tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79799026094804508002024-03-05T11:20:25.841-05:00Seed Pearls, Swine's EarsWitty (one can only hope) commentary on living in this day and age from an educated, family loving mom/grandmother/wife and individual.Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.comBlogger94125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-12280705054164879442022-02-27T12:22:00.000-05:002022-02-27T12:22:00.464-05:00<p style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">SOUTHERN BY CHOICE, MOSTLY</span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I LIVE IN THE South. Flat out I love it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sometimes the people make me nuts. So kind in general, etiquette
is incredibly important to them, unless you choose to turn around in their
driveway without notifying them first or ring their bell without calling ahead,
then they will shoot you dead and not blink twice. They will make a dish for
your memorial though, and check up on your children until they are grown with
children of their own, bless their hearts, poor things. They will invite your
kids to call them memaw and papaw <insert last name here>. In short, you
couldn’t pick a more genuinely loving group to be cold bloodedly murdered by.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sometimes the weather makes me nuts. I know every place has
erratic weather. The South has its own brand of climate though. We don’t just
have OUR erratic weather, we have EVERYONE’S erratic weather. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eight year long droughts? Yep. Got it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>24 inches of rain in 24 hours? Ha! The DOT has
no choice but to replace or repair all those washed out wobbledy ass bridges
they have been ignoring for years. God making government work, we love it! Blizzards?
Been there, done that, thunder snow and all. Hurricanes? All. Day. Long. So
often that hurricane parties are really a thing, and plywood is our best
friend. Subzero temperatures? We scoff, -9 for a high isn’t unknown every 30
years or so. Wanted to change out those water pipes anyway… Fire season? I told
you about the droughts right? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tornados?
A given, everyone has a designated safe spot. Ask any 3 year old and they will
tell you where to go if the sky starts turning green or it hails. 105 degrees?
Yawn, it’s why God invented ice cream and sweet tea and swimming holes. Throw
in massive ice storms every few years, a random earthquake or two, floods, 84
degrees in January and 45 degrees in June, and you start to get the picture.
The old jokes about first spring, real winter, second spring, last winter,
third spring etc all occurring in March are truer than you know. Weather men and
women are roasted mercilessly, especially by people who come from places where
fall is more than any 5 random days between October and December and snow lasts
more than 2 days. And, it’s true, we CAN’T drive on ice, but you know what? We
see those miles long pile ups on the news, we got real channels and everthang
down here, hyuck hyuck, you guys can’t either. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The food will make you fat at best and definitely kill you
slowly, but with love. It’s just so damn good! Buttermilk makes everything it
touches better, duh. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pecans and bacon go
in just about everything. Pecans and bacon with brown sugar? Manna from heaven
dontcha know. Beans cooked with ham hocks, corn on the cob, and squash from the
garden along with eggs from the backyard chickens make summer time a glorious
time to be alive and a foodie. Tomato sandwiches (as well as peanut butter and
banana) are on most people’s top ten lunch foods, guaranteed top five when the
tomatoes are still warm from the garden sun and doused with salt and pepper. Southerners
love seasoning and aren’t afraid of a little heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too much salt might kill you but apparently
not from boiled peanuts. Black, red, cayenne, green… we love ALL the pepper. Corn
bread, hot and dripping butter, was surely found first in the Garden of Eden!
Hush puppies are corn bread that needed an oil bath, because fried fish, ‘nuff
said. Sweet tea, known as tea down here, is a whole cultural thing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People have their own recipes (yep, for tea
with sugar and ice) and are divided into two camps, team tea with lemon and the
withouts. I am team lemon myself, but I am sad to say one must always ask for
tea with lemon, we are definitely in the minority. Barbeque enthusiasts are a subset
of our culture, and not to be confused with those that like to grill out. Once
again, I seem to fall on the minority side, enjoying grilled pork chops and
chicken way more than the same barbequed or smoked. I will probably lose my
southerner card because brisket is meh to me. I do love me some ribs, any
style, wet and messy and tasting like they were cooked by the angels on a giant
green egg in the sky. Oh yeah, southerners aren’t afraid to eat with their
fingers and gnaw the bones of something like the above mentioned ribs. A roll
of paper towels on the table isn’t laziness, it’s a sign that your host knows
this meal is good enough to use way more than one cheap paper napkin. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If your chest or lap isn’t spotted with dibbles
and crumbs, if you don’t have to groan and pop a button or two, if you don’t
say ‘I couldn’t eat another bite’ while greedily accepting a slice of homemade
lemon pound cake, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>your host will feel
like you didn’t really enjoy the meal and vow to do better next time. Oh, also,
they will talk about you once you leave. Everyone does it, but we aren’t afraid
to claim it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sometimes southern art makes me crazy, just angry crazy.
Rebel flags, ‘Gone With The Wind’, overly ornate ceramic belles and beaus,
mammies and lawn jockeys, in short, things that have disappeared from most
places still can be prevalent here. Not only are most politically incorrect
which should be enough to put them out of favor, they aren’t attractive, a lot
just plain ugly. Like giant trucks and spittoons they are outdated and tawdry.
On the other hand, I LOVE primitive art and it abounds here. Sculptures made
out of old farm equipment, windmills from shovel blades, chickens made from
gourds, I love them all. It isn’t at all unusual to be driving through the
mountains and happen on an impromptu front porch or parking lot concert
featuring blue grass and country music or classic rock by insanely talented ‘big
boned’ guys named Bubba or Mike. Every little store is overflowing with homemade
soaps and pillows and pottery and candles and wood worked with divine inspiration
that could sell for a million bucks anywhere. You are likely to find phenomenal
chutneys and salsa and pickled garlic on a shelf at the local hardware store,
between the boot scrapers and the chicken feed. Home grown and homemade is
EVERYWHERE and I hope that never changes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Like I said, I flat out love the south. I have lived a lot of
places, and a lot of them outshine us in some things, but for me, the genuinely
caring and talented and dedicated and well fed people keep me here. The random
day in the dead of winter, when all of my cold and dark fed demons are on full
display, that dawns sunny and warm enough to open all the windows and KNOW
summer is right around the proverbial corner makes it all worthwhile. If you
haven’t visited us, do. Every bad thing you ever heard is probably true to a
degree but the untold abundance of good things will astound and amaze you. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">OH! And watch out for deer!</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-1461869396391252792015-01-08T11:42:00.000-05:002015-01-08T11:42:27.547-05:00Me and Thee --<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I think that I shall never see</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anything as lovely as me and thee<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From our jutting bones to our fat shrouded hips<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our too narrow or chapped or bee stung lips<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our firm round flesh, our sagging jowls</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our sports ability or karaoke howls</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our hair that shines, that frizzes or curls, that hangs lank and colorless or tumbles and whirls<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That used to be there or that wafts like thistles<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To our body’s odd pops and ratchets, our booms and whistles<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Green eyes, blue eyes, brown and black</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fat on the front or fat on the back</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Short or tall, wide and narrow</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sturdy bones or those of a sparrow</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The newborn, the aged and all in between<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The most glorious artwork I've ever seen.</span></div>
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Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-27472078843209200942014-12-19T12:14:00.000-05:002014-12-19T12:33:19.079-05:00I Ain’t Never Going To Die<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Okay, we all want to live longer. Better living is fantastic
but longer living is where it is at. Even people who <i>think</i> they don’t change their tunes when the Grim Reaper comes-a-knockin’
at their door. I try to do the right things. I eat legumes and dark leafy
greens, I walk or exercise (almost) every day, I am married and have a pet, I
wash my hands and keep my environment clean. These should allow me to live my
allotted years in a general state of good health. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t have the oomph though,
to do more. I had resigned myself to living out my 80.18 years proscribed by
the government’s data (<u><a href="http://www.worldlifeexpectancy.com/usa/life-expectancy-white-female">http://www.worldlifeexpectancy.com/usa/life-expectancy-white-female</a></u>)
and then bidding this mortal coil farewell and leaving my well regulated and
dog hair covered, barely toned yet well-scrubbed and moisturized mortal shell
behind... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But Wait! While I was cruising the internet this morning I read an article that got me
re-enthused about longevity because I
discovered that I can live longer, so much longer that even Methuselah would
envy me, just by waking up every morning and being myself!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ibuprofen is the miracle it seems, and can add up to 15 % to
my life span! (Basically 8.2 years) that’s right! I am now looking at 90
almost. Why do I take ibuprofen? Because sadly one’s body starts to break down
a bit with use, or no use as the case may be, we are screwed every which way! I
have arthritis so I end up taking a giant horse pill at least every three days
and sometimes two or three times in one day depending on the weather. I can’t
imagine what the numbers will actually be since the longer I live the more my
joints will degenerate and the more I will hurt thus forcing me to take more
medicine… this might be the snake eating its tail infinite magic of modern medicine.
I missed my calling. I should have been a doctor!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The second miracle drug is coffee. Coffee can add up to 15%
more to a woman’s life span (<a href="http://authoritynutrition.com/how-coffee-makes-you-live-longer/">http://authoritynutrition.com/how-coffee-makes-you-live-longer/</a>).
Hello 98, you are looking fine! I drink a lot of coffee. I drink it mostly
because I hate to be cold, it hurts my bones. I take my ibuprofen with my
coffee so I figure that is like 15% squared! That being the case I can add <span style="color: red;">225
YEARS </span>to my age… screw 98, 300 is staring at me in my rear-view mirror. I love
mathematics and what you can do with it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am not a heavy drinker, and although alcohol is the 3<sup>rd</sup>
miracle drug, with numerous studies saying that drinking the hard stuff will
extend your life (<a href="http://www.digitaljournal.com/life/health/a-sobering-truth-drinkers-live-longer-than-non-drinkers/article/363956">http://www.digitaljournal.com/life/health/a-sobering-truth-drinkers-live-longer-than-non-drinkers/article/363956</a>
or <a href="http://www.themarysue.com/drinking-makes-you-live-longer/">http://www.themarysue.com/drinking-makes-you-live-longer/</a>)
not one of them gives me a percentage, so I am going to have to make an
educated guess. I don’t see myself aging
drinking cold drinks (arthritis) but I do love a wee bit of Irish whiskey or
cognac (Oui oui!) in a cup of good hot coffee. I will happily use that
concoction to swallow my Ibuprofen which I will need to take a ton of for my
300 plus year old joints. I am going to say, what the heck, an additional 15%
can be gained through this practice. Okay mathematics fans… we now have 15%
cubed or 3,375 years, plus my original 80.18. 3,455.18 years. Move over Methuselah
you old bastard! I have you beat by a pretty good margin, plus I am pain free,
hyped up and more than a bit buzzed to boot.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-72286617352346844802014-12-03T10:17:00.000-05:002014-12-04T06:50:49.518-05:00Seven Sure Signs of Success<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I keep seeing lists on line… silly lists like 43 cool things
to do with the Elf on the Shelf or 11 pictures of Batman through the ages type
of thing. There are the lists that promise to make life better in one way or
another, for instance you can find the 10 best cookies, the 7 habits of happy
people and the 5 rules to success. There are funny lists too, the 23 worst architectural
mistakes, the 15 best church signs, the 18 worst logo design concepts or 50
worst family Christmas photos. I admit
it, I love the lists! I decided I could make a list of my own, the __ ways I
knew I was making it in life. I can’t put a number to it yet because I just don’t
know how many I might think of!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><b>MY BANK BALANCE HAD NUMBERS IN FRONT OF THE
DECIMAL AT THE END OF THE MONTH<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I kid you not here. I wasn’t measuring in
the thousands or even the hundreds! I was measuring my success by the number of
dollars over nil that I had managed to finish my month with. Until you have
finished a month with all bills paid and no one starving to death with 12 cents
in the bank you simply cannot understand how empowering it feels to see a
figure like, say…$7.83 staring at you from that ending balance line on your
statement. Of course, I took that
fortune and blew it on gas station red wine and a Hershey bar and a magazine…. A
girl’s got to have some fun, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><b>MY HOUSE
CONTAINED MULTIPLE PAPER PRODUCTS, i.e., PAPER TOWELS <i>AND</i> TOILET PAPER (2 PLY BABY, 2 FREAKING PLY!) <i>AND</i> KLEENEX <i>AND</i> COFFEE
FILTERS, TOO!</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I can tell you that the cheapest white
paper towel, torn in half makes a decent coffee filter for a 12 cup pot, and
that the same amount, wetted in the sink, will wipe a babies butt just fine!
They work as Kleenex too, as long as you can stand the feeling of sandpaper
ripping the skin off the end of your nose! Two ply TP was a miracle unto itself
and I have to say I moved up to that amazing creation when I started having
multiple months with more than a few cents in my account at the end of the
banking cycle. Coffee filters are a whole other story! You can use them to soak
up grease under fried foods, to clean your windows and even to blow your nose
into, it feeling more like fine grit sandpaper than the cheap paper towels. I
won’t say which kid suffered the indignity but I even used them on occasion,
wetted in the sink, to wipe a babies butt in a pinch. When my balance started
showing double digits, that’s right, numbers like 18 whole dollars at the end
of my 30 day banking period I added the most generic nose-blowing material to
my shopping list. They were still pretty horrible but had the paper towels beat
all to hell. I still feel rich when I see boxes of the good stuff, with lotion
no less, in every room of my home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><b>I COULD
CONSIDER A PET</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don’t mean I could have a pet, I had a
dog by this point, and two cats, I just mean I could actually <i><u>consider</u></i> them. I could take them
to the vet once a year. I could buy food with pictures on the labels, not just
a white bag with black lettering that said DOG FOOD or CAT FOOD on the front. I
had to hit the 3 digit bank balance regularly before I felt okay doing this. By
this time I had developed a healthy fear of single ply TP and sand-papery paper
products. I was living the good life and wanted to keep it that way!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>4.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><b>I COULD EAT AT A RESTAURANT THAT DID NOT
HAVE PLASTIC FURNITURE BOLTED TO THE FLOOR AND GARISH PRIMARY COLORS EVERYWHERE
I LOOKED<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now don’t get me wrong… fast food was a
miracle as far as I was concerned. We never got to have any of course, unless
my mother took pity on the kids and treated us to paper wrapped cardboard
tasting crap which we all adored and craved intensely since it was as foreign
and unreachable to us as, say, platypus steaks or monkey brains. When we
regularly hit the double digit ending balance I took the kids about once a month
for a terrible yet horribly satisfying greasy tasteless lunch. When I realized
that I had finished my current month, and the one before and the one before that
with close to 100 dollars (Say what? No way? Money money money I was rich, yeah
baby come on!) I decided we would eat at a real restaurant, with dishes, and
drinks other than soda and iced tea and actual waitresses that had to be nice
to you even if you came in with 4 loud and excited children. At this point the
neighborhood’s bar and grill was fine freaking dining and we jumped in with
both feet! To have a cold beer, a bagged salad, a frozen piece of fish was
deeeee-vine! I knew the food was less than so-so but someone else cooked it,
served it, listened to the kids whine about it and cleaned up after us. The day I could take us all to a decent Mexican
restaurant or an Applebees or TGI Friday’s was the day I decided I was happy where I was in life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><b>I OWNED
MORE THAN ONE PAIR OF SHOES</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Can I find any words to describe the joy of
buying a pair of shoes JUST BECAUSE? Of
actually thinking about what you want instead of just what you need? Of buying
shoes because they are sexy or stylish or God forbid <i>trendy</i>? Of course the dog ate the shoes but that isn’t the point! I
had options! Along with this goes buying shampoo which has a better selling point
than being non acidic and not harmful to your eyes… much, of buying mascara
someplace other than the Dollar Tree, of going to Great Clips and getting
someone to wash and cut my hair that wasn’t me with kitchen shears in the foggy
bathroom mirror while the kids yelled “Mommy where arrrrreeeeeeeeeeeee you? I’m
(fill in the blank—lonely, hungry, dirty, bleeding, bored)”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRMyavY1bGycDMjlwYJQWYpSAOJv1wDFMvDxBjpq3kgEe1rI3v03b3uvHIYHOx24dsWlQLHkUM1yWamcEXbUhdxxr84tlM1mQjWsNYZRREniWOWbv_CaJLtKFOYkLizEjbOh6ZO5q0e8G/s1600/shoe2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRMyavY1bGycDMjlwYJQWYpSAOJv1wDFMvDxBjpq3kgEe1rI3v03b3uvHIYHOx24dsWlQLHkUM1yWamcEXbUhdxxr84tlM1mQjWsNYZRREniWOWbv_CaJLtKFOYkLizEjbOh6ZO5q0e8G/s1600/shoe2.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></span></a></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoamTrL8l3fmKXR-h6_w79L6RPXkWuf6AsqzngWSoZATIPe7wj4d64D3U2HEJBlcofCSq7CkDAqIm3e7V_ZbXy6-WMANZXdwlfT_FmFncMmJaaSGccZ07tEO1ViJEKRFE8i1F0RmdoNq7s/s1600/shoe3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoamTrL8l3fmKXR-h6_w79L6RPXkWuf6AsqzngWSoZATIPe7wj4d64D3U2HEJBlcofCSq7CkDAqIm3e7V_ZbXy6-WMANZXdwlfT_FmFncMmJaaSGccZ07tEO1ViJEKRFE8i1F0RmdoNq7s/s1600/shoe3.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></span></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">6.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><b>I COULD
GIVE MONEY TO CHARITY</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I absolutely cannot describe to you the joy
of giving. For years and years I had been the recipient of other people’s
charity. The Red Cross, the Salvation Army, the local food bank and emergency
services and Lighthouse ForThe Blind all came to my aid more than once. The Marine
Corps provided all of my kid’s Christmas presents one year. The local Fire
Department brought food one Thanksgiving. All of these groups helped me when I
needed it most. I knew what it felt like to be hungry, to be unable to get the
bare minimum for yourself and your children. I needed this help desperately, and I
appreciated it more but I felt so humiliated, so terribly useless accepting it
that it haunted me to think about it and kept me up at night. The year I was
able to drop a really nice stuffed animal, and a scooter into the Toys for Tots
box at the mall was the year I crossed a major hurdle and my perceptions on charity
were changed forever. It felt just so damn good to give. To think of a woman,
like myself, who was doing everything they could and still couldn’t do enough
to make it being able to give her children something real and good and fun for
the holiday made me burst into tears. I want to tell her that it really does
feel good to give and they shouldn’t worry about it. It is from my heart to hers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">7.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><b>I QUIT
WORRYING ABOUT THE END OF THE MONTH BALANCE IN MY BANK ACCOUNT</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It hit me a few months ago that I don’t
even check that balance line anymore. For years I opened each statement with a
knot in my gut, hands shaking and sweating and blew out huge sighs of relief
when it was over 0, even if only over by 13 cents. I worried literally about
every single dime I spent. If my kids found money on the ground I had to bite
my tongue and put my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t snatch it from them and
scream mine mine mine! No more bill collectors call me… I can always pay my
mortgage and keep the cable on. I am not afraid to open the mail box, to see
the pastel envelopes which announced to the world or at least the entire staff
at the post office that I was behind and in danger of losing power, water, gas
or worse. I worry about too many things but not about having food on the table
or being able to go to the doctor if I need to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihX5OkACg-TUODITithVqgCSwG5YupdTqoYktCRbcC5925fX6K_rUBR-W-ENQRy5bKMVXQfic1Q3D1ugl33R1iQj7a2VBq_-9fO9yGfeAe5BmxLitdi_QYDqB31027n5BZMMHmGU8xYZ4/s1600/bank.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihX5OkACg-TUODITithVqgCSwG5YupdTqoYktCRbcC5925fX6K_rUBR-W-ENQRy5bKMVXQfic1Q3D1ugl33R1iQj7a2VBq_-9fO9yGfeAe5BmxLitdi_QYDqB31027n5BZMMHmGU8xYZ4/s1600/bank.jpg" height="125" width="200" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In
the end I think you make it when the bare necessities are met with little
thought. It doesn’t mean I am touring Europe or buying a new car or dressing in
designer clothes. It doesn’t mean I eat caviar or drink champagne and hob nob
with the wealthy. It does mean if I want steak I buy steak without wondering if
I will still be able to keep the electricity on if I do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-613460059327213092014-09-04T11:59:00.001-04:002014-09-04T12:01:14.666-04:00Main Stream Media ==> Better Late Than Never...The World Health Organization (WHO) finally did a<a href="http://www.ajc.com/feed/news/who-suicide-kills-one-person-every-40-seconds/fjjkh/?ecmp=ajc_social_facebook_2014_sfp" target="_blank"> comprehensive report on suicide </a>and my local paper picked it up. Thank God!<br />
<br />
I have been seeing headlines every day for the last month or two claiming that traffic deaths, police shootings, domestic violence, and all have all been decided to be suicides or murder/suicides. This doesn't even cover all of the lost and lonely souls that take their own lives quietly in a way that doesn't bother people during their commute or disrupt their work day.<br />
<br />
Having lost my husband of 18 years to suicide in 1994 and my baby boy, my grown little man of 21 years to suicide in 2008, my son's best friend, my pseudo son to suicide this past month I can say with all confidence that this report, these facts and figures give you the shocking reality of the sheer numbers of suicide but cannot even scratch on the surface of the emotionally tossed and ravaged sea the survivors are afloat in.<br />
<br />
We need your help! We need your attention! We need caring and giving, NOT shame and scorn and fear. Suicide is not contagious but it is often seen as a solution for other's that might be suffering and are afraid to make their issues known and see no other way out. We need to give them other solutions. We need to be available and open, not turning our backs on those that need it most. We need to have safe, clean well staffed places where people can go and get the help they need instead of leaving them sitting alone in their rooms or looking for answers and peace on the streets with drugs and guns. We need to be able to express our grief at the loss of these loved ones without feeling like we have to lie, to prevaricate, to mumble something, anything acceptable to the general public.<br />
<br />
If you are thinking about suicide or are afraid that you might attempt or commit suicide, you can call the national hotline at 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255) and/or find other sources for help <a href="http://www.afsp.org/i-am/struggling" target="_blank">HERE</a><br />
<br />
If you have lost a loved one or friend, co-worker, student, neighbor, ANYONE to suicide you can start getting help <a href="http://www.afsp.org/coping-with-suicide-loss/find-support" target="_blank">HERE</a><br />
<br />
If you think you may have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD (a major cause of and a reaction to suicide of a loved one) you can get information on the disorder and suggestions for dealing with it <a href="http://www.helpguide.org/mental/post_traumatic_stress_disorder_symptoms_treatment.htm" target="_blank">HERE</a><br />
<br />
Many county health departments and state agencies also have help available, you need to search, or ask a loved one to search them out. Many of these offer low to no cost help including counseling and in and outpatient groups and settings as well as referrals to even more organizations that exist to make suicide a thing of the past.<br />
<br />
If you feel that SOMETHING, ANYTHING needs to be done but you are not sure what you alone can do you can donate to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention through my team (named after my son), <a href="http://afsp.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&participantID=561762" target="_blank">TEAM HENRY ROGER GRAMME HERE</a> or donate directly to the Foundation at afsp.org<br />
<br />
For too long I have felt like I was in a pitch black room, banging on locked doors trying to make people hear, to care just a teeny bit. This is the first glimmer of light.Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-24077590391283441542014-06-05T13:03:00.001-04:002014-06-05T13:04:49.844-04:00More Than 38,000 People Commit Suicide in America Every Year<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is a shocking statistic. Men and women of all ages, races, creeds and political belief take their own life every year. People don't discuss it, yet it is as prevalent as breast cancer. There are no inspiring commercials for 3 day walks, no special medical facilities advertising on cable TV, no miracle cures, no breakthroughs in medication. It is a plague that is cloaked in silence and shame. THIS MUST CHANGE.</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In 1994 my first husband, William Yves Gramme Sr., took his own life. He was Bi-Polar and had been battling the condition for years when he finally just got too tired of the struggle and ended his life. He left behind four children who loved him and a wife who would have done anything to keep him around roiling about in a sea of confusion and despair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">In 2008, my son, Henry Roger Gramme, succumbed to the same ailment. After fighting for almost six years he found himself in a place he did not think he could escape and also took his own life. He left behind a devastated mother, step-father and 3 siblings who loved him dearly.</span></span></div>
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William Y. Gramme Sr. and Henry R. Gramme, 1987</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Both of these incidents tore my family to shreds, leaving lasting scars and issues which will never be resolved. We know we shouldn't but it is hard not to dwell on the Why's of it all, to not blame ourselves for not being able to stop either one of them. We are not alone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bring this out of the darkness, talk, share, open up. if you have lost someone to suicide respect and honor their memory and struggle by telling people about it. Share your stories, it encourages other people to share their's.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Team Henry Roger Gramme will be joining with thousands of people nationwide to walk in the Atlanta Walk, benefiting the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP), and we would appreciate any support that you give for this worthwhile cause.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You can donate to Team Henry Roger Gramme <a href="http://afsp.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.team&teamID=62856" target="_blank"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>here</b></span></a>, or find walks, outreach programs and information and tools for coping at <a href="http://www.afsp.org/" target="_blank">www.AFSP.org</a></span></div>
Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-9238137166832554562014-05-07T11:14:00.000-04:002014-05-07T11:14:07.756-04:00At Grandmother’s House <div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I grew up in
a military family. My dad received orders to move us, lock, stock and barrel,
every three years like clockwork. Before we moved we made a trek from wherever we
were to Louisiana and to Georgia to see our grandparents. These visits were so
vastly different, one place and one family and one lifestyle to another that it
always made the trip interesting even for a kid that was furious she was
leaving her friends (hard won, I am not a social butterfly) and her school (which I always loved, no
matter where it was) and her home (incredibly important, that sense of home)
yet again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We would go
to southern Louisiana and eat crawfish, play with deadly animals, listen to
good music, smoke Picayune cigarettes down by the river under cover of massive
live oaks dripping with moss and generally run free and wild with our cousins.
My grandparent’s house was tiny, the cousins were too many to count and the
spaces outdoors so inviting and untamed as to make staying indoors a ridiculous
notion. We were wild Indians, little heathens, crazy animals and every other
thing people called roving bands of dirty, smiling kids and we loved it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From there
we went to Georgia, to a house not much bigger, also out in the country but so
ridiculously different as to slam our headlong rush of gaiety and abandon into
a massive stone wall (quarried and built by my father and grandfather’s hands).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">While my Louisiana
grandfather still worked a bit, my Georgia grandfather had retired literally
from his job onto his back porch with his bourbon and Fresca and the Braves on
the radio. His goal was to keep us quiet so we </span><span style="line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> bother my grandmother. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">My grandmother liked the concept of children, of having a family who adored her,
but the reality of it was too much for her to deal with. Kids were dirty,
noisy, always wanting something and in general a pain in the patooty, especially
8 of them at one time. Her furniture was covered in plastic. For me that summed
her house up, sterile, stiff, unwelcoming. We stayed outside there; playing in
the woods, riding the horses which the grands had ‘liberated’ from a neighbor
whom they felt </span><span style="line-height: 20.700000762939453px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> care for them correctly. This fact, that they stole
horses, was the only thing that gave me hope that they were more than they
seemed which was a cranky inebriated couple of unwilling old folks, doing what societal
dictates told them they had to do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mother
somehow grew into a glorious grandmother. She was always welcoming, inviting,
open-minded, loving. Not a single grandchild, and she has a ton of them, would
say a bad word about her. She didn’t
cater to them. She certainly knew the word ‘No’, but she loved them. They were
always interesting to her. She could talk to them, play with them, and feed
them with love. The candy jars were full, the Disney movies beckoned, the
badminton net was set up close to the big swing in the yard where she would sit
with her children, their parents, and watch the kids be fun and free and wild
and happy. She and my father ended up in the cold stone house in Georgia but
while they were there it brimmed with emotions, with people, with family
history being retold and made anew.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now that I
am a grandmother (Many times over, number 13 is due this fall) I find myself
trying to emulate her. I have a candy bowl, which is the first thing the kids
and their parents hit when they come over. The Disney movies stand piled
haphazardly on the cabinet holding the TV and the video games. Yes, I <i>WILL </i>do
Wii dance with them, and try to kick their butt at bowling too! We bought a house with
a pool and huge porches out in the country. We both like to swim but our first
thought on seeing this place was family memories that last forever can be made
here. We encourage the kids to play outside, to run in the woods, to find deer
tracks and worms under rocks and bird’s nests in the trees. They can use our
computers and read our books and nap in the guest room if they want. These
little people mean the world to me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I can’t help
but think how sad it is that my own grandparents </span><span style="line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">didn't</span></span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> get to know my brothers and sisters and I. We were cool kids. Kids are funny and smart and loving and
beautiful in form and mind.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-47438764986800635342014-04-30T09:15:00.000-04:002014-04-30T09:15:13.290-04:00The Worst Thing For A Person To Do...<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17">
<span style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">The Worst Thing For A Person To Do... is (apparently) watch daytime TV. </span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17">
<span style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17">
<span style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">If you want to feel terrible about your homemaking skills, your appearance, your decor, your friends or your family just tune into any one of the shows composed of women speaking to women supposedly in solidarity. Ouch! Makes me wish I was a man and seriously this is new because I pretty much love being a mom and a wife and a career woman.</span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17">
<span style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17">
<span style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I was watching (and this is so painful to admit I am hanging my head) the Wendy Williams show yesterday because I was bored with reading, cooking, cleaning and gardening. I was so shocked and offended by just two segments I had to write a letter, something I have NEVER done before and hopefully I will never have to do again as I am once again vowing to never watch day time TV.</span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17">
<span style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17">
<span style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, Lucida Grande, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Since I felt a bit better after writing it, but still not clean again I decided to post it up here and see what YOU think! Let me know if you agree with me or not. I can take it, I am tough. Enjoy!.</span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_59" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><i>Dear Wendy or Wendy's minion sorting through e-mails,</i></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_34" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span id="yui_3_13_0_1_1398861430193_3223" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><i>I am a newly retired individual who tends to avoid daytime TV but was suckered in yesterday when I saw your show was on. I haven't watched it often but I do like it so I settled in with a cup of coffee for what I hoped would be a nice bit of entertainment.</i></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_37" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><i><br id="yui_3_13_0_1_1398861430193_3233" /></i></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_40" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><i>I tuned in right at the beginning of your talk about Amal Alamuddin's appearance, laughingly chatting about how you went through 'hundreds' of photos and the one you had on air was the only normal or decent one. I found this incredibly cruel and catty, and your only justification for this derision seemed to be that she was now engaged to a famous and handsome man. Talk about stabbing a fellow woman in the back, and letting the entire world know that contrary to everything we push on teenagers, appearance really <span id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_62">does </span>matter more than anything and people can be demeaned and humiliated if they don't fit the mold. I was surprised, I was ashamed to be a fellow woman just listening to the whole thing. Appalling!</i></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_44" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><i><br id="yui_3_13_0_1_1398861430193_3495" /></i></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_47" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><i>The fact that you followed it up by vilifying a man who is a terrible racist, judging people solely by their physical appearance made it even weirder. At least his rant and cruel remarks were supposedly in the privacy of his personal communications and not on a syndicated TV show.</i></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_51" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><i><br id="yui_3_13_0_1_1398861430193_3729" /></i></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_17" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span id="yui_3_13_0_9_1398861430193_54" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><i>Honestly in 54 years of life I have never written to a show but damn, this was just too cruel and such an obvious juxtaposition of messages and images that it has stayed in the forefront of my mind and this is the only way to deal with it constructively and banish it to where it belongs, forgotten (hopefully) and a ghost file in my deleted items folder..</i></span></div>
Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-26723193831427928252014-02-23T10:37:00.000-05:002014-02-23T10:37:55.230-05:00Because when you are proud of a kid...<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am going to do something utterly and completely grandmother-ish. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">How many times have we all posted something we regret? Even I, a stellar human being of high morals and character (those of you that know me, please put your fingers in your ears and quit making gagging noises) and exemplary behavior have, on a rare occasion, posted something that I wish I had not. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For me it is grammatical errors or perhaps a misspelled word slides by, quietly into the mystical land where nothing ever dies, forever haunting me, taunting me. HOWEVER; I know that many of you have posted worse, much worse.... really much much much worse. Backpeddle is the app for you then:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ebaanUKOJqo"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because some images you can't take back</span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh yes, the star, the absolute Oscar worthy actor in this little youTube commercial is my grandson. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-30223752098217502502013-12-20T08:07:00.004-05:002013-12-20T08:46:51.242-05:00The Percussive Nature of Aging<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My fingers sound like castanets, my toes they follow suit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My hips, each step a metronome, keeping time for creaky bone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My ears they ring, my teeth they grind<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And my knees are kettle and snare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On occasion the music startles me, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who left that duck
call there?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-27193893201818700432013-10-19T11:57:00.000-04:002013-10-19T12:00:12.167-04:00What's That Growing In Your Head?<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For various reason, none of them having to do with common sense or regular health care checks I went to a neuro-ophthalmologist so that I could get an official letter which says in short "She really, really, <i>really </i>can't see worth a damn. She has <b style="text-decoration: underline;">not</b> been faking for 54 years so cut her a break."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I HATE going to the eye doctor. I have a rare genetic condition so they always get all excited, put me through a multitude of test to prove yet again that my vision is laughable, charge me an arm and a leg, demand follow-ups and gleefully rub their hands together in a Simon Legree sort of way while they say "Whoa Nelly, your eyes are horrible and there is no fix. Sucks to be you!" If I hadn't needed the letter for work I would have happily gone on, staying in familiar places and firmly holding on to my seeing eye people for the next forty or so years.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I arrived begrudgingly, agreed to a test that maps one's vision with a curt nod, sat in a horribly uncomfortable chair with my chin in a cup and my head in their machine and waited for tiny lights to start zooming around, clicker in hand. When you see a light, you click the button. This is simple.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The woman helping me was sweet and quiet for a minute and then asked did I not see any at all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"What? What? You started?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Just click the button when you see the light flash."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Crap. No lights, I stare straight ahead willing the little points of light to appear. As if by magic three or four bright flashes appear in a row, top left, click click click. Then, nothing.... </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Quick! three or four bright flashes appear in a row, bottom right! Click click click.... I do an extra click just in case I miss counted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nothing! I can't cheat since I do not really know where or when the flashes will appear, but I would, if I could. Test over. The lady is now smiling at me with a touch of pity. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"You did real well."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Liar! I want to beg to do it again. I stare balefully at the machine, sitting there like a piece of modern sculpture, taunting me. I want to cry.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The last time I did this test the map it made of my eyes looked like a target, circles of no vision radiating out like waves from the center. This time it looks like a butterfly, with the wings and body having no vision at all. It looked bad, and dark and absolutely terrifying to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">My vision sort of resembles this Rorschach ink blot</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The doctor, wasting no time, not being gleeful and not rubbing his hands together says, "Yep, you definitely have genetic neuro-scatomatas. HOWEVER..." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel myself shrinking.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Usually when we see this 'tubing' it is caused by something pressing against the optic nerves"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I shrink more. I feel like I am six.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Usually an enlargement of the Pituitary glad. Maybe surgery is an option. We can't fix the genetic defect (No shit Sherlock) but <i>sometimes </i>reducing the pressure can help to return the vision to it's pre-swelling state<i>."</i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel like a toddler walking out, lost and alone, looking for my sister who has driven me here. Everybody in the waiting room is acting like nothing has changed. Everybody in the waiting room is reading, toe tapping, finger drumming, waiting to get their new prescription and get in their cars and drive off into their normal life. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The right side of my brain is saying "This is bad, this is serious, this is NOT GOOD" The left side of my brain is saying "Oh look! A butterfly! (Here the left brain shrieks and makes an about face. I suddenly do not like the looks of butterflies) I want a cookie, maybe a couple of dozen. Isn't the sun nice! What shall we cook for dinner? I like red, it is such a pretty color. That machine has a nice rhythm. Doodly doo doo doo doo doo."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By the time I got home my right brain was speaking in a much firmer tone of voice... "THIS IS BAD, THIS IS SERIOUS, THIS IS NOT GOOD!" and the left side had retreated into a corner, fingers in ears saying "LA LA LA LA I can't hear you" but had given up the good fight. I turned to Dr. Google and looked up swelling in the pituitary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I read a lot of articles, spending roughly three hours on different sites but the end result was always the same. TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR. Oh crap and eff me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The good news? Tumors in the pituitary are self contained, not malignant. Bad news they can only be treated by radiation or surgery, and the underlying cause can be treated, sometimes, depending on what it is. I was not a happy camper.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am having two MRIs this Monday, one with contrast, one without. I am hoping (Yes, with my left brain) that this has all been a giant scare and that the next time I take the test from hell I will once again have lovely targets of blindness and the evil tubing will be gone. Wish me luck!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<br />
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<br />Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-36981326261950395662013-10-11T10:07:00.002-04:002013-10-11T10:16:26.223-04:00After the Storm<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Clouds, yellow green and ominous cover the sky in its
entirety. Five columns of black descend destroying everything in their path.
They are thick, heavy, solid, dark and bent on destruction. I watch them,
rooted in place and horrified by the damage they wrought. As the biggest, the
blackest, the most solid bears down directly on me I wake with a start; my
heartbeat shakes the entire bed. My breathing is shallow and I feel frozen to
the bone even though I am well covered. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I turn toward the rock that is my husband, wrapping myself
against his warm back, tucking myself into the curve created by his bent knees.
As he reaches in his sleep and pulls me nearer still I begin to relax. Once the
pounding in my chest and the blood rushing in my ears subsides a bit I can hear
the steady loud chug-chug of the air conditioner a scant three feet away. I
hear the noise of people that wander the darkness outside the window with its
stiff bright orange, yellow and green curtains. The heavy covering for the old
mattress a thousand people have slept on is folded and wrinkled and
uncomfortable under my skin. The pillow is flat and not soft, not welcoming as
a pillow should be. Instead it is a harder by the minute brick on which my head
lays. Tear soaked and smelling like someone else’s laundry it is the pillow
that finally drives me from the warmth of the bed and into the cold white tile
of the hotel bathroom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I realize I haven’t got any clothes except those I had on
when the tornado destroyed my home, turning me into a weather refugee. The Red
Cross had given us coffee and dinner and called around to hotels for me. A $75
dollar gift certificate redeemable just about anywhere had been pressed into my
hand but I was too distraught and could literally not let go of my husband to
go shopping. I feared if I did he would blow away, dancing in the sky waving to
me as he rotated and flew off just as my wedding dress, my pajamas, my winter
coat had. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I drew a hot bath, scalding water, pouring the teeny bottle
of body wash in it to make it feels smooth on my skin. I rolled up a towel and
stuck it under my neck as a make shift pillow and sunk chin deep into the tub.
I couldn’t hear the rattling AC unit in here, nor the whores outside, nor my
husband snoring, sleeping well cocooned in the wrinkled and bleach smelling
bed. I closed my eyes and began to drift off, again and again, each time being
jerked awake by the wind, the malevolent wind. After the water cooled I rose,
pulled on my dirty clothes and slipped outside for a smoke.</span>Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-59858065423899681132013-09-14T10:29:00.000-04:002013-09-14T10:29:12.059-04:00Conundrum<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I find
myself, not for the first time in my life, with a conundrum (</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;">a</span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"> paradoxical, insoluble, or difficult
problem; a dilemma). I thought I would take the problem to my readers, my
friends and family, and find out if what seem to be questions without answers
for me is a simple matter with a clear solution for all of you. In short, I am
picking your brains, I am ASKING for advice and we all know that doesn’t happen
too often.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;">Allow me to set the scene. As
you probably all know by now, (I do, on occasion, whine about it) I am legally
blind. ‘Legally’ because there is a clearly defined and recognized range of
vision (or lack thereof) that makes life a pain in the patooty. In my case I
top the charts at 20/400. 20/400 is the top range they measure because, really,
after that point what difference does it make? 20/400 means that if a person
with normal vision can see, say, a rampaging elephant, at 400 feet, that same
elephant would have to be 20 feet in front of my face before I would notice it
was there. Even then I would not say, Gee an elephant, but rather, What is
that? Is that a building? No, it moves!
A dear? When said elephant was about 15 feet away I would be saying Holy cow! That’s
an elephant! By the time the fact registered and my brain figured out I was
about to be mowed down by an elephant on the little dirt road by my house where
I almost never even see a car, said elephant would be scraping me out from
between his toes and looking for some other blind sucker standing in his way.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz9k8sLzOeKMNvxaghbT2yZ-n2lfVs1BkiqeX9NJHQkvFe5ZvAKXsyQXGqpx4juZeD4SgxfFqfwIH0i79TsONbsRTIpuVh3v-upm8UeQxqWuMVK7tvFrDlxhayV0_in_iuukmkYg6XEZHq/s1600/rampagng+elephant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz9k8sLzOeKMNvxaghbT2yZ-n2lfVs1BkiqeX9NJHQkvFe5ZvAKXsyQXGqpx4juZeD4SgxfFqfwIH0i79TsONbsRTIpuVh3v-upm8UeQxqWuMVK7tvFrDlxhayV0_in_iuukmkYg6XEZHq/s1600/rampagng+elephant.jpg" /></b></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I try to maintain a strictly controlled
environment and lifestyle in order to live with this ridiculous issue. I can
avoid furniture not in its place (most of the time) and unless I am having a really
bad day I don’t walk into walls or anything. Stairs have an irritating way of
turning into ramps and vice versa and I look at signs as a personal attack on
me by whoever hung them in the first place. I do not drive (you can say ‘whew’
out loud, I know the thought of me controlling 1500 lbs. plus of metal and
plastic at high speeds is terrifying) I do not go into strange places by
myself, I avoid crowds because I do not want to lose track or whichever kind
soul is my seeing eye person at that time. When company is coming I vacuum in
all the corners because I just assume that cobwebs have invaded that space.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My family is invaluable to me when it comes
to living a mostly normal life. They read print that is below 14 points, they
either vacuum or offer to in a kind and gently way that lets me know my house
is turning into a pigsty. They point out steps, ramps, and cracks in the
sidewalk. They describe things to me without being asked. For example, one of
them would say ‘Holy cow, that is a rampaging elephant! Run!’ And the best, the
very best thing they do is act like I don’t have an issue at all. They assume
that I can do anything I want to, until they see otherwise.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the things they have always assumed
I can do is work, hold down a job and do it proud. And I have! I have worked so
called real jobs since I was 19 and moved back to the United States. I have
done just about everything a person could do. Before I went to college I held
down jobs as a maid, a fry cook, a telephone sales person. I cut grass, and
stocked store shelves. I worked in a gym, I typed up lunch menus for the local
paper. I babysat, and cared for and walked dogs. Once I got a college education
I worked on computers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Working on computers, for me anyway, is
much easier than say wrestling a neighbors one hundred pound dog into
submission while keeping track of three toddlers on a 100 degree day in August
in Georgia or cooking 2000 pieces of chicken in a hot as hell fryer in an eight
hour shift. Computers are inside, in air-conditioned buildings and computer
jobs pay enough that you can <i>finally</i>
pay someone else to walk your own 100 pound dog. If I pull the screen to my
face, leaning hunched over about two inches from it I can see everything I need
to, to do my job and do it well. Of course I can’t get to where the computer
jobs are without help from my loved ones, or complete strangers on occasion,
and public transportation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have ridden with FBI agents in rattle
trap old cars held together literally with wire and duct tape. </span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZpS5y56n6pZgC_cZcC7GteSK-pzlmoRpf7zBvHe-YBw0cqbLiFBEENMKBBVXSOB9G-mdSevx78zpLxsB4F517ZT_ZBqPfyiDBoT89OPpb68uHSMyZ9COl49qdpOl4EDU3XUaK45EVMzM/s1600/Color_Blind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZpS5y56n6pZgC_cZcC7GteSK-pzlmoRpf7zBvHe-YBw0cqbLiFBEENMKBBVXSOB9G-mdSevx78zpLxsB4F517ZT_ZBqPfyiDBoT89OPpb68uHSMyZ9COl49qdpOl4EDU3XUaK45EVMzM/s400/Color_Blind.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have ridden
with Health Department officials who spent the whole long commute trying to
tell me how to fix my eyes because they assume, I guess, that I stay blind for
the fun of it (so annoying, I can’t even describe it). </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I have ridden with
co-workers who have alternately spoken to their mistress and their wife on the
phone while speeding and shouting </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 23px;">invective's</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"> at passing motorist. Do you want
to know what is scary? Having the person whose hands in which you have placed
your life out of necessity screech to a halt on the interstate while cursing
and threatening some other jackass who also screeched to a halt. Blind woman, never
driven, sitting in a lane of traffic while cars zoom past at eighty miles an
hour honking and yelling watching two fools duke it out on the roadway in front
of her.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">As I am sure you can imagine I have not
always been able to get a ride into work. My employers, a state agency much
reviled by the general public, have worked with me without question and without
too much resentment for 15 years on this issue. Oh happy day when I was allowed
to do my work at home. I could log right into the system and write my code, run
my queries, design databases and develop mailings, make calls, email,
everything that I do at the office. Being at home means that when my eyes start
to burn and water from fatigue I can walk outside for ten minutes and give them
a rest. Being at home means that I can work late or log in early. Being at home means that I can work nights and
weekends if necessary. Being at home means that I can work when the office is
closed due to inclement weather or water main breaks or bomb threats (much
reviled agency). Being at home means that I can avoid the flu when 2/</span><span style="line-height: 23px;">3rd s</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> of
the office staff is sneezing and snorting and coughing and choking all over
each other.</span><b style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And now, finally, we reach the crux of my conundrum.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Three weeks ago I was notified that no one
would be allowed to work from home any more. This turns out to not actually be
the case but I guess they thought it sounded better than <i>your</i> particular group will not be allowed to work from home
anymore. Being reasonable I went to my boss and said, boss, you know I need to
work from home sometimes for many reason, all relating to my (Lord I HATE this)
disability. I can’t drive so unless the stars align and my husband can get me
to and from my bus I can’t come in. (I was still smiling at this point.) <span style="color: red;">NO</span>.
Boss, you know I have 15 years of good and excellent reviews with this much
reviled agency, I am always available when teleworking (duh, I can’t drive
dude, where else will I be?) and always get my work done. <span style="color: red;">NO</span>. Boss, you know
when I am in the office I sit at my desk because roaming around is a bit difficult
when you can’t see. I never deal with the public. I always deal with my users
by phone or by email just like when I am home. <span style="color: red;">NO</span>.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">At this point, I admit it, I lost it just a
wee bit. What the hell? I demanded a reason and got the following: People think
it </span><span style="line-height: 23px;">isn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> fair. Oh really? You want fair? Let them all coat their eyes with
petroleum jelly for 54 years and try to manage. That would make it fair for me.
The final result is </span><span style="color: #990000; line-height: 115%;">NO </span><span style="color: red; line-height: 115%;">NO NO NO NO</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">. If I can’t work from home, I will not be
able to keep this job.</span><b style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Okay. I can quit and apply for disability.
I qualify too, due to the whole rampaging-elephant-toe-picking thing. I mean,
let’s face it, I really do have a disability, as much as I try to deny it.
Working is a pain in the behind and eye balls and just getting me there and
home involves a lot of people whom I do not really give a choice to. I would
have some income and a lot of people could quit organizing their schedules
around me. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the other hand, I have always worked. I
started babysitting and dog walking when I was 12 for God’s sake. I pay my own
way, and except for in the very worst of times I manage to do it pretty well. I
don’t like working but I do like getting that paycheck which I earned, despite
my handicap. I am terrified of being utterly dependent; it goes completely
against my grain. I have paid into the Social Security system all of these
years but somehow I thought I would be old and (more) gray before I had to
collect. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What to do, what to do? I am asking here
for advice, for possible courses of action. What would YOU do in this
situation?</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-8791456369717979582013-07-26T11:33:00.003-04:002013-07-26T11:36:38.025-04:00Its that time of year again!<h2>
<b>Join us in Piedmont Park November 3rd for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention Atlanta Community Walk.</b></h2>
<b><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"><a href="http://afsp.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&participantID=428617" target="_blank">Team Henry Roger Gramme</a></span></b>Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-41766041260698840982013-05-28T20:55:00.000-04:002013-05-28T20:55:35.457-04:00PTSD Or, As I Like To Call It, Hell On Earth Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is not for sissies. Imagine the worst, absolute most horrific moment of your life. Now imagine living it over and over and over. Living Color, smells, sounds, the whole 9 yards. The movie you never want to see again on an eternal loop in your brain. This is my best explanation for PTSD as I know it.<br />
<br />
I am not speaking for anyone but myself. I hope it isn't like this for others but I really do not know. If it is high five and a shot of tequila to all of you. You deserve it.<br />
<br />
The source, or sources, of my particular hellish state of mind are the death of two of my children. 34 years ago I awoke lazily, the sun shining through the blinds across my face. I stretched luxuriously and then realized something was horribly wrong. I jerked up, ran to the crib in the corner and touched the stiff cold back of my 2 1/2 month old son. I saw his purple face, frozen in a grimace, white spittle on his chin.<br />
<br />
I was in a state of shock for four days. Family was called, arrangements were made, leave was taken. I could not look at my daughter without crumbling but I felt split in two. The part 'dealing' with it, and the part that was frozen in a block of ice that I feared would never melt. Not sleeping was my only option. If I closed my eyes I found him again, and again, and again. I never knew a head could hurt that much. I never knew there were that many tears. Every night for years when I lay down I would see him swimming in front of me, my glorious little fella his lively smiling self and then he would turn blue and cold. I woke to that same panicked sensation every day. Every single day for about four years I knew no peace.<br />
<br />
From time to time throughout the years that little blue face would come back to haunt me. I would wake in the middle of the night, that vision in my head, my heart pounding so hard the bed would shake, tears streaming down my face and my own choking sobs sounding like the wail of all the dead in my ears. My life was busy, my other children growing and changing and LIVING kept me occupied during the day but the nights and early mornings were a descent into a painful swirl of dread and fear and pain all over again.<br />
<br />
Who do you discuss that with? Psychologists wanted me to talk about it. I would sit there and say yep, I feel terrible, I feel worse than terrible. I still see him, I hear him, I feel him but he turns cold every time. What is there to say after that? What do they want to hear? Talking about it doesn't change it. Bringing it out in the open did not lessen the terrible sense of loss and overwhelming fear that accompanied the visions. I knew why I felt the way I did and it didn't take a lot of education for me to decipher it. Over time, with the help of my growing brood the fears and panic attacks eased bit by bit. I still saw my boy, still saw the grim blue visage ut I had wonderful images too, they swirled together making the awful ones easier to bear.<br />
<br />
In August 2008 my youngest son took his own life. He put a gun to his head, right in front of me. He looked at me with the saddest, most sardonic smile, he shrugged, and he pulled the trigger. I had turned away I couldn't reach him, my husband was trying to get there but we were both mired in the quicksand of tragedy while he seemed to be in fast forward. I will never forget his smile at that instant. My husband begging and crying, my son's girlfriend shrieking and screaming and falling to the ground. I made the call to 911. I remember the lady asking where he shot himself, and I kept screaming his head, his head. She wanted a location.<br />
<br />
It took him two days to die. Two days for us to say our goodbyes. He was conscious but on a ventilator, his spine shattered just below the base of his skill, his poor destroyed head and face swathed in rapidly bloody bandages as he tried to nod in answer to our questions. do you want to die? Do you want to turn off the machines? Repeating over and over that we loved him. You really cannot say it enough, ever, and certainly not under those circumstances.<br />
<br />
I found out that the hospitals have Ethics Committees. We can't get congress or our state legislature to go for ethics committees but hospitals are all about it. The question was, basically, is it ethical to let someone who tried to kill themselves die.<br />
<br />
We explained how tortured he had been, how his mind was so far in another dimension most of the time that to leave him with the only truly alive thing being the one thing that made his existence sheer living hell would be the cruelest thing any human being could do to another. I still thank God daily that the doctors listened to us. They spoke to him, they gave us the go ahead. to remove the machines.<br />
<br />
We were a crowd. I couldn't touch him. Not because I didn't want to, but because he could not feel anything and I did not want to touch him without him knowing. It seemed almost criminal so I didn't. We spoke to him, we told him it was okay, that God and his grandmother and his big brother were waiting for him. We watched the monitors as his heart went crazy for a minute or two, then slowed and stopped. I ran away.<br />
<br />
The moments that haunt me are not these, not his dying moments, but his last truly alive moments. The gun being raised and that horrible sad sad smile. They come to me morning and night. They come to me in the darkest nights and the sunniest days. They come to me when I least expect them and bring me to my knees with such loss, such sadness, such hatred for the moment that stole my boy away from me.<br />
<br />
I can talk about it, but like before, it doesn't change the fact and the fact is a soul killing one. That image twists like fog in and around all the good memories, all the good times, all of the pleasant moments in my new normal.<br />
<br />
I wrote this because today someone made an offhand remark and I found myself fighting the demons again. One second everything is fine and the next I am fighting to stay afloat in the sea of despair that is my loss. That image comes unbidden and I just want to run away but I know I can't. I wrote this instead, to allow my children to walk this earth for a moment again, and to help myself to breathe.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-4452970399985022202013-02-27T12:00:00.000-05:002013-02-27T13:01:09.156-05:00The Wheels On The Bus<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A comment on a popular social network site made me think about all of my hours spent on buses and trains and car pools and van. I have used mass transportation all over the world and I came to realize that people who use mass transport are always the same. It doesn't matter if you are in Europe, the South or in megalopolis areas like New York. We all fall into certain categories with very few, if any, exceptions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First, and it wouldn't be a bus ride without this fine example, you have the Talker.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Talker generally sits right behind the driver, leaning forward so that his mouth is in the closest possible proximity to the driver's ear. He rambles on and on about one of two things; Politics of which he knows nothing but thinks he knows everything, or sports, of which he knows just enough to be annoying and thinks he knows everything. The bus stops and starts, doors open and close, people talk to the driver yet none of this stops the Talker from droning on and on and on. On occasion, an Antagonist will have boarded the bus, sitting as far away from the Talker as possible and interjects a few statements that he knows will irritate the Talker no end and make sure that the ramble never ceases. At first the other passengers are always happy that the Antagonist irritates the Talker as badly as he is irritating them. If this goes on for more than a stop or two, however, the other passengers either put on headphones or yell "shut UP!" or get off 6 miles early because walking in the heat, rain, snow, chill has got to be less painful that the two annoying creatures going at each other in full voice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Similar to the Talker is the Self Conversationalist. In the good old days people gave the Self Conversationalist wide berth because it could only mean one thing, i.e. CRAZY. A city bus is a confined space and being next to a verified lunatic is not pleasant for someone just tying to shlep their groceries home from the store. With the advent of cell phones and Blue Tooth devices the Self Conversationalist is now often confused with the Rude Asshole. I actually feel bad for the crazy people who now must wonder is the Rude Asshole hearing the same voices they are? Does everyone now hear voices? While the Self Conservationists voices are talking murder and mayhem the Rude Assholes voices seem to be saying nothing at all, just listening to the constant ramble about doctors visits and evil relatives, sort of like the bus driver. Are the voices simply passed away Talkers who feel they must leave their mouths close to someones ear and ramble on and on about sports and politics for eternity?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Tired Mom is a fixture too. Aged looking women anywhere from 16 to 56 surrounded by wide eyed children who don't want to sit together take up several rows of seats. One is always crying, one is always sniffling and coughing, one is asking questions of the Somnolent Drunk (Another fixture. Could also be Jittery Addict, closely related and more and more common) next to them about why he isn't shaven, hey mister you smell funny, and why do your hands shake like that. Sometimes Tired Mom totally ignores her brood, glad to have them in an enclosed moving space and therefore confined giving her a short respite from constant vigilance. Sometimes Tired Mom looks on in pride as they terrorize the other passengers. Sometimes Tired Mom yells at the Self Conversationalist for terrifying her offspring but usually Tired Mom just dozes in and out and thinks about everything she has to do once she gets home and wishes, how she wishes, that she had a damn car.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What I like to call Thug Lite is next in this line of characters. Thug Lite would be really really scary except, well lets face it, he has to ride a bus. That means he isn't old enough to drive yet (Thug Lite Junior) or isn't a good enough drug dealer or burglar to afford a car. In other words he is often caught because while many people think public transportation brings a bad element to their neighborhood, it is a bad element who face thirty stops and starts on their omnibus getaway. Thug Lite is also often holding up their britches so they don't fall off in front of people they are trying to frighten. Seriously? How scary is someone who can't run without their pants sliding down and the whole world seeing their Mickey Mouse drawers? Thug Lite tend to travel in small herds and take up the back seat because even on mass transport the wanna be cool, bad kids sit in the back of the bus.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thrill Seekers are an annoying fact for those of us that ride every day. Thrill Seekers ride a bus once, maybe twice in their life. They ride to say they have, they ride to give the kids a life lesson, they ride to prove that they are the same as Somnolent Drunk, Jittery Addict or Thug Lite, no better, no worse, all God's children after all. Thrill Seekers always look excited, sweaty palmed, red faced, benevolent shaky smiles as they clutch each other, sitting three to a bench seat and avoid eye contact with everyone except Tired Mom's kids. They ride a few stops and then hop off, relief coming off of them like a sickly sweet perfume as they hail a cab to finish their journey to wherever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Freaking Liberal comes next. He boards jauntily after taking five minutes to hook his 2,000 dollar bike to the front of the bus. He is wearing all wrinkled cotton shorts and a defunct bands' t-shirt and shoes that are buy one, give a pair to some stranger in Africa. He has a reusable bottle of water which he clutches like a sword, waving it about as he gets into a discussion with the Talker about bicycles and the economy of road repair and the flat tax. Freaking Liberals all have facial hair, just enough to make Tired Mom want to yell at them to get a damn razor, were you raised by wolves? Freaking Liberals are doused with cologne from Abercrombie or Gap, mixing it with the sweat pouring off of them after biking through the city in the heat and the residual aroma of Starbucks. This effectively creates an envelope of odor that surrounds them, blocking out Somnolent Drunk or Thug Lite and their strange and quite uncomfortable scents compo;ed of malt liquor and cheap cigarettes lack of soap or an abundance of cheap cologne and weed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Rider is another common figure. He is on when you get on and on when you get off. He is on day after day after day. He is quiet, looking out the window of nodding off, never seeming to notice anything going on inside the bus unless the Self Conservationist, Tired Mom and the Talker start going head to head. He hums on occasion, he smiles or makes faces at Tired Mom's children. He will on a rare occasion give up his well worn seat to an elderly man or woman and always to a pregnant woman, sliding quietly back into it when they depart. His description is that he is nondescript, white, brown, black or yellow he is always dressed innocuously and never interacts unless he has too. He could be a serial killer, a modern day hobo, an international spy or someone riding the bus for warmth and a few hours of protection. He is boring and intriguing at once.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Last but not least there are people like me, The Havetas. I haveta ride because I can't see well, I have friends that </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">haveta</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ride because they have lost their license they crashed their car or don't own one, sociology experiments, college students </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">haveta</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> ride to get to and from class because their taxi money went to beer and books. We get on, smile, wrinkle our nose at the smell, greet the Rider expecting and getting no acknowledgement, chuckle at Thug Lite, ask Tired Mom to move one of her kids and slide into our regular seat as we make our way back home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-49260391512842478092013-02-12T10:53:00.000-05:002013-02-12T11:13:11.491-05:00Grace Is My Name<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The house we bought has a pool… at least it will be a pool
after we clean it up and have it repaired. That is our goal for March and April
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I can already envision coming home and sliding into it at
the end of a long frustrating day. I imagine cook-outs with grandchildren jumping and screaming and laughing out loud as they play like seals. I imagine moonlight swims with the man I love as the deer walk through the yard softly snuffling their greetings at us and the night birds sing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I love to swim, my husband loves to swim,
the grandchildren love to swim, and their parents love to swim. It was inevitable that
eventually, if I ever had the money and the time we would have a pool. I am
planning on many, many glorious days spent sunning (yes I know it is bad for
you and have the scars to prove it) with my SPF 1000 on, lazily floating around
like bit of flotsam, dipping and diving and frolicking about. Heaven is a
backyard pool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As far back as I can remember the act of going to the
swimming pool has been synonymous with good times. My sisters used to take us
to the swimming pool in Fort Leavenworth. We had patches sewn on our swimsuits
that said FLOOM which allowed us entry, a magical pass that let us into summer
and youth whenever we wanted to go. The pool was huge; the water was deep and
was always full of handsome young men showing off for the teenaged daughters of
the commanding officers. I didn’t understand nor care about the clumsy rituals
of pubescent mating. I just got to be by myself in a blue and white world with
the sounds of laughter coming to me, distorted by the water as I swum about
until I was starved and sun drunk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When we lived in Belgium we would go the pool in Zaventem.
It had both an outdoor and indoor pool. Most of the young people sat outside
around the water, more flirting and sunning and diving. For this reason I
always swam inside, alone, floating in the quiet, the echo of small children
crying and mothers shushing and old women murmuring as they stood in the water
not moving but enjoying the company just the same. There were always one or two
old men, scrawny, chicken necked, serious, doing the breast stroke up and down
and up and down the pool, taking up a center lane and wrecking any cross pool
swimming I chose to try to do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I learned how to do a perfect dive here, I learned
to back dive here. I learned how to stand on my hands in the moving water and
do somersaults front and back, strings of them over and over until I was dizzy
and out of breath. I certified for a
life guard’s badge here, for the fun of it. I had no intention of ever actually
being one. Too much drama, too much exposure to the crowds of people I was so
uncomfortable with. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The one time I was convinced to go with friends I didn’t
know what to do. I listened to their prattle, followed them outside as they
strutted their newly formed stuff and felt utterly uncomfortable and more alone
than I ever had. I did my share of flirting, strutting and ogling, just not
here, not at the water covered by next to nothing, not in my quiet wavy place.
My body was perfect in the water, I was free and limber and graceful. Outside
the water I was awkward, had huge heavy embarrassing breasts and couldn't see
where I was going. No contest, I always went alone after that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We lived in a condo complex when my children were babies. I would
load up the playpen and cooler and floaties and towels and bottles and toys
and, making two or three trips cart the whole kit and caboodle to the pool
every day it wasn't raining. I put the brightest ugliest floaties on my kids so
I would be able to see them and they wouldn't drown. I splished and splashed
with them, teaching them to dog paddle, to not be afraid to jump in, to go
under, to hold their breath. Remembering my concave gut after hours of swimming
when I was a kid I always had apples and Kool-Aid and crackers which they would
scarf down and head right back into the water. They were nut brown, strong,
thin, and oh so social. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They played with their friends by the hour. Other kids
came and went but we stayed, all day, every day. On mornings when we woke up
and it was raining we all were grumpy, nothing was better than those free hours
together yet separate and happy. Sometimes cousins would come and I had a few
minutes of peace while my brother threw them all up in the air and chased them
through the water like a shark., <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One time I jumped in and saved a little boy from drowning.
He was autistic, hated being touched and easily frightened. A neighbor had
decided that taking him into the deep end was all he needed to see what fun it
could be. Unfortunately, she had passed the point of no return, her feet no
longer anywhere near the bottom when she let go of his legs and touched his
face in a loving gesture. He screamed and started swinging at her. She was
completely taken by surprise and they both were going under and quickly. I had
been talking to a friend and we heard a strange noise, weird hollering that
made no sense. We both realized at once what had happened and jumped in, me
going for the kid and her for the poor drowning lady. As I scooped him up he
thrashed and screamed, clawing at my face until he finally latched onto my
hair, a safe hold with no skin to skin contact. His trunks fell off in the
struggle and this terrified him even more. We had the attention of the entire
pool community now. I finally got him to release me from his death grip,
latched his little stiff arms onto the ladder and swam into the deep to get his
trunks back for him. As we struggled in the water to get them on he wouldn’t
look at me, his legs stiff as boards, realizing that I was helping I guess, but
not being able to deal with the nearness. I heaved myself out and took the next
thirty minutes convincing him to let go of the ladder and touch me so I could
help him out. His mother finally appeared out of nowhere, yelled at me, yelled
at him and took her cranky bib-butted self back home where, it turned out, she
had stolen a half hour to be with her boyfriend who had a slight problem with
her kid not being a perfect normal little boy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Other than those few times the days of summer run together
for me in a haze of Coppertone and Kool-Aid until a tornado took away my roof,
my clothes and sadly my lazy hazy summer days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went years without a pool before finally buying a house in
a neighborhood that had one. I loved it, my husband hated it because there were
rules and regulations and he has an issue with them in general. The kids had
little children and somehow all of those years of letting them be children didn’t
transfer and they were terrified of letting the kids get near the water or out
of their sight for a second. I reminded them of our good times but still they
balked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Except for the few times I managed to go by myself and be sun glutted I
did not enjoy it. I was back out in the open, exposed in my swimsuit, now with
an awkward body and big heavy breasts and not being able to see anything. If
others were there I avoided it. It was not all in all a pleasant experience. In a few years as the grandchildren got a bit older and their paranoid parents
let them go a little bit some fun times were had but we were already on the
hunt for a new place</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the end we found this house, surrounded by nothing with a
pool of our own. I look out at the board
covered hole in the ground now and I can’t wait to be deep in the wavy blue and
white world where grace is my name.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-72005821619115078902013-01-21T11:14:00.001-05:002013-01-21T12:59:59.575-05:00Loose In The Kitchen Again...<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have had a great weekend, surrounded by my kids and grand kids, sons-in-law and darling husband o' mine. The weather has been perfect, the laughs roll freely, the kids run and shout and play and fight and whisper and hug and have a wondrous cousin time together. I went on a cooking binge, which is good for all of us. I tried a bunch of new stuff but had one unmitigated total success. (Okay, more than one but I am not one to brag... seriously) My grand daughter told me she liked this dessert better than birthday cake. How could that absolutely not make a granny who bakes happier than a pig in.... stuff that is gross and slimy and might be unmentionable.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPZ1yIwIj7wXOfOwN45jLxLJTyr_qHSI_jtgXOwTXcrCPt9d-amyoSDeaHAN8nsezlVOlYCnfdv9puXuFutSKx_qF28ykffew1nrwXbycQD1BH1iKI2h4OmUM0iqh8VGSVzr3xNyrxzTO/s1600/apple+cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPZ1yIwIj7wXOfOwN45jLxLJTyr_qHSI_jtgXOwTXcrCPt9d-amyoSDeaHAN8nsezlVOlYCnfdv9puXuFutSKx_qF28ykffew1nrwXbycQD1BH1iKI2h4OmUM0iqh8VGSVzr3xNyrxzTO/s320/apple+cake.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anyway. With such rave reviews I thought I would share this one. This is really rich, almost brownie like so don't make it and have no one around to help lighten the calorie load. I mixed up several recipes. This wasn't done on purpose, I had the recipe up on a computer in the other room and had to keep interrupting the kids and their games to check it. About halfway through I realized I had three recipes going. Sigh. The only thing I would do differently is maybe add a bit of baking powder to lighten it up. Oh, and maybe add a cup or so of chopped walnuts or pecans if the kids weren't here, too. What is it with kids and chunks? Other than that it is perfect.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1 cup (2 sticks) butter or combination of margarine and butter</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1 1/2 cup sugar (2 cups if you use tart apples)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cream these two together</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1 tsp vanilla extract</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">a good shake of cinnamon if desired (hay I am winging it here, I forget some things on occasion and I am terrible at measuring stuff too.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">3 eggs</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Beat until blended. Don't over beat as this causes an emulsion between the eggs and butter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2 heaping tablespoons Hershey's cocoa powder. I was cooking in a perfect storm of kids, football, and walk by tasters so honestly I may have added a bit more. I am not sure so we will stick with two.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2 cups +- of grated apples. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I used red delicious. The original recipe had chunks of green apples and 2 cups of sugar but A). I had red delicious in abundance and B.) I was serving this to kids and chunks would have freaked them out and C). I like having the apple all through the cake and it was my kitchen so I could do what I wanted (insert stomping foot and protruding tongue here followed by nanny nanny boo boo).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1/2 cup water</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1 tsp Baking soda</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2 1/4 cup all purpose flour</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Beat until well blended, making sure to scrape the sides and bottom of bowl </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">roughly 3/4 cup chocolate chips. I used store brand semi sweet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mix well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This goes in a well greased and floured Bundt pan at 325 for 60 to 70 minutes. I have a dark pan and a teeny electric oven, and it took 70.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It is super rich, freaking delicious and has fiber so you can sort of justify it. :) Enjoy!</span>Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-10008866168942680112013-01-07T11:24:00.001-05:002013-01-07T11:24:30.405-05:00Poetry of Public Transportation<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>My work week inspires me </b>(insert maniacal laughter of civil servant after Holiday break) <b>and I prove once again poesy in not my forte!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Seven tired people, riding on a van. Six of them are ladies,
one of them a man. Ages vary widely as do race and creed. We are all brought
together by our transportation need.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>One has lost their license, one can’t see for shit. One has
to share with wifey because his own car was hit. One’s afraid of traffic, one
can’t drive at night, one is only interested in
the latest octagon ring fight</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>We doze, we nod, we snore and fart, we read, we chat all in
our cart. There is anger, prattle, happy talk. Phone calls, messages, long
necks like stalks.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Coffee, soda, water too, tea and red bull and orange juice
splash, most are wearing breakfasts masks. Eggs and biscuits, beans and grits,
butter, jelly, chicken bits, poptarts, croissants, strudel too, all the frozen
stuff they make for you.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>We sigh we heave we move our butts…. Work again work again -- oh shut up</i></span></div>
Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-89640764954570947272012-12-12T10:35:00.000-05:002012-12-12T10:42:24.409-05:00Romanticizing...<br />
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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.<o:p></o:p><br />
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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. </div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The house has huge windows in every room, a lovely fireplace
and is cozy and welcoming…to a point…<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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? <o:p></o:p></div>
Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-8395198228375385532012-11-20T09:41:00.000-05:002012-11-20T09:52:11.477-05:00T(hanksgiving) Minus 2, 2012The 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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJj32zXR66crf0HrSBa-pkMzXM0zyTbLbHf57SBXBY9ueC8SY_V7xvLZvaAWS0FOKPMWDWJRVZaH9UlAtEATcG9JQKrJ6pOLQbsIiUsOJGHT_oj1J8Yx9iESLQOsclZB5RhyphenhyphenAt3AtGrZtK/s1600/thanksgiving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJj32zXR66crf0HrSBa-pkMzXM0zyTbLbHf57SBXBY9ueC8SY_V7xvLZvaAWS0FOKPMWDWJRVZaH9UlAtEATcG9JQKrJ6pOLQbsIiUsOJGHT_oj1J8Yx9iESLQOsclZB5RhyphenhyphenAt3AtGrZtK/s320/thanksgiving.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-80904985752907516322012-11-15T07:45:00.001-05:002012-11-15T07:45:21.370-05:00My blast from the (hardly) past! "Thanksgiving" My favorite Holiday!<a href="http://seedpearlsswinesears.blogspot.com/2010/11/thanksgiving.html?spref=bl">Seed Pearls, Swine's Ears: Thanksgiving</a>: Thanksgiving is one holiday that is uniquely American. It is so ingrained in our culture that, even though the story of pilgrims and Indians...Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-9800819879619537762012-11-12T09:14:00.000-05:002012-11-12T19:14:30.266-05:00Living the Van Gogh Life<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFFWJ4kTObtmo9ZEucF-gf6x_T-dok5dtJck5yo1XrmC3QKenDXwRlvgId9XTBvATwwcdA9pB6dKDzRLoS4JubCOzyh3shCDNT-X887QLBG80mYY2gqTZCa2wtNdAJ2tQmRL1vFsksSFq/s1600/Bird+in+bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFFWJ4kTObtmo9ZEucF-gf6x_T-dok5dtJck5yo1XrmC3QKenDXwRlvgId9XTBvATwwcdA9pB6dKDzRLoS4JubCOzyh3shCDNT-X887QLBG80mYY2gqTZCa2wtNdAJ2tQmRL1vFsksSFq/s1600/Bird+in+bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFFWJ4kTObtmo9ZEucF-gf6x_T-dok5dtJck5yo1XrmC3QKenDXwRlvgId9XTBvATwwcdA9pB6dKDzRLoS4JubCOzyh3shCDNT-X887QLBG80mYY2gqTZCa2wtNdAJ2tQmRL1vFsksSFq/s320/Bird+in+bath.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhipAxpgT0FfqGpgQH8oGJJQSQewWHFOfBjkpQGVXmISHeL-VpcnxH6H2FCsi1kc4IF5vkYApHP3CAvWXWwnh3PLv_4Fr_BzagRM-rOd3r5KSOFyu4YLKhA1UW5ABzqdPUoC7eWD1wxpDJ9/s1600/Bird+in+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhipAxpgT0FfqGpgQH8oGJJQSQewWHFOfBjkpQGVXmISHeL-VpcnxH6H2FCsi1kc4IF5vkYApHP3CAvWXWwnh3PLv_4Fr_BzagRM-rOd3r5KSOFyu4YLKhA1UW5ABzqdPUoC7eWD1wxpDJ9/s320/Bird+in+tree.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.</span></div>
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Vincent Van Gogh (Duh!)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbzDvumHyUciaE02N9nz5U5cMJcPSt48btB-L8XIMbQeKhlnuEV1168lU8MyVAYoKHqwug47wC0s0MkKPp1nsrDVFzjxiC61St-UcAXg69wjWCL6ABfnQ0mVaecTdaPp5NJRwxls2ED-fm/s1600/starry+night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbzDvumHyUciaE02N9nz5U5cMJcPSt48btB-L8XIMbQeKhlnuEV1168lU8MyVAYoKHqwug47wC0s0MkKPp1nsrDVFzjxiC61St-UcAXg69wjWCL6ABfnQ0mVaecTdaPp5NJRwxls2ED-fm/s320/starry+night.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: xx-small;">Night and birds by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/sherry.sorbet1/posts/4965292536482?comment_id=5661082&ref=notif&notif_t=feed_comment_reply#!/johnscottphotography?fref=ts" target="_blank">John Scott's Photography</a> (my hubby, in my front yard.)</span></div>
Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com4Winston, GA 33.727253 -84.824422533.621605499999994 -84.982351 33.8329005 -84.666494tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-7643685259868972202012-10-28T09:55:00.000-04:002012-10-28T09:57:43.226-04:00The Real Thing!<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Happy Day all! I just thought you might like to see what is inspiring Bunky's Playhouse. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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...</span><br />
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Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979902609480450800.post-24569797079944086142012-10-18T07:22:00.003-04:002012-10-22T12:17:40.357-04:00Bunky's Playhouse --CHAPTER 2—<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want, I want, I want…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span>Seed Pearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179768341673164169noreply@blogger.com1