Alaska

 

                 National Geographic magazine opened a world to me when I was a child. I didn't read the articles in print, yet the photographs were articles enough .  The photographs taught me about cultures and people and different places.  Two places especially captivated me---Alaska and Africa.  I wanted to visit these places.  The animals of Africa fascinated me in their different habitats.  The scenery of Alaska drew me to it in a way I didn't understand.  

               Although I wanted to go on Safari in Africa, I realized this was less likely than going to Alaska which, after all, was at least on the same continent where I lived.  When I learned a transAlaskan highway existed, I dreamed of driving it from my home in California. As life took me on this path and that, the dream of going to Alaska changed from driving the highway to "someday going to Alaska" in an unspecified way.  Time passed and passed and still, no specific plan to go to Alaska.  

          My son encouraged me to map my way on the Alaska Ferry system from Seattle.  While this seemed feasible, I was by then at an age where I was not excited about sleeping on deck nor sharing a room with someone I didn't know for the adventure.  Time passed and passed.  My 75th birthday was approaching. And still, no specific plan.

         My birthday card from my daughter was a 5 page print out of clues in clip art pictures.  As I went through them it became more and more apparent what she was saying.  She and my granddaughter and I were going to Alaska for my 75th birthday.  A specific plan. Even though she'd made reservations on a certain date with a specific ship, fate had other plans.  Original plans were cancelled, but rescheduled for the next year.

        And this year, the three of us flew to Seattle and cruised to Alaska. What a remarkable adventure.  A dream came true because my daughter remembered what was important to me since I was a child.  The memories of that trip are still settling in.  I remember the Naturalist on our ship in a presentation he was giving said, it may take you some time to process what Alaska has given to you.  I discover bits of it each day.  The solitude amongst thousands of people as we floated into Glacier Bay.  The mountains that each wore different personalities, each wove different stories. The air so pure I wanted to bottle it and bring it home.  The water calm and deep. The bluest of blue skies in the morning giving way to the clouds and rain of the afternoon.  The colors of the sunset.  The whales, the seals, the sea otters. Bits of glaciers floating by.  Collectively they speak to my soul in language I have not yet transcribed.  Thank you, Alaska, I knew I needed you.  I plan to return. I have a new specific plan.  Next year. We're already booked.  Perhaps by then I'll understand Alaska more.

Baseball Games at the Little League Field

 

                                               Fenway Park

      Baseball games at the Little League field.  I'd get on my bike and ride the two miles or so to the Little League fields.  I'd pass the tract houses with their similar differences and come to the gates of the piece of undeveloped property at the end of the road where two little league fields, complete with backstop, bleachers, and wooden fences sat as sentinels waiting for the games to begin. 

      When I got to the gates it became more difficult to ride my bike through the ruts and gravel of the parking lot. I'd make my way past the grandstand to the snack bar and ask the question, "Do you have anyone to announce or keep score yet?"  While the pay was the same to work in the snack shack--25 cents worth of whatever I wanted , the prestige was more in the booth behind home plate where I could announce the players and occasionally give some commentary or even keep score.  

     I'd perch on a bench behind chain link fence behind the plate where I could see how inconsistent the calls from the umpire actually were.  I couldn't say a thing.  I'd turn to my partner and widen my eyes or shake my head.  All the commentary that was needed.

    I loved to sit in the aerie and watch the game.  Most often I would keep official score for the game.  I didn't mind the tedious nature of marking the balls and strikes and sitting and observing.  I didn't worry about saying the wrong thing or having laughter erupt from the bleachers when an errant commentary filtered through the microphone.  I actually found it intimidating, though powerful, to have the microphone in front of me.  And in those times, I announced the names loudly, listening to my voice echo throughout the ballpark. 

    From up in the scoring box, six feet above the field, I easily observed the crowd.  Whole families cheered on their players. Sometimes the crowded shouted with excitement or grew silent as if a single entity. Up there I could see how straight the chalk lines were and see that the right fielder concentrated more than I thought he would.  Little escaped me.  The sights, the sounds, the smells of the ballpark.

    Around the outfield fence advertisements of sponsor's were posted.  Legend had it that if you hit a home run over a particular advertiser, you'd get something from them.  All eyes focused when the power hitters came to bat, hoping to see one of them knock a homer over the dead center field sign--Baskin Robbins.

    If I couldn't work in the broadcast booth where I could borrow phrases from Vin Sculley from time to time, I worked the scoreboard.  I did not want to ever work in the snack shack, stuck inside for the whole game!  To work the scoreboard I'd hang out on the other side of the centerfield fence and climb up to the catwalk on the scoreboard to put up runs for the inning.  Standing in center field and working the scoreboard was not prestigious at all. In fact, it was isolated.  Besides being so far from the action, there was no one to talk with, and it was often hot, hot, hot.  Sometimes, if the scoreboard was all that was available, I'd work half the game and then go to the snack shack and tell them I needed to leave.  Usually, my pay was then 10 cents worth of candy.  My choices were sheets of Dots and some Lick 'em Aid.  10 cents was not enough for a chocolate bar too.

     Whenever I think of being at the baseball field and keeping score, I smile.  I loved watching the guys play.  Wishing I could be out there with them like I was in pick up games at the park.  But, I felt important because I felt like I was watching over them.  The sky was always blue there, the grass was always green, the clouds were always white and puffy.  At least that's how it was in my memories.  And me? I was queen of the world.  No other girls allowed.  I was the queen of baseball.  A diamond was this girl's best friend.

     **not too messy for a first draft. I recognize a few clean revisions would be helpful---getting rid of all of the conditional verbs, for instance.  I think changing it all to present tense would be of benefit as well.  And yes, what a difference in the world to be able to buy all of that candy for 25 cents! 

   

Riding my Bike

                                           Yosemite, Half Dome and me : )
 1/14/06

               Riding my bike made me feel so free.  For a bit of an effort peddling, I'd go places in a flash.  The block I lived on growing up had curbs that sloped down to the gutter rather than being built up where I had to either get off my bike or thump down hard on my tires to get into the street.  My whole street was like a driveway!  Or, now I would think it was all handicap accessible for wheelchairs. I don't know why it was that way, it was the only block in the area that was. Maybe it was the first curb made and they didn't know how to do it, or the last curb and there wasn't enough concrete left.  But whatever, it was unique.  Kids from blocks on either side would come to ride their bikes or skate up and down wherever they wanted.  After a while, I stopped paying attention to our special curb, because I preferred to ride other places.

            Sometimes I'd go for a long bike ride and then go climbing in the hills.  Sometimes I'd go up to local stores and look through the window displays.  Sometimes I'd go to the park or the little league fields and check out the games.  My bike took me to freedom.

         I could ride my bike with no hands (frequently).  Sometimes I'd go fast and stand on the seat and hold onto the handlebars.  But that was very tricky.  One time I filled my tire too full and watched a huge bubble emerge on the wall of the tire.  As I continued to ride it the bubble grew larger and burst and instantly the tire went flat.  I flipped over the handlebars and fortunately landed in the grass. I was oh so cautious after that about putting air in my tires.  

        My bike sped me away from barking dogs that chased me.  I rode fast, put my legs up and coasted. The dogs finally gave up and I peddled on.

        My bike had a kickstand.  Using the kickstand was an art.  Balancing the turn of the front tire against the fulcrum of the kickstand was a necessity.  In soft dirt or sand it was nearly impossible not to lay my bike down and feel defeated.  I did always try for a few times before I gave up,

       Changing the tire of a bike was both more and less complicated than it is now.  More because the tires didn't pop off with the flick of a holder.  Less because there were not so many complicated gears.  Even if the bike was 3 speed, the chain wasn't so complicated. 

      It was important though to make sure the back wheel was oiled.  I didn't know why.  Maybe this kept the chain oiled? There was a small cap on the hub of the back wheel that periodically needed to be opened and some oil put in.  The oil came in a small can with a long tube.  Bike tires today don't have this.  Still am wondering what that was all about back then.

      One of the regular runs my bike took me on was to Thrifty Drugs to read the new magazines and comic books when they came out.  Thrifty's  was another library for me.  I'd sit on the stacks and read all the new issues and remarkably no one ever said anything to me.  My blue Schwinn bike would be parked by the door where I could keep an eye on it.  The front wheel was turned and the bike leaned into the kickstand. 

      Sometimes several bikes would be parked in front of a store.  All would be unlocked.  They'd be leaning gracefully against their kickstands, reminding me of horses parked at a hitching post.  And sometimes I'd pretend my bike was a horse.

      At other times I'd flip my bike over to balance on the handlebars and seat. I'd use the front wheel as the wheel of a ship as I imagined sailing away.  At other times that same configuration led me to be a popcorn maker.  I'd turn the peddles and the back wheel would spin.  With the baseball cards secured in the spokes with clothes pins, the sound was of popcorn.  Mickey Mantle? Why did I ever think you sounded like popcorn? If I left you in my card stack, today I'd be able to make quite a few dollars on you!

**Talk about wandering.  Welcome to my mind.  To revise it, likely I would make at least a couple of memories out of it and delve deeper into each.  There seems to be stories about the joy of the bike and stories about the practical nature of my bike.  But then there's that one about putting the oil into the back tire.  What's that all about?   Writing is definitely a work in progress and a process.

The Mush Pot

 1/12/06

Time passes.  Ideas come and go and I am now in need of a boundary.  Somehow 100 seemed right.  So, I'm attempting to write about 100 things or people I remember in my lifetime and write about each one in a day.  This will be in addition to my daily journal writing.  This is a writing experiment because right now, today, I don't feel like much of a writer--rather, someone who may have some stories to tell.  I'll start with this challenge to myself.  100 stories in 100 days. Kind of like the photographer who took one picture a day from Winter to Summer.  A challenge.  Let's see where it takes me.  Where to begin? So much calls to me now...

     The mush pot was a place no one wanted to be. For to be in the mush pot was a penalty.  It was isolation. You couldn't follow the gang and see the fun. What was dared was not seen.  To stay out of the mush pot you had to accept, and carry out the dare.

     The mush pot existed in a garage at my next door neighbor's house.  The gang of us would sit in a circle on the cold floor of the garage that felt comforting on a hot summer day or night.  Too hot to play baseball or hide and go seek.  Too hot to go to the park or ride our bikes.  Just the right temperature to play mush pot. Especially in the warm SF Valley evenings.

     Whoever successfully completed the last task got to call out the dare for the next person.  Some were relatively easy--run down the block and back, ask the ice cream man for free gum for all of us, kiss the girl or boy across the circle.  

      One time I was dared to knock on "old lady Retinger's" door and ask if she could come out to play.  The group hid behind the bushes, in front of the redwood fence that bordered her lawn.  For some reason Mrs. Retinger was a fearsome person to us.  There was some thought that she was a witch.  Her house was always dark and the porch light never on.  I cautiously made my way to the door knowing unseen eyes were watching me from both within and outside.  My heart pounded against my chest and exploded in my ears. My palms clammed up.  My mouth dried and my tongue clung to the roof of my mouth.  I hesitated.

      I wanted to turn and run.  The mush pot beckoned.  I had never been there before.  Maybe this one time wouldn't hurt. I looked across the street and there sat Phillip on the front floor of the lighted garage.  A forlorn glance in my direction beamed, "Coward".  I heard giggles in the bushes. The porch light flashed on. I froze in a strobe light of shadow.  The door opened a crack. "Who's out there?"

     I turned toward the light slowly.  "It's me, Mrs. Retinger. Teri."

     The door opened wider.  Mrs. Retinger stood before me wearing her blue housecoat.  "Well, what do you want dear?"

     Dear? Had I heard this correctly? Dear?  I was in! My destiny was sealed. A collective gasp from the bushes.  I had to follow through but I could add a twist. "I'm supposed to ask you if you can come out and play, Mrs. Retinger."

    "You want to know if old lady Retinger can come out to play?"

    I looked down.  She knew what we called her.  I felt embarrassed and ashamed and wished I were in the mush pot right now.  I'd just volunteer.  "Just you. Mrs. Retinger. Can you come out to play?"

    She laughed.  "My mommy won't let me."  She shut the door.

    I turned and skipped down the walkway and over to Phillip.  I heard the bushes rustling behind me as I passed.

    "Did you do it?" Phillip asked.

     "Yeah, Phillip, you're free.  But don't call her Old Lady any more.  She's got a mother, too."

     I sort of lost my enthusiasm for playing mush pot after that.  Hide and seek was a much more fun game. Or hit the bat. Or dodgeball. Or baseball.  Yeah, baseball, now there's a game.

**Not bad for a first draft.  So difficult not to revise as I went.  I did add one line for consistency in the story which took place at night.  "Especially in the warm SF Valley evenings".  With this addition I added place and time, helping the reader to more center the piece.

Television Tubes

                                Golf ball Couch (Boston Children's Museum)

1/12/06

     Who's going to tell them about the old days the television tubes that you had to test one by one at a tester at Thrifty Drugs?  Different configurations on the bottom of the tube that you had to puzzle and figure out to put in which plug.  Once you did that, you'd press the tester button.  It was like a geiger counter needle.  The needle would shoot up into the green 'good' or stay in the red.  In red, the tube needed replacing.  The tubes came in little boxes that you'd carry home and then replace in the back of your tv.  Sometimes all the tubes would be good and then..uh,oh...you'd have to replace the picture tube which was the mother of all tubes but the size of the father of all tubes.  You couldn't do that yourself, you'd have to send for a tv repair man or, send your tv away where it would mysteriously be repaired.

    Then you could watch the 10 or so channels that existed until the UHF stations were added which required a special antenna on your tv, not the huge V antennas on the roof of your house.  You could watch the channel until it went off at midnight or sometime in the night when a test pattern would appear.  The test pattern was a picture of an Indian Chief with some lines radiating from his head. In this current day of political correctness an Indian would never be used because somehow someone would figure out that was discriminatory. So, it's fortunate there are no longer test patterns and also fortunate that there's 100's of channels that never go off the air.  Gives us a huge variety of viewing pleasure.  I think tubes and the Indian pattern may have served a better purposes.

**This is a story in need of a revision for certain.  I was cringing as I typed it.    The immediacy of the "I" was replaced by the "you".  "you" doesn't work here because it's clear I mean "I".   Yet the bones of the story, about the differences in televisions then and now is important.  Below is a quick revision.

   One of my jobs was to ride my bike to Thrifty Drugs to test the television tubes when they needed to be replaced.  Thrifty, besides having a soda fountain where you could buy and eat apple cobbler with ice cream, also had a tube tester.  I rode around to the front entrance where the tube tester sat next to the cashier.  The first part of tube testing was to figure out which  socket to place the tube in.  Each tube had a different configuration on the bottom.  The tube tester had the female version of the configuration.  I liked puzzles, so I usually found the match quickly.

   I'd insert the tube into the proper place and push the tester button.  The machine reminded me of a geiger counter with a long needle that zoomed from stationary to someplace along a scaled spectrum.  If the needle stayed in the red zone, it would need to be replaced.  If it zoomed to the green zone, the tube was working properly.  To replace a tube I called the cashier who would unlock the cabinet and sell me the new tube in a small box I'd take home.  I'd replace the old one by pushing the new into the back of the tv.

   When all tested tubes were green, the picture tube was the problem.  The picture tube was massive and needed to be replaced by a tv repairman either in house or taken to a tv repair shop and returned.  The picture tubes were the most expensive, but not as costly as a new tv.  And, no same day service, meaning there would be no tv for several days.

   Once the tv was repaired, I could once again watch the 10 or so channels the tv carried.  To change the channel, I would stand in front of the tv and turn the channel switch until I found something I liked.  No remotes.  Several new channels were added with UHF.  This had a separate channel changer and a different antenna.  The UHF antenna sat on top of the tv, different from the huge V shaped antenna that sat on the roof for the regular stations.

   All tv stations didn't broadcast after a certain time at night.  If I turned on the tv in the middle of the night, all of the stations were broadcasting test patterns.  The test pattern was a profile picture of an Indian Chief with lines radiating from his head. There was a steady tone associated with a test pattern.

  Just as new understandings exist for many ideas previously not identified as discriminatory, the wrong headed use of the Indian Chief test pattern is a thing of the past. Another nod to forward movement through education?  Bye, bye tubes and test patterns, hello hundreds of channels that rarely stop broadcasting. Bye, bye Thrifty Drugs, but not bye bye to apple cobbler.  Anyone know where to get some?  

**Improvement, but still needs a bit of work, but I no longer cringe.

     

 

In the Rearview : )

      I don't want to live life in the rearview, but sometimes the view is better from that direction.  Grass is always greener in the future.  Past and future.  But what about the present?  This is creative nonfiction, memoir writing if you will.  Recollecting the past, anticipating the future, and the writer is in the middle.  The past gives us material, reflection in the present can lead to understanding in the future.  

     Each of us have our past which shapes us, our present which defines us, and our future, the dreaded or deeply anticipated unknown.  What lingers longest is the past.  We remember what we remember how we remember it today.  Writing our memories is a way of making meaning of our lives.  Writing our memories is what connects us to universal themes.  I haven't lived your life, but I have lived mine and I have my own stories of love and loss, triumph and learning, doing this and that, feeling joy, sadness, possibilities.  Through our memories we not only connect with ourselves, but share with others in what we do and don't understand about life.  Often it is  easier to comprehend life when we visit through the lens of someone else--  as evidenced in literature, spoken stories, movies, art.  I and Thou.  

   I want to peek in the rearview so I don't miss the sunsets in unanticipated places.  I want to take the material I have gathered over decades of writing and flesh it out and place it in public view.  I offering to Thou.  What do we have in common? What makes one life unique?  

   In 2006 I was emerging from a deep depression triggered by the sudden death of my beloved.  I knew writing to be my helpmate, and I wrote and wrote in journals, filling them with fingernail grips on each day.  But journal writing, while necessary, was not what I longed to do.  My creative spark lie dormant.  Where was the kindling?

    As a way of holding myself accountable to blend past with present, I decided to write about one person or thing or idea from my childhood for 100 days.  I was inspired by an artist's exhibition I wandered into in Wyoming when we were looking for a bathroom break on the way back from Yellowstone.  Jim Brandenburg took one photograph a day from the Spring to the Winter's Equinox.  I thought writing one short piece a day would be easier than CHASING THE LIGHT. Some days it may have been, other days not so.

   I'll challenge myself again.  I'll put those ideas to work in this blog.  One a day.  I'll write them down as I did, and in current time.  From the far past, to the near past, to the present.  I'll be eager to explore what I knew then, and what I know now.  And, how all of this may help for the future.  For my writer self.

Emerging from the Pandemic

 

       Time, here it is, there it goes, now it's here.  Pandemic time.  Two years of hard shut down, cautious reawakening, tentative emergence.  Mask always in my back pocket even now.  Shots up to date, one new one pending to boost for variants.  And yet, I'm finding my way back.  I weigh the odds that the CDC espouses.  Outdoors, not crowded, indoors, no longer than 15 minutes, mask stays in pocket. Variations to the rules depend on who I'm with, where I'm at.  If we all need to be vaccinated to be in there, I'll stay longer without a mask.  Senior Center.

      I've flown to Boston and back from Los Angeles, mask never removed except for sips of water.  I've flown from Burbank to Phoenix and back, same scenario.  Was I lucky or not exposed, or were my antibodies working?  I was safe in any event.

     Point is, last year at this time, I wouldn't have even ventured anywhere without a mask.  Still wear one now in the grocery store.  So, I'm a cautious emerger, but it's about time.  I use my hand sanitizer whenever I go somewhere and get back into my car.  When I get home, I wash my hands.  

     My way of thinking has changed.  I'm going to be wary, but not fearful.  So far, it's worked.  As flu and Covid seasons intertwine this Fall/Winter, I'll be in a mask more than out, I suspect.  Still don't want to tempt fate with either illness.  I don't want to play on the freeway.  I don't mind staying home.

     It's been two years to get to this point.  I'll make it a soft landing.  One day soon I'll write about how the pandemic changed my life, and society in general.  Stay tuned, I'm back!

Social Isolation in the Time of Covid 19

     Up until last week I was a quite busy retired Senior Citizen.  I not only babysat one of my granddaughters four days a week while her Mommy worked, but I taught a Creative Writing class every week, and a Journaling and Conscious Aging Class once a month at our local Senior Center. I also taught a Creative Writing Class at a retreat center once a month.   I still had time to enjoy my friends and read and watch tv and do all of those other kinds of normal things.  But then came the non-normal times that sent panic and fear through populations and a unity to quell the rising tide of an unknown virus.  And, I find I have a lot more free time.

    I am at least three parts that can move my focus as I choose to socially isolate because I am of that certain age.    I value history and the unique perspective of people who live it.  Documenting history from my view may be helpful further on down the line, or perhaps, even today.  Who knows?  Secondly, I am a writer.  In teaching all of these classes and watching my granddaughter (which is joyful), I have moved away from understanding that.  Thirdly, I have various backgrounds in therapy and education which inform me.  All of these parts might coalesce and offer universal themes.  I'll test it out.

        Writing will be helpful to me in this time of uniqueness and hopefully, helpful to others.  Perhaps we can start a discussion that is apolitical and kind as well as thought provoking.  We may be isolated in person, but not in a created community.

Because of a seeming divide in our country, I’m hopeful that our all being in this time together to fight the spread of a disease,  may push a reset button on this division.   There are entrenched concepts on both sides, unwillingness to move along a spectrum.  Everyone speaks as if they are an ‘expert' from their point of view.  Some of us know more than others in certain areas,  but disallowing opinions and a desire to figure out how to build a bridge over any chasm, causing everyone to shout to be heard, is not likely the endless loop that is beneficial to all.  

   And so my thought that perhaps these attitudes that have us on opposite sides of a chasm may allow us to narrow it to the benefit of all as we work together to stop the spread of this virus.    Once we tackle this, we will not likely kumbaya away, but perhaps have a start at exploring our differences in ways that move us forward. This is my hope.

Sunlight and Shadow

              Over the bridge above troubled water, out of the darkness into the light.  The steady clip clop of the horses echo in the covered bridge, built in 1896. Around us the sturdy beams and braces of wood protect us from the heat of the day.  The churning water below sends cooling mist through the slats.  We bump and sway with the rhythm of the carriage.
          I ponder how life is like the carriage ride, pulled by two sturdy and sure footed horses, along the dusty heat infused trail, on the precipice above the banks of the raging river, through the well-constructed bridge, into the sunlight from the shadows.
          I ponder.
          It is.
          Yes.

And, I did it! : )

     It's out in the world now rather than occupying space in a drawer or in the cloud or on my desktop.  The very act of finally announcing its printed existence has energized my writer self.  So, here I am writing.  I'd forgotten for a while, weighed down by both worry and ultimately joy, that I am a writer.  So much interferes with that realization.  Life, mainly, and the choices I make to do this instead of that.  Responsibilities, sometimes, for what I've said I will do and believe that I must.  That inner critic gnawing at my self confidence.  The psychological black hole of being and nothingness where what's it all about abuts who cares, in the end causing inertia. 
     And yet, here I am.  Proud, not boastful.  I wish you would read it, I hope you will read it, it's a good story if you like those kinds of stories.  If you take a chance, I hope you will enjoy it.  I've researched it, followed the characters where they led, made a few subtle points regarding prejudice, family, women's abilities, war.  But, even if you do not read it, it is now out in the world, a culminating act of bravery and hope on my part.  I am a writer after all, and that's what we do.  We write.   It's not about acceptance necessarily, but possibility.  Although, I'll also take acceptance. : )

What a Month!

      We've all had those "what a months!".  Times when things were so far out of our control that we understood how little control we have over life.  We don't like to reflect on that usually as we go about our days thinking, "I've got this".  And, to the best of what we know, we do.  At least we believe we do.  But then there are those months that tug on our understanding of life.  Such was this past four week period, a month in time, if not a particular month.
     My daughter was in her 33rd week of pregnancy and had just decided to stop working.  She had not been feeling well for some time and her carriage was such that she was in the final week of pregnancy.  She developed gestational hypertension, her feet and hands were swollen, she lumbered.  On one trip to the doctor for normal monitoring of herself and the baby, she also decided to make another appointment to check out her swelling.  (So confusing why she needed to go to an internist for this, but that's the system).  The internist, in consultation with an obstetrician decided she needed to go to Triage.  Thus began the week, began the month that was.  While she was sent home that day to monitor her blood pressure and urine, she was back in the hospital in a couple of days for an 8 day stay they ended in an emergency c-section when they could not get her blood pressure under control.
    Piper Terese was born on November 2 and spent the next six days in the NICU.  Before Piper went home my daughter was sent home and then back into the hospital because of her blood pressure.  Both she and Piper finally went home together just a week ago.  Since then it's been my joy to dispense TLC and Mom and Grandma hugs.  My mother used to say "a bad beginning is a good ending".  My mother had lots of sayings, but this one applies here. 
    I've been pondering the why of these happenings to my daughter.  I know she will take a while to process all that has gone on.  In that processing I'm guessing she may turn the events on herself in some way, as if she could have done something differently.  She could not.  Lesser women would have caved at all of the challenges she's been through in these later stages of her pregnancy and mostly in the past month of her hospitalization, major surgery, coming home to care for her newborn daughter.  She amazes me with her strength and resolve.  She is an incredible woman and an awesome mother.  Piper is so lucky to be her daughter.  I am so fortunate to be her Mother.
  I had five pregnancies, four live births and a miscarriage.  I tripped through them without a hitch other than some queasiness and tiredness.  I rue my daughter's experience in so far as she did not have the great good joyful time of the normalcy of pregnancy.  I am grateful that I did not experience the challenges she faced, and overcame. 
  I realized the seriousness of what she was going through more than she did (thankfully).  Thank heavens for the competent doctors who knew what to do in the emergency situation.  Because of them, and my daughter's resolve, I did not lose my most precious daughter.  She has been my joy and I know that Piper will be hers. 
  Thanksgiving is next week and I am so thankful for many things, not the least of which is my understanding of how fiercely I love and how little I can control in life. Being reminded of this over the past short time period and living in the moment to moment has been both stressful and stress free. As I process and navigate what was, I live in what is.  My hope, my daughter, my granddaughter, life.  I've got this!

Shelter from the Storm

    Shelters have structures.  The story of the three little pigs and the big bad wolf offers us a metaphorical glimpse into the kind of structure that keeps us safe.  As a person, the structure that keeps me safe is my solid self, who oversees my internal family system.  Knowing who I am, what I am capable of, what my frailties are, as well as my place and space in the universe contribute to this solid self and allow me to function.  As a leader, whether as a parent, a friend, a teacher, a writer, or a therapist, coming from this solid grounding allows me help others in both expected and unanticipated ways.  I can both model and help in demonstrating how structure (boundaries) can lead to feelings of safety which in turn becomes security, a shelter.
    For the shelter of society,  structure is often found in institutions, including government.  The government must mirror a solid self, knowing who it is, what it is capable of, its frailties, and space and place in the universe to connect to its individual members.  In our society, government currently is not operating from a solid sense of self, at least the executive branch.  That branch is lead by me, me, me, it's all about me mentality.  One could, I suppose argue, that at least the tweeter in chief knows who he is.  But does he? He is the man who is called the President of the United States, not the man who shouts "you're fired" on tv.  He does not have absolute authority to do whatever he wants in the government as he does in the corporations that he owns.  We citizens are not his employees.  We are his employer.  The President works for the people of America, all of us, each of us, regardless if we voted for him or not.  He is our representative to the world at large in this time and this space and this place and he is an embarrassment in that regard.  His tweets are ludicrous and self-serving and often peppered with incorrect information.  He fires the seeds of dissent through an automatic weapon, dividing us as a nation.  I am incredulous, and have been since Inauguration Day 2017.
    When I am having a difficult time understanding my own self I know I need the help of another mind to work through the issues I have that are preventing that.  But first, I must come to that knowledge.  For institutions and their leaders, I think that is a Herculean task.  Yet, the introspective life is especially important for the elected leaders who allegedly speak for us.  Some do, some don't, and whether they do or not is how closely they are in touch with the understanding that to provide shelter for society, they must think of all of its members, not only themselves.

Amendments

      In the wake of yet another school shooting, this time in Florida, seventeen dead, others injured, I feel compelled to write.  Writing is talking and action is needed but with the writing comes the reading and putting into the universe the energy for the action.  Writing is a step from the thoughts and prayers that while another intentional step in the universe, is less put-it-out-there.  Although, when the event happened, when I watched the aftermath, especially the video of the mother yelling at Trump that he could do something, I cried and I did offer thoughts and prayers.  A first step.  I watched the NY Times GOP Guide to Mass Shootings and shook my head.  A second step.  I thought about past shootings and even potential shootings and wondered how I could help.  What could I say? A third step.  I'll know what I say, because I now will say it.
     I never have owned a gun, although I have shot a bb gun and some kind of pistol when my neighbor took me to the shooting range.  When my husband worked for the police department in the 70's and he brought his gun home, I made sure he stored it high, in a secret turn around book shelf we had, well out of reach of our sons.  I didn't let my sons have toy guns, except in the summer in the form of water pistols.  I figured they had an index finger and thumb if they wanted to play shoot. When I was a child I did play war with a friend up the block who had all of the play things from toy guns to helmets to backpacks.  In my imagination I lobbed grenades and shot up enemy lines. So, I have some familiarity with guns.  Some.
     I understand people have guns for protection (who are they kidding?) as well as hobbies.  Some like to shoot at the range, others to shoot for sport and, like fishermen, dress and eat the animals they shoot.  I have no negative thoughts about people who have guns and use them (or potentially use them) for those reasons.  It's just not for me.  But neither is skydiving or windsurfing or welding or running marathons.  Not that there are too many comparisons across these not-for-me's.
    I believe in the first amendment even though I don't always agree with what people say.  Still, I defend the right to say it.  No brainer.  I don't have to agree to understand the right.  I believe in the second amendment, even though I don't own guns.  Although, and here's a big difference, way back when a gun was a one shot item, often not accurate.  But I'll not debate that.  Let's suspend belief and think the intention was you have a right to own a gun, no matter the potential for killing.  As time evolves, perhaps owning even a nuclear gun will be legitimatized. Ridiculous or foreshadowing? What is the limit?  And now we have the problem to address.  Not do you have a right to own a gun, but what type of gun do you have a right to own?
    For me, weapons of mass destruction in the gun sense are guns that no individual should be permitted to own, nor have access to privately.  You want to take target practice?  Pistol or rifle? No automatic weapon.  No.automatic.weapon.  Oh, you have to reload to often? Whoopsie.  Zen target practice.  You want to hunt? No.automatic.weapon.  You want to be able to eat the animal, not pulverize it.  No.automatic.weapon.  Try a bow to show your real skill.
   Even without automatic weapons changes are still needed to keep guns off the streets, out of the hands of children, out of the hands of mentally ill.  So much need to restore our society to a society not rooted in fear and terror.  We will lose the opportunity to come together as a nation to mourn another school shooting when we lose easy access to all types of weapons and automatic weapons are banned.  Thoughts and prayers are an empty check written on a failed bank.  Our lawmakers must step away from the gun lobby as an addict steps away from drug of choice and enact real gun control laws.  Not blaming shootings on mental health issues, which are separate.  Mental health needs must be addressed.  Gun control issues must be addressed.  Our society deserves better.  Our children deserve a safe place to be every day in school.  EVERY DAY.

Stuff

      Rainy day yesterday.  My plans early on were to go to the movies, but as the day progressed, the movies were not in my thoughts.  I spent some time going through one of the overstuffed closets as a precursor to getting rid of stuff.  I have a lot of stuff.  Stuff I collected with my husband before he died.  Stuff my husband collected.  Stuff I've collected since.  Under the umbrella of stuff there is good stuff, interesting stuff, useful stuff, and then just plain crap.  Why am I keeping this kind of  crap.  I came across some stuff that is salable but I'm not sure how to sell it, nor if it will sell.
    I took pictures of some of the stuff I think I might sell.   The dead body decanter, for example.  Maybe get $20 for it if I can find the correct place to post it.  Then there's the sports cups collected over the years.  Not really post on ebay types, but maybe a garage sale will net me 50 cents each? In any event, stuff needs to go.
    This doesn't even include the books I have.  Books and books and books.  I think I'll try to sell the first editions in case anyone wants them, but what to do with the rest?  Donate them for library sales, perhaps?  Maybe leave them around town with a note inside...pass it on...
    Thing is, when it comes to books, or really, any of the stuff, well, most of the stuff, it's hard to say goodbye.  These are part of my life, things I've enjoyed or we've enjoyed.  Things that were going to make us some money in our retirement years.  Now, I don't see that happening.  Should have invested in gold.
     I look at all of this stuff and see dollar signs, frivolous purchases.  I mean, they weren't at the time, but now when understanding the difference between stuff and money, I judge my younger self.  I could have had a lot more actual cash.  To do what with though?  How much money do I really need?  I'm comfortable in so many more ways than so many people.  I am entirely grateful to what I do have--roof over my head, food to eat, a means of transportation.  So why am I concerned?  I'm putting something on the stuff and selling/getting rid of  the stuff that is more than about money and opportunities lost to be like Scrooge McDuck and swim in my pool full of money.  What is it?
     Where once happiness and pride of ownership enveloped the stuff, now it drips with memories of what was once.  Each book, each collectible has its own story, and it is the story that I do not want to lose.  But, how can I?  Memories randomly enter my mind frequently, uninvited, but welcomed.  I know the memories that the stuff holds can revisit as well in the pool of memories.
      To keep in some way so that I can recall at will, I can always take pictures.  So, the solution to the holding of memories is a fairly easy one.  There is something deeper, something more I need to ponder.  Perhaps as I come to understand it, I will also find it easier to divest myself of the stuff.   I'll let you know : )

Distance to Empty

        I noticed my car's odometer yesterday when I turned it on to return home after another great session with the creative writing group I facilitate.  9999 and holding.  I've had the car over a year and I'm only now reaching this milestone.  Demonstrates how much of a homebody I've become.  And, this even includes two vacations---to Yosemite and Mendocino from Los Angeles.  In my commuting to work days I would have reached this level months earlier.  Even in my commuting around this valley in earlier days, I would have reached this level months earlier.  I just don't get around much any more...well in my car.
      This morning when I sat down to write, I noticed the additional information on the odo.  I was not moving, going 0 mph.  I was sitting in park, and I had 96 miles to go before the car was empty.  Is there a message in the picture? 
       I've felt rather stuck in the past few months, as if I am not moving.  I am, indeed, parked in the past and not feeling the possibilities in the future.  Okay, odo, I get it.  I still have some distance to go before empty.  For my car, 96 mi to empty depends on how I drive.  It is the minimum I will get if I tool around town in stop and go traffic.  If I head out on the highway, looking for adventure, and whatever comes my way, well, I find the distance to empty will actually go up as I get better mileage on the open road at a steady speed. 
      I take at least two ideas from this.  One, obviously, head out on the highway.  Two, go at a steady speed.  Perhaps not full speed ahead, but ahead.  Let's say on the open highway my car gets 30 mph (which is the minimum it does).  This might up the distance to empty to 115 miles.  My car, when full, notes the distance to empty is about 350 miles.  115 is approximately a third of that distance. So, if I push the analogy envelope, the metaphor envelope, I see this as approximately a third of a tank of life.  That's a ways to go still.  God willing, in good health.
    In that creative writing class yesterday I wrote a kind of eulogy to my writing, a resume of my writing life over the years.  It was a strange piece, but I realized that it was a kind of way of building myself up as a writer.  I wrote of the poems and essays and short stories and books that have been birthed through my creative process and how they hide in boxes and drawers awaiting light.  I vowed to give it to them, to bring them a place in the world that is no longer hidden.  I want to continue my daily blog writing, if it serves no one but me.  Still, it is in the world.
     I joined a writing class online and my first assignment is to write a 55 word story.  It's still wandering around in my mind.  It's a good exercise to limit and to look at words.  I wonder how skilled I am as a writer.  Prolific, yes.  Skilled? My inner critic debates.
     I think there is some sort of interesting connection to looking at my odometer yesterday,  an uncommon occurrence, what I previously wrote in class before I looked at my odometer, and how it hadn't left my mind and became my muse this morning.  I don't profess to understand the connection, I do, however, observe and note its presence.  I'm still trying to figure out life.  In my odometer metaphor, the learning for me is, I have miles to go before I sleep.

A Walk in the Rain : )

     California Sunshine is her name.  She's been a part of my life for just a little over a year and we've had some adventures together.  I hope to have many more.  Today I thought would not be one of them, but it was.
      When I awoke this morning it was a dripping rain.  Nothing too heavy, but more than a mist.  By the time I actually got up and had my breakfast it had stopped.  I checked the weather report and it indicated the rain would commence at 10:00.  It was 9:00.  I hitched Cali up to her harness, we had an hour for a walk that usually lasted between 30 and 45 minutes.  All's well.
      Cali moved along briskly this morning, usually she sniffs here and there more intently.  I thought it might have to do with the rain and the fact that no one was out walking.  Perhaps the usual canine track leavers had not passed by owing to the weather, or, it was just the wet that snuffed their tracks out.  In any event, I knew we had it nailed!
      When we arrived at the baseball field in the park I noticed, across the park, a large German shepherd standing next to an SUV.  Then I noticed that the SUV was a sheriff's car.  I must have just missed him exercising his dog on the field.  I would NOT have mentioned to him about his dog being off leash.  I knew he had control of his dog!  Ironically, after my walk, our adventure, when I was sitting at home I heard a constant th-thump of a helicopter and went online to find out that a suspect was barricaded after he stabbed a deputy.  In my watching of the news here and there, I saw video of the canine unit arriving.  I knew the dog had his exercise that morning!
     Cali and I trod our usual path to the top of the park.  No one else was in the park until we reached the top playground where a couple and their young child were playing in the playground.  We exchanged good mornings and I proceeded back down the path.  I was walking on the balance beam when the rain started.  Pouring, heavy steady rain.  I glanced at my watch: 9:30.  Last time I'd trust the weatherman.
      I finished the balance beam and we continued down the path.  I started to walk more quickly.  This is when Cali paid attention to the liquid sunshine falling on her.  She twisted on the harness, biting it, her indication that she was nervous.  I turned her around and kept walking.  She pulled to run away, but we would not outrun the rain!  Then I realized this was the first time we had taken a walk in the rain.  As a small puppy she lived a lot of her life in it last year in the backyard when we went out to potty, but it had been months since rain had touched her. 
      After a few steps from the course correction, Cali decided she was getting too wet.  Now, a series of attempts to shake off the water.  Every five steps.  Stop, shake, trot, trot, trot, trot, trot, stop, shake!  By this time I'd pulled on my hood and was enjoying the rhythm of the rain bouncing off.  I watched it bead up on my new jacket like on a finally waxed car.  Cali must have decided she was used to the wet, because her attention now turned to the puddles we were walking through.
      Usually Cali walks with her nose down inhaling the scents from the ground, in search of interesting leavings (mushrooms, poop piles, kleenex).  Now her tongue lashed out at the puddles, as if she could capture all the scents in liquid form.  We continued our walk.
      Pulling, attempting to run, biting the leash, shaking off the wet, drinking all the puddles faded into the past as we made our way down the home stretch of the our street.  She strutted in the rain, a veteran now.  No longer did I need to convince her that as a golden retriever she inherently loved the water.  She at least could tolerate it!  Another new adventure.  Check!  I love seeing the world in new ways through the eyes of my California Sunshine!

The Land of Could Be

     I bought a set of oracle cards.  I've never worked with them before, but I'm usually up for something otherworldly.  I am, because I don't know.  I have questions, some of which have to do with interconnections with forms of reality.  I like to think I know something of reality, but I admit I am uncertain.  I try to be open to different ways of learning and being.  i try to live in the land of Could Be.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  It's not the most comfortable of lands in which to live.  Uncertainty is something I do not like at all.  But, on those days when I have my solid self (more days than not, thankfully), I dabble in trying to understand the land of Could Be.  It's not the land of possibilities in the sense of life is hell here, so there must be, might be, could be something better.  It is the land of not knowing and of seeing a spectrum of possibilities...the land of Could Be.
   Occasionally I'll ask a question and read the Oracle Card.  My question of today, not too tightly formulated, had to do with where my life is leading.  The card meandered in generalities for several paragraphs and ended with an idea that I velcroed.  Basically the notion is that I  do not find success in an end, but in a journey.  Likely why I go on so many of them.  Not necessarily physical journeys in travel, but relationship journeys, inner journeys.  And yes, I enjoy them, therefore finding success in process over product.
   I thought about this idea in relationship to my writing.  I am finishing revising a book and will soon be in the end, the now-what phase.  What will I do with it now?  Uncertain.  I have been satisfied in the process of revision, but this new phase leads to competition, and this is not my area of expertise.  I can perhaps think of it as a new journey, but, that will be a topic for another day.
   Oracle cards are an interesting form of connection.  With what, with whom, this I don't know.  But I do think there is something to being open to this type of connection.  To me it heralds the universe and its connection to the beings within it, whomever we are.  One day more will be known, more will be clear.  This may occur sooner than later by viewing success as process, not product.  By being open to the land of Could Be.

Routines and Surprises

            Most days I take my dog for a walk up through the local park.  The whole walk is close to two miles.  I meet interesting people from time to time and a few regulars here and there.  I am a friendly person and appreciate friendliness in others.  I am intolerant of people who have their dogs off leash, as if the park is their own backyard.  I will say something to those people about how it is important for the comfort of all of us that your dog be on a leash.  My most amusing encounter was the time a man's large dog came running for my golden retriever.  I wasn't sure if we were to be lunch or all would go well.  The man chased his dog yelling, "Hunter, come, Hunter, come."  Hunter's point of focus was my dog.  When Hunter arrived he sniffed around and satisfied, moved on, his owner running behind him yelling, "Hunter, come!"  When he passed I said, "That's why we have leashes”. His reply, "I don't need a leash." 

 I chuckled at that for a bit and, apparently, am still.  Then there have been the encounters where the owner of the leashed dog says, "Oh, he's friendly," and I allow my dog Cali, who loves people and dogs, to greet the other dog.  When the other dog snarls and barks and I pull Cali away, I say, "I guess not too friendly."

Today I started out on my walk and was stopped by my neighbor and we stood and talked for ten minutes or so just catching up.  Pleasant chat.  I continued on to the park.  As Cali and I reached the baseball field of the park and we walked across like we usually do, a dog came bounding towards us dragging a leash.  I stopped.  I noticed  the dog was a puppy.  Behind her came a man running and calling her name.  Behind him  three young girls also running and calling her name headed towards us.  The man, obviously a body builder, who wore a sleeveless Superman shirt that displayed not only arm but chest muscles, was quite apologetic as he untangled his puppy from my dog's leash.  He took the puppy away and the young girls arrived to ask to pet my dog. 

 As the man took down a soccer net near the other end of the field, the puppy escaped again and joined us.  Two of the the girls talked about how my dog looked just like theirs.  The other girl, the owner of the 4 month old lab puppy, talked about her other dogs at home.  We talked about dogs in general and our puppies in particular as Cali received a lot of love from the young girls. They were very sweet and friendly.  After several minutes, I told them to have a good day, they responded in kind.  Cali and I continued our walk.  

As we did, I thought about what a nice encounter with the girls we had.  Such positive energy between the girls and me and the dogs.  I thought about missing working with kids and how uplifting they are.  Such a random encounter made my day.  In all of the negative news and serious situations in this world, much of it brought on by poor leadership, this little piece of Americana gives me hope for the future.  Children are our future.  We must work to leave them a world that bends towards positivity, that preserves the natural world, that points to all that human beings have in common...like talking about pets in the middle of a baseball field on a random Saturday morning.