For more than two weeks, there’s been a guy coming into my bed. I can’t see him, but I know he doesn’t sleep. He waits until I’ve slipped into a somewhat peaceful place, then he violently throws evil into my head, waking me suddenly, causing throbbing beats of my heart and pain therein. As I gasp for air and abruptly raise my head to see who’s there, he moves into the next room.
I sense him there.
After lying horrified for three hours, I apprehensively tiptoe to the bathroom, then back to my chamber and stumble into a half-awake doze until streams of light creep into the place he should leave. But he knows when to return and that scares me.
I trick him by doing the right things during the day in the hope of allaying his repeated presence. I hike and run, inform potential employers of my existence, repair the crumbling ranch, care for all those living in my midst, and learn something new each day—not always by choice.
After dark I warily crawl into my bed wearing socks to keep me warm, and in case I need to run, and read one of several partially read books till my eyelids signal their lack of muscular strength. But three hours into dreams, precognitions, and telepathic communications, he sends a clairaudient scream and terrifies me. My heart tries to escape my body. I cough a high cough to rid myself of my breathlessness and beckon my heart back. He reminds me of incomplete commitments, that I can’t eat, that I’m nakedly alone, and he can kill with his mind.
My light taps on, but I don’t feel safe, because now physical beings find me more easily. There is nothing alive and corporeal around me but a dog, two cats in the garage, and my plants, except for that one morning that I cannot write or talk about, whose thought pervades me like an impaled child.
I get up and make coffee. It’s only 3. Three hours till daylight.
When it’s light, his ominous presence will still be behind me, sometimes ahead. He will travel through my veins, follow me into my hot tub, cause strips of pain in my left chest making me sit firmly to throw him out. I hate him.
I wish he would let me go.
Let me go.
Let me drift away.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Barefootin’
When I was a kid, I thought I had blackheads on my ankles. Specks of dirt were ingrained in the pores behind my ankle bones, and I thought they were permanent. At night, however, some of their permanency lost their hold and became affixed to my sheets. By washday, the foot end of my bed was lower from the weight of dirt ground into my sheets.
Barefootin’ was the way we lived during the summer in Minnesota. Rich, black dirt begot thick, healthy grass and clover that felt luscious underfoot. Of course the dogs felt that way too, so when we rolled in the grass we first looked where we were rolling.
As the population grew, so did asphalt, concrete, and less porous surfaces to walk. Our opportunities to walk barefooted became far fewer and more treacherous. It seems disease runs rampant, so any crack in the skin is a breach to test the immune system.
A recent story in the Colorado Springs Gazette talks about the trend toward barefootin’,* so I immediately asked my trusted friend of 25 years what he thinks of the idea. He runs almost daily, training for almost every race in the Pikes Peak Region and beyond. Always an excellent athlete, Don ran the 2009 Boston Marathon in 4:00:08!
Here’s what Don, who now sells running shoes, has to say about running shoeless:
The vast majority of people are not going to be running barefoot anytime soon. No worries there! We do get lots of requests for the Vibram FiveFingers** shoes, but we don't sell them. I have VFFs, as do a couple other footwear associates, and we often wear them to work.
Many people seem interested in them because they are unique; however, most people don't seem to understand that the VFF requires a much different running technique than is typically employed. Since there is no cushioning, people who run with the standard overstriding, heavy-heel striking method will receive instant feedback that these shoes can't be used in that manner. They require a forefoot/midfoot landing with the foot being almost directly under the body. This is the same way a foot would strike the ground if a person were running in place. Forward momentum is made by a slight lean, and instead of swinging the foot forward, the knee is moved forward with the lower leg/foot hanging down—sort of like a much less pronounced lunge.
After I mention these things to people, they seem less interested. Plus the typical shoe buyer seems more interested in the color of his or her shoes than if the shoe is a good fit for running style and gai and the VFF tends to be kind of ugly.
For me, the VFF is utilized as a training tool to reinforce good running technique. Because they require good form and weigh almost nothing, I often find myself running faster than normal. Due to this I tend to use them for my speed workouts.
Our ancestors who ran barefoot didn't have to deal with modern hazards. Concrete, asphalt, and all kinds of debris make barefoot running something most people won't be doing. I see broken glass on almost every run as well.
There is a movement toward minimalist footwear. This article is one of many. Runners World magazine had a lengthy article in November’s issue.*** There are other shoes that look more traditional but are designed to be used like the VFF.
That may have been more than you wanted to know. Anything else?
* http://www.outtherecolorado.com/latest-blogs/kicking-the-shoe-habit.html
** http://www.vibramfivefingers.com/
*** http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-240-400--13691-0,00.html
Barefootin’ was the way we lived during the summer in Minnesota. Rich, black dirt begot thick, healthy grass and clover that felt luscious underfoot. Of course the dogs felt that way too, so when we rolled in the grass we first looked where we were rolling.
As the population grew, so did asphalt, concrete, and less porous surfaces to walk. Our opportunities to walk barefooted became far fewer and more treacherous. It seems disease runs rampant, so any crack in the skin is a breach to test the immune system.
A recent story in the Colorado Springs Gazette talks about the trend toward barefootin’,* so I immediately asked my trusted friend of 25 years what he thinks of the idea. He runs almost daily, training for almost every race in the Pikes Peak Region and beyond. Always an excellent athlete, Don ran the 2009 Boston Marathon in 4:00:08!
Here’s what Don, who now sells running shoes, has to say about running shoeless:
The vast majority of people are not going to be running barefoot anytime soon. No worries there! We do get lots of requests for the Vibram FiveFingers** shoes, but we don't sell them. I have VFFs, as do a couple other footwear associates, and we often wear them to work.
Many people seem interested in them because they are unique; however, most people don't seem to understand that the VFF requires a much different running technique than is typically employed. Since there is no cushioning, people who run with the standard overstriding, heavy-heel striking method will receive instant feedback that these shoes can't be used in that manner. They require a forefoot/midfoot landing with the foot being almost directly under the body. This is the same way a foot would strike the ground if a person were running in place. Forward momentum is made by a slight lean, and instead of swinging the foot forward, the knee is moved forward with the lower leg/foot hanging down—sort of like a much less pronounced lunge.
After I mention these things to people, they seem less interested. Plus the typical shoe buyer seems more interested in the color of his or her shoes than if the shoe is a good fit for running style and gai and the VFF tends to be kind of ugly.
For me, the VFF is utilized as a training tool to reinforce good running technique. Because they require good form and weigh almost nothing, I often find myself running faster than normal. Due to this I tend to use them for my speed workouts.
Our ancestors who ran barefoot didn't have to deal with modern hazards. Concrete, asphalt, and all kinds of debris make barefoot running something most people won't be doing. I see broken glass on almost every run as well.
There is a movement toward minimalist footwear. This article is one of many. Runners World magazine had a lengthy article in November’s issue.*** There are other shoes that look more traditional but are designed to be used like the VFF.
That may have been more than you wanted to know. Anything else?
* http://www.outtherecolorado.com/latest-blogs/kicking-the-shoe-habit.html
** http://www.vibramfivefingers.com/
*** http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-240-400--13691-0,00.html
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Rejection
I feel like a dandelion would, if it had feelings.Like the weed, my taproot is long and grows deep, so I can draw nutritious knowledge and sustenance from the environment surrounding me. And like its bright yellow, sunshiny face, I maintain a cheery outlook with a good sense of humor—unless I haven’t slept enough or feel used up.
Like this daisy family member that gives up its leaves for creatures to enjoy, I give a lot of myself to those important to me and feed on appreciation. But when I sense toxicity around me, I cringe and shrivel up like a weed doused with chemicals. And I want to hide my face when I feel the long daggerlike instrument used to cut me from the rest of the world, my existence and talents dismissed before I’m tossed onto a weed pile with all the other rejects.
Like sucking marrow from the bone of life, I love learning and have garnered a repertoire of skills and abilities that I offer others to access. My curriculum vitae doesn’t describe exactly who I am and certainly not all I am capable of. Nevertheless, it can be found on servers throughout the States. Hoping that companies’ search engines will linger upon the special words in my document that will carry my potential to the next step in the job-acquiring process, I keep dispersing more of the same as I wait, anticipating a call or e-mail or invitation.
If God energy would give me what I truly desired, I would continue working from my relatively quiet home writing, editing, and becoming better at both. My clients would continue appreciating my detail orientation and extreme pickiness, and some godsend who receives my writing, either through me or others, would have a whoosh or aha! moment when reading my stuff and ask me for more.
Until then, I keep pursuing. Yesterday Kathi said, “You’re a survivor.” It’s true. I have survived huge negative events throughout my life and still smile. ’Course, I was dropped on my head when I was little and don’t know any better.
You know, I could really let all this rejection bother me…if I had feelings.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
The C Word
Part 1
Some things are just difficult to talk about, even for me. My friends always say, “Go ahead, tell us how you feel,” after I’ve blurted out some intimate detail that most would never mention. Friends are accustomed to me, though, and some have been around since 1972. That’s tenacity!
I despise circumlocution. “Just get to the point,” is the thought that spills past my lips. But the point that follows hasn’t dribbled out as a public display—till today, because now it’s happened four times. It’s the C word.
We probably all know others who have heard the word directed toward them, but when it’s aimed at you, its implications deeply permeate the soul. The word pierces the mind like a knife, and there it remains, knowing that once impaled, the knife can turn again. But I believe, with good planning and luck, you can avoid receiving C news. Read on.
Strike one was in late September 2008 when I had an abnormal Pap: atypical, squamous cervical cells. My mom had a hysterectomy at a young age, though she was never clear about the disease causing such a drastic excision, e.g., cervical, uterine, or ovarian dysplasia, so naturally, I became concerned. But being a healthy person with a positive attitude most days (I was hiking when my doctor delivered her news), I figured my doctor scraped the only dysplastic mass in my body. After all, I was 49, and not all 50 trillion cells are going to be perfect at that age.
Three weeks later I went to a nurse at a gynecological facility for a colposcopy, a surgical procedure that mimics a Pap test but is less fun. Additionally, without my knowledge or my primary care physician’s order, the nurse took cells for another Pap test that I later had to pay full price for. That still burns me.
The costly Pap results were negative (good), and the colpo indicated two sets of my cells were mildly to moderately suspect and should head directly to the executioner: in this case, surgery again (strike two). Initially, the nurse wanted me to have LEEP (loop electrosurgical excision procedure), which I heard as a razor-sharp, bloody, scalding, scraping procedure with an anticipated healing time of six months. I slept little for two weeks contemplating this torture. When I met with the gynecologist himself a week before excoriation, I asked what he would recommend for his wife, also a gynecologist, and he said, “Cryocautery.”
Sold. In mid-November I wiggled in to be frozen like a Popsicle in the hottest part of my anatomy. Though this was considered surgery, it didn’t feel like it, particularly afterward when my face flushed like a lobster in boiling water. I hoped the carbon dioxide snow killed any nasty cells, but it probably took a bunch of healthy ones too. Unfortunately, four days later my body reacted negatively, but I stayed away from the doctor anyway. One appointment alone cost $800, and that was with insurance, so rather than calling on my guardian angel, I treaded alone.
Seven months later at my follow-up colposcopy and Pap, more atypical, squamous cells were discovered: this time, glandular uterine (strike three). How many organs can be squished into such a small area, anyway? So two weeks later I had my fourth surgical procedure, one I would only wish on a couple of people, and they’re guys. Oh my God, what an immense, excruciating pain. Gals, if you can avoid having an endometrial biopsy (EMB), do. If you’d like details, click the link on your right, Stirrup Queens, where I met Melissa, head stirrup queen, who extended her kindness and love from New York all the way to Colorado, wishing me well before and after surgery.
The results from that removal proved negative (good again!). So now I shall share with you why I believe women can avoid hearing the dreaded C word. This has not been proven by anyone but me, to my knowledge.
As we age, our cells have more potential to form and grow abnormally. If we expose ourselves to unhealthy habits for extended periods of time, our chances increase that we will acquire a disease. Now think about the menstrual cycle. Monthly, women slough off unneeded cells that are dying, so chances are, they will appear dysplastic, particularly from a more mature woman—me, on most days.
Around day 14, our body begins tidying things up again, so our cells tend to be cleaner, healthier—even at an older age. My recommendation, therefore, is to have Pap tests done after day 14 and before day 26 in your menstrual cycle.
When my cells were taken on days 7 and 11 in my cycle, dysplastic cells existed.
When my cells were taken on days 21 and 22, my cells were fine.
An interesting note is this: The nurse who performed my colposcopies and endometrial biopsy said, “We can send your cells to four different labs and get three different results.” It depends on the person testing cells, the cleanliness and newness of chemicals, and other factors. Imagine that!
I firmly believe, after comparing notes with other women, that we are overtreated. I believe that had I not endured any of those surgeries and additional tests, I would still be fine. Why wouldn’t your doctor tell you these things? It would muck up their schedules and provide them and the labs less income.
Part 2
In early 2007 I noticed that a white, waxy dent, resembling a scar, had formed on my upper right forehead, seemingly overnight. For the next three and a half years I treated it with a friend’s precancer elimination ointment, vitamin E, triple antibiotic, and a dry-skin prescription. The dent grew.
I knew I should have gone to a dermatologist immediately but was concerned about the costs. When I finally made the appointment for Friday, August 13, 2010, the doctor walked in 35 minutes late, shook my hand in greeting, asked me what the problem was, took an alcohol-moistened pad, and rubbed my dent.
“You’re blue-eyed, blond, have fair skin, and you have cancer,” he said with the bedside manner of a guy who’s seen too many blue-eyed blondes with cancer. Strike four. Tears welled in my eyes as I stared at him in semidisbelief, hoping he’d slap me on the arm and say, “Just kidding.” Instead, he left the room while his assistant began injecting lidocaine into my forehead.
After a while, the dermatologist marched back into the room and declared that I appeared not to respect the medical profession, probably due to the prior shocked look on my face. Again tears erupted, and I cried, “I’m not aging well.”
He proceeded to use an electric grapefruit spoon to scrape away my dent, leaving me with a small landfill. Bandaged head and numb scalp, I paid my $50 copay and left. Cancer. Found in a building right next door to the gynecologist’s.
About a week later, a dermatological surgeon’s assistant called to set up my Mohs surgery for mid-September. The more I talked about my news, the more people shared their Mohs surgery experiences, so though I felt deeply sad, I felt as if I joined a club—one I wanted to be booted out of and not through death.
A friend of 25 years who had also had Mohs surgery offered to take me and stay by my side all day. When we arrived at the same dermatology clinic, different office, I requested a pain reliever for menstrual cramps. Eventually a gal handed me halcyon. Whee! I floated around on a cloud all day. Definitely couldn’t have done my taxes.
When the surgeon walked in, I felt immediate relief. Dr. Sniezek is young, bright, intellectually sharp, and knowledgeable. He patiently answered my list of questions and responded to my crazy comments with his own. I thought of cancer as a growth, yet I had an indent. It is still a tumor that is growing inward. Had I read that fact years ago, I wouldn’t have allowed the cancer to grow further. He asked if I noticed that the cancer was larger than the first dermatologist had noticed. I had.
Dr. Sniezek kindly asked my friend to return to the waiting room then drew lines around the cancer, which his assistant photographed. With lidocaine injected into my forehead and halcyon flowing through my veins, the surgery began.
After the first deep dig, hair cutting, and cauterizations, I floated to the waiting room for a couple of hours with a massive gauze bandage affixed to my head so my brains wouldn’t spill out. The way I was acting, though, I’m sure my friend thought it was too late. When I was finally invited back into the surgery room after noon, or maybe 10:00, he said they needed to remove more of me and that it was the rare, aggressive morpheaform type of basal cell carcinoma, invasive, fast-growing, and potentially disfiguring, since it can seep into and kill muscle, nerves, and bone. Insert halcyon number two.
After that excision, I think I stayed in the chair and thought about heaven and angels. At one point, Sniezek walked in and played with my forehead (pictured left). “What are you doing?” I quizzically blurted.
“I’m deciding how I’m going to put you back together and stitch you,” he answered. He described his artistry plan and left the room to go dig into someone else.
An eternity seemed to pass, so when he entered, I sadly said, “You abandoned me.”
Equally downcast, he slowly replied, “That’s a very strong word,” and he transmogrified into a seamstress.
Looking as if I were nursing a huge hangover, I stumbled to the front desk and scheduled my one-week follow-up visit and headed to Jim’s car.
For five days, frozen peas and my bed were my friends. It’s hard for an active person to rest midday, but I found it better than the dizziness I experienced plucking weeds. My hair has fallen out in sheets for three weeks, a condition Dr. Sniezek termed telogen effluvium, caused by a traumatic event. The guy knows everything. I even missed seeing him this past Friday following two post-surgery visits, but not enough to need him again.
If anyone has any questions or comments, write to ol’ Auntie. She’d love to hear from you. It’s pretty lonely staying at home looking like Frankenstein’s ex-wife.
basal cell carcinoma www.mayoclinic.com/health/basal-cell-carcinoma/DS00925/DSECTION=symptoms
Mohs surgery and morpheaform BCC www.mayoclinic.com/health/basal-cell-carcinoma/DS00925/DSECTION=treatments%2Dand%2Ddrugs
telogen effluvium www.mayoclinic.com/health/hair-loss/DS00278/DSECTION=symptoms
African sky © 2002 Bob Groat
Some things are just difficult to talk about, even for me. My friends always say, “Go ahead, tell us how you feel,” after I’ve blurted out some intimate detail that most would never mention. Friends are accustomed to me, though, and some have been around since 1972. That’s tenacity!
I despise circumlocution. “Just get to the point,” is the thought that spills past my lips. But the point that follows hasn’t dribbled out as a public display—till today, because now it’s happened four times. It’s the C word.
We probably all know others who have heard the word directed toward them, but when it’s aimed at you, its implications deeply permeate the soul. The word pierces the mind like a knife, and there it remains, knowing that once impaled, the knife can turn again. But I believe, with good planning and luck, you can avoid receiving C news. Read on.
Strike one was in late September 2008 when I had an abnormal Pap: atypical, squamous cervical cells. My mom had a hysterectomy at a young age, though she was never clear about the disease causing such a drastic excision, e.g., cervical, uterine, or ovarian dysplasia, so naturally, I became concerned. But being a healthy person with a positive attitude most days (I was hiking when my doctor delivered her news), I figured my doctor scraped the only dysplastic mass in my body. After all, I was 49, and not all 50 trillion cells are going to be perfect at that age.
Three weeks later I went to a nurse at a gynecological facility for a colposcopy, a surgical procedure that mimics a Pap test but is less fun. Additionally, without my knowledge or my primary care physician’s order, the nurse took cells for another Pap test that I later had to pay full price for. That still burns me.
The costly Pap results were negative (good), and the colpo indicated two sets of my cells were mildly to moderately suspect and should head directly to the executioner: in this case, surgery again (strike two). Initially, the nurse wanted me to have LEEP (loop electrosurgical excision procedure), which I heard as a razor-sharp, bloody, scalding, scraping procedure with an anticipated healing time of six months. I slept little for two weeks contemplating this torture. When I met with the gynecologist himself a week before excoriation, I asked what he would recommend for his wife, also a gynecologist, and he said, “Cryocautery.”
Sold. In mid-November I wiggled in to be frozen like a Popsicle in the hottest part of my anatomy. Though this was considered surgery, it didn’t feel like it, particularly afterward when my face flushed like a lobster in boiling water. I hoped the carbon dioxide snow killed any nasty cells, but it probably took a bunch of healthy ones too. Unfortunately, four days later my body reacted negatively, but I stayed away from the doctor anyway. One appointment alone cost $800, and that was with insurance, so rather than calling on my guardian angel, I treaded alone.
Seven months later at my follow-up colposcopy and Pap, more atypical, squamous cells were discovered: this time, glandular uterine (strike three). How many organs can be squished into such a small area, anyway? So two weeks later I had my fourth surgical procedure, one I would only wish on a couple of people, and they’re guys. Oh my God, what an immense, excruciating pain. Gals, if you can avoid having an endometrial biopsy (EMB), do. If you’d like details, click the link on your right, Stirrup Queens, where I met Melissa, head stirrup queen, who extended her kindness and love from New York all the way to Colorado, wishing me well before and after surgery.
The results from that removal proved negative (good again!). So now I shall share with you why I believe women can avoid hearing the dreaded C word. This has not been proven by anyone but me, to my knowledge.
As we age, our cells have more potential to form and grow abnormally. If we expose ourselves to unhealthy habits for extended periods of time, our chances increase that we will acquire a disease. Now think about the menstrual cycle. Monthly, women slough off unneeded cells that are dying, so chances are, they will appear dysplastic, particularly from a more mature woman—me, on most days.
Around day 14, our body begins tidying things up again, so our cells tend to be cleaner, healthier—even at an older age. My recommendation, therefore, is to have Pap tests done after day 14 and before day 26 in your menstrual cycle.
When my cells were taken on days 7 and 11 in my cycle, dysplastic cells existed.
When my cells were taken on days 21 and 22, my cells were fine.
An interesting note is this: The nurse who performed my colposcopies and endometrial biopsy said, “We can send your cells to four different labs and get three different results.” It depends on the person testing cells, the cleanliness and newness of chemicals, and other factors. Imagine that!
I firmly believe, after comparing notes with other women, that we are overtreated. I believe that had I not endured any of those surgeries and additional tests, I would still be fine. Why wouldn’t your doctor tell you these things? It would muck up their schedules and provide them and the labs less income.
Part 2
In early 2007 I noticed that a white, waxy dent, resembling a scar, had formed on my upper right forehead, seemingly overnight. For the next three and a half years I treated it with a friend’s precancer elimination ointment, vitamin E, triple antibiotic, and a dry-skin prescription. The dent grew.
I knew I should have gone to a dermatologist immediately but was concerned about the costs. When I finally made the appointment for Friday, August 13, 2010, the doctor walked in 35 minutes late, shook my hand in greeting, asked me what the problem was, took an alcohol-moistened pad, and rubbed my dent.
“You’re blue-eyed, blond, have fair skin, and you have cancer,” he said with the bedside manner of a guy who’s seen too many blue-eyed blondes with cancer. Strike four. Tears welled in my eyes as I stared at him in semidisbelief, hoping he’d slap me on the arm and say, “Just kidding.” Instead, he left the room while his assistant began injecting lidocaine into my forehead.
After a while, the dermatologist marched back into the room and declared that I appeared not to respect the medical profession, probably due to the prior shocked look on my face. Again tears erupted, and I cried, “I’m not aging well.”
He proceeded to use an electric grapefruit spoon to scrape away my dent, leaving me with a small landfill. Bandaged head and numb scalp, I paid my $50 copay and left. Cancer. Found in a building right next door to the gynecologist’s.
About a week later, a dermatological surgeon’s assistant called to set up my Mohs surgery for mid-September. The more I talked about my news, the more people shared their Mohs surgery experiences, so though I felt deeply sad, I felt as if I joined a club—one I wanted to be booted out of and not through death.
A friend of 25 years who had also had Mohs surgery offered to take me and stay by my side all day. When we arrived at the same dermatology clinic, different office, I requested a pain reliever for menstrual cramps. Eventually a gal handed me halcyon. Whee! I floated around on a cloud all day. Definitely couldn’t have done my taxes.
When the surgeon walked in, I felt immediate relief. Dr. Sniezek is young, bright, intellectually sharp, and knowledgeable. He patiently answered my list of questions and responded to my crazy comments with his own. I thought of cancer as a growth, yet I had an indent. It is still a tumor that is growing inward. Had I read that fact years ago, I wouldn’t have allowed the cancer to grow further. He asked if I noticed that the cancer was larger than the first dermatologist had noticed. I had.
Dr. Sniezek kindly asked my friend to return to the waiting room then drew lines around the cancer, which his assistant photographed. With lidocaine injected into my forehead and halcyon flowing through my veins, the surgery began.
After the first deep dig, hair cutting, and cauterizations, I floated to the waiting room for a couple of hours with a massive gauze bandage affixed to my head so my brains wouldn’t spill out. The way I was acting, though, I’m sure my friend thought it was too late. When I was finally invited back into the surgery room after noon, or maybe 10:00, he said they needed to remove more of me and that it was the rare, aggressive morpheaform type of basal cell carcinoma, invasive, fast-growing, and potentially disfiguring, since it can seep into and kill muscle, nerves, and bone. Insert halcyon number two.
After that excision, I think I stayed in the chair and thought about heaven and angels. At one point, Sniezek walked in and played with my forehead (pictured left). “What are you doing?” I quizzically blurted.“I’m deciding how I’m going to put you back together and stitch you,” he answered. He described his artistry plan and left the room to go dig into someone else.
An eternity seemed to pass, so when he entered, I sadly said, “You abandoned me.”
Equally downcast, he slowly replied, “That’s a very strong word,” and he transmogrified into a seamstress.
Looking as if I were nursing a huge hangover, I stumbled to the front desk and scheduled my one-week follow-up visit and headed to Jim’s car.
For five days, frozen peas and my bed were my friends. It’s hard for an active person to rest midday, but I found it better than the dizziness I experienced plucking weeds. My hair has fallen out in sheets for three weeks, a condition Dr. Sniezek termed telogen effluvium, caused by a traumatic event. The guy knows everything. I even missed seeing him this past Friday following two post-surgery visits, but not enough to need him again.
If anyone has any questions or comments, write to ol’ Auntie. She’d love to hear from you. It’s pretty lonely staying at home looking like Frankenstein’s ex-wife.
basal cell carcinoma www.mayoclinic.com/health/basal-cell-carcinoma/DS00925/DSECTION=symptoms
Mohs surgery and morpheaform BCC www.mayoclinic.com/health/basal-cell-carcinoma/DS00925/DSECTION=treatments%2Dand%2Ddrugs
telogen effluvium www.mayoclinic.com/health/hair-loss/DS00278/DSECTION=symptoms
African sky © 2002 Bob Groat
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Islamic Community Center
If the proposed Islamic community center is built—and I presume it will be, because developers always get their way—I think it should have a heart-shaped, open courtyard in its center. Giving the proposed Cordoba* House a view of the sky and planes flying overhead will be a reminder for salat times, for all of us.One thing I like about mosques, as I do with many Asian homes and places of worship, is that they are shoes-free zones.
What do you think?
* Cordoba, Andalusia, southernmost region of Spain: known for its architecture, particularly the Great Mosque.
See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_mosques_in_the_United_States for a list of mosques in the U.S. Note how many were built in 1996 in Alabama (six of nine). California contains eight mosques; Michigan, eight; Missouri, 11; New York, four.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Auntie’s Systems Flow
It’s me, your very own eccentric germ freak who doesn’t like clogged systems. As I close windows more often to keep warm air inside, I decided to share some household tips to keep your home fresher and operating more efficiently.
Send your cutting boards with your range fan cover on a trip through the dishwasher. Mineral oil your boards afterward.
Rather than use a toilet brush to scrape your porcelain bowl, use a long-handled dish brush that you can buy at Dollar Tree. The bristles are in the right places. Opt not to use the brush on dishes later.
After you run your toothbrush through the dishwasher, keep it cleaner by attaching a pinchy clothespin atop a glass and set the brush between the pin’s legs to dry it quicker and not lean it against a germy surface.
Put vinegar in the fabric softener and/or bleach dispensers in your washer when you start a load. Clothes end up softer.
Fill your washtub with the right amount of laundry detergent and hot water. Soak and thoroughly scrub pillows. Send pillows through your washer's spin cycle, then place on a drying rack or other vented surface in the sun, which acts as a natural antiseptic. Do a final hot fluff in the dryer.
Reuse plastic bottles to squirt bleach water and/or vinegar through a hole you’ve poked through its cover.
Wrap your yardstick with an old sock. Secure with a couple rubber bands. Moisten with some Murphy Oil Soap and water, and wipe under your fridge and range. Keep the yardstick under your fridge for an occasional dusting.
If your comforters are too large for your washer, take them outside and shake ferociously (a person on each side works well). Lay on a clean surface in the sun for the day—where birds won't perch above.
I use a lot of vinegar and don’t like to waste those jugs, so I carefully cut the top off, retaining the gallon jug’s handle. Uses:
• store newspaper and grocery bags
• scoop water with it
• fill with compostable leftovers
• place labeled electronics cords and cables inside one
• keep one under your sink to contain stuff that usually floats around down there
• carry in your yard and put plucked weeds in it
• fill with soapy water and wash your dog's feet after hiking [see auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/11/sniff-sniff.html]
When you drain your hot tub, use a canister-type shampooer to pull the last few gallons out.
Spray peppermint water around the house to keep the air perky.
Remember to snort your snout in private and thoroughly wash your paws.
Wear socks in the house to keep foot sweat off the carpet, presuming we don’t wear shoes in our houses.
Stay healthy, my dear friends!
(Dawn, now do you know why I’m not married? Plus I just shampooed my garage floor with Murphy Oil Soap and bleach. Smells yummyful!)
Send your cutting boards with your range fan cover on a trip through the dishwasher. Mineral oil your boards afterward.
Rather than use a toilet brush to scrape your porcelain bowl, use a long-handled dish brush that you can buy at Dollar Tree. The bristles are in the right places. Opt not to use the brush on dishes later.
After you run your toothbrush through the dishwasher, keep it cleaner by attaching a pinchy clothespin atop a glass and set the brush between the pin’s legs to dry it quicker and not lean it against a germy surface.
Put vinegar in the fabric softener and/or bleach dispensers in your washer when you start a load. Clothes end up softer.Fill your washtub with the right amount of laundry detergent and hot water. Soak and thoroughly scrub pillows. Send pillows through your washer's spin cycle, then place on a drying rack or other vented surface in the sun, which acts as a natural antiseptic. Do a final hot fluff in the dryer.
Reuse plastic bottles to squirt bleach water and/or vinegar through a hole you’ve poked through its cover.
Wrap your yardstick with an old sock. Secure with a couple rubber bands. Moisten with some Murphy Oil Soap and water, and wipe under your fridge and range. Keep the yardstick under your fridge for an occasional dusting.
If your comforters are too large for your washer, take them outside and shake ferociously (a person on each side works well). Lay on a clean surface in the sun for the day—where birds won't perch above.
I use a lot of vinegar and don’t like to waste those jugs, so I carefully cut the top off, retaining the gallon jug’s handle. Uses:• store newspaper and grocery bags
• scoop water with it
• fill with compostable leftovers
• place labeled electronics cords and cables inside one
• keep one under your sink to contain stuff that usually floats around down there
• carry in your yard and put plucked weeds in it
• fill with soapy water and wash your dog's feet after hiking [see auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/11/sniff-sniff.html]
When you drain your hot tub, use a canister-type shampooer to pull the last few gallons out.
Spray peppermint water around the house to keep the air perky.
Remember to snort your snout in private and thoroughly wash your paws.Wear socks in the house to keep foot sweat off the carpet, presuming we don’t wear shoes in our houses.
Stay healthy, my dear friends!
(Dawn, now do you know why I’m not married? Plus I just shampooed my garage floor with Murphy Oil Soap and bleach. Smells yummyful!)
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Bear-Proof Fence
My wild ’n’ natural friend had a bear-proof fence installed around his backyard that’s nestled in the mountains. He said he kept moving his grill back and forth from his rear deck to the front, but wherever his grill went, the bear, and sometimes her cubs, would follow.
On special mornings when the bear’s tummy was growling, my friend would open his garage door to find her standing in front of him requesting breakfast. Being accommodating, he’d quickly close the garage door. Actually, he’s not really like that. I just think Mama Bear’s size reminded him of his ex-wife’s mother who broke their toilet seat, and he hoped the bear wouldn’t ask to use the facilities.
I suspect he, also, tired of Mama’s constant appeals, but given two children to feed this year and a gigolo boar who’d gone into the mountaintops to forage for younger, hairy sows, what choices did she have?
My friend’s bear-proof fence is made of thick, sturdy metal, though he assured me it doesn’t have spikes. Seeing an impaled animal for a later meal wasn’t on his list of fence functions, and around here, we hear of impaled-deer occurrences. Subsequently, the suffered aren’t later consumed, but wept over.
So when my surprised friend discovered the bear in his backyard again, despite his new, expensive fence, he wondered how the persistent beast entered. Did she scale the fence with its intermittent horizontal bars (which is what my friend would have done)? Did she get a running start, use a pole, and spring forward? Did she get a boost from a friend? Did she climb a tree and drop in? And if she did, how did she get back into the forest?
And why does his yard have such appeal?
“There’s a plum tree back there,” he told me. Itty-bitty plums, like my boobs. After all, this is Colorado, not Georgia. Being a health-conscious mom, and with all Mama Bear’s carnivorous fulfillment on Cheyenne Mountain, she knew she needed a balanced diet, particularly if she’s still nursing.
Going back in time, I’m sure my friend planted his plum tree thinking only of himself and not feeding the hungry, though he is of the thoughtful, God-like species. He had, perhaps, a plum pie or a scrumptious plum crisp in mind at seedling time.
But this is now, and Mama’s mate has done his seedling-ing, and she was hungry.
Aha! My friend watched the big ursine climb a large pine tree, reach over to his fence, and jump down, like Rambo or Arnold. He didn’t monitor her behavior and never saw her leave, so he’s unsure of her exit strategy, but I vote helicopter. After all, we’re talking Broadmoor bear here.
“Now that I know how she’s getting in, how can I keep her out?” my desperate friend asked. “I’m scared to walk out into my backyard.”
“I’d pick a few plums and toss them into your neighbor’s part of the forest,” I suggested. “Then find some fresh carrion and toss it near, but not on, your property. And post a sign with an accompanying map: Better Bear Food at the Zoo,” which is just up the street.
“Funny,” he solemnly replied.
“I know! Post a sign that says ‘Bear meat served daily.’ She seems quite smart!”
As I said that, a cub strolled up to my front door and asked for lunch. Fortunately, I still had some ex-boyfriend left in the freezer.
On special mornings when the bear’s tummy was growling, my friend would open his garage door to find her standing in front of him requesting breakfast. Being accommodating, he’d quickly close the garage door. Actually, he’s not really like that. I just think Mama Bear’s size reminded him of his ex-wife’s mother who broke their toilet seat, and he hoped the bear wouldn’t ask to use the facilities.I suspect he, also, tired of Mama’s constant appeals, but given two children to feed this year and a gigolo boar who’d gone into the mountaintops to forage for younger, hairy sows, what choices did she have?
My friend’s bear-proof fence is made of thick, sturdy metal, though he assured me it doesn’t have spikes. Seeing an impaled animal for a later meal wasn’t on his list of fence functions, and around here, we hear of impaled-deer occurrences. Subsequently, the suffered aren’t later consumed, but wept over.
So when my surprised friend discovered the bear in his backyard again, despite his new, expensive fence, he wondered how the persistent beast entered. Did she scale the fence with its intermittent horizontal bars (which is what my friend would have done)? Did she get a running start, use a pole, and spring forward? Did she get a boost from a friend? Did she climb a tree and drop in? And if she did, how did she get back into the forest?
And why does his yard have such appeal?
“There’s a plum tree back there,” he told me. Itty-bitty plums, like my boobs. After all, this is Colorado, not Georgia. Being a health-conscious mom, and with all Mama Bear’s carnivorous fulfillment on Cheyenne Mountain, she knew she needed a balanced diet, particularly if she’s still nursing.
Going back in time, I’m sure my friend planted his plum tree thinking only of himself and not feeding the hungry, though he is of the thoughtful, God-like species. He had, perhaps, a plum pie or a scrumptious plum crisp in mind at seedling time.
But this is now, and Mama’s mate has done his seedling-ing, and she was hungry.
Aha! My friend watched the big ursine climb a large pine tree, reach over to his fence, and jump down, like Rambo or Arnold. He didn’t monitor her behavior and never saw her leave, so he’s unsure of her exit strategy, but I vote helicopter. After all, we’re talking Broadmoor bear here.
“Now that I know how she’s getting in, how can I keep her out?” my desperate friend asked. “I’m scared to walk out into my backyard.”
“I’d pick a few plums and toss them into your neighbor’s part of the forest,” I suggested. “Then find some fresh carrion and toss it near, but not on, your property. And post a sign with an accompanying map: Better Bear Food at the Zoo,” which is just up the street.
“Funny,” he solemnly replied.
“I know! Post a sign that says ‘Bear meat served daily.’ She seems quite smart!”
As I said that, a cub strolled up to my front door and asked for lunch. Fortunately, I still had some ex-boyfriend left in the freezer.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Children of Priests
I read an Associated Press story that proved again, Catholic parishioners are slowly being reimbursed for all their ancestors’ tithes and indulgences. A priest impregnated an 18-year-old, and her parents are suing, among others, the priest, his diocese in Reading, Penn., and the high school where he was chaplain.
At least the priest was with a girl. The pope would probably see this as encouraging news.
Charges in the parents’ lawsuit were breach of fiduciary duty, infliction of emotional distress, and gross negligence. Upon reading the story, these accusations could aptly be used against the parents for aiding and abetting procreative behavior in the first place.
Seems the daughter and priest were spending a lot of quality time together in the parents’ home behind a closed door. The rhythm inside the daughter’s bedroom didn’t coincide with the beat of the music she played, so logically, instead of communicating with their daughter and the priest, the parents set up a video camera in the girl’s bedroom while she was gone.
Now maybe I’m just not a good Catholic, but isn’t secretly videotaping people engaging in sexual dialogue pornographic? And when one of the participants is a daughter, isn’t it classified as incestuously close observation?
Instead of using this visual opportunity to confront the daughter and priest, since any communication to that point was ineffectual, Mom and Dad jump into their Chevy and head downtown where the big bucks live.
At this point I’m thinking the daughter must have conspired with ol’ Mommy and Daddio and thought a little extra cash for some new pumps, teddy, and camisole would be nice—stuff the diocese could provide for her, since the priest wasn’t enough.
I could be reading the journalist’s story incorrectly, but it sounds as if the whole family had secrets stashed between the folds of their robes.
If the priest and daughter really love each other, they should enjoy the life they created: their little girl. They could be blessed with a happy ending, especially if the parents win in court.
At least the priest was with a girl. The pope would probably see this as encouraging news.
Charges in the parents’ lawsuit were breach of fiduciary duty, infliction of emotional distress, and gross negligence. Upon reading the story, these accusations could aptly be used against the parents for aiding and abetting procreative behavior in the first place.
Seems the daughter and priest were spending a lot of quality time together in the parents’ home behind a closed door. The rhythm inside the daughter’s bedroom didn’t coincide with the beat of the music she played, so logically, instead of communicating with their daughter and the priest, the parents set up a video camera in the girl’s bedroom while she was gone.
Now maybe I’m just not a good Catholic, but isn’t secretly videotaping people engaging in sexual dialogue pornographic? And when one of the participants is a daughter, isn’t it classified as incestuously close observation?
Instead of using this visual opportunity to confront the daughter and priest, since any communication to that point was ineffectual, Mom and Dad jump into their Chevy and head downtown where the big bucks live.
At this point I’m thinking the daughter must have conspired with ol’ Mommy and Daddio and thought a little extra cash for some new pumps, teddy, and camisole would be nice—stuff the diocese could provide for her, since the priest wasn’t enough.
I could be reading the journalist’s story incorrectly, but it sounds as if the whole family had secrets stashed between the folds of their robes.
If the priest and daughter really love each other, they should enjoy the life they created: their little girl. They could be blessed with a happy ending, especially if the parents win in court.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Silent Songbird
I’m a rare bird and not ashamed of it. And since birds of a feather flock together, my friends tend to be rare birds too. One rare birdism we share is, we think about our impact on earth and her people in regard to sustainability, noise, pollution, and consideration. In a word, respect. We know we’re not the only ones who matter, and tread lightly.I feel deeply sorry for Earth. Like the old woman who lived in a shoe, she is providing for more human life than she is comfortably capable of sustaining, and her population is expected to keep growing. Each person in 1994 needed 1.2 acres to maintain American dietary standards, acreage that relates to food production.
But what about fresh water? (I won’t even get into oil consumption here.) Glaciers are melting, so we can sip off them, but what do human, animal, and plant lives drink after all our fresh water has been polluted or drunk and there’s nothing falling from the sky but ash?
Earth needs to go on a people diet and not have so many, not only because of sustainability but for our hearts. When Mother Nature binges, she swallows large numbers of Earth’s beings. Earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, storms of all kinds consume lives, and the more densely populated the area of impact, the more heartfelt tragedy we experience. That includes the tragedy of hunger from human overproduction. Fortunately, researchers and medical professionals have diligently worked to reduce deaths due to disease, so farmers no longer have to supply their families with more help.
Densely populated areas also means concentrated noise pollution. Though I lead a quiet life, it doesn’t suit everyone. There are TVs and electronic games to fill quiet spaces, dogs to bark how dreadful their lives are, vehicles creating tension and shouting for attention with other machines, sirens, and incessant chatter. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only person affected by noise, but reading The Unwanted Sound of Everything We Want: A Book about Noise by Garret Keizer, I felt less lonely.
“I was raised with a keen awareness of noise. As a child I was told ‘Keep your voice down’ whenever my voice was likely to disturb ‘the neighbors.’ When my family came home late…my father would insist that we latch the car doors as quietly as possible and then press them fully closed. This taboo against slamming a car door at night was part of a code whereby holding down a job and getting oneself to work on time were sacred.… Interfering with a neighbor’s sleep was something akin to horse thievery on the old frontier, as assault on another person’s livelihood, a hanging offense.”
What happened to the common courtesy of honoring another with respectful quiet?
When I had my baby, I purchased the quietest vacuum cleaner—a Panasonic, bought a push lawn mower, and played my music quietly in honor of her hearing. I had quit watching the tube in 1975, but bought one at age 35 so my daughter could watch Disney sing-alongs. And when two friends each wanted to gift me with a “real” mower, I passed. Sure it’s more difficult to have a perfectly manicured lawn with a push mower, and I have to pass over each blade of grass four times, but my posterior is a lot firmer than gas-blower pushers’.
Again, I am not the only one who likes quietness and thinks about noise’s impact on others. Noise Pollution Clearinghouse tested more than 80 pieces of lawn equipment, rating them by decibels. Wouldn’t it be cool if everyone mowed his lawn on the same day at the same time, so we would hear only one blended, powered blade noise?
What if we were all thoughtful of each other? Takes me back to the sixties “peace, make love (using contraception), not war, smoke this” culture. I’m not a liberal, but I’d certainly welcome a lot of peace.
I recently read “Revolutionary Road” in Smithsonian magazine. David Lamb wrote a story about Vietnam now and during the war. He quotes Le Minh Khue, who at 15 joined other Vietnamese youths helping to clean up immediately after war’s devastation. She talks about the bond these kids shared and says she “felt completely happy,” despite burying the dead, filling bomb craters, and ending each day covered in mud.
Khue recalls the kindness people shared with each other. “We came upon a mother and two children with no food. They were very hungry. We offered to give her some of our rice, and she refused. ‘That rice,’ she said, ‘is for my husband who is on the battle field.’ That attitude was everywhere. But it’s not there anymore. Today people care about themselves, not each other.”
Birds of a feather… Let’s quietly ruffle some feathers. Breathe deeply and silently smile. Open a door for someone and accept thanks with a namasté. Still your soul and turn something off when you’re not using it…even your mind.
Now that is something I am still working on.
1 David Pimentel, Cornell University, Mario Giampietro, Istituto of Nazionale della Nutrizione, Rome. “Food, Land, Population, and the U.S. Economy.” Nov. 21, 1994. http://dieoff.org/page40.htm (accessed 8/12/10). (Carrying Capacity Network, 2000 P Street, N.W., Suite 240 Washington, D.C. 20036, (202) 296-4548.)
2 Garret Keizer, The Unwanted Sound of Everything We Want: A Book about Noise (New York: PublicAffairs, 2010), 11.
3 Noise Pollution Clearinghouse, “Quiet Lawns,” NPC Special Report (summer 2005), http://www.nonoise.org/library/qz/QuietLawns05.pdf.
4 David Lamb, “Revolutionary Road,” Smithsonian (March 2008), 62.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Luck in Losing
Losing things makes me crazy(er). Once I realize that something isn’t where it’s supposed to be, I start digging.
But typically I stop myself, remembering the sentence: Americans waste two weeks every year looking for misplaced items. Scary.
After reading that line 20 years ago, I became much more conscious of what I do and where I lay my belongings, especially those things that could cause me embarrassment should another person find them, such as my vibrator or Viagra. But the sentence also reminds me that the item will generally turn up soon, since it usually does.
Today I couldn’t find my pen that normally resides in my appointment book, also known as my brain, nor could I find a pair of my cheater glasses for old people. Just as well, no old people ’round here. Since I just had both items in the past day or two, I waltzed around, bending over when appropriate, looking in places I normally dance.
After shaking my head of the debris that accumulates with stress, I found my pen in my bed and, shortly thereafter, found my glasses in a basket I transport from floor to floor. I was on a roll!
What the heck, I might as well try to find the earring I lost the weekend I had a guest. Hmm, we sat on the sofa, but I had already checked under the cushions weeks ago and only found my ex-boyfriend, who I quickly put back in the freezer where he belonged.
Ahh, we sat in the chairs by the big window. I dug my skinny hands between the chair’s arms and cushion, and voilà! Money! I started giggling. First I pulled out a nickel, then a quarter, then a peanut. It was like the game I invented for my little girl called What’s in the Bag? where I’d put various things from around the house in a paper bag and have her feel the texture and shape to guess what the objects were. Sometimes she’d even guess the color, but she’s a lot brighter than I am.
So while I was prospecting and pulling out coin after coin, I kept thinking, Most guys keep their change in their right pocket, and it seemed these changelings sat in my west chair. I tipped the chair on its side when the coins started falling into its bowels, thereby increasing my chances of scoring a winner.
After that archeological dig, I headed east to the other chair and found the treasure much less bountiful but rewarding, nevertheless. I don’t believe in gambling, but risking a hangnail digging in my own chairs made me feel risqué, like a proctologist.
My earnings? $1.78, two pencils, a piñon nut, and a peanut.
I think it’s time to have company.
But typically I stop myself, remembering the sentence: Americans waste two weeks every year looking for misplaced items. Scary.
After reading that line 20 years ago, I became much more conscious of what I do and where I lay my belongings, especially those things that could cause me embarrassment should another person find them, such as my vibrator or Viagra. But the sentence also reminds me that the item will generally turn up soon, since it usually does.
Today I couldn’t find my pen that normally resides in my appointment book, also known as my brain, nor could I find a pair of my cheater glasses for old people. Just as well, no old people ’round here. Since I just had both items in the past day or two, I waltzed around, bending over when appropriate, looking in places I normally dance.
After shaking my head of the debris that accumulates with stress, I found my pen in my bed and, shortly thereafter, found my glasses in a basket I transport from floor to floor. I was on a roll!
What the heck, I might as well try to find the earring I lost the weekend I had a guest. Hmm, we sat on the sofa, but I had already checked under the cushions weeks ago and only found my ex-boyfriend, who I quickly put back in the freezer where he belonged.
Ahh, we sat in the chairs by the big window. I dug my skinny hands between the chair’s arms and cushion, and voilà! Money! I started giggling. First I pulled out a nickel, then a quarter, then a peanut. It was like the game I invented for my little girl called What’s in the Bag? where I’d put various things from around the house in a paper bag and have her feel the texture and shape to guess what the objects were. Sometimes she’d even guess the color, but she’s a lot brighter than I am.
So while I was prospecting and pulling out coin after coin, I kept thinking, Most guys keep their change in their right pocket, and it seemed these changelings sat in my west chair. I tipped the chair on its side when the coins started falling into its bowels, thereby increasing my chances of scoring a winner.After that archeological dig, I headed east to the other chair and found the treasure much less bountiful but rewarding, nevertheless. I don’t believe in gambling, but risking a hangnail digging in my own chairs made me feel risqué, like a proctologist.
My earnings? $1.78, two pencils, a piñon nut, and a peanut.
I think it’s time to have company.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Hope
Following is a note from my hiking bud’s daughter, whose little girl, Jocelyn, wrote an awe-inspiring poem:Here is a poem Jocelyn wrote on June 14, 2010. I thought she was asleep at 10:00 p.m., when she called down asking if she could write a poem that was in her head. I figured it would only take a few minutes, so I said okay. About a half hour later, she came downstairs with the following.
Jocelyn said it just came to her, and she knew what to write. It just flowed out of her. I left all spelling and punctuation the way she wrote it. Having a period at the end and no other punctuation marks was intentional. She's nine years old. [Auntie added spaces between some lines for easier digestion.]
Hope is like a flowing river
Taking you with the current
Not knowing where you are headed
But you know it is somewhere good
Hope is a bright light
Shining in the sky
No matter what time of day
Urging you on
Filling you with energy
Feels like you could fly to the moon
When you are on the edge of despair
Hope is there
Cheering you up
Telling you to continue
Showing you the way to happiness
When you feel split in two
Like your heart has shattered into a million pieces
Hope tells you what to do
Whispering with its wise words
In its soothing voice
It sparks a feeling inside you
Like a match being lighted
It flickers, then burns brightly
And there's an entire fire of hope
Burning inside you
With its warm glowing flames
Everything falls in place
Hope calms you
With its soothing words
And the gentle feel of its breath
As if it is standing beside you
Helping you continue on
Even though there is nothing there
You can feel its breath against your ear
And its softness pressing against you
You can hear its lulling voice
Like music to your ears
It sounds like birds chirping
And laughter
You can almost see its warm glow
And the bright lights in its eyes
With an encouraging smile
Smelling like gooey chocolate chip cookies
And juicy cherries
It walks beside you
It is like a dream come true
Like a lake of water to a man lost in a desert
Or a shimmering light in a dark cave
Always there for you
It never leaves your side
All your good memories
Seem to float around you
Circling your head
Depriving your mind of sad thoughts
If you feel hollow inside
Hope fills up the hole
With a newfound light
And once again you can feel it beside you
The feel of its skin
And the sound of its voice
Its wonderful scent
And its beautiful face
Even though there is nothing there
You feel filled with happiness
And hope surrounds you
Like a starlit chamber
Hope is always with you!
by Jocelyn Theresa Wright, age 9, June 14, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Glenn Logan
You know how you just get a feeling?At 8:10 a.m., Wednesday, July 14, 2010, I decided to take my phones into the bathroom with me. Rarely does anyone call me, much less at that hour, but…
I had just sat down on the throne when the home line rang. It was my friend’s wife, and I knew. “Glenn won’t be at the meeting tonight. He just died. It was so sudden. He coughed and started hemorrhaging from his mouth, and before the paramedics got here 15 minutes later, he was gone.”
Fifteen minutes later.
“How are you?” I earnestly answered, knowing she must be experiencing shock. She didn’t hear me. When I asked a second time, I knew she was in shock.
“His body’s in the other room.”
I hadn’t seen Glenn since June 18 when I picked him up to go see my hiking bud who’d had a stroke. On our journey to Memorial Hospital, I remarked at how great Glenn looked. Alive, vibrant, tossing sexual innuendo into the air like an active volleyball.
He’d been undergoing chemo for lung cancer early Tuesday afternoons and radiation weekdays at 4:00 for a couple of months and had recently completed the series. Vietnam’s Agent Orange and the dreaded cigarette.
He said, “I’m almost disappointed that I’m not going in for chemo anymore. The people there were so kind. Fact is, I looked forward to it every week.” He’d been going to Penrose Cancer Center that apparently had hired people lovers. Praise God.
On July 3, he responded to my meeting reminder: “I’m looking forward to seeing y’all!
Love, Glenn”
Due to life’s events, the group hadn’t seen him since April 15, except hiking bud Bob. In the hospital, Glenn asked for permission, which was granted, to lay his healing hands on Bob, who attributes his quick recovery to spiritual healing via Glenn.
Glenn knew people immediately, sensed what they needed, initiated energy. He was an honorary tribal member of some Native American tribe. Glenn joined them all, did it all. If there was a judgment, it wasn’t found in Glenn.
But I’m not saying Glenn was a saint. He wasn’t, and I’ll leave it at that. Every man has his opinion, his past, his life.
The night before Glenn passed, my aunt whom I earlier wrote about (her husband of 62 years had passed) called. “You have incredible talent,” she said. “I just found another piece you had written,” and she read it to me.
On March 31, 1996, I had written about the last time you see someone, to make it positive, because it might be the last time you see this person. As she read it, I was amazed at the profundity in its words. But most writers know that feeling when they arouse themselves out of the trance.
My final trek with Glenn was a good finale: "I love you."
On the night of our monthly IONS* meeting, we honored our friend. And while we felt his humor, his spirit, his insightful observations, we deeply missed his physical presence.
From Glenn, Sunday, March 28, 2010, 1:49 a.m.:
"Many of you (and friends from other milieux as well) have asked what I would have you do, regarding my impending demise (which could be measured in days, weeks, months).
"What I’d ask, I guess, is that you would remember the good and use it as confirmation of the rightness in your lives, while taking note of my mistreakes and using them to avoid similar mishaps in your own lives.
"I would ask for kind thoughts, and an occasional boot in the rear to remind me to avoid the maudlin and pointless drama.
"Above all, I would ask that you nurture your love and compassion for all of Creation, for each act of kindness builds (imo) to the critical mass that I believe will eventually carry everything into that transcendent future that I see on the horizon.
"Peace and Love, Glenn"
Glenn leaves six children and a wonderful wife on this earth.
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