Singular Events

So it's been one month since I learned I must get some medical monitoring and be very alert for the return of an old affliction after a routine blood draw gave up some worrisome news. Yes, it is a serious ailment and I've already had a 2-year turn standing in the watchtower. I don't care for it much. I wrote about whirling around like a dervish for a week, doing the avoidance dance and then being hit hard after seven days when I was forced to slow down and look it in the eye. Get an update on the enemy's position and plan from there. I don't like "one". It is the loneliest number, just as we were told. One day, one week, one month, one year out of how many? How many ones make "all"? As in "all over, let down the drawbridges". I like definition, as the reader can see.

At least half of the illness fear focuses upon my head and what goes on inside it. No illness ever arrives at a convenient time, I am sure, but when I had to face this beginning in 2006, I handled it perhaps as poorly as it could be handled. Fired by the flaming fuel of terror, I got myself to appointments, procedures, blood draws and emergency rooms, in the company of advocates when needed. I was well-supported by friends and loved ones. My work did not suffer and I maintained my home as usual. I weathered more than 2 years of chaos and came out "optimistically good" in the end. That's when I lost it. The erosion of my self by fear caused me to behave in ways that are unlike me. I acted out. I drank. I broke things that may never be repaired. I harmed myself and others in ways that may never be remedied. My personal store of resources is still low and I cannot afford to "lose it" again, for any good reason. I can pony up for any briefly unpleasant form of treatment or diagnosis. I feel less certain of my ability to hold myself together metaphysically.

Ah, but there is this: almost literally simultaneously with my little physical surprise, I'd been enjoying some temporary sunshine. I was renewing a relationship that is important to me, with a person I love. This was exciting, and I fairly bubbled over with it. I suffered a good deal of teasing and winking. However, the issues that have always been issues are still issues, to my disquietude. I imagine it is my sobriety that has cleared my head, but some things cannot be molded to perfection and I became silent. We're two nice people who shouldn't spend a lot more time beating a dead horse, in my opinion. My withdrawal into self was noticed at AA. "Why so quiet, Les?" I said I had more on my plate than I could deal with. I didn't feel up to handling any of it well, and that I'd possibly make a mess of all of it (again). I was encouraged, day after day, in meetings and in private, to get every bit of the buffet out onto the table in full view. Guess what? I still have health issues. I have resolved a human issue. Everyone involved it in has retained their dignity and love for one another. In fact a love offering was delivered right to my door on Saturday, to my surprise. I nearly broke my face grinning! This may sound day-to-day dull to some readers. This is earth-shattering for me. I don't resolve issues. I bomb the planet and leave no man standing. Including myself. I sense this new way is going to save me a lot of time formerly spent in reinvention. I got through without drinking, without destruction, without hurting anyone. Even myself.

If you heard a thundering din followed by the roar of a rushing river, that was me. For my years-long creative logjam has been freed by a surge of ideas, adhesives and more. I have made and completed a project I am OK good with! I cannot show it here and now as it is a gift for a friend who won't see it for a few days. It is an imperfect item, to be sure, but it is whole and it shall be presented with joy. It should be noted that I called out for my usual absolutions: "Wrong adhesives on hand." "Don't own the good scissors any more." "I'm depressed." I was gently urged forward. "Try this." Keep at it." Finally it was completed after some pretty close handwork accomplished without my glasses and with muttered curses. I christened it with a histrionic and overwrought name, will feature it on my blog at some future date, and immediately jumped into plans for more such items. As described in my recent post, I'm in full "Hey, I've Got an Idea!" mode. Oh, this will affect others and change the world as we know it. Or so I see it right now. And the beauty of this is that my strong yen to create has lay dormant for so long, I thought it was irretrievable. But maybe not.

The monsoonal season is back in full force with a day of showers and glowering clouds on Sunday. Oh, I enjoy a rainshowerjunk art supply treasure. Yeah! Uh-huh. Within moments, I opened the big garage door in order to breathe. After 5 minutes, I needed to sit down, sweat pouring. Unlike myself, I felt a little faint. Short of breath, kind of. Glancing at the new instrument, I saw it was only about 80-degrees, with humidity at 65%! We're accustomed to single-digit humidity. I came inside, wiped my brow and wondered how people in the east can tolerate that for even a moment. Ugh!

A man introduced himself as a newcomer at AA. There's no requirement for a person to do so, but when one does it, we who are veterans make a point of welcoming him or her. He said it was the first AA meeting he'd ever attended and he was fewer than 24 hours sober. He was back today. "Hi, this is my second AA meeting ever. I'm more than 24 hours sober." Members applauded. I was sitting near him, so I smiled and said, "Good for you! Keep coming back." During the meeting, the topic being discussed prompted me to share an anecdote. It was a rerun, but that happens. Sometimes the day's subject only reminds me of one event, or I'm in a different group. It's OK to tell a story more than once. Some AAs even become legends due to their one seminal story. So I told my true tale and spent the rest of the meeting feeling uncomfortable as I'd been sandwiched tightly between a couple who were sparring and tossing angry energy at one another through me. I bolted for the door after the Lord's Prayer.

In the patio, the man made a beeline for me. He'd been struck by my sharing and took pains to say so. He reiterated he was 24-hours sober and hit my sponsor up for a cigarette, but turned his attention back to me. "Well, let's talk, though I can't help you with a smoke." He said he wouldn't have thought so. I must give off rays or something. For those who do not share our disease, this man is in a hard spot. His face showed it. We talked about my sharing and about how difficult the first days are. He asked when he could find meetings during the week, so we agreed to meet up tomorrow when Jenn and I will introduce him to some of the men in our group who can perhaps sponsor him and who can certainly help him. He was so grateful. He said so. And he showed it. Walking to the parking lot, I said, "Well. My first. A newcomer reached out for help from me." Jenn said, "Yep. He was definitely seeking you. And you did  it really well." Imagine this. Exactly one year ago I lost my job and other major parts of my life because my drinking was so out of control. And today I helped a man. He didn't know my story was a retread. He didn't know I'm struggling to work my own program as I am distressed over my other problems. He gave me the opportunity to be of the highest service we can give: get sober, stay sober and help another alcoholic get sober. I just seemed safe haven to him. A drunk with something to offer another drunk. I am humbled and awed.

And so, another day. It's August! Driver's license to be renewed, already. A writing deadline looms, which promises income. The humidity is torturous, causing even my straight-as-pins hair to curl a little. Smokey Robinson on the iPod. And so it goes.

In my ears right now: Because I love it, because it makes me dance, and because the focus just now is on "up", "fun", "hand-clapping".

This post dedicated to the memories that were made.

The Architect

What if your friend became an architect,
but failed to tell you that
and you sent no gift, no card, no flowers
for matriculation?
Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

And what if your friend decided the
ancient edifice that was your relationship
needed renovation – oh, immediately, extensively -
but failed to tell you that?

What if you entered the home place you shared with your friend
and found she had applied skills she possessed
but had failed to tell you that?
What if you asked, “Friend, what is all this?”
And your friend replied, guilelessly, “What? Nothing's different.”

What if, upon your next visit, it could no longer be denied?
She had reassigned weight-bearing walls, reduced the size of
certain rooms and built an escape hatch as would be used in
the Underground Railroad, but failed to tell you that.

“Friend, I can and will live with anything between us,
my only requirement being truth.”
And what if your friend began to build such a
structure of lies that you could feel life, love
and esteem, as you knew them for her, slipping away?
But you failed to tell her that. Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

What if your friend progressed from lies to silence, used interchangeably,
choosing the subjects about which she would or would not say anything at all?
“Friend, I am losing respect and admiration for you. I have been plain
about what I need. You have nothing to lose by being honest with me.
I will not abandon you.”
“Nothing has changed between us.”
What if you left the building having made a hard decision,
but you failed to tell her that? Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

What if your friend asked for a favor and explained
she needed you to lie?
She needed your lie to cover a lie she'd told another friend.
In fact, “Heh, heh,” she'd already misused your name and
a false premise to fool a perfectly innocent person for
whom you felt no enmity.
Used your name, or lack thereof, and your artistic property,
your own history, without permission or discussion.
Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

My younger brother and only sibling turned 55 in January, which occasion caused me to travel many of those paths I don't like to revisit. A brother's birthday may not seem unusual to anyone else, but my brother's 55th is remarkable in that people like him do not typically live beyond preteen age. My brother who has never walked, never talked, may or may not be able to see in the way that others of us are served by our eyes. He did not have the human suckling instinct at birth and had to be fed in an unusual way before tube feedings became his norm. He does not recognize us or anyone else. He is physically pristine and beautiful in a way that I am not ~ long, graceful fingers and hands with no sunspots, scars or burn marks. You see, his features, limbs, organs, skin, brain have not been used in the way most of us are called upon to use our attributes. He can hear, I am certain. When one stands beside his bed and speaks, his head turns in the appropriate direction.

My very young parents had about a 90-day "honeymoon" after Gary was born, seemingly normal. My troubled mother was excited that now she would "have one" because by age 3, I was already firmly my father's child. I desperately needed a sibling, too, although that would not become so obvious for awhile. A lot of family energy seemed to hang on his arrival. Gary gained weight, grew longer ("taller"), and there are photos of him propped up on his elbows, holding his heavy head up on his neck under his own power . . . like all babies do, right? The only warning bell tolling was that sucking thing.

The condition revealed itself on Easter morning when my mother went to Gary's crib to put a bonnet on his head before we left for Mass. He was having a seizure. There began about 5 years of doctors, surgeons, travels to more doctors and surgeons. Neurosurgery in the day was tantamount to opening up the cranium and having a little look/poke inside. Never were my parents to hear a decisive diagnosis, hanging their hats on the various tentative causes of "a virus" and other shots in the dark for nearly 20 years. Finally, Gary became quite large compared to my tiny mother. He had to be lifted - dead weight, from a crib set at a low position - for all forms of care. He developed additional physical illnesses. When hopes for a miracle ended, it was decided that placement in the state hospital system would be the best for everyone. It was, for Gary, likely. I am less certain about the other three of us. But we'll never know.

I have seen my brother in person fewer than a handful of times since that day in 1960. I was not allowed (by the hospital) to visit until I was 18. No, they were not allowed to bring him out to the car so I could see him. I might have an illness he could carry back in. At Christmas and other holidays, came handmade "art projects" containing Gary's picture. He resided with many other people who were not as damaged as he is. They made cards and gifts for their families. Some kind person always made sure there was a Santa birdhouse with Gary's picture in the doorway to send to the Morgan home. My mother and Granny never missed one of Gary's annual reviews with the doctors and nurses. Whereas some of the patients had progressed to "walking independently about 15% of the time", Gary's reviews were more of the "full bath every other day, sponge bath every other day, hair cut once per month, tube feeding site unremarkable" variety. My mother actually enjoyed going to these events. Granny made hundreds of lap-sized quilts for "Gary's friends" over the years.

My very young parents missed the mark with my upbringing in many ways, but they managed to instill in me compassion, love and pride in Gary. While almost anything out of the ordinary can mortify me (still today), I have never paled over a loud seizure in public or the noises he sometimes makes that defy description or definition. How can one love someone/something that gives no apparent love in return? I don't know the answer. I just know it can be. When I turned 18, I was taken to the hospital for Gary's next review. He was 15. It had been 10 years since I had seen him. Granny and my mother watched me closely. I'd been known to faint or collapse over certain things in life. But no. I was a hard-boiled little hippie chick. I looked at him. I held his hand awhile. I marveled at his complexion. I envied his deep brown eyes. I got the blue ones. While waiting for Gary to become "available" for our visit, I'd enjoyed (with only a slight amount of fear, sadness and a little revulsion) watching armies of other damaged, broken human beings industriously doing their work. Patients, ambulatory and not, were assigned to do whatever they could manage. I saw clean diapers being taken from a bin as large as a room and painstakingly folded - in some cases, it took 10 minutes per diaper - the same floor tiles being swept over and over and over again. Decades later, as a union representative, I never achieved anything that made workers as happy and productive as those sweet innocents folding and sweeping.

In the mid-1970s, my mother got a telegram from the hospital. "Please call immediately." A group of residents, interns and medical students had been touring Gary's ward. A young resident, knowledgeable about the most recent findings, thought he recognized some symptoms and asked to examine Gary more thoroughly. The tests were run and the conclusion indisputable. A genetic disease, only recently scientifically identified. "Is Gary's sister still living?" Boy, howdy! I was living with Ex, hoping to have 6 children, all born at home without pain medication in the good hippie way. Testing my mother and me took about a year. It was unpleasant in every respect. My father danced. We didn't understand the dancing. Ultimately, he refused to be tested. I imagine he did not want to risk being labeled "the culprit". He has not survived that refusal unscathed, I must say. And although only 75% of our family had been tested, I was told that I could not pass on the disease. I didn't have it, and therefore, I couldn't give it to my own children. However, erring on the side of conservatism, my genetic counselor suggested I have one normal child and call it a day. OK.We didn't know and wouldn't surmise for awhile that I was infertile. Conceiving the child I finally delivered took many more years. Early in the pregnancy, we went through another round of genetic counseling. Many years had passed. My newer counselor was even more solid with "you don't have it, you can't pass it on" than the counselors of two decades earlier. I wondered if the condition was detectable through the amniocentesis I intended to have. No, it wasn't and still isn't today. When Amber was born, as perfect a specimen as anyone could hope for, I called the genetic counselor. "Do you want to examine and test her?" She didn't want to check Amber. You see, I didn't have the disease and, therefore, I couldn't pass it on.

On later visits with Gary, I was not the stoic I had pretended to be at age 18. I engaged in an impulsive act that startled my mother, every single time. You see, I'd tear off Gary's socks and spread his fingers like I was trying to break a wishbone. "What the heezy?" "Checking between his fingers and toes, Ma!" I wanted to inspect the effectiveness of the alternating full baths and sponge baths. He was always, but always, spotlessly clean. I never entered his room, or left it, without sobbing about what could have been. Not only for my brother and me, but for all of the earth angels in that place.

So Saturday evening, a group of us were laughing and talking and screaming at the TV. I'd been pulled in to some pre-Super Bowl atrocity featuring Chrissie Hynde and Faith Hill as a duet, singing one another's songs. To use my daughter's favorite comment, it was just wrong, but I couldn't leave it alone. Oh, my, the kicks on Faith's feet. Oh, my, her red leggings."Jeez, change that, Les!" No. I couldn't. So a commercial comes on. It's advertising a TV special dedicated to the 100th birthday of St. Ronald Reagan. In the background, strains of the Stones' Brown Sugar was playing and that pissed me off just a little. I'm sure Big Band music would be more appropriate to St. Ronald. I doubt he would recognize Brown Sugar. On a number of blogs as the Reagan canonization approached, harsh debate ensued. The hard question: on what should we spend our (too little) money? "Military might!" "Social programs!" "Education!" "Health and welfare!"

All right, everyone has his or her opinion. Military might doesn't tantalize me. In fact . . . well. Nor do I want marauding enemies to breach the shores of our homeland. I do believe we have a responsibility to take care of those who cannot take care of themselves. There's my stance, as bland as I can make it. Seeing some of the film footage for Reagan's special made me think of "his" California where I lived most of my life and once loved. It has been so decimated in every way. This was brought home to me as I thought about my brother. The vast hospital campus once provided health care and purpose for thousands of patients (peaking at 2,700 residents in 1967). Today, "Gary's friends" number 20. They've been moved to a small building. These are the most damaged of the damaged. The others are treated on an outpatient basis or they were simply turned loose when it was determined the money should be used for other things. Where did they go? Unfortunately, I think I know. I've done enough volunteer work to recognize that some street people are not "just" homeless. They're ill. They can't take care of themselves. There are too many of them. My brother is one of the lucky ones.

In my ears right now: You already knew it was a favorite song, but I've never had any Willie in it!

Wrestling Bear

The names of persons I use here are those of my followers, easily located on the sidebar. If the reader will indulge me, I don't feel up to creating all the links today. I appreciate my followers, though, and display each of you proudly. But right now, I'd rather spend my time visiting your posts which have gone up since I took a breather. Also, please indulge the use of "today", "tomorrow" and "yesterday". Sometimes things don't punch a time card. It was all written across a short time frame this week.

It's a delicate phrase (that conjures up quite an image when applied to me!) - "wrestling bear" - that means "dealing with stuff". Sorting out the jiggle in one's Jell-0, the junk in one's trunk. Handling one's problems or chewing on stuff. I'd just completed conducting a whirlwind, 'round-the-world magical mystery birthday tour on my bus and I ran out of gas. Precipitously. I knew I needed to apply the brakes, park the bus and retreat to some quiet place. I stayed off the blogs almost 100% for 3 1/2-4 days. I didn't give up e-mails as completely. A girl doesn't want to lose her oxygen or blood supply. I added extra walking miles, read a complete book, ate some foods I hadn't enjoyed in awhile - no, this does not mean overeating. It means consuming good foods that require some actual preparation. And I am better for all of that. Clearer headed. For you see, although when we enter the ring, the bear expects to win the match and I expect to lose it, that's not usually how it shakes out.

And so . . have I bent anyone's ear (or eye, since one reads the blogs) about liking things that work as intended and disliking things that do not? Ahem. Blogger is a mixed bag of stuff for me. A free platform to write and interact with others. But I'm sometimes left with Blogger egg on my face. Do other bloggers get into such a twist as I do when Blogger conspires against them? The answer is probably "yes", "no" or "maybe". But I get into a twist. I've blogged about the Starbucks mug given to me by a very young woman who considers me her mentor. It says "Meticulosity: an extreme attention to detail." Little Jazzy laughs and says it would have helped her to have seen that tattoo on my forehead the first time we met, but she soon figured it out. That's how I am - I give attention to the small stuff. So imagine my horror today to look at my own blog and discover what Blogger or the gods had done to me on Kass' birthday post. I spent hours sizing the pics so they'd line up side-by-side. I'd spent forever downsizing the YouTube clips that had nothing but one photo and the soundtrack. I'd been meticulous about the size of the photos so Elisabeth's head would not be 1/6th the size of her husband's famous onion tartlet, and what was I looking at now? Why was Tag's poem spaced with so much open air running through it? How come Kim's beautiful gifts were oversized splats in the middle of the post, with miles of pink air space? How in the world did I post Kass' birthday at 2:00 a.m.on her birthday, yet 3 comments had been posted on April 24th the day before? Look closely, those of you who wrote to say, "Where did my comment go? I know you posted it. I saw it." [For the record, I post virtually every comment except those I'm asked not to - the ones that are a shoulder tap kind of message. I've now fixed that up by attaching an e-mail account to the Profile.] And why, the Sam Hill, did it all look completely different again one hour later? Yow. I don't know the answers. I am not required to be knowledgeable about everything, and I cannot be such. First these things made me crabby. Then they made me crabby about blogging.

It struck me that I posted my first blog post exactly 11 months ago. Blogging has fulfilled me and frustrated me. It has connected me with both like-minded and polar-opposite people. It has taught me to appreciate how well some people do things that don't even intrigue me. But their passion draws me. I've watched some bloggers simply disappear and others announce they're taking a break. Some who are taking a break pop up for a moment at the most wonderful times. I read both Kass and Elisabeth at some length commenting on the amount of time the blogs take up and I'm right there with you, ladies. Writing for my own, commenting to those I follow. I am struck, after my bear wrestling, with something that unsettles me. I work far too much. Old news. I walk way too many miles which also takes up too much time. Seven-year-old news. I spend too much time time blogging. That's news. And I do little else at all too much. Hmm.

During this week of experiencing some malaise, I forgot to go check that newly attached-to-my-blog e-mail account. It's one I've rarely used, and I forget to check it very frequently. Thank you to those who dropped me a note and I'm sorry if I seemed a tortoise before responding. Friend Tag, who was in my real e-mail account, you'll know I wasn't handling it very well, either, or something you sent would have seen the light of the blogosphere by now. It's coming! Even when I have to arrive late, I still arrive. Full of sincere apologies.

Yesterday, I drove home through a war zone. The weather is the enemy and the wind the most ferocious weapon in its arsenal. All I had at hand was a very small Nissan. The more ballsy forecasters had predicted wind gusts up to 70 mph. They were right! I left the office going south on Rainbow. Every side street acted as a tunnel, slamming me with crosswinds that moved my car around. I remembered the reminders on TV ~ "Keep both hands on the wheel!" No kidding. I knew what I was in for. Turning west on Desert Inn, I started to buck the headwind. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced. Oh, yes, I am the woman who camped through a night of 75 mph gusts, but I remained in the tent. I didn't have to see anything. Now, the traffic light standards bounced and that always freaks me out. I had to stop at the store. Cat food and coffee creamer are big copy in my home and I was nearing empty on both. My aunt did family day care for decades and she had a saying that would make most misbehaving little boys pause: "If you don't stop that, I'm going to snatch you bald-headed." I know the feeling. And I don't like my hair mussed up. This morning as I walked, I had mainly very black thoughts as I passed downed trees, many window screens torn from homes, tumbling trash cans and various other distasteful flying objects. I learned on the news that small, private aircraft were overturned and a carport roof was torn away in an apartment community. Some Las Vegas-y attention-grabbing event scheduled for 8:00 this morning was expected to be cancelled. If the girls still wanted to sky dive in their bikinis, that was one thing. But it was deemed unsafe for the aircraft to be airborne. Justin said it best: "Imagine. Bikini tops and bottoms and half naked girls flung all over the valley." Have I mentioned I am sick of it? Sick to death of it? Literally almost ill from it? It's now been 36 hours. It's about the same as 36 hours ago, although some brief periods have been more tolerable.

So what shall I do with myself, because I'm fairly in a snit? Mr. Insomnia crawled in with me at 1:30 this morning and never let me slide from his loving embrace. Someone hacked our bank account number at work and created several fake checking accounts with their names (multiple entities, multiple names, multiple IDs given) and our account number. One even had our logo and company name replicated, and a very good rendition of David's signature! Yes, Wells Fargo Bank is behaving in a very helpful way and, thankfully, the rotters didn't hit us for nearly what they could have, had they been higher achievers. But the inconvenience has been staggering. No checks, no credit or debit cards for 10 days to 2 weeks. I may need to pay one week of payroll in cash. I have three - count 'em - posts in draft form that I can't complete. They're painful, each for a different reason. I've invested too much in them to hit the delete button, but I avoid them studiously because they hurt.

Here's my plan. Tomorrow night is the 2-hour massage. I'm going to wave good-bye to David Saturday and take the wheel. Last May, he and his wife booked a Mexican cruise to celebrate 5 years of marriage. Remember that nasty little illness we first called swine flu? The cruise was cancelled. They're going for their 6th anniversary now. While David's away, I'll start the e-mails to plan my girlfriend-visit trip away. I've hung home too long! But before that, I'm going to the desert. I'm going to the place that has a convenient parking lot, so I can just pull up. I'm going to the place where I went in the winter and did my DIY primal therapy, screaming at the heavens and throwing fiery balls of my anger off the planet. I'm going to the place that will be replete with cactus flowers and horned toads ~ I know about these things. For in this place, at this exact time of year, in the year I was 52 . . . the cactus flowers were abundant and I held 52 horned toads in one sunny hike.

And, now, the Kass Birthday Grand Finale. Tag just kept spinning birthday joy after I'd stopped checking my e-mail box. Here is what he spun for Kass starting with my lame 4 lines and continuing with brilliance:

The lovely Kass, so fair of face,
Exudes a state of natural grace.
But while she shares with us a grand felicity,
There's also that spark of raw electricity.

An accomplished young lady of many phases;
A heck of a poet, she has a way with phrases.
Her home is Sugarhouse, I believe that's Utah.
Is there really such a thing called a Hoppy Taw?
Very crafty! I've heard she redoes the undone and
shoots strangers in restaurants without a gun.
A dangerous hobby, it sounds to this friend,
but she's just keeping up with the latest trend.
Time to end my contribution. It's getting late.
Great idea, friend Limes, on a way to celebrate!
Friend Kass, you are loved by many, it's clear.
So lets do this again same time, next year!

In my ears right now:


Something that charmed me: I don't feel too charmed, actually. But I'll find something . . . OK, here we go. I let my post sit in the box overnight, even though I was pretty sure I was done. When I re-read it this morning it pointed out to me that there are reasons I'm not feeling all that charmed and I do have a plan to change the dynamic. One step forward. Then another one. Do it again. And I remember that the last time I went to the place of primal screaming, fireball hurling, cactus flowers and horned toads, I returned cleansed. It's lasted a long time. I just need to go get another dose.

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Dragonfly Thoughts Drifting

After a burst of exuberance, and I've had one, I sometimes retreat to a quiet place and let my thoughts flit lazily across my consciousness. I want to consider what's happened, what I wrote, what I read and what anyone had to say about it. Spring came, literally overnight. Business picked up, literally overnight. My personal life became better, more fulfilling, almost overnight. Except for a rude little medical annoyance that required attention and kept me up most of Monday night, I'm in a good place. Loved. Appreciated. Hopeful. Coming out of the heart of darkness.

I went off on a woman this morning. She was difficult. Not a pleasant communicator. She talked over the top of me and her own utterances were short and clipped. I prefer customers who will interact fully with me ~ I can give them a more accurate estimate which makes a better transaction for everyone. But I kept my cool. Until I didn't keep it any more. She called in about having a rug cleaned. She knew its dimensions, which puts her ahead of many. I asked if the rug was synthetic or a natural fiber like cotton or wool. I need to know that. The pricing is widely disparate and one doesn't want to set the homes up for any surprises at the door. She didn't know, so I asked her to look under the corners of the rug to see if there was a label. "Well, it was made in China." "Does it say what it was made from in China?" We finally landed on cotton and I quoted. She was OK with the price. She said she would like to have the rug cleaned and then have us put it down in a room and put all the furniture on it. We don't do that. They're carpet cleaners, not furniture movers. We try to be reasonable, but a roomful of furniture is a big order. Times have been rough, however, so I tried something. I decided to find out what the furniture was. If it was anything less than a grand piano or a massive entertainment center, I was going to go for it and charge her for it. Homes wouldn't love it, but I don't turn jobs away. "Can you give me a list of the items of furniture?" That seemed to put her over the top. She was done with me. "You know, you're really a big hassle. I think I'll call Stanley Steemer. They won't ask all these questions." That seemed to put me over the top. I was done with her. Undoubtedly, the fact that I had a dose of pain medication in my system was a factor. In a very calm and level voice, I said, "Madam, I do apologize for being such a pain in your ass this morning. Do call Stanley Steemer and have them over to *#@+ up your Chinese cotton rug." It felt pretty good. David grinned from ear to ear. It's been a long time since I had the luxury of being able to go off on an unpleasant customer.

I was reviewing Monday's post, and I got to feeling a little sensitive about something. I feel compelled to say something about it. I learned a long time ago that many things can be taken out of context when observed as typed text on a monitor, no face to read, no voice to hear. So I was going on about being a website designer, saleswoman, scheduler/dispatcher, bean counter, small claims extorter and most desired employee to ever arrive from my home planet of Gobazz. Today it made me blush and think, "Well, aren't you special?" I believe this is the first time I've ever felt compelled to explain myself on my blog, but I do. I'm not bragging when I say things like that. You see, I don't have the biggest ego in the world. For much of life I have felt inadequate or unappreciated. So when I say that David badly wanted to hire me, I'm saying, "Lookie here - there is someone who wants me to come to work because he thinks I have something going on. Imagine!" When I say I'm a great saleswoman, I should accompany that with "and I never had the confidence that I could do such a thing." When I talk about crunching the numbers, I should include the fact that numbers have always scared me and now, after a lot of hard work, I am comfortable with them. There is no logical reason that I should be able to create and maintain websites, but I stuck out my jaw, played with the software, asked lots of questions of a mentor, and it all fell into place for me. I use a label on my blog quite frequently - "learning new things". I am awed by the power and energy generated by learning new things. I am grateful that I can still do that - learn new things and do them well. I love the challenge of delving into something new and learning all the elements of it. I've learned things about myself that I didn't know before this job. Because for major parts of my life I have been pretty convinced that I am a loser. I hope that deflects any notions the reader may have entertained that I have one huge head and how in the world would I be able to fit it through the door! My last words on the subject are these: having and expressing confidence is new to me, and it's damned heady stuff.

And, finally, with a big old donkey laugh at myself . . in the last post I went on and on about the economy (sort of, at least more than one reader thought that's what I was writing about), to the extent that Kirk rethought his own good March 15th post and Kass asked me, in comments, if I was a fan of Keynesian Economics. Uh-oh. Reader, I am reminded that one wants to be cautious when using words. One wants to find the balance between the way something feels and making broad sweeping statements. I should have stated that I understand economics as it applies to my tiny little test tube-sized world and not one inch beyond it. Economics has always been very simple to me. Work really hard to make a lot of money so one can spend it on the things one loves. That said, however, one doesn't want to appear to be a complete dolt. I know how to Google. I know how to learn new things. So I noodled around and landed on this: Keynesian Economics advocates a mixed economy - private sector decisions balanced by public sector policy responses. Balance is the strongest theme of this theory, it seems to me, and I think balance is what we want, but currently lack in our U.S. economy. Keynesian Economics ruled in the last part of the Great Depression, World War II and during the post-war expansion. It began to go out of favor in the U.S. during the 1970s, since which time our entire economic structure has gone to hell in a handbasket and the American middle class has lost ground. Since the U.S. economic crisis beginning in 2007, the Keynesian theory is once again being embraced. Enough said for me! Yes, I am in favor of Keynesian Economics. And that will be my final statement about things as weighty as the economy. I much preferred the Keynes biography and the story of the love of his life, the pretty Russian ballerina. The charts and graphs about Keynesian Economics leave me cold. I'm all about people, not numbers.

And the reader may rest assured that economics will not be taken up again on this blog. Nor am I likely to feel the need to 'splain myself very frequently.

In my ears right now: What else? Coming Out of the Dark ~ Gloria Estefan.


Something that charmed me: Yesterday I set the alarm, locked the office and went down to my car. I was experiencing some pain. I'd not taken pain meds in the afternoon because I wanted to be clear-headed to drive home. I was kind of crabby. I turned the key in the ignition and my little chariot came to life. The display on the dashboard told me it was 76 degrees! I don't suppose the ambient temperature was 76 degrees, but down near the blacktop, where the sensor is located . . . I zipped down the window and hung my head out, gulping air like the family dog.

Frig's Day (Friday's Old English Name)

That's surely how it friggin' feels to me. It's been a hard week. I began it with a flight to another state to make a visit at a hospice. I didn't care for it much. It took something away from me. I left something behind. It staggered me badly enough that I walked obsessively on Tuesday. The reader doesn't need to how many miles or the damage it did to my feet. One's obsessions can be embarrassing. Let's just say I was trying to walk away from the pain and there was much pain to walk away from. Newsflash: it does not work to try to walk away from pain. The pain just rides on one's shoulder.

Some bloggers mourned the passing of Simmons, Salinger and Zinn during the week. I did, too. Mourning them made me put aside my personal mourning. I didn't want to think about that death any more. Much easier to handle grief over public figures we never really knew. I'm reminded again of the futile way I try to handle loss. Every time. I am stuck on stupid. You see, I always want to do something. "Do something like what, Les? Bring him back from the dead, for instance?" I talked to a counselor who told me all the right things to do like experience the pain and then let go. No, no. This woman doesn't actually want to feel anything about this. Mother Badger sent an e-mail with love. I've been continuously supported in person, on the phone and in e-mails by those who care about me. And I just can't shake off the notion that I need to do something.

I thought to sit and write beautiful words - holy words, the most beautiful writing ever presented, this as a tribute to a man's life. But I sat up all night at the computer and learned I had a blockage. Constipation. I can't write holy words for him. I'm pretty empty of beautiful words. So I'll write some plain words. Plain words are OK, if they're given sincerely. Even if I can't build a shrine, I can make a little impromptu roadside memorial.

His life was filled with many challenges no human being should have to deal with. The ways he sometimes chose to deal with these things were not pretty ~ like during observance of the making of sausages and laws, one's gaze might have to have been averted a few times. I've never known another person who suffered such heartbreaking life events, and I believe the heart actually does break into pieces. His heart finally gave out and I think that is profound. Make no mistake about it, he had many lofty highs in life and people who loved him and successes that exceeded the sum of all of his parts. But I am sad that he is gone. He was younger than I. I wish him happiness, like everyone deserves to be happy. Happy, not dead.

When I saw him Sunday, he recognized me and told me he was glad that I came. Then he asked the $64 million question. The one I've run from for most of my life. "Were you ever really in love with me?" For the type of association he and I had, one would expect "in love" at least in some period of the relationship. I took a deep breath and I lied while looking directly into his deep brown eyes. And I saw peace, relief, maybe happiness, or maybe I even saw that intangible thing - love - cross his face. I have suffered this week from lying to him at that point in his life. I'll shoulder that. Because I didn't lie about feeling another form of love. He has that. I give it freely, in truth.

It is fortuitous. The camping date was already on the calendar. So I'll go and refuel and I'll be warm(er). I'll hike and scramble around finding rocks. I'll read and I'll think and I'll cry. I'll draw with my pencils and write in my journal and take (poor) photos. And when I come home, I'll go on. I'll post my silly Chapter 2 of The Field Trip and I'll work. I'll walk somewhat fewer miles and take care of the cats and the birds. I'll buy groceries and get the haircut I scuttled last weekend in favor of hospice. Something will surely charm me and I'll surely worry about booking enough jobs to support our little magic carpet ride. Because that's how life is.

In my ears right now:

Something that charmed me: I read this in the news and it made me feel calmer. "Tonight's full moon will be the biggest and brightest full moon of the year. It offers anyone with clear skies an opportunity to identify easy-to-see features on the moon.

This being the first full moon of 2010, it is also known as the wolf moon, a moniker dating back to Native American culture and the notion that hungry wolves howled at the full moon on cold winter nights. Each month brings another full moon name."

There's another kind of moon for you, Tag!

Blazing Balls Was Just the Beginning

I wrote a post that included the retelling of a ritual I performed in the desert, hoping it would help dispel some angst. Said rite included imagining I converted my stores of anger and pain to flaming spheres and hurling them off the planet, out of the solar system, anywhere that would be away from me. But that wasn't the whole enchilada. No. I'm pretty intense. I'm thorough. I pay attention to the tiniest details. And I like to succeed at what I attempt. Taking a day off, driving more than 100 miles, hiking a trail that challenges bighorn sheep, spinning and throwing fiery orbs off the earth from a rock-strewn watchtower weren't enough for me. I'm not experienced at these things. I'm not a veteran high priestess of ritual performance. What if all that throwing didn't do anything? What if it only did part of the job? One wants to leave no stone unturned.

I am all of the (good and bad) things I am for very good reasons. My maladaptations are the very ones one would expect in a person who walked along my exact path in life. My strengths are precisely the ones that would present in a person who was well-supported in certain ways. Here is a truth that I know: as wonderfully original as each and every human being is, we also share so much that we might be far simpler creatures. Not amoebas, perhaps, but less individual than we like to think of ourselves. There are common patterns and rhythms in human behavior and resulting consequences that can't be ignored. We're not quite as unique as we think we are. Some of it is on auto-pilot. Or as someone I care for says, "Well, you're unique, but not for that."

I am not usually a noisy person. My normal speaking voice is not loud. I don't tend to scream and yell, unless tremendously provoked or when I'm having a tremendously marvelous time laughing. I had no siblings to yell and holler with, and the parents certainly wouldn't have tolerated any noise. But I wasn't inclined to be noisy, anyway. I've always lived in small family situations, so one didn't have to struggle to be heard. My daughter never has done anything to make me want to raise my voice. Although my parents had ups and downs in their marriage before they eventually divorced, I never once heard them raise their voices at one another. In my career as a union representative, I made compelling arguments in negotiations or when I represented a member at an administrative hearing. I gave some hellfire and brimstone presentations at meetings of school boards or other governing bodies. But I did these things in tones just loud enough to be heard. I use my soft modulation to highlight my strong words. Reader, please hold this thought: I typically don't make a lot of noise.

I don't do anger well. Oh, I have lots of it. Vast stores of anger. I own much of it. I possess anger both ancient and fresh. The problem is what to do with it. Park it in the garage next to the car? Wrap it up at Christmas and give it away as a gift? Donate it to charity for resale at one of those donation bins in the parking lot at the grocery store? I did not grow up in a home where anger was expressed. All the undercurrents were present in our ocean, but they were not mentioned. We simply flowed along. Later, in the career, I learned never to show my anger, although it was often present. Both personally and professionally, I am an expert at keeping the lid on. I'm the pressure cooker with the 100% satisfaction guarantee to never, ever blow. I do it very well. But it's not good for me.

My ability to avoid or deny anger is so ingrained that I usually don't recognize it for what it is. I'm not angry, I'm "unhappy" or "upset" or "depressed" or "not right today". But certainly not angry. I've tried all manner of things to address "unhappy", "upset", "depressed" and "not right today". Behaving obsessively in one way or another is always a good thing. If nothing else, the obsession diverts attention from the angst. Almost invariably in my life, the way I've exhibited anger is to blow up, thereby voiding the 100% satisfaction guarantee. Without describing some of my more shameful performances in precise detail, let's just say when the fury reaches critical mass, I blow up in some way that is nearly 100% guaranteed to add more anger and pain to the anger I've just blown up. Reader, please hold this thought: this woman stuffs a lot of anger.

Please rejoin me in my boulder fortress in the desert from where I am lobbing fireballs. Although it's unusual, it occurred to me that I would like to make some noise, maybe scare some of that anger away. I gave a few war whoops as I flung fire and that felt good. I turned up the volume a little, but I soon learned that hurling and hollering each require a great deal of energy and I had trouble balancing myself on the rocks as I attempted to do both at the same time. The noise thing intrigued me now, so I threw the last of the flames and started to scramble down the trail. I watched as I descended, making certain no people were about. When I hit the flats, I knew I was the only person around for miles, and I let it fly. My first shriek calls to mind Daryl Hannah in Splash. Glass shattering. I'm 57 years old and I know myself well, but I didn't know I could make that kind of noise with my body. I gave what must have been a pretty credible rendition of the rebel yell. I squealed like a pig at slaughter and I screamed like a banshee. It occurred to me to put words to this concert. I named names and cited dates and events. Loudly. And finally, I was done.

Lest the reader think this poor woman needs to be hospitalized, I will say this: I don't expect to find myself in the desert throwing fire and screaming very frequently. But this needed to happen, and it was one of the best things I've ever done. The pressure has been building for a long time. With guidance, this time I didn't blow in a self-destructive way. I simply blew energy, not my life. On the last, flat half of the hike, I was surprised by many things. I was amazed at how hard the neck, throat and abdominal muscles work when one screams primally. I was stunned at some of the names and life events that spontaneously flew from my face. I was startled to notice how torn up my shoulder felt. I'm probably not a good candidate for the geriatric ladies javelin team. Or discus.

An e-mail arrived. "Now that you've thrown it and screamed it, is the anger gone?" I had to ponder that awhile. I didn't pop back an immediate reply. When I did respond, I said, "It's not entirely gone, but it's dulled. It's no longer like a bleeding wound on fire around the edges. It's not eating me alive." I've lived the few days since the desert quite normally, but there is something new presenting. I am not so silent. Both personally and at work, I'm saying things that are on my mind. For you see, I have enough clarity right now to understand that if I don't stuff, I may not build up such a head of steam. If I don't remain silent, I may not have to carry such pain. And so it goes.

I'm moved to say that this was a difficult post to put up. It allows the reader a glimpse of how messy I am in some ways and that makes me feel quite vulnerable. Yet, just as I felt compelled to go into the Preserve and perform the ceremonies, I felt compelled to come back and tell them. Believe it or not, right now I'm the best me, the healthiest me I have ever been, sore shoulder, sore abs, sore throat and all.

Kirk, there is the story for your soundtrack! Do you think it will be a hit?

In my ears right now: A beautiful song, short(ish) for Kass ;~} and others with ADD, presented by two stunning performers. These are worth a listen, people. I like these "bookends" I find ~ a song that touches me, presented in different ways. Make mine a double!





Something that charmed me:


This makes me laugh out loud. It makes me chuckle until my abs ache. To my surprise, favored reader, I can't come up with any words to say. What is it, exactly? What does this image mean? Why is it called "Isolation"?

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Things are not grand at work. We've had some issues with a couple of technicians that have cast a shadow of gloom on everyone who remains. Thursday, the skies clouded over and I sat alone, listening to the phones not ringing, and pondering what 2010 will bring. We're whittled down to "any fewer workers and we won't be able to run this rodeo". But that matches the number of jobs I'm booking, so maybe it's fortuitous the renegades keep firing themselves. At a staff meeting in November, David mused that he was concerned Mr. and Mrs. General Public would forego carpet cleaning this holiday season and tell their visiting in-laws to forgive the dirty carpets, it was a question of that or gifts. I hate it when David is right.

Monday night, Stephanie tore me up at my massage and we spent a long time trying to identify what I had done to myself to mess up neck, pectorals, trapezoids, shoulder and arm so badly. Tuesday, I was in misery from so much trigger point work. I went back Wednesday evening and she resorted to the big guns - structural massage and more trigger point work. There were probably 50 triggers to be dealt with, many of them in the pectoral muscles. Melting trigger points in the pecs feels much like being jabbed hard with a large needle. I don't care for it much. Concerned about how "crudded up" (insider massage therapist talk) I was, Stephanie pulled my chart to find out when was the last time I was so twisted up. "Limes, what was going on during these dates?" I told her and she closed the chart. "I think you have December holiday distress issues, Limes. That's why you're such a mess." Oh. She had me lie back down so she could do some craniosacral and energy work. She asked me if I'd like to tell her some of the traumas. I gave her the sanitized version of how it all happened. I delivered it without any tears or anger. Unusual for me. I was just able to tell the sad story. When I was dressed to leave, Stephanie asked me to do something. She wants me to do something nice for myself, give a holiday gift to myself, and tell her about it next week.

I had to disengage from an unhealthy situation this week. I didn't enjoy it. And I couldn't respect myself if I stayed in it one moment longer. So I took the first necessary step, at the holidays. I don't like it much. And I wasn't liking myself much, either.

It would be easy for me to slide into a puddle. I've had to work actively not to do that. When the office is too quiet, or when a potential customer has pulled me through the eye of a needle and I still didn't book the job, I get up and clean one office window, or dust a bookcase or use my weights and bands. I brought a hula hoop to work and plan to use it to get some of the good blood and energy flowing. I'm safe. I can see anyone approaching the door and can quickly discard my pink, plastic, noise-making, light-flashing CosmoHoop.

So, gathering my thoughts, planning a blog post or three, organizing my emotions on the shelf in alphabetical order . . . what am I going to do right now, today?

In a quiet moment when none of the "children" were present, David talked to me about my future if our business fails. He has yet another business venture on the horizon. He's attended the seminars, met the CEO, done his research. He will hit the ground running at the first of the year, and Limes will be building a new business from the ground up ~ budgets and systems, checks and balances, websites and marketing. He has sufficient business interests that I will not be on the streets. I am worried about home dudes. If the carpet cleaning division does not stay afloat, they will be competing in the same job market as thousands of other Las Vegans. I've stopped trying to control any of this. I don't do anything other than what David tells us to do. "Do what we do. Do it as well as we do it. Come back and do it the next day. We will get back as good as we put out." I plan to tell him today that I've never before surrendered my fears and just followed someone I believed in. I couldn't do that with/for my husband. I can do it now with/for me and with/for us.

During the past year, we've bought and swapped ever larger, more luxurious bird homes across two households and it happens that I have a very nice small-ish one cleaned and sitting empty in my living room. Yes, I know an empty bird home isn't decor. I've also had my eye on a little treat for more than a year, but when the economy scared me, I stopped lusting after it. I made that promise to Stephanie about giving myself a gift . . . . so today, that empty bird home sits in my car where Vicente will have to clean around it. And tonight I will stop at PetSmart. Bloomsbury and Benson need some feed and treats. And I need to finally buy the zebra finches. They're the most beautiful things I have seen in a long time. They are exuberant singers and tiny - not four inches long. They like to live in colonies, and as I look at the bank balance and credit cards, I'm hoping 3-4 birds might constitute a colony.

This morning I made the predawn Wal-Mart pilgrimage. I detest giving those people my money and I loathe going there at holiday time. However, I've sacrificed some of my finer sensibilities in favor of low prices and if I go at 4:30 a.m., I can avoid the crowds. This requires me to get up at a shocking hour to fit in my walk. But the payoff is getting to watch the collection of humanity that shops at Wal-Mart in the middle of the night a week before Christmas. I'm sure they think I'm a specimen, too. I bought a basket full of camping necessities that will make for a smooth desert solstice celebration. Mantles and fuel and tent stakes . . . funny, no one else shopped in the sporting goods section at 4:45 a.m. In one week, we'll be pushing off about now. I need to organize the menus and gather the colored pencils, the books.

Happy holidays, everyone.

In my ears right now: Oh, you knew this. It's still Cyndi Lauper and Peter Kingsbury doing Walk Away Renee. I shouldn't play it any more.

Something that charmed me: Vicente and Lucy own very good mobile car detailing equipment and supplies. They wear uniform shirts and present well. They both charm me for all manner of reasons, but I have enjoyed watching them shift the way they do business in a tight economy. I was always "honey" to them. For more than two years. Take the keys, return the keys, take the check: "Thank you, honey." Most recently as we have pantomimed about hard prospects for business, I have noticed something they now do invariably. They call me "Limes". They use my name. And they take my hand and grasp it for just a moment. I like it. I respect them. They've got savvy. They're doing it just the way we're doing it. The very best they can.

Something that doesn't charm me: I don't hula hoop very well. I did 45 years ago. But I know how to learn things.

In Sugarhouse ~ Inspired by Feelings that Kass's Blog Stirred Up: Chapter II

I think I'm doing all right getting to Sugarhouse the long way. Upon reflection, I can better tell the tales of later life - for by Sugarhouse, I'd attained the advanced age of six years - by laying all the groundwork first. If the reader doesn't know about us as individuals and know what has gone before, then the stories will have no context. If the reader doesn't know our presumed limitations, the reader won't be able to cheer loudly when we step out of character in a positive way. If the reader doesn't know how well we behaved under normal circumstances, the reader won't know when to be disappointed in us.

Dad got out of the Air Force and we settled into an apartment located a few blocks from Granny-O and Grandpa. Patterns of huge family get-togethers emerged. Two of my uncles married two sisters and they lived in homes side-by-side - a natural weekend gathering place for up to 50 people wandering from one house to the other yard, cousins moving between groups of other cousins, depending upon age, gender and just being like-minded. The uncles all worked in construction trades. There was a bricklayer, a plasterer (like Grandpa), a carpenter. The women were all stay-at-home moms of growing families. It was the early to mid-50s - Ike was president, Howdy Doody and the Mousketeers ruled. I really did love Lucy and Leave it to Beaver became a firm favorite (it still is today!).

My father went to work for Firestone Tire & Rubber at the huge facility in Downey. He worked in their printing department operating a printing press. I'm not sure why Firestone had a printing department or why he was determined to be well-suited to printing, but that is what he did. It seems his work and his judgment were well-regarded. When he recommended friends and relatives for a job, they were usually hired. He seems to have honed his craft over a few years, but he wouldn't run a printing press for very long. My mother continued to be ummm . . . anxious (thank you, Kass) and sensitive to harsh criticism, but now she was surrounded by her mother, sisters and sisters-in-law in whose care I spent a lot of time - weekends or full weeks at a time. By the time I was 3, it was acknowledged that I was bright and quiet, sweet-natured, "good as gold". 1950s children were expected to be good - good was desirable. Without siblings to show me the ropes, I hadn't worked out that maybe I could not do what I was told, or that I could be loud or messy or disobedient. I tended to play quietly or "read" my books or draw, alongside my 'tend friend, Carrie, with whom I had audible conversations. I was so attached to my father, legend has it, I'd run for the door when I heard the car arrive each evening, dropping my mother flat. I think that would have hurt her feelings. Every day.

It should also be noted that by about age 3, my fingernails were chewed down to the skin at all times. I knew how to walk into a room, look silently at my mother and sense the mood. I knew when to stay in a room with her and engage. I knew when to go back to what I was doing and wait for my dad to get home. I knew when to tiptoe, when not to speak, when to smile, when not to make eye contact. I was far too easily shamed, and very willing to accept blame for things I wasn't responsible for. Someone suggested that preschool might be good for me since I was very bright and needed some social interaction with other children each day. It was arranged that I would attend Kitty Kat Nursery School which was a wonderful experience for me.

My mother became pregnant and I have heard for more than 50 years how excited she was because now she would have a child. She apparently had surrendered me to be my father's child, and now she'd get one of her own. Her pregnancy was very difficult as she had the same hyperemesis she'd suffered while pregnant with me. My turn at that misery would come 34 years later. Gary was born in January when I was nearing 3 1/2 and I liked him immediately. I liked him so much that 'tend friend Carrie went away after Gary was born. I didn't need her any more because I had an ally who was a real person. OK, he couldn't talk to me, but they swore he eventually would and I believed them. If one pays attention to the stories, my mother was apparently very happy with her son and exhibited some good mothering skills. I've never heard any "yikes" stories about her caretaking of Gary, and if ever there was some fertile ground for "uh-ohs", it would be on Gary's path.

I always think of Gary as a beautiful baby. Dark hair on a beautifully shaped head, deep brown eyes, translucent skin ~ he looked like a blend of the two parents' families. I think of myself as a clunky-looking baby. Blue eyed, looking exactly like my father and no other person. For the portrait taken on my first birthday, they had to use Scotch tape to attach a bow to my bald head so I'd appear more like a girl. I was a tiny newborn and a kind of scrawny, colicky baby. He was a bigger baby with soft roundness to his cheeks and he seemed contented. His look makes me think of the beautiful paintings of infants by Bessie Pease Gutmann. There are pictures of him at about 3 months in the typical pose, lying on his tummy, resting on his arms. One can see he uses his neck to hold his head up, just the way babies of that age are expected to do. His eyes are dark and shining.

It was Easter and we were going to Mass - mother, Gary and me. My father was willing to take us there and pick us up, but he was not Catholic and did not intend to become one. My mother and her family battled him for two years after I was born to allow me to be baptized. He finally acquiesced. Gary was baptized as an infant - the issue had been settled when I finally was taken to the church at age 2. My mother went to the crib to gather the baby and put a hat on his head. Something was wrong with him. He was stiff and twisted, making terrible noises, shaking. The day did not progress as planned. Most of the cousins hunted Easter eggs with some of the adults in charge, while other adults joined my parents at the emergency room. "Seizure," they were told. "Why?" They didn't get the real answer until 1975. Nineteen years later. Oh, they got answers in the interim. Many answers. Wrong answers. My mother was 21 years of age that Sunday. Many things changed that Easter and were never the same again. A profoundly retarded child throws a long shadow across entire families, and we were about to lose contact with the sun.

There followed a period of learning how to do things. He was seen by doctors in the east and the west and in the middle, for years. There were surgeries that were wonderfully exploratory, but never successful. At first, both parents went to whichever destination for whatever treatment or exam. Ultimately, my mother began to show the very capable person she became (at least as an advocate for Gary). She and a sister or two, maybe a sister-in-law, would travel with Gary to whatever destination, leaving my father home to work/earn income and take care of me, Granny-O being his co-parent. Some relatives, sometimes, offered a $20 bill "to help with travel expenses". It was appreciated. Sometimes an aunt or uncle would announce a trip to Disneyland that would not be complete without Limes in attendance. It was appreciated.

My mother learned the fine points of tube feeding and other specialized care Gary required. My father continued to excel in his job and big things were about to happen for him. We were about to enter our gypsy stage of life, as he got better and better jobs requiring frequent moves. I attended a shocking number of different elementary schools. 'tend friend Carrie returned to my life, as it seemed Gary wasn't ever going to talk after all. I became an even quieter child, as Gary was often ill or just returned home from a surgery or rehabilitation facility.

Gary is a human who has never smiled out of joy or humor, never sat up, walked, held a spoon in his hand, never has spoken a word, probably never has formulated a thought. There is some debate about how he sees and if he sees. His body movements are not purposeful. He does not have the human instinct to suckle for nourishment. There is no doubt that he hears well. One only needs to stand beside the bed and say his name. He quickly turns his head in the speaker's direction. When he is awake, his head turns from side to side constantly, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. He is very beautiful. His skin has not been exposed to the sun or suffered acne. He's never skinned a knee or cut himself. He looks much as he did as that beautiful infant, except he's 6 feet tall and in his 50s. There's a little 5:00 shadow going on, sometimes. One might think there's not much to love here. But there is. We love him.

My parents were young, inexperienced at many things life threw their way, but they did one thing beautifully, seamlessly. They made Gary a part of our life and they made everyone we encountered aware that there were four Nows, not three Nows and a tragedy. There was some set-up for Gary at every relative's home - a crib at Granny-O's, at some aunts' homes just a little pallet on the floor surrounded by a mountain of pillows. That was OK - he'd be safe there. His birthday was celebrated just like all of the other cousins' and he was never left out of Christmas. My parents did so well at fostering Gary's assimilation, I've never been embarrassed about a seizure in public, or diapers on a big boy who didn't seem to be able to stand up or talk. When my mother was the class room mother during my first grade year, other children asked why Gary was in a baby buggy. I told them why, they seemed to accept it, and we went on to enjoy the cupcakes my mother had brought. I don't recall ever once being aware of someone pointing, laughing, jeering, or making me uncomfortable.

A story I love - I was right on the stage when it was played: Firestone hosted a huge Christmas party each year with multiple Santas and mountains of toys for the children of the employees. The children were asked to line up and come to select their toy. I was in one line, well-behaved, not pushing or making noise. I saw my father get in another line. It was clear he wasn't escorting me into Santa's presence. No, he was by himself in the childrens' line. One of his co-workers spotted him and started a little good-natured teasing. "Hey, Father Now, you planning to select a toy for yourself? I thought they said the kids should line up." My dad responded, "Oh, I'm selecting a toy for my son who can't line up and choose his own."

In my ears right now: Pride and Joy - Stevie Ray Vaughan. I needed some noise and some drive and some throb to write this one, folks. And I'm glad I've completed it. It's needed to be told for a long, long time.

Something that charmed me: We fired Matt yesterday. It wasn't easy and the decision was not easily made, but he left us no options. On the way out the door, he was as decent and good a man as we know he really is. He thanked me for influencing his life. I was in awe of that. That I could influence a life. We wish him well and worry about him.