Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Romanticizing...


My house is old. It is not Victorian old, or 1920’s old, which may have lent it some class, it is just old. Built in 1978 it clings valiantly to a steep hill, facing upwards as if looking where it had been and hanging on by sheer will power.


I love so much about it. It is surrounded by tall trees. Oaks, poplars and maples surround the property creating a cozy green hued nest. Flowering bushes have been strategically placed over the years to try to create some kind of permanent screen between me and the closest neighbors under the canopy. In the spring a riot of fuchsia and violet ring the back while white dogwoods and stunning pink Japanese magnolia blossoms adorn the front. In the summer hundreds of lilies and iris and Asiatics flower along the borders inviting hummingbirds and butterflies to stop and stay awhile. 

The ivy and honeysuckle wage war against my trees and I fight them every year. Ripping out their tenacious vines, pulling them off of my trees and away from my house, cursing them at the same time I breathe deeply of their scents and marvel at their beauty.  The fall is heady with roses and gardenias, the Indian summer days of a Georgian autumn making their aromas heavy and permeating. Birds and squirrels fight for the best nesting spots, both of them crowded in due to the disappearing forest in this now busy corridor. I have an overabundance of both, the racket they make is ridiculous sometimes, the squirrels pelting my house with acorns and the birds singing on the porch rails.

The house has huge windows in every room, a lovely fireplace and is cozy and welcoming…to a point…
My kitchen is hideous, smaller than the walk in closet of most new houses being built. Counter top and cabinets seem to have been forgotten entirely during the design and construction and just tossed into a dark corner as an afterthought. When I first moved in it had the original green and gold linoleum and blue and gold wallpaper. I shudder at the thought. When I move an appliance now and see the linoleum I stifle a scream at the reminder of what it once was.

The bathrooms are ridiculously small and all three bedrooms are the same size. The closets are tiny, 2x6, and had lost their doors long before I claimed them as my own. The living and dining room combo (how easily being here allows me to slip into the 70’s vernacular!) does not have a single wall without doors or windows or fireplace and so arranging furniture is always will it fit, not will it look nice.

All of these things worked for me for years because it was close enough to walk to stores and banks and bus stops. My children walked to school which allowed them to participate in activities that this car-less mother could never say yes to before moving here. They hated the walk, hated the schools, hated the neighborhoods because they were contrary children who did not realize that while far from perfect this house allowed us to live a much more normal life. As they grew up and out and made their own way the house did not become too big and empty, it became Mom’s House. I babysat when I could, I entertained in my beautiful backyard, I joined a gym I could walk to and visited the newly built library and settled into a lovely existence. I laughed when I heard the term empty-nester, wondering what in the world did we do all of this for if it isn't to see the children fly away?  

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

T(hanksgiving) Minus 2, 2012

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving dawns cloudy and dim. The leaves take forever to drift from the top of the trees, landing with a ridiculously soft thud on the leaf-brother covered ground. Sometimes they don't even make it, being caught half ways down by a log jam on a forked branch and making drifts of fall colors form a canopy lower than the natural arc of limb against sky. The birds are somnolent, no rustling, no joyous song of rebirth on this new day, just an occasional muted peep from some low slung russet and golden leaf shrouded bush.

My house is quiet as a tomb and almost as dark. Broad porches block the first and last sun of the day, which is fine when it is so bright ones eyes pour water like Niagara Falls, not so good on a dark and somber November morn when one is trying to track down their motivation.

Where the hell did I leave it? It took me so long to develop it in the first place. Having grown up in a family of tradition I was happy to just ride along and eat my mom's turkey and cornbread stuffing. We would arrive 'en masse' around noon or one, Pyrex casserole dishes in hand, dressed nicely though not formally. The cousins would collide and explode out of the house into the yard with footballs and pets and bicycles. Their meeting, their seeing each other was like a nuclear reaction, 4 kids sounding like 8 and moving about so that they seemed to be number much higher. Parents sighed in relief, watched them run for a minute and then nestled into the kitchen or living room, drink in hand and relaxed for the first time probably in weeks. For the next few hours the kids were entertained, we were surrounded by people we didn't have to prove a damn thing to and life was good and as it should be.



Conversation went from the kids to work, from funny books and movies to politics (people weren't so rabid then and rational discussions were still possible). From gossip (bless his/ her heart), to the food and back to the kids again.

Being a Holiday we often had brothers and sisters from out of state with their wives and husbands and children in tow. Random cousins of my parents and once or twice semi-strangers that had no place to go for the day. Everyone seemed to be welcome and sometimes the characters were a great source of entertainment, not just the year they were there but for years after. 'Remember when' was the favorite way to start conversation once we moved to the table and more than once we all fell out into laughter so deep our ribs hurt after.

My dad took it on it on himself that day to clear the table and do the dishes. He is a depression era baby and cannot leave anything on his plate or anyone else's for that matter. We would hoot and holler and tease him about being the human garbage disposal while he scowled and said it was just to be nice, to help my mother, which, regardless of the reasoning behind it, it did.

Swollen with food and warmed by wine or whiskey we would retire to the living room to watch a new movie with the kids or to play games, Trivial Pursuit being a favorite. The laughter continued, the love flowed and the night wore on into its deepest hour.

We would straggle out, kids filthy and exhausted, parents sated and sleepy and wend our way home, another year in the books. They were all perfect Thanksgivings.

My mother passed in 2004 and with her went those magical Holidays, the love and warmth and bonhomie we all cherished. I have tried and tried to re-create it but it is impossible. I don't know what magic she wielded that allowed us all to forget feuds and heartache and poverty and loneliness and envy and greed and fear and sadness that day.  I know I for one felt safe with her, always, she was the one that took care of business, took care of me and slayed my bogey-men, at least in my mind, but what was she to the others? Why can't we retrieve that special feeling she seemed to endow without meaning too. without any effort apparently at all?

I love my family to death, all of them even when I want to slap the bejeezes out of them. That may not be a politically correct expression of love but it is a true one. I want them to surround me, to let go and relax and forget all of the petty things that haunt us everyday. To let me help them carry the burdens of love and hate and fear and sadness at least for that short while so they can know again the feeling that comes only from family loving family, together.

Just thinking about those days restores me, sitting at the right hand of my mother on that day for years and years and years while she smiled and laughed and blushed and basked in the lives she had created and maintained and nurtured to adulthood out of sheer force of will. I am ready to roll up my sleeves, to bake, to roast and broil and boil and frost. I am ready to wipe down walls and sweep walkways and get out the kids movies and games for the adults, to uncork a bottle and toast the good Lord for all the bounty in my life. I will do so for myself, for my children and for anyone else that wants to grace my table.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

My blast from the (hardly) past! "Thanksgiving" My favorite Holiday!

Seed Pearls, Swine's Ears: Thanksgiving: Thanksgiving is one holiday that is uniquely American. It is so ingrained in our culture that, even though the story of pilgrims and Indians...

Monday, November 12, 2012

Living the Van Gogh Life


I was sitting out on the front porch yesterday evening with my husband. He was pointing out beautiful birds in our yard which I was pretending to see.  Red birds, blue birds, buntings and starlings and thrush moved from pine to feeder to oak to bath and back to feeder again. I could see the motion when they moved from one place to the other. The titmouse has a way of fluttering its wings when it moves about that I can hear from 50 feet away. It is like a humming bird and I love it. I could see the huge lazy shadow of the buzzards riding the Indian summer heat over our heads. I just couldn’t see the birds, or the feeders for that matter.

I looked out over our yard and I realized my landscapes have become those of Van Gogh. Beautiful colors, swirls and whorls and dots that represent definable shapes but have no strict definition. No red birds or blue birds or thrush darting about, no flowers or chipmunks or squirrels are enjoying the evening as we are. I hear a vehicle roll by at 250 feet but couldn’t tell you anything about it. I can’t see even the motion any more at that distance.
 
I love Van Gogh; this is not a terrible state to be in. I do worry about what comes next though in this interminable process of losing my vision.

I used to know my family by the way they walked, turned their head, held their shoulders or moved their hands. No more. I have to be within ten feet of them now to be sure they are who I think they are. This frightens me on two levels. One, and this is the big one, I do not want to NOT be able to see the faces of those I love. These people are why I am here! If I lose them I will feel adrift and frightened. The second, which is really still the first but seen from a different angle is that I can’t see! I already can no longer ride a bike alone. I move faster than I can decipher obstacles like trees, curbs and psychotic killers. I am now afraid to walk alone because I no longer see well enough to see anything approaching, like dogs with foaming mouths and rabid foxes and psychotic killers. You can interpret this two ways… either I am just a scaredy-cat or I read the news and know that there are indeed rabid foxes, vicious dogs and psychotic killers whether one lives in a metro area or the heart of the country as I now do. With my track record for one in a million happenstances, (tornados, pregnant while taking the pill with my tubes tied, etc.), I choose to avoid them whenever I can.
For now I enjoy the hell out of my impressionist’s yard (people pay hundreds of millions to hang a slice on their wall. I LIVE it baby). The fluid lines and melting edges and glorious colors titillate and soothe by degree. The morning I wake up in a five year olds watercolor, splotches of color running together into browns, lines obliterated and subject up for anyone’s guess will be a sad day for me, I think, maybe not. I will have color and light and God willing my lovely and loved seeing-eye-people to help me navigate it.
Vincent Van Gogh (Duh!)

Night and birds by John Scott's Photography (my hubby, in my front yard.)

Sunday, October 28, 2012

The Real Thing!


Happy Day all! I just thought you might like to see what is inspiring Bunky's Playhouse. 

There is a rabbit hutch underneath it. I found this to be horribly cruel to the poor rabbits who must have inhabited it at one time. Here they sit in the cedar bed, looking through wire as their species frolics freely about the ground. Did the wild rabbits taunt  the poor pet, probably named something disgustly cute like 'Bunnie', laugh at his pampered state? Did the poor incarcerated pet get the last laugh as he saw owls, ghostly and silent in the dark swoop down and snatch up his tormentors in their talons while giggling maniacally into the night? One can only wonder...
 

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Bunky's Playhouse --CHAPTER 2—


Bunky is staring at me from the corner of the porch. I feel his eyes on me before I spot him eyeing me from behind the glider. He is tiny, a serious little man in a serious little world of his own. He wears a coonskin cap we found at a yard sale and swimmer’s goggles cover his eyes. His blue striped shirt, once fresh and clean looking, is faded, permanently wrinkled and shrunken, having been washed nightly for two months now. I think, as I always do, that I need to find a shirt he likes as well or he will go through life with his buttons popped and his seams split. His shorts ride low, waist band sliding under his rounded belly into a natural resting place on his scrawny hips. Just below his clay stained knees his rubber boots, bright red and shiny look huge and out of place and ridiculously new. He is dressed for adventure.

My heart jumps. I want to run up through the yard and onto the porch and grab him up. I want to swing him around and smother him with kisses and inhale his milk-and-dirt little boy smell. I want to sit in the glider with him on my lap and sing silly songs and tickle his sides until he begs for mercy through his giggles.  I want, I want, I want…

I stroll through the yard slowly, stopping to smell a flower, to pull a weed, to toss an acorn. I approach him coolly. Bunky is the epitome of cool. Four years old and outbursts annoy him. I nod at him as I settle on the porch steps, acknowledging his presence as he sidles up next to me and lays his hand on my shoulder. I pat the tiny fingers, softly, and we stay like that a while, looking out into the yard at the teeming wildlife and the luscious greenery, companionable.

Bunky tells me he wants to go adventuring, please, walk in the woods and find some interesting bugs for his collection. I shudder at the thought of more creepy crawlies at the same time I am bursting with pride at his inquisitive mind. I see that he has his mason jar ready. Holes punched in the lid and grass in the bottom. A magnifying glass, net and bug book sit next to it. They are in a neat row, laid out in a manner that tells me he was expecting an argument and wanted to have everything ready to point at if and when I said no. The book is there simply to make me happy. In an effort to curtail his passion for insects that actually moved and bred I bought him the book. As good as having them I explained, but better!  More variety, more color. You can learn about them without actually having them in your room! He had looked at me somberly and called me out. You only bought it so you wouldn’t have to hunt bugs with me. It is a simple, and true statement but the way he says it sounds so bad I cringe like I have been caught doing something mean and petty.
No worms, Bunky, I mean it, no worms and no grubs and no crickets. Deal? And nothing that bites or stings! And no stink bugs!


I am talking to myself; he has run off the porch and is trotting around in circles with his arms flapping erratically calling out Butterflies? How about butterflies? Are you afraid of butterflies? Are they scary granma? He giggles. My heart soars.

Monday, October 8, 2012

The Joy of Finding Stuff


I haven't been in this house long. I come in from the outdoors where I feel totally at home and find myself in some strange twilight world surrounded by boxes and barrels and bags. A haphazard maze beckons me with its mystery. Should I go left and open a neat clean box, taped carefully, unlabeled as are most of the rest, or should I cut apart the twine holding together the handles of the Disney Store bag and see what delightful possessions are making it bulge? Should I cut through the layers and layers of tape holding together a box which has been used to hold goods many, many times, its various labels, handwritten or printed by machine overlapping each other, black, red, blue, white and green looking delightful and happy together? I see a box that had held a space heater, a piece of masking tape over the bright image and lettering factory printed on the box saying only, teasingly, "STUFF". I WANT STUFF! I NEED STUFF!

Hang on now, what if it just that, just STUFF, nothing worth naming specifically? Perhaps the contents of the junk drawer in the kitchen, the paper clips, rubber bands and expired coupons, picture hangers and batteries (dead or alive? who knows but I can't throw them away), box tops and marbles and shoe strings and nail clippers and stubby pencils and dried up pens and mysterious phone numbers on the backs of envelopes or the cleaning supplies and extra rolls of paper from under the washroom sink. Maybe it is even worse STUFF, like crap I swept into a dustpan from the garage floor? Screws and nails and bits of wire and nuts and bolts and teeny Allen wrenches and dust and wire nuts and fish hooks and, well, you know, STUFF? I thought I had labeled those boxes GARAGE STUFF but I admit it. I am a slack labeler. I may not have gotten the word GARAGE on there at all.

Maybe it is personal STUFF. Knitting needles and yarn from my bedside table. Massage lotion (that's right, I said it, I ain't skeert), the book I was reading before the move which seems to have disappeared, six keys that go to God knows what, but when I find whatever it is I am sure it will be locked. A coin from Panama, where I have never been, a china dog my youngest daughter gave me when she was seven. Some loose Tums and Motrin PMs, 3 unmatched socks and a back scratcher. All of these things should be in a box somewhere, labeled PERSONAL STUFF but I haven't found it yet. Maybe I am just mis-remembering and it just said STUFF, or, knowing me, had no label at all.

I pick up the box and shake it. I can feel something heavy and off balance shifting, I hear rattling of copper and tinging of tin and silent noise of plastic bending.

I am doing it! I am opening this box next. I can't wait! I am getting my STUFF back! I slice open the tape, giving myself an adhesive rimmed paper cut in the process, I rip the flaps open and what do I see? Random freaking stuff, not STUFF like I had hoped but regular old running around while they loaded the truck picking up mismatched and forgotten items and tossing them in a box stuff. Two plastic coat hangers, a windbreaker, a Christmas ornament, a pot lid, a dust pan, a wonderfully silly tall top heavy metal sculpture of a frog, the key card for the community pool and the key to the large ornamental gas fireplace at the rental house. Two back issues of Southern Living and a wash cloth pad a cheap vase and one shoe sits sadly in the bottom.

Next time I am going for the bag...

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Bunky's Playhouse

This is the begining (I think) of Bunky's Playhouse.  What do you think? Help me out here folks-- opinions and ideas.
BUNKY'S PLAYHOUSE

--CHAPTER ONE--
I am rooted and settled, I colonized, I dwell, I am established, I’ve hung up my hat, my house is inhabited, I have kept house, I have lived, and I am located, I am lodged, I have moved to, and I am parked, I definitely put down roots, I’ve set up home, squatted, taken up residence. In short, I am here to stay. This is how I felt about my first house and this is how I feel about the house I am in now.  Obviously, in the case of the first house I was sadly mistaken, but hey, no one is perfect! This time it is for real, for sure, no doubt about it. If I leave (for a permanent type of reason) I want to be in a pine box, feet first, heading out the door to the burn pit. Even then I don’t want to go far. Till me up, scatter me about; make me a part of what I call home forever. I want to become part of the soil, lifted up on a warm breeze, carried far on the hooves of deer and the paws of rabbits and fox. Underground, in the air, in the water, sucked up through the trees trunks and expelled through the leaves, forever changed, forever the same, part of this place, this life, this world.

I watch a praying mantis devouring bugs more than half its size on the kitchen window and a wolf spider sits by the front door hunkered down in a sticky, thick and nasty tunnel built of web within a shrub. I can hear a little bunny or similar furry moonlight dwelling creature scurry under the porch, watch the violent, territorial hummingbirds, the butterflies drunk and wobbly on pollen and the chattering squirrels trying to distract the avian mob so that they can steal and run with their bounty.

Buzzards, huge and threatening in appearance, float on the warm air rising from the soft and fertile ground. I watch them, I can almost hear them whispering ‘here bunny, bunny, bunny, here little bunny, let’s do lunch’. In my head they share a voice with Hiss the sssibilant sssnake from the Disney animated version of Robin Hood. I know the only lapin in danger are those too dead to care about it but they frighten me none the less. I watched too many cartoons as a kid with the buzzards stalking the dying, giving them no chance to rest and get their wits about them.

Every now and then an owl’s hoot can be heard, sounding to every creature who hears it like a silken promise of death to come following the gloaming. Doves coo, as if to make it all better, to alleviate the harshness and certain tragedy of the advertised demise by owls and subsequent clean up by buzzards alike.

The ground is springy under my feet and I can see hummocks marking tunnels, little highways under the ground, but barely, moles trudging along chewing and thrusting and chewing some more. Ants of every size and type scurry like… well, like ants, busy and determined but not averse to taking a bite out of you if you happen to be in the line of their travel.

Hornets and bees swirl lazily, their buzzing so overweight, so swollen with the dog days of summer and fermenting nectar that it sounds almost painful for them. They loll about, all the while keeping a secret, a burst of energy tucked away, a smidge of lust barely under control for that sudden speedy dart, land, and sting. It is a given just not knowing when but knowing it will come and that they will surely, obscenely, enjoy it and then die. The bees must be jealous because they know they only have one shot at it while a hornet can sting and sting and sting until you are swollen and full of poison, on fire in the front yard watching the buzzards fly overhead murmuring ‘here little jeannie, little jeannie, jeannie, yum’ and the moles commence happily digging the hole you will reside in forever and ever amen.

Little field mice wait on tenterhooks just around the corner and under the drain pipe taking turns darting in to the garage when the doors open, digging around in who knows what until they open again and a sprint lets them back out into the air and the light. I am sure they have confabs late into the mousy evening regarding the glories they have found on their forays and a cabal of elders is determining just where they will go for the winter (The bag of bubble wrap? The collection of wrapping materials and Christmas decorations? The box of shop rags? Decisions, decisions!), with the lucky mouse that found the perfect hidey hole being celebrated by all the others as their salvation.

As I see them flatten themselves out and then spring out the door, making a run for it I think 'CAT', as I picture myself shaking a fist at them, ‘Cat, you little bastards, a big cat with a large appetite’. I know I won’t but it feels good to make the threat, to see them quiver (in my imagination at least) from fear. I will stare down a spider but furry things with toes give me the willies.

A starling likes to fly in every time the mice run out, sitting on the top of the open garage door and fussing at me for continually locking him out. He flies from side to side chattering and trilling, flapping awkwardly in the enclosed space but he just keeps on doing it so I no longer feel sorry for him. I am not sure if he is the slowest of the starlings, the ‘special’ one,  the one they will definitely leave behind if given half a migratory chance, or if he is just doing it to taunt me. Having seen how frightened I am of the mice and with the moles making me shiver and shudder what a treat it must be  for the normally powerless little bird to make me duck, cover and run from the sheltering garage, sounding all the world like a crow gone mad. I don’t threaten him with 'CAT'. No point, he knows I am a liar. While I can’t stand these creatures invading my space they are glorious in theirs. They belong here and I will not make them dinner on purpose, not even if they wholeheartedly deserve it.

A pile of deer droppings lie at the end of the driveway, next to the mail box. I wonder did said deer void before crossing, wanting to make sure that he was as light and fleet of foot as possible or did he narrowly miss being run into by a car or a truck speeding through the dark countryside at night? Did the lights catch him in mid stride and freeze him for a split second as his life (trees and shadow, guns and grass) flash across his brainpan before he could tear himself away from the glare and leap onto the shoulder, barely making it, breathing hard as the wind from the truck whipped his tail mightily and this mess was literally shit scared out of him? Only the deer and the truck driver (if indeed he exists) know for sure.

I think the other deer must have questioned him if they saw his disheveled state, his wind-blown tail, and ‘ooh’ed and ‘aaah’ed when he told his tale. Even if the first scenario was more accurate, if he just dumped because it was time or the grass was too green that morning, he would tell a similar tale anyway, for what chance do whitetail have to be heroes?  The speed of the hurtling nemesis would go from 20 miles an hour to 100 and from a VW Beetle or short bed pick up to an 18 wheeler barreling down the narrow two lane road. No doubt the driver would have been bent on destruction of one kind or another (why else would he be here, on this country lane at that time of night?) and narrowly missing the valiant deer would have thrown off his timing, or given him a chance to reflect on his misdeeds, real or imagined, and change his direction, both physically and maybe, maybe, spiritually.

As I chuckle to myself at this image of deer as savior of eternal soul of a madman a murder of crows begin cawing over my head, loud and long. They sit in the tallest pines, crying out to each other. Are they shaming me for laughing out loud and ruining their perfect place, their perfect day? I start to wonder what might be lying about dead, what with the buzzards and crows lolling about the canopy, but do not see, or more likely, smell a thing out of the ordinary. They fly about, random circles, black wings flapping crying out to one another but for what? What on earth can they be shouting about if it isn’t food? It is hardly likely that a cat is climbing one of the giant pines, not a child or hunter about with a gun, BB or (God forbid) real, no airplanes or crow eating tyrannosaurus rexes about. Why are they making the racket? Just to be heard. I tilt up my chin and CAW right back at them, it doesn’t even faze them, they chortle, they flap, they remove themselves from my annoying presence and I hear their calls echoing through the woods off into the distance. Holes are left in the blue day where their ragged voices tore at the noisy silence of nature, slow to fill in again, leaving things around them just a bit mussed, not quite as perfect as they were but no visible reason found for it.


Monday, August 20, 2012

Winston

For the last four and a half years my husband and I lived in a newer community. The houses were large and stylish looking on the exterior, the trees miniscule and supported by sticks and twine. They were built  on lots so tiny and the windows and doors so close, it felt like one could reach out their window and tap on their neighbors to borrow a cup of sugar without ever having to step outside. It wasn’t a bad house, it was a really nice house in fact. We had bought it in a time of dire need. I needed to get away from the house where my son shot himself. I needed to get away from my sister and her husband who had been so genial, so kind hearted when he died and took us in because I couldn’t go home. I had to get away from life for a while and this house was perfect for that.
After a year of solitude and wound licking we began to come out of our trance. We planted 3 little trees, two apple trees and an elm, a few shrubs, some tomatoes (what better than a yard with no shade at all for growing tomatoes?) and flowers  and tried to make the barren, poorly sodded yard look like someone actually lived there.  Humming bird feeders rounded out our attempt to make our environment a little less civilized and a little bit more alive. The end result was not spectacular but what could we do? We were trying to hold on until the market straightened itself out (go ahead and laugh, Lord knows we have) and then sell it and move… who knows where, but somewhere that felt like we belonged. The walls were all white inside, pictures leaned against the walls instead of hanging to avoid nail holes and new flooring was priced. Basically we were all dressed up and left with nowhere to go.
Another sister was having a bit of a hard time and had moved in with us. We started spending weekends roaming the county looking for houses that were suitable for her. Not too small, not too large. Not too old, not too new. And most importantly, not too expensive. With the flood of foreclosures there seemed to be an endless stream of new listings every week, hours spent walking through empty homes that looked and felt sad and unloved and quite often abused.
During this process we realized that we had begun  looking for our future home as well. Apparently, even if something were falling down or being  raped and pillaged by hordes of crack heads and roaming wildlife we would  find it charming if it sat on acreage and had a porch. Wiring and plumbing ripped out?  Bums living in the basements and crawl spaces? Bats in the attic and rats in the cellar? Sure! But look at the view! Listen to the birds! Imagine the grandkids running through that grass and climbing those trees! We began dropping off my sister after our weekly forays into the real estate market so that she could run errands or babysit her grandkids and we would take off again, following tiny maps on cell phones and incomprehensible directions  to homes scattered far and wide.
There was lovely property with horrid houses, horrid  property with lovely houses. Houses on lakes, on hills, in valleys and dales. Hundred year old houses that were gorgeous but sat ten feet from a major roadway. Country looking estates that sat two minutes from strip malls and freeways on lots that were 50 feet wide and a thousand feet long. Lots with no trees, acres and acres of grass and scrub and lots with trees so thick you couldn’t tell where the house was. Houses on stagnant lakes and dried up streams that would flood sure enough in a good rain.  Lots with hidden trash dumps, even worse, lots with obvious trash dumps were located in the sticks and in the best of areas… the list of properties that just wouldn’t do seemed endless.
We had driven past a certain house on a certain lot a couple of times but it appeared someone lived there so we didn’t get up close and personal with it. It disappeared off the market and we didn’t think any more about  it. After weeks of disheartening maybe-one-day looking my husband noted that the house had come back on the market at a reduced price. We contacted our agent- slash- shaman and arranged to go see it.
Driving out to the house we were struck once again by the beauty of the woods and farms that lined the route we were on.  The drive was long, the house country. A large and inviting porch lined with white rockers beckoned to us. We sat down, the agent, my husband and I, one, two three in order and for the first time in years I felt a semblance of what I remembered as peace. We walked into the house, older, a bit ramshackle, but so full of promise and love you could almost smell it and feel it as you walked from room to room. Three French doors opened up from different rooms onto a huge covered back porch and (what could be) a beautiful swimming pool.
I saw the hornets threatening, the pool needing repairs, the knee high two acres of grass, but I also saw the basketball sized beehive in a Japanese tulip tree, five different kinds of oaks and humming birds flitting through the copse. I saw deer tracks and raccoon prints and a playhouse/fort colorfully labeled ‘Bunkey’s Playhouse’ back in the woods. I was afraid to say how much I loved this house on sight, I didn’t want to jinx it, didn’t want to find the thing that would make it unlivable like all the rest we had viewed. The simple fact of the matter is that sometimes you just have to jump in the deep end, and while the water is cold, it is clear. Places, houses, have character the same as people. I needed this house and this house needed me.
I looked at my husband who was looking at soffits and roof lines. He listed things that would need to be fixed, things that would cost money and time which are not always as easy to come by as one might wish. I brace myself for the list of reasons why it wouldn’t work. Lo and behold, my husband paused a moment and then told the agent we liked it, we wanted it, and to make an offer.  My pent up breath blew out with gusto, moving my bangs away from my face and drifted up and away to be inhaled by the trees and the vines and the flowers and the other living things on this little green oasis that was already a piece of my heart.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Glory-FREAKING-Hallelujah


I had asked my grandkids to help me straighten up the living area once and was ignored. Twice more I asked the same question, twice more I was greeted with the same non-response.  I got a little loud, yelling “HEY” in their general direction. 8 limpid eyes rolled towards me, blinking furiously as if they had just been woken from a trance or pulled up from the depths of the sea. The children make little sighing, grunting strung together sounds which all seem to end with the only understandable word being ‘tired’.  After 15 minutes of this I shouted (This is how you know I am a college educated, literate, refined and calm woman) “Dammit all, if you can make a freaking mess for 10 freaking hours straight you can help pick up your freaking mess  for ten freaking minutes without wearing your scrawny freaking mess-making ass freaking out!  FREAK IT, FREAKEDY FREAK FREAK FREAK IT ALL!”

At this point I feel I must explain a few things:
  1.          I stopped smoking. Since homicide is frowned upon, and lollipops are NOT a satisfactory oral substitute, I find that my temper is, on occasion, a bit quick and disproportionate.
    2.    Yelling ‘freaking’ is just not as satisfying as dropping an F-Bomb so I need many more of them, more and louder it seems, to get my point across with the same intensity. I have yet to determine the number of ‘FREAKING’s necessary to make people snap to it as crisply as one well placed F*CKING would have done before I became a kinder, gentler person but I can tell you the eleven  repetitions  in the sentences above are still not nearly enough.
    3.    We were supposed to close on a new (to us) house a month ago. In anticipation of the move my son, his wife and four children moved in with us as they would be renting the house we are in now. Their lease ending overlapped our closing by a few days, NO BIG DEAL. Surely everyone can get along for a few days! A month later all 8 of us are nearing the end of our patience and my poor house is a shambles. Boxes line every wall; people are crammed into every room…. Picture cold war era Soviet Union style (but bigger, granted) living quarters. Without the vodka. Not even a Zima. Argh
    4.    Our air conditioner chose a day with a high of 98 degrees and about the same percentage of humidity to conk out on us. I have vaulted ceilings upstairs so by 6 pm it was 100 degrees in my bedroom and still warming up nicely. My husband was working late, fixing someone ELSE’S air, and wasn’t sure when he would be home.
    5.    Gobstoppers stuck to the carpet stomped on with bare heel when one is nicotine starved, sweat soaked and claustrophobic are the freaking tripper of all triggers. Who’d a thunk it?

The kids, like wild animals penned up together for too long snarled and snapped at each other until their mother jumped in. With lots of tattling, ‘I didn’t touch it’s and ‘that’s not fair’s the rooms were picked up, swept up and vacuumed up in a random kids-don’t-see-mess-but-mom-promised-us-junk-food-if-we-do-it sort of way. I felt a little bad about losing it, but not enough to not appreciate the now litter free rooms. 

By the time they were done the kids had forgotten what they were snapping at each other about and were enthralled with the forgotten treasures they had found while cleaning up. I pointed out to the tots that they had complained for an hour and only cleaned for 15 minutes. Although I clearly remember doing the same thing when I was little I don’t remember WHY so I decided to consider this an invaluable anthropological experience. When I asked them, because I am a foolish granny who apparently loves redundant and/or rhetorical questions why they balked so when I asked them to help me clean up responded “But it’s easier to make a mess!”  How can I argue with that? 'Freaking-A' I responded.

My son piddled about in the kitchen with supper and my husband came home and Glory-FREAKING-Hallelujah had the needed part for our AC in the garage. I ate my meal, went upstairs to a now seemingly balmy 96 degree room and listened to the hum of the air conditioner while I contemplated what I had learned.

Air conditioning can be considered a necessity in the south in July if for no other reason than that it stops gobstoppers from melting into the carpet. Kids never, ever change from generation to generation, and there might be some merit to being a pack rat although I will deny I ever said that if called out by my mate, I am glad I stopped smoking even if it isn’t freaking easy and my life is never dull. All in all a handful or worthwhile lessons.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

You shouldn't be ashamed to say how someone you loved this much died...

One of the reasons I stepped up my writing these last few years is to relive the moments, bittersweet all, spent with my son who committed suicide on August 5th, 2008. His father, having also died by his own hand in 1994, left a deep and terrible void in all of our lives. Both fought the good fight, but in the end mental illness and fatigue won out. While these tragedies scarred my family for life we are far from alone. Tens of thousands of men, women and children across the United States take their own lives each year leaving devastated families and friends behind asking why. The Out of the Darkness walks are a small step in the direction of clarity, bringing together broken hearts trying to mend (albeit with missing pieces always) and people wanting to help end this horriffic scourge. My friends and family are participating in a walk here, in Atlanta, in November. Please, join us or support us if you can by clicking on the link I shared below. 

                                       In loving memory of my little buddy and baby boy.
                                                Henry Roger Gramme 1986-2008




If you want to know how my family and I are coping with these tragedies or better understand what survivors of this heartbreaking experience are dealing with you can learn about my book here. This is certainly no how to manual or gut wrenching expose. It is instead the tale of a family that holds on tightly to each other throughout this bumpy jouney we call life. Click here==>   'Road Trip: Anecdotes and Essays of a Life Well Traveled' to purchase. I am donating ALL monies per book sold from July 15th - November 1th-- Help me make the largest donation possible!

Monday, July 2, 2012

The Price of a good security fence...

Thanks to my cousin Dianne Richard for this one. I figured anything that can make a person laugh out loud is worth sharing. :) Happy Monday everyone!

This was allegedly written by a retired dentist. 

We have the standard 6 ft. fence in the backyard, and a few months ago, I heard about burglaries increasing dramatically in the entire city. To make sure this never happened to me, I got an electric fence and ran a single wire along the top of the fence.

Actually, I got the biggest cattle charger Tractor Supply had, made for 26 miles of fence. I then used an 8 ft. long ground rod, and drove it 7.5 ft. into the ground. The ground rod is the key, with the more you have in the ground, the better the fence works.

One day I'm mowing the back yard with my cheapo Wal-Mart 6 hp big wheel push mower. The hot wire is broken and laying out in the yard. I knew for a fact that I unplugged the charger. I pushed the mower around the wire and reached down to grab it, to throw it out of the way.

It seems as though I hadn't remembered to unplug it after all.

Now I'm standing there, I've got the running lawnmower in my right hand and the 1.7 gigavolt fence wire in the other hand. Keep in mind the charger is about the size of a marine battery and has a picture of an upside down cow on fire on the cover.

Time stood still.

The first thing I notice is my pecker trying to climb up the front side of my body. My ears curled downwards and I could feel the lawnmower ignition firing in the backside of my brain. Every time that Briggs & Stratton rolled over, I could feel the spark in my head. I was literally at one with the engine.

It seems as though the fence charger and the piece of shit lawnmower were fighting over who would control my electrical impulses.

Science says you cannot crap, pee, and vomit at the same time. I beg to differ. Not only did I do all three at once, but my bowels emptied 3 different times in less than half of a second. It was a Matrix kind of bowel movement, where time is creeping along and you're all leaned back and BAM BAM BAM you just crap your pants 3 times. It seemed like there were minutes in between but in reality it was so close together. It was like exhaust pulses from a big block Chevy turning 8 grand.

At this point I'm about 30 minutes (maybe 2 seconds) into holding onto the fence wire. My hand is wrapped around the wire palm down so I can't let go. I grew up on a farm so I know all about electric fences. But Dad always had those piece of shit chargers made by International or whoever that were like 9 volts and just kinda tickled.

This one I could not let go of. The 8 ft. long ground rod is now accepting signals from me through the permadamp Ark-La-Tex river bottom soil. At this point I'm thinking I'm going to have to just man up and take it, until the lawnmower runs out of gas.

'Damn!,' I think, as I remember I just filled the tank!

Now the lawnmower is starting to run rough. It has settled into a loping run pattern as if it had some kind of big lawnmower race cam in it. Covered in poop, pee, and with my vomit on my chest, I think 'Oh God please die... Pleeeeaze die'. But nooooo, it settles into the rough lumpy cam idle nicely and remains there, like a big bore roller cam EFI motor waiting for the go command from its owner's right foot.

So here I am in the middle of July, 104 degrees, 80% humidity, standing in my own backyard, begging God to kill me. God did not take me that day.. He left me there covered in my own fluids to writhe in the misery my own stupidity had created.

I honestly don't know how I got loose from the wire.

I woke up laying on the ground hours later. The lawnmower was beside me, out of gas. It was later on in the day and I was sunburned.

There were two large dead grass spots where I had been standing, and then another long skinny dead spot where the wire had laid while I was on the ground still holding on to it. I assume I finally had a seizure and in the resulting thrashing had somehow let go of the wire.

Upon waking from my electrically induced sleep I realized a few things:

1 - Three of the fillings in my teeth have melted.

2 - I now have cramps in the bottoms of my feet and my right butt cheek (not the left, just the right).

3 - Poop, pee, and vomit when all mixed together, do not smell as bad as you might think.

4 - My left eye will not open.

5 - My right eye will not close.

6 - The lawnmower runs like a sumbitch now. Seriously! I think our little session cleared out some carbon fouling or something, because it was better than new after that.

7 - My nuts are still smaller than average yet they are almost a foot long.

8 - I can turn on the TV in the game room by farting while thinking of the number 4 (I still don't understand this???).

That day changed my life. I now have a newfound respect for things. I appreciate the little things more, and now I always triple check to make sure the fence is unplugged before I mow.

The good news, is that if a burglar does try to come over the fence, I can clearly visualize what my security system will do to him, and THAT gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling all over, which also reminds me to triple check before I mow. 
  

Monday, June 18, 2012

A Random Conversation Between Married People


“Pass the remote hon.”

“A four hour erection? Hell, a two hour erection and I would be rushing you to the emergency room, I would be on my phone bragging  the whole way there but it would be scary just the same”

“A two hour erection? Is that what happens when you take just half a pill?”

“No, I think with half a pill you would only get half an erection, not an erection for half the maximum allowable time”

“Would that be top of bottom, or left or right half?”

“Hhhmmmm, I imagine top or bottom, with (please God) the only option being bottom working, top not. Sort of like demi-nunchukas. I  will stick with a whole one, that sounds u-g-l-y.”

“We don’t have ANY, half OR whole. How are you going to stick with any at all when there isn’t any to stick with?”

“Whatever! Picky, picky, picky. Can you imagine Viagra as fertilizer? Dissolve a couple of pills into the watering can and voila, magnificent shrubbery. Even viney things would stand tall and proud. Nettles would become actual thorns!”

“Unless you only gave them half a pill.  Whole new meaning to afternoon wilt.“

“Really, my only question is why do the Cialis people have two bathtubs on their deck? One would be bizarre but two just seems so redundant. If the stuff worked wouldn’t they want to be in the same bath tub?  Are they related to the mattress people who keep their bed on the veranda overlooking the sea? Is it the same couple and they haul out either  tubs or mattresses depending on the mood? Why tubs at all? Hard cold porcelain is hardly the most comfortable place to hang out and get freaky, and you can’t see any plumbing so you know they are dry.”

“That was way more than one question”

“And you call me picky!”

“What were we talking about?”

“I believe it all started with lunch next Tuesday.”

“Dork”

Love is a  many splendored thing. 

Friday, June 15, 2012

Celebrating Achievements

The house is for the most part clean, the food is for the most part ready, the schedule is non-existent. Have I forgotten anything? Extra toilet paper in the powder room? Check! Soap? Hand towels? Check check!! Sodas, both diet and regular? Check! Chips for the salsa? Check! A pleasant yet inexpensive red and a sweet yet dry white? Check and Check!! Coffee, creamer, sugar and cups? All checked, all the time!

Unbridled enthusiasm and energy... well... lets not ask for too much, enthusiasm and energy? Check. Unbridled disappeared about the same time I had to start leaning forward a little to see my toes over my bosom and I got my first appliance for an anniversary gift.

I pace about, tired of preparing yet not satisfied with the results of my labors so far. I have no clear vision of what a celebration for something like this should be. I succeeded in accomplishing a life long dream. What??? I know! Crazy, right? But it is true and that is surely worthy of a world class party.

Ideally it would be in a fun place with fun people, fun food, lots of fun liquor and someone else's fun credit card being swiped. I would also be 20 years younger and 50 pounds lighter with my hair the lustrous shade of red which disappeared about 1979 with my waist.  Since that is out of the question entirely I am throwing my own party with my own credit card taking the beating. I always have fun food, I hang out with a lot of very fun people, I had to clean my house anyway and I love a good party. Everything is really great. Why then do I feel this dissatisfaction?

I think because once that goal is achieved, once a person can sit back and say I wanted something as long as I can remember and now I have it, then we are left with a giant void in our dream scape that needs to be filled as quickly as possible. And I just don't know what to fill it with. I never thought this would happen so I never had a back up plan.

Crap.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

My face hurts from grinning...

I have done my first interview and I couldn't be prouder. The piece appeared in the local paper, the Douglas County Sentinel. The picture associated with the print article was taken by my dear daughter.

I am so proud to have this interview published where my friends, my family and probably more than one  enemy resides. I welcome any new readers to this blog that may have learned about it through the article. If you are living somewhere else and simply must read it (come on, you know you want to!) here is the link to the article that appeared on line, I hope you enjoy it!

Local Author Publishes First Book

Friday, May 11, 2012

The South, Where Elvis and Jesus Live Side By Side


Headlines are a mystery to me. I have decided that unless war is declared somewhere or a crazy person lets loose with gunfire in a populated place there are no real news stories. Instead a group of men and women wrap post its with ideas jotted on them around darts and start throwing them at a board. If it sticks, it becomes news. Maybe a bulls eye gets to be front page news and if you hit the wall but the dart still sticks then your story gets to be filler in the classified ad pages.

On the front page of our local paper headlines scream about one real story, a murdering kidnapper shoots himself after being confronted by the police. The two little girls he abducted after murdering their mother and sister appear to be dehydrated and covered in poison ivy but otherwise okay.

A slightly smaller headline declares the titillating (but not necessarily news)  information that  4 of the 11 members of a marching band indicted for the hazing death of a fellow band member participated in his funeral procession. This is a horrible reflection on them as human beings but not news.  Anyone who would murder and try to hide it has no character. Why would we expect them to be gentlemen and women and decline to march on that day?

In smaller font still are two stories, given equal weight. One is that three police officers are indicted for beating teenagers while they were handcuffed and in their custody. NEWS!! The other is that pictures of Rihanna wearing a daring dress can be found inside! Really? This is on the front page? Have you people lost your minds?

First, I am pretty sure that Rihanna in a daring dress is about as uncommon as the sun rising and setting. I don’t fault her, she looks great, but it is hardly  news. Mother Theresa in a daring dress would have been news and photo worthy! Bill Clinton even more so, but Rihanna? No, not even close.

The last bit of so called news above the fold on the front page was a study declaring that the South as a whole has less upward mobility and more downward mobility than most other states with the top seven (New York, New Jersey, Maryland, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Utah and Connecticut ) nearly all being Mid Atlantic or Midwestern. First off, this might be news to people in states that are doing well but it is certainly not news for people who do indeed live in the slow moving south.

I do believe most of the states listed have strong labor unions. It is a matter of Southern Pride to hate unions for no good reason that I could ever fathom except maybe we like being less upwardly mobile. We also do not house thousands and thousands of overpaid (by our standards, but then again our motto is any pay is good pay, shut the eff up, eat your banana and thank God you have a job) federal workers . Unless I am mistaken, which would certainly not be the first or the last time THAT happened, we are a more agrarian group than the others and farming traditionally pays less than manufacturing. Some of these same discrepancies were around 150 years ago and in fact were reasons behind the Civil War. Seriously, look it up.

So why do we stay in this ‘backward’ or downwardly mobile place? Well, because we can have a pink trailer with statues of Elvis and Jesus out in the yard next to a Corporate mogul’s mansion and people on both side of the tracks just say bless their hearts and pass the moonshine. And our weather is so much better it barely even needs to be mentioned! 75 degree days are not abnormal even in the harshest of winters here and nobody loves forsythia in February more than a true southerner. 

Our bosses pay us squat but we can tell them to stick that squat where the sun don’t shine and walk out without it being held against us. As a person who has found themselves as often on the telling as the being told side I appreciate that immensely.  Lastly the food. Oh my God, the food! Fresh grown produce picked out of the yard seven months out of the year. Iced tea and cold beer going down oh so smooth while the grill heats up and the ribs go on. Short cake and lemon pound cake and Key Lime Pie, oh my, I get gassy just thinking about it but my mouth is watering at the thought of what a joy that is.

There are enclaves of ‘civilization’ here and there. Fenced communities are slowly making an inroad. All these years of the south fighting being known as a racist and brutal society  and then other folks move in and wall us all apart again while deriding our ‘backward’ lifestyle. Money is becoming more important than character, which is a crying shame and is happening all over from what I can see. In an effort to appease our more forward and upwardly mobile brethren we appear to be losing our social identity and the indomitable spirit and character portrayed by writers as diverse as Faulkner,  Poe and Douglass. 

Reading the newspaper we could be anywhere, any city USA. Take a drive through the country though, turn down that windy lane or onto those dirt roads and you can still find the pink trailers on lots next to huge mansions with Elvis and Jesus looking on with pride and love.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

FINALLY... Published and Proud

I wanted to say something poignant, worth remembering but nothing comes to mind except OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!!! I did it, woohoo!!

Enjoy Raod Trip-- my first endeavor (hopefully not the last).

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B007VJHSD0/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=wooly02-%3C/a%3E

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

So this is what they think about the author ...

I have a book coming out in a few weeks (Road Trip). Since the majority of the book is autobiographical I wanted to do something differant with the 'About the Author' section. I asked friends and family to send me a sentence, any sentence they wanted for this section. Here are the end results! Feel free to send your own, but make it snappy! Times a' wastin'!

Whether in Europe or the states I always looked forward to lying awake & listening to my cousin Jean tell stories – Julie Sorbet, Nevada
(Authors note -- The only cousin I ever made cry… I still feel guilty about that. Go Donny Osmond!)

10 years ago, was mistaken for her 32 year old niece, by her niece's husband. David Etter, Michigan
 (Author's note -- David is my new best friend!)


My Aunt Jean is wise, comical, tough as nails,the first to laugh at herself and the last to laugh at someone else. An indomitable spirit to be sure!-- Teri Smith Kupchunos, Georgia
(Authors note -- Paid for (with cookies and chicken wings) by the committee to promote this book!)

My sister Jean is witty, loving, smart, practical, creative, quirky and a really good cook. The ‘Cookie Queen’.—Mary Sorbet, Georgia
(Authors note – Mary is living with my husband and I now, so take this with a grain of salt, a half pound of butter, a cup of sugar, a cup of flour and two eggs, lightly beaten!)

A book written by my aunt who quit Belgium for USA after I was born, I hope there is no link – Vincent Vanpee, Belgium
(Authors note—Those rosy, cherubic cheeks were a definite sign of trouble to come…)

DO NOT SELL THIS BOOK ILLEGALLY – Mark Funk, Virginia
(Authors note – He is rather obviously vying for the role of enforcer just in case I ever need one. I hope he doesn’t think it would be a paying gig…)

A book bringing back fun memories of early childhood when family visited. – Dale DeMarcy Touchet, Louisiana
(Authors note – Dale must be one of the few cousins I didn’t irritate by talking to invisible friends and trying to hog all the crawfish)

Written by a dear friend who really knows how to brighten your day. This is a must..—Susan Rannestad Frantzen, Norway
(Authors note—She loves me because she sees me once every 30 years and lives far, far away! Evidently I am pretty cool in small doses.)

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Tales From The Back Side

I apologize in advance to any of my readers who might be sensitive. You may as well know up front that this story is about a bodily function, passing gas, breaking wind, farting, pooting, tooting, letting one rip, cutting the cheese or dropping a bomb. These are all common colloquiums for expelling noxious fumes into the atmosphere from our ‘derriere’ (excuse my French). Members of delicate society do not discuss it, but since I have NEVER been described as delicate I feel I can go ahead and tell my tale.

Someone I love dearly recently had to endure a colonoscopy. This is basically a procedure where they clean out your bowel by having you consume hideous concoctions by the quart for several days in advance, not an easy or pleasant feat, blow your body full of air, expanding your bowels like a 2 dollar carnival balloon, and then shove a camera up there and have a looky-see. This is a valuable and necessary test. This is also, as my loved one put it, a violation of the most personal kind.

Thankfully people are usually sound asleep during this humiliating violation. They are wheeled back into a recovery room where they are held hostage until they manage to expel the majority of the air that had been pumped into them. This would be horrifying if you were the only person with a gut full of gas in a room full of people recovering from, say, giving birth to a precious child, or a life saving cardiac procedure which left giant scars down the middle of their torso and grateful, tearstained family hovering over their beds. Instead you are wheeled into a beehive of a space, many small rooms separated only by too short fabric swaths which do absolutely nothing to contain sound, each space holding a recovering patient who has had the same procedure as you.

I sat with another family member who had had this same procedure during his stint in the recovery room and it was an amazing, amusing, musical experience let me tell you!

While my relative was still snoozing deeply a sound akin to a whistling bottle rocket taking off came from the curtained cubicle next door. This was quickly followed by a series of staccato burst, say, from a string of little firecrackers tied together by their fuses. I had to grin. I am human. I maintained my composure and sat through about two minutes of silence. Another bottle rocket! More little explosions! A giant burst followed by a million little pops and whistles! I was having a hard time being respectfully silent at this point.

Suddenly, from my other side I heard a deep rumbling which seemed to last for-ev-errrrrrr. This roll of sound surprised me so that I wondered for a split second if the sunny day had turned violent and a thunderstorm was raging outside! Across the hall geese started honking repeatedly, quickly, while an elephant trumpeted from two curtained cubes down.

I admit it. I lost it. The menagerie, the fireworks and the thunderstorm in concert just did me in. I was feeling like a horrible person but apparently I was not the only one who had been struggling to contain their inappropriate mirth. As soon I started laughing the dam broke. Caregivers, nurses, loved ones, janitors… we all laughed like idiots. One of the orderlies let one rip while he was bent over laughing and the crowd went wild, crying and holding our stomachs and wheezing with the exertion of it all.

By the time my charge was waking up a full on orchestrated version of the 1812 Overture was in play along with the sounds of Noah’s Ark and nature’s mightiest tempests. My face was soaked with tears, my stomach hurt from laughing and I was so out of breath I couldn’t even answer his groggy questions.  The horde of ‘expellers’ were coming to life and we slowly got a grip on our mass hysteria and tried our bests to ease their awakening and help them begin their recovery.

Every now and then a manic giggle would escape one of us, those that had enjoyed the show and retreated to the land of four year olds for a brief and wonderful moment. I hated to admit it but the violation of my charge had given me the first opportunity for a gut busting laugh in a year and I loved it. I guess the moral of this story is do the test if the doctors order it but make damn sure your loved ones wait outside, unless they have had a really, really bad week. Then swallow your pride, invite them back and make them promise they won’t record it. They will thank you later.


Get to know Peter Williams!

Mighty Fine Art: Another Day In My Life.: About this time of year I always seem to have amassed a large stock of flour, eggs and milk. There are a few manky lemons hanging around too...