar escapes the fray, observing all from on high....

We remain your faithful cat-house.

A QUESTION FOR MEN.....

2011-05-15T09:53:00.001-04:00

I really need to know this.

Why do you always replace the toilet paper roll with the end coming UP over the top?????

THANK YOU...

2011-05-02T06:04:00.002-04:00

NAVY SEALS

SHE LIVES...

2011-04-28T11:59:00.001-04:00

"If you can see the light at the end of the tunnel,

You are looking the wrong way."

Barry Commoner

Although everything I own is still malfunctioning, and I am unable to post photos with my blog posts - which I find mundanely boring - I manage to survive, as does the latest victim of surgery.

Being a Crazy Cat Lady is not all fun and games, and I would advise anyone aspiring to this height to look deep into one's soul. It is not the love of cats - or any other animal for that matter - that one has to affirm. It is the strength to endure the suffering the animal may have to endure, whether it be by accident, illness or, as in our latest case, the worst sort of inbreeding. Inbreeding I may add, as a result of irresponsible pet owners. My only consolation at this stage is that I managed to save my own corner of my own little world at that farm. The ferals (with the exception of the two smartest, strongest males), were all fixed before we left, at least ensuring the females would have no further inbred litters.

I waited a year to have the last two of the rescues fixed due to their diminutive statures. Helen, due to being blind, also needed to know her way around the apartment really well, before the trauma of surgery.

Three or so days after Helen had her surgery, she began to have Grand Mal seizures. It was Sunday. I had to hold her through every seizure, my son couldn't even watch, he escaped to the new gardens he is designing. And stayed there. I stayed up with Helen all night, ending up with her in the vet's office promptly at 9 AM the next morning. Helen had two Petit Mal seizures in front of him. He immediately put her on an I.V. with fluids and steroids. She stopped having seizures and was "resting" at 2 PM that day when I called to check on her.

After doing the research I discovered epilepsy in cats does not usually appear until aged 2-3 years, due to the cerebrum not being fully developed. Although something is wrong neurologically, she is after all blind, she had not had any incidents, and although she is one month short of a year old but only weighs 4.5 lbs. she has had no health issues. The only trigger I could find was a drug called Meloxicam which was administered for pain and inflammation after the surgery, staying in the animal's system for 10 days.

I have had all the farm cats fixed at the high volume clinic and this was the first incident, so I am by no means blaming them. My vet said that he does not routinely administer that drug. The side effects include seizures, and we are hoping the dose was far too much for her size, coupled with the fact that she is - as my son says - a 'closet kitty' that caused the incident. She looked nothing like our Helen when I brought her home - in my still-falling-apart vehicle.

She wouldn't eat until my son - her preferred adoptive Dad - came home, at which point she sat by her food bowl and stared at him until he went over to sit with her on the floor. She finally ate and had some water. Today she is finally looking like our Helen. She is eating on her own every two hours or so, is on steroids for the next thirty days - just in case - and rests a lot.

For my part, I sit quietly listening to Lawrence Krauss lectures on You-Tube -volume on low- or reading the only book of his I could get my hands on in a hurry. ATOM. Incredibly enough he mentions the discovery of ZERO. I have the book on the discovery of zero and it is great. I am waiting you see, for the slightest little out-of-the-ordinary noise that could indicate Helen having a problem. I don't mind.

Having worked in emergency services so long, I know that an unconscious human is feeling and knowing nothing on a 'knowing' level, and if that human is conscious, said human can be reassured with words, as well as the comfort of a loved one nearby. Animals cannot understand why things are happening to them, thus can only rely on the proximity of those they love for comfort, and the trust they have in their human to help them.

The black and white city feral has been eating my sons seedlings as they try to mature ( I told him not to put the cat-nip out in the herb garden until last... :} ). Last night the Son was standing at the back window staring out at his gardens when I heard him mumbling to himself, "There's that darn cat, bet he's going for the plants....."

I raced out to the back with a cup of dried cat food, and did the Hansel and Gretal routine, spreading the food bits from the cat, to the flat rock on the side of the house where I leave his food. I had been remiss in feeding him due to keeping my eyes and ears glued to Helen. He continued to sit. He is in really rough shape now after this past winter, so I thought maybe he might like a jar of strained baby food beef left-over from poor Murray. I put it in a disposable dish and raced out with that, where he still sat, not moving. He actually let me approach to within three feet of him, while I talked to him, but he wouldn't move toward the food. He just looked at me, and there was something in his eyes. As if he were remembering the old man that was his owner, from the strange little house across the street. Remembering long before, when he had his elderly owner to talk to him, before the man was put in a nursing home, and the man's relatives came to take everything of value out of the home - including the Baby Grand I saw whisked into the moving van - and threw the cat out the door. (Someday I will find out the cat's name, I found someone, who knows someone, who knew a friend of the man, who has since passed away).

I flew up the stairs to the back window and what I saw was an act of kindness rarely seen in humans. There the cat sat, in the same spot I left him, while he watched another, totally emaciated cat eat the baby food. When the new stranger had finished, only then did the cat follow the trail of food to his rock.

Though in the past I have tried to maintain some sort of faith in mankind, the more needlessly abandoned animals my daughter and I run across (dogs, ferrets, you name it), my faith has dwindled to, " I abhore people, though adore the people I choose to associate with."

My disdain for Freud was well known in my psych. courses, but even Krauss refers to him in ATOM. After looking in the city feral's eyes last night, and seeing what I believe to be hope on his part, as well as a rememberance of love once showered upon him by a lonely man, I must refer to Freud for the first time in my life, with some iota of respect, for he said, " I have found little that is good about human beings. In my experience most of them are trash." Way to go Freud.

Yes Prof. Turner, I said it.

THE SON'S CATS ENTERTAIN YOU...

2011-04-11T19:52:00.000-04:00

While I attempt to finish my next post.   He has a video of my daughter's dog. "Candy."

"Candy" hates me.   For some odd reason the minute her eyes see me, apparently what her brain sees is a medium rare T-Bone steak...   It's the long, low growl and those beady eyes that never lose site of me that unnerves me to the point of unbridled fear.

It was "Thunder" that did the incredible-never-ending-fear-of-dogs thing to me. He was a police dog that came after me, hey, in my very own place of employment, and did that lunge at the thighs and hold the walking T-Bone hostage until ordered to knock it off thing. We never did figure out how "Thunder," the pure white German Shepard, ever did end up in that hallway, the very same hallway I was attempting to negotiate, while minding my very own business.



Interesting to note as well, it occurred just outside the Shift Commander's office door, where four cops stood stock still, while I said, "HEY YOU GUYS??? SOMEONE SAVE ME HERE.......?"   To which they whispered in reply, "Shhhhh, he doesn't know we're in here....."

So take a gander at fluffy, er, "Candy."   She was staring at me when the kid took the video at my Grandson's birthday party....

Find "Candy" here        http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hJA6l9FaCHo

He's also posted some of our herd, in which his gorgeous baby Einstein may be seen. Einstein has the oddest tiger coloring I have ever seen.

A NOVEL IDEA FOR A HAT

2011-04-08T13:40:00.000-04:00

AP PHOTO/ALASTAIR GRANT

It appears Camilla has gone green and snagged a bird's nest for a hat.....

FIRE - PART TWO

2011-04-03T18:28:00.001-04:00

BYRNE'S LAW

In any electrical circut, appliances and wiring will burn out to protect fuses.

Robert Byrne

From an early age I was educated to appropriately fear the power of natural electricity,
but it would be fear of the made-made sort that would gradually seep into the nucleus of my cells with the ability to set off my 'fight or flight' instinct faster than you can count to one after hearing the first rumble of thunder. This is not a good thing for a hiker, but I'll get to that at some other time.

My father began his career in the NAVY, and being mechanically inclined, learned the job of maintaining the huge engines that kept the ships he was on from floundering somewhere in the North Atlantic where no amount of intelligent dolphins could lend aid.

The most important things he learned were fire drills for every section of each particular ship. Apparently these drills had a carry-over effect, causing him to arrive home on leave, throw his huge duffel bag down on the porch, fling open the screen door, and yell,   "FIRE!"

Knowing he was due in, my sister and I would glare at each other over the tops of the current books we were reading, give each other the "Here we go again," teeth-sucking, eye-rolling routine, grab our packed-in-case-of-fire-bags and roll out of the house. It wasn't as easy when Nana was still alive. In her slowly worsening fog of dementia she believed it every time, and would start throwing anything that meant something dear to her out her bedroom window. My sister and I were in charge of collecting Nana, which would mean grabbing our bags and trying to bodily wrench her from her things, while trying to convince her it was just a drill. The neighbors were used to it. They would see things flying out the second floor window and dryly remark, "Jim's home on leave."

After the lumber yard fire, I gained a new respect for Dad's fire drills.

From the time my kids were able to walk, they learned to pack a bag of essentials - always throw a book in there in case it turns out to be an actual fire - line their shoes up at the door before they went to bed, and when the fire alarm went off, to calmly grab their bags, collect shoes at the door, feel the door, if not hot, head like the swallows of Capistrano for the car.    Which was always parked far away from the building.

While living in a cookie-cutter, brick, three story apartment building, the fire alarm had a tendency to go off quite a bit. Lot of 'food-on-the-stove' calls goin' on there. Lots of drills with my kids grabbing their bags, me grabbing the pet carriers.

I never realized how numb to drills my kids had become until one day, when we had our own house, I was vacuming. I had one of those canister things that you dragged along behind you. I reached the end of the living room and turned to see smoke billowing out of the vacume cleaner, my son nonchalantly standing behind it, staring.   I caught his eye, he said calmly, "oh, fire." and trudged up the stairs to get his bag. Not knowing when, or if the thing would blow, I opened the front door and kept dragging until the plug popped out of the wall and the vacume cleaner was in the middle of the lawn. Smoldering. Five minutes later my son - the Cub Scout - is slowly inching his way out the front door with his bag, dragging the cat carrier to which he had roped his sisters bag.

His sister was not home for the incident. Which may account for her amazement when, after she had put buttered bread in the toaster, the toaster went out the back door.

Were it not for my half Irish blood genetically steering me towards the traditional municipal jobs that would be mainstays for immigrant's survival generations after arriving in this country, I would swear it would be my 'face-the-fear-head-on' attitude that drove me into my career in public service. Many years later psychologist's would name the 'get-right-back-on-the-horse' routine something fancy, along with the "cure" for it. They would call it flooding. At the time I transferred into the dispatching aspect of emergency services I viewed it as more of a control issue. If something in my house was going to burn, at least I was in the first line of contact feeling some minimal control over FIRE.

After I was hired for my first dispatch position, I was trained by one of the most competant fire dispatchers I have ever known (yes PB, I'm referring to you), who also happened to be a former cop and volunteer for the FD. This was way back in the day of one dispatcher for five towns, police, fire, rescue, the whole nine yards - most with volunteer departments - and the cops serving as first responders. It was also the time of non-clearly marked roads, fire and access roads with no names but developed properties, usually found by directions given as, 'pass the big rock, take a left onto the dirt by the dead oak tree.'

I had a few small fires, and one room burn-outs before the big one came along. Naturally it was in an ancient, corn cob insulated, three story farmhouse out in no man's land.

Were it not for Gladys - a fellow dispatcher and friend - who knew every nook and cranny of the town she had lived in her entire life, even the old firefighters probably would not have found the home, located as deep in the hills as it was. Gladys dispatched for BASE 500, a privately owned dispatch center that covered what was left of the towns not covered by us. BASE 500 had a lot more transmitting power than our municipal facilities, thus when Gladys heard someone confused about a location, she would switch to our frequency, blasting us all out of our seats with perfect directions.

The call from an elderly, bedridden woman came in around 1 AM. She said she smelled smoke, feared her house was on fire, and her care-taker had left for the night. I dispatched the units, all volunteers racing out of their homes into the night, and while signing on all began asking exactly where the house was located. Though Gladys came blasting over our frequency with perfect directions to the home, it wasn't enough to save the situation,. The woman would perish.

I ended up speaking to the frightened elderly woman confined to her bed, unable to walk to save herself, until smoke inhalation finally overtook her. The old home was fully involved by the time the trucks all got there to start dousing it with tons of water, and although the response time - Thanks to Gladys - was incredible considering the variables, it never could have been fast enough to save that poor woman.

I hadn't quite gotten over that when the next big one came along. It would be comically dramatic, though not fatal. Some guy called on the red line to say that he had a "small" stove fire and could we send just one truck just in case he couldn't handle it himself. Needless to say the fire department does not do custom orders for obvious reasons. He got a full assignment sent to his house, which he heard, before seeing, coming down his street. He called me back screaming. "I JUST ASKED FOR ONE TRUCK LADY." The first arriving trucks on the scene were calling for a second alarm and screaming at me to tell the guy to get out of the house. Meanwhile the guy could hear the radio through the phone and said to tell them he had his kitchen sink sprayer and was dousing the fire, oh, and it was almost out too. What the guy didn't know was the fire had gone straight into the walls of the house, so while he stood in his kitchen calmly spraying the stove, the entire exterior of his home was engulfed in flames.   It turned into one of those incidents where one of  the cops, those brave souls who run toward danger, as opposed to away from it, took it upon himself and, despite my warning not to, entered the home to physically drag the guy out of the house. Ever since that fire I can't tell you how many police officers I have worked with that have done the same thing, ending up with melted uniforms and burns, to save those who refuse to save themselves.

Never The Less.....

When I moved into this apartment late last summer, the PhD candidate from the third floor met me in the driveway to introduce herself, and lend a few ~~warnings~~ pointers.

"I work midnights." she said, and without a breath in between she continued.   "The smoke detectors are all hard-lined and if one goes off, they all go off." "The people that used to live in your apartment were constantly burning food on the stove."   "They also would throw burning appliances over the side of the porch onto the lawn."

Well, at that last remark I felt myself begining to pale before her very eyes. I wasn't sure if I had FIRE HAZARD in neon lights on my forehead. After all, once one has set a toilet on fire ( that particular doozy may be found here )-inadvertently I might add - there's just no tellin'.

I began to feel an understanding, if not even a slight affection, for those who had come to live here before me. There was a time, before I finally come to the realization anything I touch that has a plug is going to light itself on fire when I least expect it, I had lots of things with plugs. Through the course of my life, I have thrown dust-busters, toasters, toaster ovens, vaccume cleaners, electric sweepers, and even a small black and white portable TV   'over the side.'   Though the TV was in my younger days and went out my bedroom window when it began to smoke.

I am darkly familiar with the smell of electrical burning, as in flourescent light ballasts, and my computer desk top power supply that burnt out last month. Or the USB connection to my digital camera that unfortunaltely emitted that acrid odor at the very same moment I plugged it in, which caused a little bluish gray poof of smoke and a bit of a shock I could have done without.

While living at the farm it was impossible to avoid freezing to death while taking showers during the winter in the huge, uninsulated house. I bought an oil-filled electric radiator for the bathroom, rationalizing that since it was enclosed, with no open flame, it would be safe.    I am more frequently wrong, than right in my assumptions...

I always left the thing unplugged unless it was actually being used, so I plugged it in one day, turned it on, went to the kitchen to do something, and for no known reason, promptly returned to the bathroom heater. There I found a small flame, about the size of a pilot light, in between the electrical thermostat thingy, and the actual oil-filled thingys (Yuh, I'm one of those, don't know any technical jargon, in a pinch I will attempt sad charades to describe things in person, and the most fun is trying to reproduce noises the car makes for the mechanics, while watching their attempt to control hysterics....). Well anyway, I hadn't left the thing alone for more than two minutes, here is this flame I am staring at in disbelief, that within the space of thirty seconds had grown exponentially.   Luckily my ~~panic~~ training kicked in swiftly. Despite the urge to stop, drop and roll right out the door, I snapped the plug out of the wall, raced to the kitchen to grab a ~~truckload~~ box of baking soda, and quickly threw it all on the flame, which was still growing, despite it's lack of power.

And although the apartment we are in now is simply loaded to the gills with GFI outlets, it is, as my son says, not what it seems. Some plugs with GFI outlets are connected to plugs in other rooms. Only one plug may be used at a time in others, lest the breaker in the basement trip. Most recently my coffee grinder burnt out before the GFI popped. In fact it never did pop.

I feel the need to document my relationship with fire due to an article I read years ago. I cut it out and stuck it in the fire-proof safe, just in case someone arrives to visit and finds not me, but a human shaped pile of ashes on the floor. The article reads;

Spontaneous human combustion is most likely to occur during a period of strong magnetic disturbance. No one knows how or why a person seemingly ignites without any external fuel, leaving behind little more than a heap of ashes, an uncharred limb, and a pungent blue smoke hanging in the air, but many victims were wearing slippers at the time of occurence.

I do not own a pair of slippers.........

REST IN PEACE DEAR MURRAY

2011-03-23T19:38:00.000-04:00

You were with us for less than a year, yet you stole our hearts with your sweet disposition and most polite behaviour. We never expected you to leave us so soon when we grabbed you out of the mulch pile you were born in with your sisters and brother, while being mauled by your mother attempting to stop us. It was always our experience the runt turns into the strongest, as did your cousin Edgar, and your aunt, my daughter Julie. But you were always so small, with respiratory infections that would never seem to abate despite nearly continual antibiotics. These last weeks with you have been heaven and hell. Watching you try to rally, one day being up and about, the next having to be carried back to your heating pad, because you would not, no matter how weak, fail to crawl to the litter box, even when you collapsed halfway back to your bed. We loved you with our very souls, and know that you are now with all the others we still mourn in that corner of our hearts that never forget the unconditional love of our animals.

DEAR KATE & WILLIAM

2011-03-20T16:02:00.000-04:00

I am truly sorry to be such a bother at this late date, but unfortunately my wedding invitation must have either been lost in the post, or inadvertently misplaced. I find it hard to believe it would be intentional as my cousins have been manufacturing umbrellas for the Royal Family for generations and have never missed a wedding.

Might I add I have never seen, er, "P. Diddy' carrying a BRIGGS umbrella...

Keep Smiling Dear Friends.

Watashi no kokoro to tamashī wa anata no kuni de wa min'na to issho ni sa remasu

2011-03-16T07:38:00.002-04:00

This is a msg for my friends in Japan. My hope for the safety of all the people there will not wane.

TOTAL DISASTOR + 1....

2011-03-13T19:09:00.003-04:00

Recommended play-list for this post: Mother's Little Helper by The Rolling Stones, over and over and over........

My son began losing it when the ~~quack~~ doctor recommended by the emergency room cancelled his surgery the first time. Those of us who have been ~~victims~~ subjects of controlled trauma know that the build up to the actual surgery can be worse then the procedure itself. When the initial ~~quack~~ cancelled the surgery for the second time, claiming the paperwork was not in order, my son was on the verge of a breakdown. Luckily a nurse from my doctor's office recommended 'the best,' whose office staff first confirmed the paperwork was in order, and the new doctor confirmed that my son indeed had a huge hernia. ONE. Not two, in different areas as the first ~~quack~~ doctor had initially diagnosed.

The power supply on my computer burnt out.
The computer guy's truck broke down and his cat got sick.
My computer is still broken.
One of ~~the herd~~ my cats got sick.

The Great Gatsby on Heavy-Duty Antibiotics.

Nana and Me 2007

The same week before my son's surgery was scheduled with 'the best,' his grandmother died. We all loved her so. She was just one of the most amazing women on the face of this planet. A strong woman who survived so many life altering tragedies, yet never let them affect her sunny outlook. While I was divorcing her philandering son, after she was healing from a major stroke, she came to the house to say good bye, as I was moving to Connecticut, and it was also my birthday. Her oldest daughter drove her. She couldn't make it up the steps with her walker, so I went down to take this from her outstretched hand,

A Shell in my Favorite Color

Potpourri that retains The Scent it Had That Day in 1984

while she gripped the walker firmly with the other hand. She had tears in her eyes, still only able to speak a few words, but she said, "Okay," while trying to smile through her tears. Though she could not say the words, she let me know she knew I loved her, why I was leaving the state with her grandchildren, and that it was alright. Thank You Nana, we will miss you forever.

I would have to drive my son to New Hampshire, as he was too uncomfortable to drive the distance. Nana's wake was scheduled the Saturday before the Tuesday he would have his surgery. We were expecting snow so I made a command decision to hit the grocery store and not have to worry about running out of supplies until long after my son's operation.

I park waaaaaaaaaaaaaay in the back of the parking lots. Since moving here, I have had so many nicks, dings, and different shades of paint transfer applied to my car by obviously incapable and inconsiderate motor vehicle operators it has given me a case of Parking Lot Paranoia. I was in the grocery store for quite a while that day. Imagine my relief when, while approaching my car from a distance, I could quite clearly see, amazingly enough, waaaaaaaaaay off in the distance, absolutely not one other vehicle parked near mine.   Once around it confirmed no new flaws.

While putting the groceries in the passenger side, an elderly woman, driving what appeared to be an aircraft carrier, approached from the spot behind me, while a truck parked a few spaces away. Unable to park directly next to me, due to me leaving my door wide open while I unloaded groceries, the elderly woman approached the rear of my vehicle at an odd angle, and good grief, she was actually going to try to smoosh between the truck and my open door. I couldn't see her face, just the top pf her curly haired head, and the top of a lavender curly haired head in the passengers seat. She kept coming. directly at me. EEK. I raised both of my arms and started frantically waving down the incoming. Something clicked in her brain and she stopped, proceeded to back up the carrier, and was forced to drive ALL the way to the end of the aisle and come up the next without cutting through spaces. When they drove by me still unloading the groceries, they both turned their heads in my direction and shot me a look that rightly should have struck me dead.

Phew, for once I had made it through a parking experience without a nick. I climbed into the cockpit, started the car to let it warm up, and started rearranging receipts in my purse, when suddenly my brain registered something happening. It was so quick I didn't realize my car had been struck, and the offending vehicle was attempting to drag the front end of my car with it while it continued on it's merry little way until my car was released, the front end bouncing back into line with it's rear end.

It took me about one second flat to grab my cell phone, fly out of the car and start running after the big tan Buick that was racing towards the end of the aisle. I was calling in the tag number to the police and banging on the trunk of the car trying to get it to stop - which it didn't - until it nonchalantly pulled into a parking spot close to the entrance to the store.

I walked around to the drivers side, knocked on the window and said, "Don't you go anywhere,' as the vehicle's door was hitting me in the thighs, ' you just smashed into my car and the police are on the way."

While the operator continued to push me out of the way with the car door and got out, what I was looking at was what appeared to be a four and a half foot tall, one hundred year old woman, who said, "I did?" I stared intently, and what I saw was absolutely nothing in those eyes. I asked her to please get back in her car and wait.    I went back the hundred yards or so to my car where I found a grocery store employee who had witnessed the entire incident, and had been kind enough not only to stay to speak to the police, but watch my car, as I had left the door wide open, with my purse on the front seat.

"Any passengers in the car with you?" asked the policeman.   "Ah, no, just two roaster chickens."

Out the window went my driving my son to New Hampshire for Nana's wake. In with the finding someone to drive him. Off he and his friend went at 4 AM the next morning. When I got up I could barely move, my formerly healing herniated disc was screaming at me.

I had already filed the damages claim with the woman's insurance company, the flat bed was due to take my car to the repair shop on Monday, and deliver a rental. "Any passengers in the vehicle when the accident occurred?" asked the insurance adjuster. "Just two roaster chickens, and when I went to start cooking one this afternoon I found it's neck inside it's body so I'm pretty sure she hit me pretty hard..."   Guy had no sense of humor, just sayin.

The witness continued to speak to the insurance people on my behalf, and made the statement that it looked like my car had been dragged at least a foot and a half after the initial impact, before it bounced back onto it's front wheels.

I made an appointment on Monday with my orthopedic guy and took my son to have his surgery on Tuesday, in this.

A Small Boat

I cannot be at the shore and not go to the water...

Freezing.

But The View Of Ledge Light Was Gorgeous, As Always.

New Art At The Park.

As well as the neatest new addition....

A Solar Powered Call-For-Help box.

Everything went well, the rental actually had more comfortable seats than my car for my son to ride home from the hospital in.

My orthopedic guy took x-rays and my disc has shifted. Oh Joy. Back to physical therapy.

The car was ready this past Thursday, the same day I was to take my son back to the city to have his post-op check-up and stitches out. I was forced to race to the shop to pick up the car as the rental was no longer covered when the shop said my car was fixed.  An over statement of the year. So we got to take my car out for it's first ride.

The first bump on the highway, a bridge expansion panel (you know, thunk- thunk and you are over a small bridge) we both felt a gigantic THUNK under our feet while at the same time we heard a crack, then a loud 'BOING' , like something hitting the under carriage of the car.   My son and I looked at each other as I was slowing down to 45, minimum highway speed, as well as a controllable speed should something else occur, as we watched whatever had fallen off my car bounce away in the side view mirrors.   After hitting even small bumps something in the back was thunking itself silly trying to fall off.

We crept home, left it in the driveway, and went into the house to call the insurance company. The car alarm started going off.   Every five minutes. Until the battery was disconnected. Apparently the electrical was not put back correctly when my bumper was reattached to the car.

The rental company did not have another rental available until the week-end had passed. Three of the rescues were suffering from Gatsby's original symptoms and appeared to be fighting it off well enough.

Until Murray collapsed Sunday evening. He was on the brink of death by Monday morning, when a dear friend took the day off from his job to race us to the vet. Murray had to stay at the vet's that night. The next day they sent him home not thinking he would make it.

First Day Home

On his heating pad next to the hot air vent.

He is not only slowly regaining his strength and weight, he is making major strides now.

I have been arguing with insurance adjusters for two weeks now. My son returned to work after a week (with restrictions), and joined the War now going on with the insurance company who has finally agreed to pay for my honest mechanics to fix the rest of the damage done by the repair shop the insurance company recommended....

I am now driving this...

A Large Ship

My car is still disabled. The War continues with the insurance adjuster. Oh and Paulette, the box will be in the mail soon.    :}

Addendum:            MARCH 23, 2011            Murray died this afternoon at 2:00 PM. He had rallied for a
                                                                      long time, considering the horrible infection that had so quickly
                                                                      taken over his system. Now that we are consumed with
                                                                      sorrow,
                                                                      I realize he had been struggling to stay alive for us, and we
                                                                      love him so for that. He is at peace now and in the care of the
                                                                      others that have come before him.

KNITTING TIPS FROM THE VILLAGE IDIOT....

2011-02-08T23:35:00.000-05:00

I'll try to get through this with a straight face, though trust me it's not going to be easy. I'm the one who just can't scramble through a normal knitting pattern. I simply find it tedious and irritating for some mysterious unknown reason, and would rather reinvent the wheel, than follow someone else's wheel merrily rolling down the hill in all it's perfected glory. So I make up my own pattern as I go along. Those PURIST KNITTERS (yes, Zimmerman fans you're included in that lot :} ) had better stop reading right here, the rest of this post may be hazardous to your mental health.

I pick designs from this book.

My mother taught me to knit when I was around seven or eight. My grandmother had taught my sister to crochet. My mother could never learn to crochet. I cannot crochet either. I think it's a genetic flaw. When I was around twelve I decided I had it in me to knit my Dad a sweater. Mainly because all of our known relatives were by now draped in scarves I had been crankin' out since learning to knit. My mother took me to the LSY where I picked out a gorgeous shade of forest green, and because I can never do anything simply, I shopped on, finding a shade of medium tan for a snowflake pattern across the top, and down the sleeves, visions of Norway dancing in my head. The sweater turned out great, if you consider one sleeve was about four inches longer than the other... I think I may have been caught up in a particular episode of Ben Casey and forgotten to mark rows, never the less my father, when presented the sweater, rolled up the one mutant sleeve, and wore the thing for the rest of his natural life. Or so it seemed to me. It never wore out so I'm thinkin' now he may have been racing to the closet and yanking it out before my arrival during cold weather visits... I seem to recall my mother teaching this bit of graciousness to my sister and me. It may or may not have emerged from Eleanor Roosevelt's Post-War edition of the BOOK OF COMMON SENSE ETIQUETTE. This of course, was way before the new wave of 'return or re-gifting.'

I began with metal knitting needles back in the day.

When the joints in my fingers became bad in later years I stopped knitting for a long time. Then someone invented bamboo needles which I decided to try, not because they are planet friendly, though they are, but because they give a bit and it didn't cause pain to knit with them. They also have a tendency to warp when held in a death grip.

Please

pay no attention to my kitchen curtain fabric which has yet to be transformed into curtains.

I have been using wooden needles since. Which my great-grandmother would have loved. These came down the family tree from a relative who was a whaling captain on what must have been a particularly boring sail. He carved the needles from rosewood, the tips are carved ivory (No, I don't condone whaling, nor ivory they are simply relics :} ).

One day I was flipping through a knitting magazine searching for inspiration, when I came across an ad for SQUARE knitting needles. Whoa, now that's odd. There would come the time, before Christmas, when I would need to race out to the brand-spanking-new LYS that opened a few miles away. ( http://www.newenglandyarn.com/ ) It's not like I needed anything concrete, I just had to go and have a nice old fashioned look-see. It's a great shop, the woman who owns it even spins some of her own yarn.

Hardcore yarn addict that I am, I had to look at everything, including a yarn that actually includes possum hair. Its from New Zealand, where apparently there is a possum population explosion going on, and some fiber addict figured out possum hair is moisture resistant, so they mix it with wool ( http://murrbrewster.blogspot.com/ take this and run with it!). Well anyway, while perusing the small notions section, I spotted the square needles I had seen advertised.

They they were, all coppery, definitely square, though metal, and calling my name. Well, I couldn't resist and bought a set of DP N's, even if they didn't work out, they are still gorgeous...

In between big stuff, I knit socks to clear my head, it's sort of like an 'eating the melon slice in between courses to clear one's palette' thing I have going, only with knitting. So I thought now would be the time to try out the square needles. Oh, wait for it, here comes my knitting tip.... For Socks...

On top of my 'pattern' as I go along making it up.....

As I cast on, I add needles, so by the time I have the amount of stitches I need, they are already on the needles, and I simply have to knit four stitches from needle # 3, to needle # 1, and I am all set to start whizzing around the sock cuff. It's never a heart-ache being 'careful not to twist' either. And just because some poor soul might have actually searched for knitting tips, and believed this post would be useful... my Knitting Tip for Knitting with DP N's... When traveling from needle to needle, always begin the new needle with a knit stitch, even if you have to ~~distort~~ rework the whole pattern to do it. It prevents having to worry about holes in the work due to not keeping the DP N's close together while switching needles. Well, I warned you above I am the Village Idiot Knitter didn't I? But you'll find nary a darn holey space in my socks. If you wanna see some really snazzy knitting, you should check out this site http://www.annielarson.com/, she does it with a knitting machine, which is even more mind boggling for someone as clue-less as me.

While I was whizzing through the first rows of a roll cuff for slipper socks for my son, I noticed that not only were my fingers not bothered by the metal, but the square needles are easier for my fingers (suffering from occupational traumatic osteoarthritis) to grasp. I might add, the more I keep them moving, the slower it will take my finger joints to weld themselves together due to lack of cartilage. I am afraid of this. I don't think my toes are long enough to hold the needles.

Well these babies are not only a joy to use, they are fast. The first slipper sock is nearly half done in two days, using size 3. Which means they definitely will be done in time for my son to use when he has his surgery on the 15th of this month (by a competent surgeon, phew). This also means using my normal favorite size 0 or 1's, I may be able to complete a few pairs of real socks before Jesus returns.

NEWS-E NOTES

The news is chock full of roofs collapsing these days, so we see a lot of this...

We woke up to this ... a squall that left two more inches...

And yes, those are cat tracks... When the old gentleman that lived in the strange house across the street passed away, his relatives came, cleared out the house, and shoved the cat outdoors. He/She is mistrustful now of humans so it's taking me a while leaving food out for it, to even get it this close, at night.

So tonight, with the wind doing 50 mph gusts and howling to beat the ban, I sit with the new square needles, whizzing toward toe # 1.

PRECIOUS...

2011-02-03T11:54:00.000-05:00

Just loves photo ops.

FIRE - PART ONE

2011-02-02T20:49:00.001-05:00

I was around seven or eight when the mill in town went up. It had been one of those summer evenings that didn't require a sweater. One of those black and gray evenings when there is no sunset to speak of, things just seem to fade from the light quickly, and before you know it, buildings have all turned the same shade of shadows, and it's time to go inside.

The neighborhood kids and I had just dispersed, heading for home when the siren began sounding it's numeric code for the location of the fire. Well, that was always exciting. I ran through the back screen door, flew to the cellar stairwell while counting the number of blasts and spaces the siren issued, and by the time I looked up the location of the call box, sirens in the distance could already be heard.

"Goin' to the FIRE!" I yelled at the empty kitchen, racing back out the screen door to find the neighborhood gang already reassembling in our back yard. "Its the MILL!" the boy next door said, and the five of us were off like a shot towards the river.

The lumber mill was half owned by my grandfather at that time, and was situated just off the river. Railroad tracks that followed the river split into a junction, the side rail ran directly through the mill for pick ups and deliveries. Though he ran the manufacturing side of the business, while his partner ran the office, he could never quite keep his hands away from wood, and was always making things to bring home to give to my grandmother.

Baba's hand turned saltshakers he made for Gunga.

I still feel ridiculous calling them these names...

Just past the tracks were the old, rickety wooden docks we'd fish from. It was only a couple minutes away, and as the small group of us ran at full tilt, we began to smell the burning wood, mixed with an oily smell, and see the smoke before we were halfway there.

Upon our arrival some fire apparatus were already setting up running hoses, and shouting orders to each other we didn't understand. We raced across the tracks taking up positions on the familiar dock, knowing - even in semi-darkness - where the boards were broken, where not to step so as to avoid going through and landing in the slime that edged the river underneath.

The fire got progressively worse, the crowds continued to gather and at some point blocked our view of the firefighters in action. We left the dock and made our way through the crowd to get a closer look. It was easy to do that when you were a kid. Shimmy through the crowd at the height just below the point where adult bodies had become thick with age and pushed against each other when in close proximity.

Most of the lumber came from the mills in Manchester.

Suddenly the shouting from the firefighters reached a panicked crescendo, as some that were actually in the burning building were rushing out covered in soot and coughing. The crowd, sensing danger, moved in reverse en mass, my friends and I carried along with them.

The reason for the abrupt change in the fire came not a minute later. Evidently there were quite a few fuel tanks within the building and the fire could not be contained enough to keep the blaze from reaching the tanks. The first enormous explosion whacked the front row of the crowd, along with my friends and I, about five feet back, and onto the pavement. Then we were all up and running over the tracks to get further away from the building as the firefighters were shouting "MORE TANKS INSIDE!" It wasn't until we were a safe distance away sitting on the slimy river bank, did we realize we, along with most of the crowd, were covered in black, greasy soot. Three or four more tanks blew up, one causing the long, low roof of the mill to spring into the air a bit, before collapsing into the building.

Soon one of my friends would say, "Uh oh." I followed the direction of his gaze and saw my sister on her prized black Raleigh, pedaling down the street like the Wicked Witch of the West. She was scanning the scene in front of her bike and got a bead on my friends and me. Pedaling over with an air of superiority only one who is in the loop is able to carry off, she braked the bike, stopped and said, "Baba is here somewhere, you are late for dinner, and you were too close to the fire and I'm TELLIN'." I should note my sister had named our Grandparents "Gunga" and "Baba" when she was small and incapable of words that actually meant something. The names stuck. Baba loved it and Gunga spent most of my sister's childhood trying to force her to call her "Grand Mother." Gunga never quite learned that my sister was the boss of everything.

George MacComber Gifford (AKA Baba)

Viola May French Gifford (AKA Gunga)

My Grandfather had his dream job. He not only got to work with wood, but he got to be around trains, which he loved.

This is how he utilized the attic bedroom in his home.

He left his prized collection to me.

Which I still have because my son still lives with me.

My first experience with fire, during which I gained a healthy respect for it. Thus began my adventure in life, where it seemed fire would follow me, no matter how hard I tried to avoid it.

Dear Pat....

2011-02-02T20:19:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid...

Feb. 1960

In New Hampshire. I headed South the second I had a chance... apparently not far enough south.

Because I distinctly remember icicles like this.

*SIGH*

IF YA CAN'T BEAT IT - JOIN IT.....

2011-02-02T12:02:00.000-05:00

Photo courtesy of Joey Guillo via The Weather Channel

Don't Irritate Me.

I'm running out of places to hide the bodies...

STORM TRACKS FOR THE YEAR

2011-01-31T23:20:00.000-05:00

Thank You Ralph Fato via The NorthEast Quadrant for pointing out I live in the BULL'S EYE....

AND JUST BECAUSE IT'S TOO FUNNY...

2011-01-31T23:10:00.000-05:00

Photo Thanx to Frederick Sinclair via The NorthEast Quadrant

THIS IS GOING AROUND NOW...

2011-01-31T22:19:00.000-05:00

THE UPDATE ON THE FARM

2011-01-31T17:35:00.000-05:00

Basically Abandoned.

Quite a few of my friends have been asking, "What about those poor ferals?"

Ice covers the inside as well as the outside of the windows.

Fear not, I return once a week to leave food for them. Though my heart is still broken in not being able to find a home for Grandma. She had been through so much, and had turned into a sweet cat just wanting a safe home. She had been wild her entire life, and could not tolerate my other cats. So I left her behind, and prayed, hoping that she would be okay staying in the place she had lived her entire life. But she wasn't strong, which the vet verified when I had her fixed. The last time I met with her was in the fall after we had moved.

The whole place is abandoned, this is the snowbank I had to crawl over this week to get to the secret spots where they can get into the basement through the foundation, at least out of the wet snow and wind, if not the cold.

The snow is up to my waist now, and not having snowshoes any longer is making it a chore to plow through the snow, with 15 lbs. of cat food, but it's good, worthwhile exercise. I always call for Grandma, and someone will show up, but not her. Week before last it was Dead Beat Dad. This week it was either Grandma's daughter or grandson. I'm hoping she is staying in the basement and safe. This week only one coyote track, one deer track, and a cat paw print with blood frozen into the imprint, hoping its not too bad of a cut on the paw.

And just to prove how truly hopeless I am, if I do ever find Grandma, if she's still alive she's coming with me. I'll find a foster home for her until I find her the home that poor thing so deserves.

I left extra food this week, just in case. Our current oncoming storm is named Ella.

THE SILVER LINING...

2011-01-30T10:07:00.001-05:00

Needless to say, New England has had it up to their ears ~~in the~~ with snow, as well as the cold that prevents it from melting and simply going away.   Snow control and removal budgets are, for the most part, nearly depleted due to the record breaking snowfall here for the month of January.Our area has been hit with 56 inches of snow, just this month alone.   The snow banks are so high, even on the main drags, that it makes those of us ~~old~~ wise enough to remember when cars had tall antennas and bright colored things such as ping-pong balls or flags stuck at the very top, warning on-coming traffic a vehicle was soon to emerge from behind a mountain of snow.     People are cranky, drivers are raging, the snowbanks are dirty and just when one thought it couldn't get worse...

A director of meteorological studies here in the state explains it all. "There is no immediate change on the horizon."   He goes on to relate this is due to a persistent high pressure over Greenland, a phenomenon known as 'North Atlantic Oscillation.'   This high pressure blocks the cold air from lifting out of the Northeast.

Wonderful. They name the major winter storms, this does not include the squalls that leave an inch or two of the white stuff before moving on. Our last was Denis. With one 'N.' Just to be clear about this.

On rare sunny days like today, one notices a marked difference in the mood of the general public, which makes it hard to imagine how those poor souls in Alaska manage with all those months of relative darkness.

Which brings me to the Silver Lining.   Even though, at this point, there is no end in sight due to this weird weather phenomenon which has a 90 to 120 day cycle, once it does break, it means...............

AN EARLY SPRING.        All righty then, I can deal with the rest of the bloody cycle.

COLD WINTER SUNSET

2011-01-21T17:41:00.001-05:00

SIMPLIFIED TAX RETURN

2011-01-17T08:08:00.002-05:00

STEP ONE: How much money did you make last year? $_______.__

STEP TWO: Mail It In.

FOR YOUR AMUSEMENT.....

2011-01-13T17:48:00.000-05:00

BOB? - seen calmly napping to the right - has shown Precious the joys of hot chocolate, and how to obtain it from a forgotten mug....

THE "KID" IS ON HOLD....

2011-01-13T17:41:00.001-05:00

Without going into the gory details of an incompetant doctors staff, as well as what appears to be moronic surgeon, the kid had his double-hernia operation cancelled again for the second time, the day before the operation. Alledgedly the paperwork wasn't correct, which is probably a good thing. I got a reference for a good surgeon from my friend in another doctor's office. They were faxed the paperwork in question, and find no problelm with it. He's on hold until he sees the new doctor, but we'll feeel safer with the new one and his excellent references.

IT'S VERY QUIET HERE...

2011-01-12T10:42:00.001-05:00

When There's This Much Snow...

and the cars have been brushed off three times already since 5AM...

When we still have three more hours before the edge of the storm passes this part of the state, and the city plows have not made it to our street,

All one can hear is the loud, panicked cursing of the gentleman two doors down who is trying to drag his HUGE snowblower, that has run out of gas, out of the street and back into his driveway, rrrk.

The winds have picked up again, the major highways throughout the state are all partially closed, with entire citys CLOSED and warnings TICKETS will be issued for those who dared venture out, we watched a 45 second burst of lightening that streaked through the sky, lighting up a zillion snowflakes. Pretty darn incredible. The last time I saw lightening during a snow storm I was about twelve years old, and in northern New Hampshire.

They can't quite figure out what all this white stuff being tracked in is.

With the worst part still heading for my daughter's territory, we're heaving a sigh and waiting for the sky to stop falling. On us.

Happy Snow Day?

NESTING

2011-01-11T18:49:00.001-05:00

It would come to pass that the prodigal son would injure himself severely enough to require surgery. I omit the 'major, 'minor' aspect while mentioning surgery, as I view any sort of surgery requiring general anesthetic to be major.

Somehow the kid lifted a heavy object and gifted himself with a double-hernia, which must be extremely painful as every time he coughs he makes a noise. Which means it must be basically unbearable for him.

I believe this because the year he was working for a landscaper and dropped a chainsaw on his leg, which cut through the meat to the bone before the chainsaw continued its noisy decent to the ground, the kid never made a noise. He calmly turned off the chainsaw, called for an ambulance, sat down and while applying pressure to the wound, patiently awaited his transport to the hospital. There he demanded a local anesthetic, and they promptly stitched his leg back together .

This he has to be knocked out for. He is trying to maintain an air of bravado, claiming he will have Superman Kevlar Abs after the event, but I know he is doing that, "I may not wake up," game most of us play with the first surgery adventure.

I didn't realize just how much the upcoming event was affecting both of us until Sunday evening. After I had rearranged my tiny bedroom; twice. When I was done I went to the kitchen to make hot chocolate, and nearly bumped into the kid. Exiting his bedroom with a mop. "I just cleaned my entire room," he said. I peeked in. My mother would have been proud. Clean was the wrong word. Sterilized would have been more appropriate. Not a speck of dust anywhere, not a knick-knack out of place. His cats were in there looking confused.

Monday would find me repairing picture frames that had not fared well during the last move, and cleaning the rest of the apartment. It's an automatic overdrive thing. Keep moving; don't think. Try to forget he is thirty-two and never out grew of his asthma. That every time he has dental work done they make sure he has a rescue inhaler in his hand in case he has a reaction to the local anesthetic.

His surgery will be done by laproscope, and will be approximately six hours. I've done the steps to the Waiting Room Dance far too many times, waiting for individuals in operating rooms. I am never able to concentrate on a book, though I always bring one. I find myself watching everyone else, waiting. The surgeons - some not bothering to change their scrubs, covered in the blood of their victims - come to the waiting room to retrieve family members, then take them into a glass-walled, soundproofed room, in full view of those left waiting. Those remaining in the waiting area know the news is not good if the curtains are slid tightly closed across the windows, and nurses enter the room five minutes later to allow the surgeon an escape hatch.

There is nothing left for me to do in this apartment, but the approaching snow storm that is predicted to be carrying two or more feet of snow our way, will luckily keep me busy nesting outdoors shoveling until 6 AM Friday morning. At which time I will drive my son to the hospital. And begin THE WAIT.

SNOW + DEPRESSED ECONOMY = TICKETS

2011-01-09T14:08:00.001-05:00

I have been forced to join that infernal 'Social-Network' FaceBook. I have been staying away from it intentionally, not into herding with the group, and I simply abhor the mundane remarks, spawning further mundane remarks, ultimately ending in disconnected conversations. However it appears that most of my former co-workers have decided it is easier to stay in the loop on their days off with FaceBook, rather than e-mail. Resulting in my receiving an informal order to get on FaceBook, no-one checks their e-mail anymore. So I did. It's not all bad. It enabled me to finally speak to a friend I had not seen since I left work.

Eric.

Who is now this ERIC.

Houston, you have no problem. You have Eric.

[In cowboy hat and boots *sigh*]

Which makes me want to add that he was educated in France, and along with the majority of the 'old guard' I had the pleasure of working with, is extremely bright. I add this due to the national publicity one applicant received when he appeared on the David Letterman show claiming he was too ''smart to be a cop,'' in our city. He had been turned down due to being over qualified, the powers that be deciding he would not stay as soon as he was offered a more lucrative position related to his education.

When I first began dispatching in the city, the winter parking rules were put into effect around the first of November. On short or narrow streets parking was allowed on one side of the street only. It was decided that if it was an odd year, winter parking would be on the odd side of the street. Which created problems every January, as odd became even, or vise versa, confusing a lot of residents. This confusion led to plow operators becoming unhinged when they could not plow the streets with cars on both sides of the road (apparently you can confuse some of the people some of the time, but not all of the people, all of the time). Which in turn led to their calling us to send the police. The police would respond, then call in license plates. We in turn would figure out who owned the vehicle, try to call them and have them move the vehicle, and when worst came to worst, the police would be forced to leave a ticket on the vehicle. Even though technically the vehicles creating the problem could be towed away, this was avoided unless absolutely necessary.

The day would come when the powers that be decided switching from odd to even with the year was far too confusing, and the decision was made to make it odd or even, the year the winter actually started, all year. Which made it a whole lot easier for the plow operators, and a whole lot easier for us not having to listen to them whine. And not have to waste police man hours on searching for confused people whose vehicles were on the wrong side of the road. At this juncture it is crucial to note, these rules were only strictly followed by the city during actual storms. Snow regulations didn't become Marshall Law until one lone confused person parked on the wrong side of the road during a storm. The rest of the residents of that street had parked on the correct side of the year in question.

It was a wicked Nor'easter that was blowing through, the plow operators had been out for nearly twenty-four hours and were just plain tired. So around 3AM, on the second day of the storm, through the blowing snow, a plow operator spied a vehicle parked on the wrong side of the road, just in time to swerve and avoid it, in the process taking out the sides of about fourteen vehicles parked on the correct side of the road that fateful year. Despite the disaster, an air of civility was still maintained in attempts to contact owners to move vehicles during snow storms. To this day, Winter Parking Regulations are only in effect there during storms.

The city I worked in was a lot smaller in area than the city I live in now, and although the population is nearly the same, it is not so compressed here, though there certainly are narrow streets. The mill rate here is through the roof, which probably explains the sheer number of on duty police at every hour of the day and night. A lot more manpower than I was ever able to have the pleasure of working with.

And so it would happen, that a neighbor would call around the end of October to inquire if I knew when the 'Winter Parking Regulations' went into effect here, as her son was staying with her during the week, due to a job transfer. I didn't know, so she called City Hall, and was advised that the regs. went into effect November first. What that employee neglected to tell the woman was November 1st, at 2400 hrs. Midnight. Meaning if they went to bed before midnight on October 31st, they would awaken on November 1st. Not a lot of non-shift workers understand this, through no fault of their own. Consequently there was a twenty dollar ticket on the woman's son's vehicle the morning of November 1st. With no snow storm in sight.

Somehow I couldn't imagine cops in a busy city being this ticket crazy, until I remembered the city ordinance ticket money is just about the only police generated income that does not go directly into the state's general fund, but into the city's. The city is the benefactor of the monetary fines. But with the money this city collects in taxes alone due to a 29.4 mill rate, it didn't make sense. At least until I checked to see if a friend had gotten back to me regarding a private message I sent her on FaceBook.

One of the retired 'Old Guard' had posted the following on FaceBook which popped up on my page, regarding the city I used to work in, and in which he still resides...

"Man, this city is just crazy. Public Works has a guy driving around in a pick up taking photos of people shovelling snow into the street. Then they sic the cops on the people and make them shovel the snow back onto the sidewalk! Whatever happened to crime fighting? People getting shot and stabbed all over this city and this is what the cops are doing? They just got done making my neighbor shovel the snow back."

{He fails to mention that if said person forced to 'double-shovel' has a heart attack due to the added exertion, the resulting law-suit would be astronomical. Most folks remember back when things were polite, and are probably acting accordingly. If you shoveled it into the street, the bucket loaders would eventually show up to put all the pesky white stuff into a dump truck to haul away.}

Well, there you have it, even a retired cop is astounded. If they do not 'catch' the offender, a ticket is issued to the homeowner. The proceeds of which go directly back to the city.

And that my friends, is the sad State of the Union.....

The good news is, we were spared the brunt of last nights storm. We only got two inches of heavy, wet snow. My daughter on the shore got seven inches and has been whining all morning. Someone throw her a towel, the waterworks are pouring through the phone....

DIGGING OUT...

2011-01-08T20:15:00.000-05:00

It snowed... again.

It's not that I don't like it. I am actually quite fond of the floofy white stuff. On Christmas cards. Or in movies. Or in the swirling mountain winds around a Swiss Bank, holding numbered accounts, and oh, sorry, drifting like the snow outside for a second I was. It's going to be one of those days. I've already found a slew of nit-bitsy little things to do around the house before I actually put on the boots and go try to find my little car, because you see it continued to snow long after this picture was taken at 9 PM last evening.

MUCH LATER: All the floofy stuff is removed. Next up, yet another wave of IT expected tonight.

OKAY... I DESERVED THIS....

2011-01-06T09:23:00.000-05:00

REMEMBER WHEN ... SOUTHWEST AIRLINE WAS FUN?

2010-12-31T11:30:00.001-05:00

Southwest Airline used to delight and amaze me.   Used to being the operative phrase, as after a particular, apparently humorless, passenger complained, the flight attendants were no longer allowed to reveal their Joan Rivers/Johnny Carson persona's. Though it remains my number one brand of transport over long distances, it's simply no fun anymore.

It is now, after being subjected to ultra-high security measures - and not without good reason, I might add - simply to enter the bowels of the airport itself, that we could use the humor, and to the person who filed a lawsuit alledging offense was taken at a one-liner (years ago, no?), take a pill, or stay home, you've ruined it for everyone.

Fortunately I have unearthed an envelope of gems. Before one flight, I had been determined to transcribe as much as I could of the flight attendant's one liners to put in the scrapbook of that particular trip. They came so fast and furiously that, in between insane cackling, along with the rest of the passengers, my writing was far too hurried and large. I had to continually search for more scraps of paper, even resorting to a perfume sample card.

Thankfully I managed quite a bit, and so, for posterity and hope the New Year will usher out a bit of doom and gloom, and usher in the return of humor, and yes, even in the commercial sector, I record those comments here, and applaud SOUTHWEST for their attempt to keep it fun.

The "instructions" came from a few flights so though they may appear redundant, they are not, every monologue was different and simply hysterical.

                                                 **************

"Attendants will make sure your socks match your shoes, and check your seat belts."

"Leave your seat belt fastened until the plane reaches a complete stop for the safety of the people you are going to fall on... and comb your hair."

"Should a drop in air pressure occur, color coordinated yellow masks will fall, let go of your neighbor and place the mask over your face."

"There is a $2000.00 fine for smoking. If you had wanted to pay $2000.00 for a ticket, you could have flown DELTA."

"FREE LIQUOR....   just kidding but now we know who the alcoholics are."

"Designer Martha Stewart masks will fall, if you are traveling with more than one child, decide which one you love the most and attach the mask to that child's face. If you are traveling with your husband, we're deeply sorry, attach your mask, look over at him and say, "Har, Har!"

"If we go water skiing, your seat cushion can serve as a flotation device and life preserver."

"Should we experience a drop in air pressure, stop screaming and attach your mask."

"Attention K-Mart Shoppers, during take-off and landing, if you brought along cell phones we are very impressed, but you can't use them."

During a full flight....

"If you are in a jump seat and do not wish to be, please let an attendant know, we will tie you to the wings."

"We will be landing shortly, please turn off all children and cell phones."

"Smoking is allowed on the wings only"

And after a particularly long, non-stop red-eye from L.A. to Providence.... and a really fast landing, to which one of the female attendants couldn't resist, "Whoa Cowboy..."

"10 minutes and we're outta here."

"Please stay seated in the plane until the Captain says it's OK, no not yet.... No, not yet.     No.    Not.   Yet..... OK.....   GET OUT   !!!!!"

HAPPY NEW YEAR ...   AND MAY IT BE A FUN ONE!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

2010-12-20T10:44:00.000-05:00

During this holiday season may we all remember the important things.

"The life of the individual has meaning only insofar as it aids in making the life of every living thing nobler and more beautiful. Life is sacred, that is to say, it is the supreme value, to which all other values are subordinate."

Albert Einstein

1934

I'm Not Sure What He Does Back There...

2010-12-16T13:41:00.000-05:00

Behind the curtain all day...

But every once in a while he gets tired, and has to rest...

Um, HULLO?

Evidently my computer is just being finicky, as I was able to download and upload. I updated pictures on the last post due to the solar charger. I am positive long after I am gone, someone will dig it out of a moth eaten box and say "What the...?" As I did with this little number...

...about thirty years ago while unpacking a moth eaten box of my grandfather's things. It was passed down to him. There was quite a Civil War history on his side of the family. These were not only used in hospital's of that era, but on the battlefield as well. The little oil lamp, when lit, served to heat the metal dish above it, making it easy to cook morphine for syringes. The shallow metal dish is not attached and I simply cannot believe I have managed to keep the piece intact all these years. Evidently it was meant to survive. But it took some digging to unearth it's purpose when I first came across it. Ending up finding it on some 'primitive medical devices' site.

Если я Был Переплетен На Необитаемом острове...

2010-12-12T14:33:00.001-05:00

OR:

If I Were Stranded On A Desert Island...

These are the things I simply could not live without.

I am giving the Desert Island a bit more than a nod due to the ~~down right nasty~~ inclement weather we are experiencing today. I walked out of the house this morning, put my (luckily flat-soled, UGGS shod) foot down on the pavement, and was instantly skating.

The world was clad in an inch of solid ice. The other foot had not caught up and remained outstretched behind me. After a ~~perfectly executed~~ triple selcow I crashed into the hood of my car. On the other side of the driveway. Ever so slightly downhill from the steps I had left mere moments ago.  While rain dripped off the hood of my parka, I tried to do the Inch-Back-Up-The-Ice dance. You know the one. Under no circumstances attempt to remove either one of your feet - no matter how much trust you have in them as individuals -   from Mother Earth, or your back end will be the victim of gravity, and with such velocity you will be regretting lifting that darn foot for days.

A ~~few hours~~ little while later, after safely negotiating the traverse, I was sitting in the living room watching the news, when my peripheral vision caught a swift movement outside the window. It was another HUMAN VS. ICE battle.

Evidently what had caught my eye was a person -   must have trusted a foot without looking beneath it - who had done a butt-plant-slide   (awarding a 10 for speed, as I did not witness the slide itself) across the sidewalk, over the little grassy meridian, and was stopped about two feet into the street, where the road treatment the night before had actually worked.

I grabbed my coffee and raced out to the front porch. You just knew this was going to be ~~great!~~ a difficult return to the steps.   After nearly a half an hour of struggling to get up, the woman gave up, remained on her hands and knees, and did a combo of inching forward-sliding back until she was near her front steps. I feel justified (since I had indeed just suffered the same fate) in confessing I was in silent hysterics. Instead of skating she was doing the balance beam. My eyes teared up and I needed a Kleenex. Just when I thought the show was over the woman's husband emerged from the house, carefully edged his way to the corner of the porch, and said to his wife, who was within inches of her goal, still on all fours, " We're born naked and hungry, and then it gets worse."

Thought I'd die, I was wheezing, I slumped in my lawn chair doubled over waiting for her less than cataclysmic reply,   "Shut-Up and throw me a rope Einstein."

Simply precious. I imagine someone else had a great guffaw at my ~~admittedly more graceful~~ adventure as well, at least I hope so, an escapade like that is a terrible thing to waste, ahem....

Hence today's Desert Island Dream.

CALGON Take Me Away, Please?

Well, apparently my computer is not totally repaired. It does not want to read my SD card therefore my list will have to suffice.

Things I need for my grass hut...

My glasses, with gradient lenses.

My reading glasses, due to unfortunately reaching that 'certain age.'

Because someday I fully intend to set foot on Russian soil, the most horrific, tragic, yet beautiful love story through letters to each other,

A Lifelong Passion, Nicholas & Alexandra - Their Own Story Letters edited by Andrei Maylunas and Sergei Mironenko

Spanning the past two hundred years of Russian history, Echoes Of A Native Land by Sergi Schemann

And because every time I read these I discover something new about my own mind,

The Griffin and Sabine series by Nick Bantock

Hippolyte's Island by Barbara Hodgson

In case I discover something, I will need to know that those who have gone before have not laid eyes on whatever it is, aside from never tiring of this book, The Origin of The Species by Charles Darwin.

My solar electronic device charger with every adaptor known to man, for the new E-Reader my kids are going halves on and buying me for Christmas ( with an extra large storage card, yippeee!).

But I don't know that... No, I wasn't eaves-dropping. I will be a mother my entire life, much to my chagrin, even though my 'kids' are grown. It still gives me the chills when I hear whispering. In fact it makes me downright nervous. Especially when I know they are ~~conspiring~~ talking to each other. I merely made popcorn. In the kitchen. Just outside my son's bedroom door. After he told me he was calling his sister and asked me not to bother him, just before he shut his door. It was then he began to whisper.

Oh, and a case of the Russian red wine introduced to me by friends associated with the AMERICAN FRIENDS OF RUSSIAN GEORGIA charitable organization. And one wineglass.

To quote Naven, "And that's all I need!"

Introducing...

2010-12-10T19:45:00.000-05:00

HELEN

Helen stays in the kitchen where there is the most light, as she is nearly totally blind. She is able to discern shadows advancing towards her in the kitchen, but in darker rooms she bumps into things when the kitten in her takes over and she runs. She has Dead Beat Dad's head, and her mother's soft, silky body, she rolls over and does tricks, and is simply too sweet. She is over six months old and only three pounds. One of the last two before all the Farm Cats were fixed.

*Sigh.*

THE IRISH CONNECTION

2010-12-09T14:10:00.000-05:00

My father, and his irrepressible grinning.

Trying not to grin. A rare photo.

(Showing he has made it through his first year in the Navy and has no tattoo.)

Evidently his own father had been quite the card. My Dad's father had disappeared long before we would ever know him, but in gazing at the only photo of him that survived, one has to imagine that this man, dressed like a mobster, and taking his three adult children out for this picture, simply had to be a scream to live with.

It's also quite evident that the girls (my father's two sisters) were not quite as amused with the situation. They obviously were under the influence of their mother (That's not a smile on the oldest to the right, she has a horrendous case of bucked teeth.).

Mary Celia (Carter) Kelley

Serious As A Heart Attack

My father's family would never quite get over his marrying a WASP, but they took my mother into the kitchen - uncharted territory for her - and taught her to cook the things my father 'liked.' It all involved throwing meat, vegetables, and lots of potatoes into a huge pot of boiling water sometime around noon, and forgetting about it until everyone decided they were hungry. Which is what my mother taught me, and I still cook that way. It's really easy and I like a path of least resistance.

My Dad's father had come here from Ireland in search of the American Dream. He succeeded. He began his trucking business in Manchester N.H. with this truck, moving pianos.

He graduated to dairy product delivery when his in-laws , who owned a dairy farm, proposed a deal. His truck morphed into a fleet that included this truck.

At a time when the city was full of Irish immigrants looking for work in the mills, while children were laboring in the factories for pennies a week, my father and his siblings were wearing leather shoes and attending private Catholic schools.

But in the afternoons when school was over, my father would play with the other kids in the little neighborhood by the river. He would tell my sister and I stories of how most of the kids he played with weren't around until seven or eight o'clock at night as they did not go to school, they worked in the mills. One Christmas he went through all the closets in his families' home, dug out everything he deemed 'extra,' left everyone in the house with one pair of shoes and one winter coat, so that he could distribute the things to the families of his friends who had shoes with holes in them, or no coats to wear during harsh New Hampshire winters. The next winter his mother started knitting early in the fall. And one snowy Christmas Eve, in 1928, my Dad's father drove to Canterbury, loaded the truck with dairy products, and delivered all of it, along with warm hats and socks to the families my father had named.

Before he entered the Navy, Dad was still borrowing trucks to help out neighborhood residents. They never forgot him.

With a 'baby' brother of one of his childhood friends. My father's family was odd in that there were only three children.

My Dad never forgot the suffering he had seen his friends endure. No matter what country he was in, he was always helping the kids he ran into, whether it was a little girl trying to sell paper flowers for the sailors to send home to their 'sweethearts', or a little boy shining shoes.

Dairy products provided by this man...

Uncle Joe

My mother not only loved conspiracies, she loved a juicy scandal. She used to sigh and say that since Uncle Joe left this earth, nothing really interesting ever happened. Uncle Joe had come from Ireland as well, and instead of following his family to Vermont, stayed in New Hampshire where he would build a large dairy farm and become extremely successful. So successful in fact, he hired a Swedish maid to work for his wife. You know where this is going. One fine day Uncle Joe's wife would arrive home from her visit to relatives in the city to find Uncle Joe in the sack with the maid. The wife stomped out, went back to the city, and was hit by a truck there, where she died. Uncle Joe married the maid. My mother simply adored the maid, who would entertain for hours with stories of the mountains in which she grew up. Years later Uncle Joe died, the maid sold everything, packed up and returned to Sweden. Broke my mother's heart to see her go, but she visited when she was in Sweden, and they wrote to each other until the maid died.

My Dad's father, straight off the boat Irish, had an alcohol problem. Shortly after one of the national magazines of the day (LIFE or LOOK, one of the photo mags) showed up to do a story on him, he went over the edge. They featured him as an American Success Story, put his photo on the cover, and as the ~~sterilized version~~ story goes, he promptly fell off his truck, hit his head, and was 'never the same.' He allegedly went back to Ireland to drink himself to death. My father joined the Navy and started sending money home to his mother.

He met my mother while on leave one year, at the ski jump my father would drive over 50 miles to use, and my mother lived one town line away from .

Um, yuh, this is one sport neither parent was able to rope my sister nor me into trying, but they both loved it.

TAKE OFF

London

Somewhere in Italy

Dad sent pictures home, some taken at professional photo shops from ports all over the world, and eventually he and my mother were married during a three day leave.

The Wedding Party

It only made sense that all my mother's friends loved my Dad. He had been around three women who, quite simply put, never - according to my mother who was a witness - stopped talking. Hence my father would just hang out and smile. Or outright guffaw at something one of us had done.

When he retired from the service, coming ashore for good, my mother would discover my dad had more one-liners than Henny Youngman. They had never been around each other enough for this to become apparent until his becoming a land-Lubber (as opposed to Land-Lover, which he never was). This was an added bonus my mother cherished. The sailor had a sense of humor, and when he could get a word in edgewise, he was quite funny. He was also extremely handsome. In a picture that has not surfaced yet, my dad is dancing with an unknown female, on the back, written in my mother's hand, is this, "THIS IS NOT YOUR MOTHER!"

He was like Sean Connery, the older he got, the better looking he was. My sister and I met at my parents house one night ( they were the halfway point) to attend a Bingo event my father was calling the numbers for, at the local VFW. A little old lady approached us and said slyly, " I understand Jim Kelley is your father?" My sister and I looked down at her and replied "Yes," to which she continued, "And is there a Mrs. Kelley?'' We advised her indeed there was, and she wandered off mumbling the lipstick was for nothing...... Then my sister and I raced back to tell my mother. She laughed for years over it.

My Dad was lost after my sister left us , my mother three months later, then I was diagnosed.

I knew when I recieved this after my first operation he was just not all there anymore, but needed me to know he was thinking of me. His normally neat address placed in the middle of the envelope was way off kilter, he couldn't remember the street address of the hospital, and he no longer trusted the US Postal Service, so he put the date in the corner to let me know he had sent it the day before my operation. He could bear to think of no other option than I would make it through to recieve it immediately after my surgery.

He gave up when he was diagnosed with cancer after my second surgery and died January 5, 1998. What he left behind was a legacy of love and care for others; no matter who they were, where they came from, or their situation in life.

Dear Paulette...

2010-12-08T10:15:00.000-05:00

At the risk of embarrassing myself worldwide, in sheer awe of your gorgeous little creations, this is pour vous.

Sad, I know, which is why, when I look at your work, I search my brain for the place that loves your things, trying to find even one small wrinkle filled with an ability to create beautiful things, but it's like looking in the dictionary under incredible creations and finding this... http://beedeebabee.blogspot.com/ .

Precious and Edgar were entranced by your Christmas music yesterday, and although Edgar chose to gaze out the window and dream while listening, Precious insisted on staring at your page. I suspect he is choosing my present.

Ignore the 'planitarium' curtains. The farm kittens loved them...

Later Precious needed a snack - busy morning - so he went to ~~the kitchen garbage~~ snack basket and tried to race under my son's bed with his acquisition...

Step Away From The Bed And No One Gets Hurt.

To my credit, I am capable of making certain things with sticks and string...

It may take me ~~absolutely forever~~ a while, but I manage simple things. When I give these things away I always advise the recipient that in cases of extreme boredom - such as doctors appointments - while wearing, they can amuse themselves by searching for mistakes, sort of like the 'Whats Wrong With This Picture' game in the Sunday funnies.

And soooo, today I salute you and your brain, with it's inherent creative genius.

ON A LIGHTER NOTE

2010-12-07T23:08:00.000-05:00

My computer has been cured of it's most recent illness, and is home where it darn well belongs. I downloaded all the pictures that had been crammed on my camera since Thanksgiving, and so I share with you, Elliot, all Paris-Hilton-E and very Matchy-Matchy...

DECEMBER 7 1941

2010-12-07T10:08:00.000-05:00

The bombing of Pearl Harbor.   I find myself asking, "What have we learned?"

It would appear that for a time the wars bred an empathy in the general public that unfortunately did not not endure.

I watched a documentary on WAR over the weekend. One Veteran made a most compelling statement. He said, "In a world without Evil, there would be no need to construct Gods."    I don't think one can confine the 'need' simply to Evil, but it still forced me to think. The Veteran went on to discuss the impossibility of the eradication of Evil, simply due to the fact that humans are, quite frankly, inherently animals. Animals, I might add, most certainly with an consciousness that has a tendency to be influenced by Nature, Nurture, Society, or all of the above.

I thought about the horrors wars have visited on families throughout history, I thought about the Nazi War Trials, which never cease to confuse me. Granted, those men who went to trial had visited unspeakable horrors on innocent victims. Yet when one witnesses the blood lust of the public en mass, demanding death for these War Trial Criminals, their behaviour has a tendency to echo the criminals actions.
Echoing, without being under direct orders to carry out instructions or be shot on sight, tried for treason if you will, consequences the War Trial Defendants had to measure. The animal always chooses survival as a priority.

As anyone who has worked in a military, or para-military environment will tell you, the deal of the day - each and every day - is 'follow orders, no matter the consequence, or your personal feelings towards them; question later.' With the exception of the few, rarely officially reported, cases of direct insubordination to either mechanically or morally flawed 'orders,' following the orders ensures the survival of the individual.

Which is why when I see films of the War Trials that never cease to include scenes of the public outrage at the time, I cannot help but be sickened.   The consciousness of the groups appear to melt into one barbaric animal demanding death to the offenders.   The question has to be asked, "What does that cry for the punishment of death make those who ask for it?"    For the objectors of death, the question will always be asked, "What if it - whatever it may be -  occurred to a relative or child of yours?"

No, I don't believe in my heart of hearts, no matter what has occurred, I could turn into a barbaric animal demanding death, an eye for an eye if you will, no matter who or what the crime entailed. That would make me into something less than the criminal, as I did not inflict the act, nor suffer through it, simply one who was connected in some way, or made a moral judgement concerning it.

This is not to say that I do not demand justice in it's entirety. I am of the belief that unlike insane asylums of old, prisons should not be pleasant, bearable, comfortable places for those who have inflicted horrors on others. Prisons should not be places mimicking society in a microcosmic version.   Criminals have violated their victims 'rights' to live in peace. Criminals should have no 'rights.' Prisons should be simply that. No libraries, no computers, no on-line access to obtaining 'jailhouse' law degrees among others, no TV, you get the drift. A cell with four walls, a place the offender is forced to confront his own mind, the only conversations he is able to have is with his own conscience, if he has one.

Which leads me to the horrific home invasion that occurred in this state last year. A doctor's wife and two daughters were brutally murdered after enduring unspeakable events. The court room was packed for the trial of the first defendant. Crowds outside screamed for the death penalty, en mass. Individuals that were interviewed by reporters were nearly feverish in their miasmic wish for 'death to the criminals.'   I certainly do not condone the languorous attitude of 'forgiveness' either.   But I refuse to be drawn into the crowd clamoring for 'death to the offender.' It is reminiscent of the abortion protesters, killing doctors who perform abortions. Today the husband, - the only survivor of that home invasion - will be on Oprah's daily program. He has endured the first trial, has yet to endure the second. He is still in shock and loss mode.   He sincerely believes the death penalty is warranted. I wonder what he will think in twenty years? What will the jurors think of themselves, and will they remember they too, will have blood on their hands?

On a day like today, as Veterans of all the Wars past are dwindling in number, along with the Patriotic Fury that enabled them to survive to this day, I not only think about them, but the innocent immigrants, Japanese and otherwise, who were placed in internment camps here, until the end of the war, simply due to the mass paranoia. Many of those individuals had fathers, husbands, and sons fighting for our side in the War. Thankfully they were, for the most part, treated humanely.

When I visited the site of the Arizona, as well as the National War Memorial, I left my father's name in the guest book, for without him, and all the others like him, I seriously believe the lust for power and supremacy would have taken over back then, backed by the group behaviour we are all able to witness now, under one circumstance or another.

And so, today I pay my respects to all those who died defending Freedom, when Pearl Harbor was bombed, as well as those around the world at the time, whose soldiers were fighting as well, for something they believed in. Right or Wrong. It makes no difference to those following orders.

THANK YOU to Veterans around the world still among us who fought for their country, no matter what country.

What does make a difference is that we are free to make choices, thanks to those who have fought.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

2010-11-24T14:57:00.000-05:00

It took me a while to find the letter from my mother, typed by her shortly before Thanksgiving in 1984. I knew it would, which is why I am writing this post well ahead of THE DAY. The primary reason however, is that I still try to cook a turkey ever year.

I have probably mentioned in the past, my mother was not a cook, chose not to be. She had way too many other things she was interested in, and one only had to consume enough calories to keep the machine going. Her theory on the whole thing was, it took more energy to cook all those fancy-schmanchy numbers that would qualify as gastronomical delights, than it did to eat them. That would put one way behind in the energy intake column. That would also mean fading fast on the BLACK DIAMOND run later in the day, or dragging the sled up the hill for a few more runs after dinner had been consumed. Hence my sister and I had always attempted to cook more interesting meals, with not a lot of success I may add.

Age has not improved my understanding of the chemical reactions of butter at certain temperatures, though to my credit, I can get out my little box of science equipment and tell you the specific gravity of any stone you may chance to find. I know, sounds a bit strange but my kids and I always wanted to know exactly what that rock was we were bringing home just 'cause it was pretty.'

We love to eat, though always in a hurry, on the way to something far more exciting,

which doesn't explain why I am descended from an extremely long line of chubby children.....

My Grandmother

My Mother

My Sister

My Sister Holding Me

(She would later say it had taken far too long for my mother to take the picture and as a result, due to my enormous weight on her thighs, her legs had gone numb and it took her ten minutes for the tingling to go away, which is when she could walk again.)

So every year on Thanksgiving, my mother would set the table for breakfast...

I still use her ruby red/clear glasses, my sister's ruby red vase, my grandfather's drink mixer, and my grandmother's glasses with little clear glass balls forming the bases.

We all always loved red, making up for not being able to wear it in every other way imaginable (with the exception of red vehicles, show the dirt too fast).

...and make pancakes from a boxed mix, my sister and I watched the parades on TV,

while my father (if he was lucky enough to be home on leave) would finish up any paperwork he had brought home.

We'd eat breakfast, finish watching all the parades, and race off to my grandmother's house,

where we would feast on a perfectly baked turkey, along with all the fixin's, right down to homemade cranberry and orange sauce, on her embroidered tablecloth.

Later in life, my parents, my children, and I would migrate to my sister's house where her husband would do the dirty work ( AKA COOK), and loved it. He was a great cook (he had even made his own trail mix to take with him on the A.T. for his last hike).

And soooo, when the time came that I would be baking my very own Thanksgiving dinner, I called my mother and asked her to send me not only the specific directions for stuffing and cooking the turkey, but the recipe for my grandmother's cranberry and orange sauce.

This is what she sent me....

"Remove Swanson's Frozen Turkey TV Dinner from freezer, then from box, in that order.
Place in oven at specified temperature on box. Set the timer per directions on box, however, do not remove from oven until you see bubbling.
Remove from oven.
Eat the red stuff between the potatoes and peas while arranging other items in an attractive manner on your best china.

Do you have Christmas plates? I saw the prettiest set in Jordan Marsh for 50% off. You ought to go look. Will you be skiing Thanksgiving afternoon?    Your sister will be in Vermont at her sister-in-law's so I have made reservations.   Talk to you soon.          Mother "

She followed up with a short phone call. "Are you still planning on cooking? I taught you how to make reservations. Your father and I are going to the Radisson for their buffet, would you like to drive up and join us?" "No, Thank You, I am still cooking."     "Oh, well, make sure the fire extinguisher your father gave you is handy..."

I have since learned to cook a passable Thanksgiving turkey (Thanks to the Butterball Turkey Hot-Line talkline@butterball.com ), as well as fit in all the other traditional activities. The least of which would be saying a silent Thank You our ancestors John Alden, and his wife Priscilla Mullins. If they had not gotten on that boat with John's father heaven only knows where I'd be now. I need to reside in a country where one can call for help (specifically help that arrives in either pretty blue cars, or big red trucks....) and expect it to respond in a reasonable fashion.

I have already had my first accidental fire of the season this afternoon while baking my mincemeat pie ( controversial pie, I know, ya either love it or hate it, I simply cannot live without it on Thanksgiving). While attempting to remove the pie from the oven, an advertising flyer flew off the counter, into the oven, and landed perfectly in the bottom of the electric oven. Directly on the element.   I thought I distinctly heard my mother saying "I told you to make reservations," while my sister was howling in the background...

When I get up at 4 AM to put the turkey in the oven (yes I am one of those, perish the thought the thing does not fully cook (Thanks Mom, for instilling the fear of salmonella in the very heart of my being...), I will be watching my favorite dysfunctional family Thanksgiving movie...

... and saying my silent Thank You's for all the things I am truly Thankful for, which includes you, dear reader, for your continuing encouragement in my quest to save the odd bits and pieces of my family and my life, for my children and my grandson.

DECEMBER 29, 1995

2010-11-18T09:09:00.000-05:00

It was a year of catastrophic events for me, so while I was preparing for my first very own - hopefully - lifesaving operation for cancer, I tried to prepare. I tried to memorize this quote by Marcus Aurelius,

"As for pain, a pain that is intolerable carries us off, but that which lasts a long time is bearable, the mind maintains it's own tranquility by entering into itself, and the ruling faculty is not injured. If you are pained by any external thing, it is not this thing which disturbs you, but your own judgement about it."

Yup, that's all well and good until you are consumed by an enormous controlled trauma like abdominal surgery. The notebook I brought with me tells an altogether different story of consuming physical pain, combined with morphine...

They call the day of the operation DAY ZERO. If one survives, the next day is DAY ONE. By DAY THREE I had not only watched the First Night New Year fireworks from my bed in a drug induced haze, I had listened to a woman die across the hall from me, been awakened by the PA every time a doctor or nurse was needed somewhere in the hospital, my doctor - sweetheart that he was - had snuck in a cup of coffee with cream and sugar (absolutely VERBOTEN!), and my friend who was to drive me home on DAY TWELVE said there was an enormous snow storm due in on DAY FOUR.

I told my doctor I needed to go home. They removed the large metal staples holding my abdominal cavity closed, replaced them with superglue and surgical tape, gave me a pillow to hold onto for the forty-five mile trip home, and wheeled me and my catheter out to the curb.

[ THANK YOU RONALD MCDONALD HOUSE in Providence R.I. for the hospitality provided to my friend who came to be with me every waking moment.]

The next few weeks would be interesting. Four hours after arriving home a nurse from my doctor's office called to make sure I had made it and was OK. " I hear water running in the background, were you taking a shower? Should I call back? " she asked. "No, I am cleaning my oven, its OK." That's when they started calling me their miracle patient. I spent a lot of time looking like I was nine months pregnant and ready to pop due to the swelling. I owned no sweatpants so I rolled around the house with my jeans undone and covered with shirts. My son dragged wood in and I sat in my sister's chair throwing logs into the old, non-air-tight Franklin.

January 1996

I tried to think of spring and did ~~some really incredibly lame~~ mediocre watercolors in my notebook.

My dad sent me funny pictures of himself in his Santa hat with one of his fellow Veteran friends volunteering to ring the bell for the Salvation Army.

In February I went to a wedding my daughter was a bridesmaid in, fueled by vicodin and slouching, it helped keep the pain somewhat at bay, and ran into my surgeon at a basketball game in Providence in March.

My daughter is actually holding me up in this, notice her shoulder stratigically placed IN my back.

Thank You John A. E. Mattson, for taking me to the game, and running out during overtime to fetch more Pepsi.

At last I would return to work, flowers arrived...

A minor celebration, complete with fake champagne...

My partner of twelve years and I.

By the time spring and summer rolled around, I would be amazed at the journey I had gone through, one that was controlled by levels of pain, diminishing over time to be sure, but pain none the less. It became obvious in years to follow, just how controlling that pain had been when I look at the photos of me, and the ones I took that summer.

Impossible to sit on hard chairs, still is, I sit on my feet. I'm told it's common after abdominal surgeries.

Finding Peace in my surroundings.

My son humored me and took me for a ride in my sister's car he had inherited,

to my favorite place, Pickery Place in Mason N.H.

I might add my kids were loving the pictures. They had always wanted to be as tall as me, if not taller. My mother, had been mortified by the heights my sister and I attained. [After we surpassed her 5'7" frame, she refused to be seen with us, handing us the charge cards. "Go get your school clothes..." oh, and "How's the weather up there..."] I have been six feet since I was about nineteen. I was slouching right down to about five seven due to chronic pain, so they actually looked taller than me.

By the end of the summer I was back in the pool, getting ready for my diving vacation in Hawaii that coming January.

So now, on the fifteenth aniversery of that adventure, I once again renew my vow to continue volunteering, helping others whenever I can, and by surviving, reasuring others there truly is hope. In celebration, I am driving to my favorite seafood joint on the shore to have lobster, and their incredible lobster bisque.

And remember, no matter what befalls you in this unpredicable life, there is power in the mind, believe in it, and mind over matter will triumph.

IT'S IN THE DNA

2010-11-17T00:57:00.003-05:00

JULIE - THE SILENT ONE

She never spoke much. The schools had just gotten into the Big-Brother-Act and were taking every teacher's concern that was brought to their attention seriously. When my daughter was in grade school the playground monitors had reported that she was getting 'picked on' for not 'fitting in' with the other children, and not joining any particular group, instead sitting alone on a swing and reading.

Eventually the more aggressive of the class decided my daughter would be the prime victim to take out their anger issues on, and began to get physical. Things got a bit scary. She would come home and ask me to cut gum out of her hair, she would have holes in her jeans and scrapes on her knees from being pushed to the cement. I would ask her if she would like me to intercede. She always declined, adding, "There's something wrong with their heads." OK.

There would come a day, just after Christmas one year - the same year the photo above was taken - when she went to school in her new coat. She had wanted a red coat for the longest time, I have no idea why, with the complexions we inherited we look like the walking dead in red. Never the less, I gave her a red Woolrich coat, with toggle buttons, and a red plaid lining. She loved it, wore it everyday right up until Christmas vacation was over, then to school.

That first day back to school, I had gotten out of work at seven a.m., and after getting the kids off to school, went to bed. The phone rang at 11:15. It was the school principal. Uh oh. "We need you to come to school, there's been a problem with Julie, but she is alright." Naturally thinking the worst, I raced off to the school.

When I was escorted into the Principal's office the first thing I did was scan the room looking for my daughter, expecting a beaten, disheveled mess. Seeing her sitting there looking as placid as ever, I continued scanning the somewhat crowded room seeing two other mothers, with their sullen looking offspring. One of said offspring had the biggest shiner I had ever seen on a kid (until later that year).

There were two teachers in the room as well, both outright beaming at me. I sat. The principal began. "As you know there have been problems with Julie being picked on during recess. Up until now we have been unable to identify the culprits. Today, shortly after recess began, these two - glaring at the sullen ones - decided they would start picking on your daughter, not knowing the playground monitors were watching. They approached Julie and started to grab at her coat, then one of them tried to mark her coat up with a magic marker. At that point your daughter hauled off and hit that student - glancing glare at the shiner - with a roundhouse to the eye that would make Ali look like an amateur." And she beamed, her smile appeared to reach the earlobes on each side of her head. I glanced at the two teachers who had been the monitors. They were smiling and beaming at Julie and me. Then one of the teachers said, "Finally, Julie had had it. She stuck up for herself and we are so proud of her!" The principal continued, "These other two - GLARE - will be dealt with with detentions, as well as suspended bus privileges for the rest of the year. We all hope this will be the end of their horrible behaviour." The teachers led my daughter and I out of the office, Julie returned to class, while the teacher absolutely gushed over how my daughter had finally done something to end it with her tormentors. She praised Julie's strength of character in not doing anything drastic long before this, as she was such a quiet child.

Which in no way explains why her personality blossomed out of of control in junior high, when she became this child...

THE KID - In his grandfather's NAVY ISSUE 'Birth-Control' glasses.

Later that season I was once again summoned to the school, this time much earlier in the morning than the incident with my daughter. There had been a fight between two boys on the school bus. According to the bus driver, my son had tried to intervene in an attempt to stop the boys from fighting. This is what I saw that morning.

*sigh*

He was so mortified after everyone in the neighborhood, including his best friend's father who was a police Sgt. in town, couldn't resist the, "Whoa, what does the other guy look like?"

My kid started walking around like this after school...

Now, looking back, I can see, it's definitely in the DNA. Between being the underdog, and trying to stick up for the underdog, my kids have it covered. They maintain to this day.

My daughter rescues animals she finds abandoned in local parks, and volunteers for an animal rescue league that rehabilitates injured wild animals. Recently my son went to his boss to inform him that a co-worker of his who was about to be fired, was not the culprit who made the error, resulting in the firing. The worker who had actually committed the act, whatever it may have been, had lied and said it was another person. The appropriate person was then let go.

I keep waiting for my son to arrive home with the second shiner of his life. But it won't matter. He did the right thing.