Wolf Wagon, DewDrop, Pearl, Anal Avenger, & Other Tags

For years now, Jerry and I've been talking about a camper.  We both are past the point of camping via nylon tent and sleeping on the ground.  Besides, that's way too much stuff to haul around, unpack, set up, tear down, repack, etc.  And if it rains, no matter how weather proof that tent is, you still feel damp and clammy.  And as I get older, my sense of smell is getting keener, and sleeping bags, tents, tarps, tend to have a peculiar odor.

I'm more focused on convenience now, but I also like to be efficient and cost~effective.  So I did my research.  Teardrop trailers are also called "canned hams", due to the shape of the tow~behind, hard~shelled campers that usually sleep two {altho some actually have a shelf in them, a loft of sorts, allowing more folks to sleep sardine style}, with the rear hatch opening to provide a kitchen galley of sorts.  There are many who build them for a fee, for fun, or for therapy {just threw that one in there to see if you were paying attention, and you are, which is great for my ego}.  Some companies manufacture them, such as Lil Guys, who go "where they're towed".

NOT ours, but similar is appearance
{door, fenders, vent, tongue}

Usually, TearDrops can be customized with various features, such as fridge, stove top, TV/DVR/Stereo fixtures, AC {both AC as in airconditioners and AC as in 110 outlets}, shelving, lighting, etc.  Exteriors can be aluminum, fiberglass, wood, and can come in a range of colors with various decals and designs.  They come in various widths and lengths, weights and heights, and shapes.  There are more options available, but you get the general idea, I'm sure, right?  Yeah, I thought so.

I drive a Yaris.  Toyota Yaris's do NOT have a towing capacity in the United States, but the exact same car with no modifications can be driven into Canada and all of a sudden, the Yaris now has a 700 pound towing capacity.  Imagine that!  More research.

Then I saw that one company actually makes pods, lil teardrops, that are towable by smartCars.  I figured, if it's towable by a smartCar, it ought to be towable with a Yaris.  More research.

Then I contacted various TearDrop builders.  It was surprising how many builders were not open to discussing variations, even though they bill themselves as able to customize your teardrop for your specs.  But one builder, Preston Broadhurst, of Logan, UT, not only stepped up to the plate and answered all my questions; but welcomed other discussion and hypothetical questions.  He accepted the challenge I posed, and exceeded expectations.

I explained that I wanted a lighter weight TearDrop than his base model, and asked if he could build with lighter materials, while still maintaining the structural integrity and road~worthy safety.  Yup.  Preston told me what he modifications he had in mind, including moving from a 13" wheel/tire to a twelve inch {which was fine, my Yaris is not going off~road and needing high terrain clearance}.  We discussed which features I wanted to include, and which ones would contribute too much weight, so would need to be excluded.  Then, we discussed time frames and monetary considerations.

About a week ago, Jerry and I picked up a lil teardrop trailer and I was so damn excited that I squealed like the lil girl I once was.  I giggled as I climbed inside it and sat in the middle, clicking on and off the battery operated reading lights.  I splashed into a puddle while I wriggled on his driveway to peer under the trailer and poke at the tires.  I took plenty of notes {of course I did} while he explained and showed us how to hook it up, how much slack should be left in the chains, how to properly seat the flat four prong electrical connection, and so forth.  I asked a gazillion questions, most of which had to do with the teardrop, how he got into building them, and what sort of maintenance it might require.

Preston was very informative, very professional while still being accommodating, and an all around good guy.  He assured us when we asked "is this normal?" when we drove it around the block {we'd never towed anything with the Yaris before}.  He welcomed feedback and so forth.

We drove on to Portland, which is "only" ten hours from Logan, Utah~~Portland, Oregon is a helluva lot closer to Utah than to Starkville, Mississippi; that's for damn sure!  In the over five years that Daughter Donna, Jerry's middle child, has been living in Portland, this is the first time we've visited.  We'll be seeing her in July, when she comes eastward for the better part of a month; but we couldn't be THAT close and not go visit her!

The TearDrop handled nicely, even through the Rockies.  It's the exact dimensions of my Yaris, from tongue to galley, from fender to fender, and pretty much in height too!  We're very Very VERY pleased!

Along the way, we tossed around names for the trailer.  Wolf Wagon, DewDrop, Conestoga are the top contenders.  Altho, "Pearl:  the world is our oyster" kinda works too.  A few other not~so~wonderful nomers popped up every now and then, to be shot down with wither glances, guffaws, or groans.

I asked Donna and her fella for a few suggestions and quick as could be, she states, "Anal Avenger" and my first reaction was, "what sort of super powers does the Anal Avenger have?", thinking about Jerry's love of Marvel and DC comics.  It's an odd conversation to have with both father and daughter, but not the strangest one ever.  I learned the story of "avenger" labels and since Donna and I had just finished discussing the cyclops tree directly in front of their porch {"cyclops" was not the first term that came to my mind when I saw the knothole, below which was an almost obscene stain that just begged for comment}, her suggested tag was more reasonable than was first apparent.  However, I think it's safe to say that there are other better names in the running {could NOT help that pun}.

Why have I not posted a picture?  Of the trailer, dudes, the trailer!  Cuz I didn't take one yet, despite having my camera with me.  So there's a similar one pictured above.  Probably when I am less road weary from traveling about five thousand miles in about ten days, I'll take a few pictures.  At the moment, I'm ready to take a shower and climb into bed for some solid sleep, ahhhhhh.

Some thoughts on mothers, my mom, my mom's mom, and Mothers' Day in general

Savvy Sue, a year and a half old.
My mom considered Savvy to be my first grandchild,
hence her great grandchild.  Mom made her a toddler
sized quilt, featuring a paper~doll with all the accessories.

My mom died five months ago, I miss her every day.  In about a hundred ways, I think of things to share, things to say, things to do, places to go, people I want to meet her, funny things to tell her about.  I miss her, her laughter, her hugs, her expressions, her mannerisms.  I want to show her this movie, or that afghan, or this video, or this cute picture of Savvy.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day.  I miss her with a sharp keenness that I've not yet felt that is slightly different than her absence til now.  There is a reason for the traditional mourning period of a year and a day.  That first year without someone is full of firsts.  It is the first holiday season, the first spring, the first spring, the first Mother's Day, the first flowering, the first harvest, the first set of birthdays, the first snow.

I have thought, within that first week of mom's death, "if I am having this much difficulty with mom's absence. what am I going to do if my husband dies before I do?"  How will I handle that?  How will I ever get to an ok place then?

My mom's mom died when mom was 30.  I asked her just this past year, 37 years after grandma died, if mom still misses her as much.  Does she think of her often?  Every day, she said, in some way.  Even if it is something simple and not complex, like, oh how she would have laughed about this or that.

Mom shared more stories about her mom and her own childhood, young adulthood, being newly married, a young mom, etc this past year than before.  She'd found boxes of pictures the year before that, in her move to Mississippi.  We would go thru some, in batches, one day and then perhaps a few weeks later, another batch with more stories.  We'd laugh over some things, and marvel about others.

Mom was 67 when she died.  Her mother, my grandma, was 64 when she died in 1977.  I'm 44.  Heavier than either of them ever were.  I'm not diabetic and insulin dependent as my mother was.  I don't have the co~morbid conditions that accompany diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, high triglycerides.  I had a stress test in September, because with heart disease being the cause of death for the two most direct women in my lineage, it was a good idea.  I'm fine, my heart is too.

That's not to say that I shouldn't be making changes and being more heart healthy.  I should.  Starting Tuesday, my husband and I will be picking up our share of the Community Supported Agriculture {CSA} in Lancaster Farms.  For sixteen weeks, we'll be bringing home fresh veggies ~~ whatever is in season and being harvested.  Eating better produce is a huge step in the right direction for us.

Mom would be glad to see that.  She'd also be glad to see that I will be resuming my water workouts.  Long time readers will remember my swim suittee years.  My stress levels are lower and she would be glad to see that.  She'd be glad to know that I'm treating myself some better, by encouraging my own creativity ~~ making afghans and playing with yarn.

But the main thrust of all this is not about making Mom proud, or happy, or pleased.  It's about me.  I'm the one who is here and still alive and still able to make those changes and still able to do new things or resume old hidden habits that were good to have.  And no good change ever comes about unless it is for the right reason, you do it for you, ultimately.

I love my mom.  She is a huge part of me, of who I am.  I sometimes sit with that, and feel the fullness of knowing her, of being her daughter, of being her friend.  At those moments, I weep for now, but eventually, I know that I'll wear that well and I'll both hear her laughter coming from my throat and also know that I am uniquely me as well ~~ for we are made of those who came before us and surround us now.

Happy Mother's Day for all you who are mothers yourselves, for you touch, mold, and shape lives in ways that you are not even aware of.  Some day down the road, you will have conversations with your adult children that will show you all that the things that they remember with clarity may be the moments you didn't assign any sort of importance.  Of course there will be shared memories wherein you both feel similarly.  Then too there will be memories that are viewed differently for all involved.  That is the nature of us as individuals, embrace that.

Happy Mother's Day to those of you who come into ready~made families that exist long before you ever arrived.  You may not have taken on any traditional role of mother, but you may be surprised to find that your partner's children and their children have certain views of you that place you in that motherly role...one of listening, loving, advising, and acceptance.

And for those of you who have lost your mothers, it's ok to miss her.  It's ok for tomorrow to be a bittersweet day of mixed memories and emotions.  It's ok to take a few moments just for you, to honor yourself as a child, with a mother of your own.

Freshly Squeezed Newborn Baby Blanket

 I didn't realize until earlier this year, how far away from my own artistic endeavors I've gotten in the past few years.  I'd been so focused on external matters, being a caregiver, being a good citizen and giving back in my community, and being an encouraging person for other people and their creative efforts that I'd forgotten myself and my own creativity, my own needs, my own desires.  Then, a few months back, I was thinking about how this one woman I know has delved further into her art as a release from the more stressful and less creative obligations in her daily life.

A light bulb lit up, the bright hot filaments burning away some of the haze clouding my vision.  My aha! moment stretched into a whole hour, or perhaps week's worth of moments.  Instead of thinking, "I can't perform quality work at this time when I am so distracted, so overwhelmed, so tired, so stressed, so whatever", I could shift my perspective to something like, "being creative is not only an indulgence, but it also will help me in ways that are essential for my health and well being".

Now, theoretically, I knew that.  But in practice, I didn't apply that to myself.  For a very long time.  Years, even.

So I decided to do something about that.  Some days I don't remember to play with yarn.  And that's ok.

I visited the library the other day, and checked out more books than I have in quite some time, just to read at my leisure because I want to loll about in bed, in my jammies, and just read all day, and night, into the next day ~~ sleeping and eating when I want, because I have nothing due at a certain time.  Because that vague but threatening feeling of "or else" has overshadowed me and robbed some of the joy I had found in doing things that I used to like doing, turning them into obligations and chores.  Reading allows me to dust off the imagination and flex those wings, stretching them creakily to take a few rusty flaps at flying.  My brain takes a huge healthy yawn and settles in for some mental adventures of various characters through the years.  Oh, yes.

Over the past few months, I've started to knit again on a more regular basis.  I'm basically using the same pattern, creating chevrons, in both stockinette and garter.  I'm letting my own curiosity creep out cautiously and poke its paw into matters.  I'm indulging my desire to know, what happens if I use this yarn?  Made of this fiber?  What about cotton?  How about this fuzzy stuff?  What about this bulkier sort?  What about if I use these bamboo needles?  Or this size needle with that weight yarn?

Eventually, I'll move into trying this number of stitches, that depth of chevron, this width of stripe,   Then I might get more adventurous with colorways, color combos, yarn combos, and so forth.  Or I might move on to a completely different stitch, pattern, or technique.  Who knows?  Cuz that's part of nurturing that creativity for yourself, you can learn to go with that flow, and go where it goes, and see what's what along the way.

So to that woman who probably has little or perhaps absolutely no idea what sort of inspiration she has ignited for me, thanks for being an artist, for sharing your art, and for being an exemplary example for me and others...just by being you and living your life as you do.  Thanks for being you.

Accepting grief, it's inevitable. It happens.

Today, my husband and I went to my mother's.  Jerry's been so supportive, in and of everything I do and don't do.  Having lost his first wife nine years ago and also his father when he was about my age, Jerry understands the grieving process and encourages me to continue to cope in whatever way I deem necessary and appropriate for me.

So when I dissolved into an ugly snotty mass of tears and allergens, Jerry just went to get the tissues, handed them to me and waited til I blew my nose and cleaned up a lil, and then hugged me while telling me that it was ok to do what I can and then stop to wait for another day.  Which was good, because it turns out that going through mom's clothes was harder than I thought it would be.  On reflection, it makes total sense that the sight and scent of her clothes, the outfits she'd worn, the shirts that were her favorites, the zippered hoodies and flannel shirts that were her jackets...those things brought mom more clearly to mind than I was prepared to deal with today.

I've saved a ton of her clothes, mostly because they are cotton and I can craft with them, making various items to give to others who loved her and want a piece of something of hers to remind them of her and to be close to her.  Even while I quickly designated which pile, box, or bag each item when into; I had ideas of what to do with this shirt, or these jeans, or that hoodie.  But then I was bowled over, when I opened a small center drawer and found her silk scarves that she'd had since she was a teenager, and other accessories and broken watches that had been her own mother's, and the few pieces of jewelry mom had used for special occasions~~a string of pearls, a wristband, an anklet.

And a photograph of the falls, which ones, I am not sure, was tucked into a stack of postcards, bookmarks, and print outs with lists of audio~books she'd listened to.  My father, so tiny next to the grandness of these falls, striding across the stones near the base; he must have been in his fifties~~so the picture could have been when my parents were traveling across country, or it could have been when dad visited mom in the Great Smokies of Tennessee, probably not the tall falls in Ricketts Glen, PA though.

As I view these things, the entire pool of people mom knew and folks who loved her deeply sit upon my shoulders, nudging me with exclamations, "oh! I'd like those ticket stubs, you know; she and I went to see that show every year" or "this goes to dad, I know he'd want that" or "Mic and mom loved these songs, that movie" or "the guys would want these, they were in the house for all those years in PA and then again in AR" or "mom's friend, so&so, would want this" or "this is just perfect for this person or that person".  The entire cast of "this is mom's life" waits in the wings, drawing back the curtain to peep out at what I am seeing, mumbling, "not that, don't throw that away" and I nod and put it in this pile to go to that person.

My psychiatric practitioner expressed concern last week that I'm not allowing myself to grieve.  That I am thinking, after this next event, or after this next month, or after this next set of deadlines, or whatever the next thing is, then I'll take time away from it all and grieve.  Then I'll have fulfilled these obligations; if I just drop it all now and retreat, it'll let these folks down, or that group in a lurch or this person disappointed.  And then I tell my psych. that the backlash and aftermath would be worse than if I just wait til after this next...she nods and smiles and tells me that this way of coping is ok too,  This is just another part of my grieving process and that's ok, she gets it.  And then I feel relieved, as tho I've passed another test of normalcy and acceptability that I didn't even know I was dreading.

Over four months, and I'm just now going thru her clothes.  Then my mental psych/therapist voice chides me for chiding me.  It's ok, I know, but I feel this tremendous inner pressure and yet I want to be the one to do this, I want to be sure to pack things properly and designate this item for that person or know that this box has that in it and will go to these people {usually that means, the guys, my father and brother}.

And I know, that in a few months, a few years, sometime later down the road; I'll be going thru what I have kept for me, to again sort things,,,because maybe this person will have said, "oh, is it ok if no  one else wants this, can I have it?" and that person will have asked, "do you know what happened to...?"  And I'll be ready to part with that item, or this painting, or that piece of clothing will have been made into this thing that this other person wants.

It's ok, being this work in progress and not having all the answers and not being perfect and being a mass of conflicted feelings and having strong reactions that swing widely and wildly from sharp pangs of missing mom to laughing at this memory or that shared story or cringing at hearing her voice coming out of my mouth.  Rolling my eyes, because I can hear her saying, "you watch weird shit," when my husband's sci~fy movie takes a turn into Cheesy~Cavern territory, is becoming customary and accepted, by others but mostly by my own self.  And that's ok.  And it's also ok when it's not ok.  Ya know?  If you've said goodbye to someone you love, then I think you do.  I think you know exactly what I'm talking about.  And if you don't, that's ok.

Scholarships for Starkville Area Youth: Applications Due APRIL 15th

Starkville Area Arts Council does some pretty incredible stuff, I've discovered over the past couple years.  In addition to holding various events like The Magnolia Independent Film Festival, Everything Home & Garden Expo, Cotton District Arts Festival, Forks & Corks; the arts council also supports lots of other endeavors too.  One of those is to help make possible others' pursuits of artistic creativity though awarding scholarships in various amounts.

Summer Scholarships  ~~  These are specifically for Starkville and Oktibbeha County students age ten thru eighteen, who are not yet in college, and are enrolled in advanced art programs during the summer months.  This money can be used for lessons, tuition for various art camps, contest and competition fees, or workshops that further youths' artistic development.  That application can be found here.

College Arts Scholarships ~~  Area graduating seniors who are not yet attending but have been accepted into college, who will be majoring in visual arts, graphic art design, dance, theater, voice, music, applied art, or in another art related discipline, are welcome to apply for these scholarships.    These applications can be found here.

Both the summer scholarship and

 the college arts scholarship applications are due on April 15th.

Get on up...

A few days ago, I posted about some ways I've found over the years to pay it forward, to give back to my community.  One way that I've not yet discussed here is that over the years, I've worked with various non~profits.  Sometimes, on the receiving end of services or other benefits {when I was a kid, I was one of the many who received "free" or "reduced" lunch}.  Sometimes, on the giving end, as someone who could volunteer some here and there or be able to provide some items, clothes, etc that would be used.  Sometimes, I was an employee, so that I could coordinate services and get the right stuff to the right group.  And sometimes, I'd be the spokesperson for the nonprofit advocate group, speaking before another group of individuals, explaining what the needs are for that particular nonprofit.

The main reason I mention these things, here and before, is because some folks want to help, but don't know how.  Or they think they have nothing to offer.  But if you want to help out, you can.  Helping doesn't always mean writing a check, sometimes if that is what you can do and that is what is needed, then that is the most appreciated.  "Helping" doesn't always mean hard physical labor, though sometimes that is what is needed most.  Helping can come in many forms and often it does.

There are many nonprofits and other groups, so examine your own interests and see how you can use your talents to do something you would enjoy doing for a cause you feel passionate or at least care about.  Some people look at their tithe, their church work, etc as being their cause.  Some folks want to do something to help folks who are now in the same situation they had been in previously, because they can relate to that person.  Some want to help kids, some want to become involved in gardening, some are want to share their own talents and skills through teaching and giving lessons.  Some sew, some cook, some carve, some cure, some write, some organize others, ... the list goes on and on and on.

So if you think, "I'm bored"; give it some serious thought.  Think about what YOU want to be doing.  Then do it.  Do you want to sing?  Sing and learn more about music, the voice, pitch, tone, harmonies, etc.  Not sure what you want to do?  Then there are plenty of groups that can help you in the meantime, by asking you to volunteer for this activity, or that event, or whatever.

Get up off your duff, and DO something.  What are you good at?  Find a way to apply that to help someone else!

Giving Back & Paying It Forward

Long time readers know that when I first moved to Mississippi some dozen years ago, life was a bit tumultuous and I was floundering lots.  Over the years, I began to replant my feet, regain some stability, and shape my life into a much calmer, peaceful place.  I had lots of help in doing so, mostly emotional and mental support; lots of encouragement and reassurances.

Because I believe that basic tenent expressed in oh so many ways is vital; I try to be sure to pay it forward, to help where and how I can, and to encourage others.  The principle to do unto others as you would have done unto you, to treat others the way you want to be treated, to know that what you send forth shall be returned to you, et al; can be found in most belief systems~~religious, spiritual, or otherwise.  No one single group can claim it exclusively; I think many strive to include this creed into their own canon, not just as policy, but also practice.

What this meant for me was that about ten years ago, I became more proficient in my use of yarn.  My creativity in the fiber arts grew and my interest drove me to seek other individuals and groups who would also benefit from the things I made.  I appreciate items that are functional and beautiful, so that's what I focused on doing.

Each January, I'd make a list of groups who served populations who could use the hats, scarves, bags, jackets, belts, and other accessories I make.  I'd look at the organizations to be sure that they were actually assisting the individuals and not just spending the bulk of their funds with administrative pursuits and such.  I kept the list local, starting in my town {Starkville}, then county {Oktibbeha}, then state {Mississippi}...before I could get to region {SouthEast}, I'd usually have a more lengthy list than I could hope to fill!

By February, I'd have contacted the organization to see what their needs are in particular and if they could use what I could make.  I'd know which group to focus on for the year and what items to crochet, knit, loom, etc.  Come the winter, ten months later, I'd deliver the goods.

It was a win win win situation; they'd feel good, I'd feel good, the organization would be appreciative.  Yea!!  We all worked together to achieve some goals!  Yea!!

As I became healthier, having better days, more often; I became more active in our local community.  I was careful to choose efforts that didn't depend on a deadline, because I felt too fragile and not steady enough to handle deadlines well.  I was very careful to not accept a position or activity that would rely sole on me and my efforts, because my health was too unpredictable and my energy levels were not very stable.  Sometimes, I would severely misjudge my abilities and my capabilities; and fall flat on my face.

For the most part though, I think I became a better judge of myself, of monitoring myself, over the years.  This meant that some days, some weeks, some months; I knew I'd have to take a backseat, or just not enter the car at all.  Those were quiet times, when I ventured forth into the community for grocery trips, doctors' visits, and Wellness Connection water workouts {spending time in the water was a great way for me to minimize my sensory input, similar to sensory deprivation but not quite}.

About five years ago, I married the most supportive, tolerant, accepting person~~the absolutely perfect fit for me.  With his encouragement, I did become a little more active in our community; joining the newly formed writers' group.  From that, then we became involved with the Writers' Village at the Cotton District Arts Festival.  Eventually, I became more involved with other aspects of Starkville Area Arts Council.  To me, these are ways that I can assist, giving back so that others can also be encouraged and move forward.

Sometimes, it seems like I should be doing more.  I feel like it's just not enough.  But then I look back and I realize how far I've come and that giving into the feeling of internal pressure helped to put me in a bad place to start.  It's a balancing act, one that I get right more than wrong most of the time.

The difference is that now I know that if and when I fall flat on my face, I can lie there for awhile, rest a bit, then let others help me get back on my feet, dust myself off, and move at my own pace.

Libby, the Bichon Frise

We adopted a five year old Bichon Frise named "Libby" over a month ago.  She has a history of not really liking men all that much, they intimidate her and she is a lil on the skittish side anyway.  She was a breeder, at a puppy mill for several years, until her uterus pretty much crumbled and fell out.  Then the woman decided she wasn't useful and had to go.

That was last fall.  In November, a couple adopted her and took her home.  But then in January, they returned her to the foster home, because it wasn't a good fit.

In the beginning of February, I drove down to meet Libby at her foster home.  She wasn't really too thrilled, but was very submissive and complacent.  Our trip home was quiet and uneventful.

Libby came with a lot of stuff, a puffy doggy bed, a smaller doggy bed with fuzzy sides, a super soft blanket, toys, squeaky toys, tug toys, dishes, more toys, and so on.  I set a few things around the living space in various areas, so that she would have choices and also so that our strangeness had a few familiar things for her.  She seemed to prefer a lil chair that is next to my husband's.

Three Dog Night:  Jerry's angels
Libby, Sophie, & Chiquita

Within days, Libby and my husband had bonded.  She would whine when he went outside and she remained in.  She would curl up in his lap, with our other two lil ones and cozy down into just the right spot.  She would come running when he held the door open,  And when we went to bed, she would lay right up against his chest.

I credit this to my husband's extremely gentle and patient behaviour with Libby.  He voiced concern when we were considering adopting her, because of her history with avoiding men.  But Libby warmed up to him with no problems at all.  He made it possible for her to like him, on her own terms in her own time.

There are several lessons to learn here, some principles that can be applied to relationships in general.  Watching my husband and Libby learn to trust each other and patiently accept the other's quirks has really been good for me.  Libby's adapted to her new environment, as have we to her.  It's a learning process that will continue, but I think she's finally home.

So are we.

The Seat of Grief

Just after Thanksgiving 2014, when it became more apparent that my mom might not be making a speedy recovery, when it became more apparent that she might actually not make any sort of recovery, when I realized she might actually die at some point in the very near future {which I was still considering a few months, not a few days}...I looked up "grief", because I had quite a bit of time to google things while I waited for the next allowable visitation within the Critical Care Unit.

I wasn't thinking, "great, how do I do this "grieving thing" properly?"; altho I do try to get things right in some ways and be prepared, which is why I've gotten to be so good with research and know an amazing amount of completely trivial stuffs.  I was thinking more about the fact that her life was changing and that even though she was not the sort of person who overly lamented much of anything; I did realize that one aspect that is often ignored in a changing situation is the grief you can hold for the loss of the dreams, assumptions, and goals that you once held for possible futures.

What I mean is that sort of vague feeling that people can have, when they realize that contrary to their childish beliefs that they could accomplish anything and be anyone, those options are not quite as broad in range as they had once thought.  Midlife crises are often about the grieving for dreams that will never be, even if you had not really wanted to be that astronaut who undergoes cryogenic suspension so that you can come to millions of light years away, you might grieve the letting go of that unrealistic dream you once had had.  So I knew that you can grieve for all sorts of things, including possible futures.

Or impossible futures.

So I looked up "grief" because I thought that mom's life is changing, and she will accept those changes, of course; but how can I help her to make the adjustments and accept the limitations even better.  That's what my thoughts were at that time.

Here's what happens when you google "grief", most of the articles and references focus on helping you through grieving the loss of someone you love.  Your spouse, a child, a parent.  That makes total sense, of course.

But not really what I thought I was looking for.  Apparently, I thought wrong.  Turns out, that was exactly what I was looking for.

The one big thing that stuck out to me, in the review of  "grief", was that lots of folks who are grief~stricken are very tense and they carry their grief, in a very physical way.  They develops aches and pains and often will seek medical assistance for discomfort that had not been present before.

"Wow," I thought, "good to know."

So I was not surprised at all, when I began to get achy over the past few months.  I didn't panic.  I didn't jump to the conclusion that I had flu.

One day tho, I realized, my ass hurts.  Not my entire ass, just the same place that had been problematic a few years ago.  A very deep pain in the right ass cheek.  And immediately, once I paid attention to it, the pain bloomed.

Several years ago, as I was getting out of my car at my mom's, deep in my right ass, a cramp seized so hard that it took my breath away and tears sprang to my eyes instantaneously.  I limped in severe pain and mom stood on her front deck, laughing her ass off at the rather humorous picture I presented, yelling at me, "walk it off, just walk it off".

I was laughing even as I cried in pain.

Turns out, I ended up in physical therapy, for a pain in the ass.  Most likely it was my piriformis, which is a muscle that is linked with sciatica.  Everyone knows that pain in the ass.

It is not an easy place to reach yourself.  And it is an awkward thing to ask of others, "would you rub my ass?  just get in there, really hard, and deep".  Misunderstandings arise and you can lose a few friends that way.

a few days ago, I finally had enough; so I contacted a massage therapist and made an appointment.  When describing the pain and location, after having explained that I was tense in general and that my mother had died in December and that I suspected that part of the reason that I was tense and achy was related to that; the massage therapist told me something that made complete sense to me.

Apparently, the seat of grief is in the complex layering of muscles in the pelvic and hip region.  Your center of gravity is there, and when you lose someone, your entire world is rocked.  So it makes sense that the seat of grief is found within your sit~upon.  It may seem less than polite to think that the loss of your loved one is directly related to that locale.  But I know that mom would be laughing her ass off about being a literal pain in mine.

2014, the year of mom's demise

One thing that long~time readers will have noted is that I tell on myself.  I very rarely knowingly lie about myself because the truth is far stranger than fiction and I figure that if I keep it real, then there is no one that can honestly say that they didn't know what they were getting when I showed up to the proverbial party.  Usually early.  Sometimes hours early.  With a vegetable tray that no one else will eat, thus ensuring that my husband will have noshing bits for the next week.  There truly is a method to my madness, no matter how trivial it may seem to others.

So while I do realize that it has been almost a year since I last posted here, there were several reasons for that.  Some of which I may hit on, here or in future posts; it depends on relevancy and timing, I'd say.  Thanks for welcoming the return of a rather errant writer of sorts.

First off, I won't be able to recap this past year in a way that will capture everything...so just accept that.  I can hit on a few things, but I'll try to keep it fairly light, and not dwell, dwell, dwell...altho I will want to, I won't; I need to move on.  Having said that, understand that there will be times when I dwell, and that's ok.  I'll do that if it helps me to move thru this next part and get on with things.  Seems contradictory, but ya know how these things work.

The long and short of it was that 2014 brought lots of heartrending tears, most of which were not actually wept then, but are now.  Here is the thing:  my mother died on Friday December 5th 2014.  It was a long, exhausting year that didn't seem quite as long or nearly as exhausting at the time as it does now, looking back.

Second, grief is a weird thing.  It grows arms and legs and tentacles and teeth, both mad sharp incisors and dull painfully grinding molars; but mostly it becomes a parasite that takes over and dissolves all my social filters.  On a regular basis, it turns out, also noted by looking back ~~ cuz hindsight can be perfectly crystal.

When my mom died, I was relieved for her; we'd spent most of November in the hospital, after she'd been through one thing after another all year long.  Stents, meds, open~heart double coronary arterial bypass graft surgery, etc., nothing was working the way it was supposed to and nothing was slowing down the rate at which her heart was failing.  When she began to die in earnest, Mom was ready, it was time.  She died on her own terms, which is really the only way to go; isn't it?

So it isn't her death that I'm grieving.  It's her absence in my life now that sucks the very marrow of my presence into the horrible vacuum of grief.  Quite often, I do not realize how awfully devastated I am until after I've done something that reflects the complete and utter absence of my social filters.

In some cases, most actually, this is actually pretty funny.  If not at the time, later I realize there were some very humorous aspects and elements involved, which give the entire situation a rather unique pithy, yet witty, tone.  It's good that I can appreciate that, because there are those who most certainly cannot {ew}  nor do not.  Because they are simply not built that way.  But I am.  It's almost as tho I am rediscovering who I am exactly.  Some of which is not pretty, some of which is rather bitter, and some of which is downright wretched.

But that is all part of me, of who I am.  And ya know, I embrace that; if for no other reason than the fodder for the grist mill that in part makes up the totality of me.

First there is a mill, then there is no mill, then there is. {Starkville, MS}

A few years back, I got lost in the Cotton District {what?!?  How is that even possible?  Trust me, there are lots of lil dead~ends, one way streets, and cul~de~sacs just waiting for the unsuspecting driver to get stuck in the never ending loop of right of ways and do not enters}.  As I topped the hill on Maxwell Street, I was faced with the looming, mammoth brick building facing me across Russell.  Yes, I knew that it was the EE Cooley Building for MSU, housing the physical plant facilities.  But when I first faced that central tower, full on, a lil eerie voice popped up, “ooooo, spooooky” with glee and I immediately had visions of possibilities, involving movie sets and novel locations and Stephen King and John Saul and children’s orphanages {or boarding schools, same difference} and old abandoned mental asylums.  Obviously, horror fiction is fun for me; if I actually did encounter any horrific oddities in real life, I’d probably piss my pants and do other unspeakably disgusting things like squeal like the lil girl I used to be and attempt to stuff all ten of my fingers into my mouth to stifle the screams that were sure to follow.

It’s all fun and games til someone loses an eye.  Or a mean spirit rises up, drives you mad, causing you to run into oncoming traffic, impaling yourself on a car’s hood ornament, and you die with an appalling death rictus that never shows up on CSI.  But in the meanwhile, it’s cool to imagine what these older buildings housed and oh, if only walls could talk.

Around that same time, my childhood friend {from Pennsylvania} and her family were planning to come spend a week with me in Mississippi.  I wondered what each of the children found interesting, so that I might be able to find something in this area for them as well.  The teenage girl was into spooky things, ghost stories, and hauntings.

Perfect!  My inner eerie clapped with relish, squirming and wriggling.  Amongst the other places to show her, like Waverly, cemeteries, certain roads, and such; we drove into the paved parking area in front of the EE Cooley Building.  It was hotter and more humid than the Okefenokee Swamp in August 1995 {different story}, so none of the five of us wanted to muster the energy to get out of the lil yaris and then squeeze back in {a notion that is akin to putting toothpaste back in the tube}.  So I took a picture of the name plate by the entrance, which listed all the members and their positions on that very first board of the John M Stone Cotton Mill.  Then the teenage daughter and I talked about how that building just begs for a good story or two.

Sure you could make one up, but a good story based on even the barest smidgeon of truth deserves to be researched some.  Get the facts straight and then venture off into fiction.  Or perhaps, a good juicy urban legend already exists in connection with the old brick building.

So over the years, I've done a lil digging here, and a tad searching there.  What I've often read is the same sorts of facts, rearranged from one article to another.  Sometimes there are more data included, like the actual measurements of the behemoth.  But for the most part, accounts agree with each other and reflect a fairly comprehensive history of the building, from its conception at the turn of the last century, to the present, over 110 years later.

to be cont'd

oh so wrong...

Once again, gov'ment agents have astounded me with their smug ignorance.  A loooooooooong story somewhat shorter, mom had stopped at the Social Security Administration offices here in Starkville to see if she could get her mother's ss#, to include on a form which is requesting her mother's death certificate so that she can then send that to the insurance company.  There is so much laughably wrong with the entire story, like why the insurance company is just now wanting a death certificate for a woman who died 36 yrs ago.  But I'll just stick with one element of what occurred today.

The SS Gov'ment agent insisted that my mom was not spelling her mother's name correctly.  Why?  Well because he entered the name three different ways into the system and could not track the number down.  So mom suggested that it might be possible that her mother never had a social security number {after all, Grandma would now be 100 years old, had she lived}.  OH no, ma'am, that's not possible.  Why, it's the law that babies are sent home from the hospital with one.  Well, since the lady was born a full two decades before the Social Security Administration was founded, and since she was NOT born in the hospital, and since it's most certainly not the law to send babies home with one....but the Gov'ment Agent assured my mom that he knew that her mom had to have a number.  And he was also sure that if my mom contacted her mom's school that she graduated from, they would have the number on file in their records.  Mom, who knew that continuing the conversation was an exercise in futility, made one last attempt to reason with the pompous ass:  mom pointed out that her mom only finished eighth grade, that records were most likely not in existence anymore, especially since the school does not exist and has not for at least 75 yrs.  Well, if mom wanted to, she could request a number for her mother, all she needs is the death certificate.  WTF?!?

{sigh}  Ya can't make stupid shit up like this.

The Sweetest Lil Girls

 I know that every parent is biased toward their children.  Even those of us who've adopted lil furry babies of other species are prone to think our babies are the bestest ones of all; the pick of the litter, so to say.

But really, how can you not think these two are adorable?

These two lil girls get along nicely and are constantly curled up together.  When not faux~fighting in that snarly way they have of playing, that is.

Sophie, our chiweenie, is now three and altho she is now an "adult", she still gets very puppyish and playful.  She is our watchdog of sorts.  She has a big bark, especially for a relatively lil body.  For a chiweenie, she is a bit on the bigger, denser, broader side.  But for a dog, she's on the smaller side.

Then the lil'st one, Chiquita our chihuahua, is about ten months old.  She was born the first day of spring last year and came to live with us July 3rd. She's pretty much adjusted to our home and all of the occupants.  There are still the occasional mishaps, the poop that doesn't make it onto the pPad when we are not home.  But for the most part, she loves her sisters and her humans.  She is not a yappy yippy yuppy dog, tho we do have to remind her from time to time to use her inside voice.

Welcome

Long time readers will remember that I have certain fondness for my local public library.  I adore the young ladies who've worked hard to build the various programs into what they currently are.  Life moves on and so have those women and a new batch of folks have stepped up and continued to nourish those programs and add new ones as well.

Our newest staff member at Starkville Public Library is Meredith Wickham, Young Adult Librarian.  {and the crowd roars...and sighs in relief and relish}  Newly arrived from Seneca, SC, Meredith brings her sunny personality, her sincere love of reading and writing, and her wittiest of wits to us here in the lil city with a big heart.  So stop by and met her, it's worth the visit.

Welcome, Meredith, glad you're here!

SteamPunk'n

SteamPunk Coffee Roasters, a new coffee shop in Natchez, has our interest piqued.  So we'll visit them tomorrow morning, on our way out of town, to return to Starkville.  I'm really pretty psyched!

Four years ago

This day goes by many names.

Some call it "samhain", some "all hallow's eve", some "halloween".

I call it "my anniversary".

I love you, my Jerry, my sweetheart.

Dancing with the Stars

I love this picture!  She looks like she is spinning out from a twirl at a 50s sock hop, with her lil arm and hand in correct position and everything.  I can't wait to see her again, in about two months.  Wow, how much she will have grown!

SS Wolf: Newest Member to the Pack

Mania: The Flip~Side of "Manic~Depression"

Fortunately I have not had to deal with this excessively so for the past few months.  I have done a fair amount of self~monitoring and have been able to pace myself appropriately.  Or at least I think so.  It's hard to tell with Mania, cuz there are times when hypo~mania occurs, unnoted.

This is because hypo~mania is the preferred state of many who deal with manic~depression.  It's a slightly elevated state of euphoria when you are firing on all cylinders, optimistically juggling multiple tasks and deadlines, lots of ideas springing forth, and the flow of creativity seems effortless. Most people like those who are experiencing this level of mania.  Cuz these slightly off folks are gregarious and charming, they seem energetic and pleasant.  They're peppy and upbeat and joyous and eccentric.  They're artistic and a fount of wonderful suggestions and problem solving solutions.  They're just far enough off average to be outstanding, but not so far off they seem crazed.

Is it any wonder why most manic~depressants love, Love, LOVE hypo~mania?  It's a no~brainer why folks do not want to take note that this might be a sign that should be noted, cuz it might be a warning that just after this state is the mania, the true mania, the hyper~mania, the mania that passes into frantic frenzies and racing thoughts and impatience with folks who cannot conceive of the amazing ideas that have occurred to those in the throes of mania.

For many, depression is the most dangerous aspect of manic~depression.  It's crushing.  It's draining.  It's painful and true despair settles in and sucks your very soul in depletion.

For me?  Mania is the most dangerous aspect of this delicate balancing act.  For many years, Rapid Cycling {even ultradian} was a way of life for me.  It quickly becomes exhausting, it accelerates at such velocity that I would dash right thru the hypomanic, optimistic stage and tumble right into the Red Shoe Syndrome {I dub it that, cuz it's appropriate; but you'll not find it termed such in a medical text or the DSM V}.  Are you familiar with the old tale about the girl who wants to be a dancer and so she is given a pair of red shoes with the caveat that once donned, they may never be removed...until death.

The Red Shoe Syndrome is when I can't stop dancing at death~defying speeds, twirling and spinning, flinging myself from task to task, unable to slow, momentum feeding the dizzying rush til it scares me and everyone around me.  There is no relief.  There is no choice.  There is no slowing down.  There is no jumping off the cyclone~go~round.  There is no "take a break".

Unlimited irritation, rage, frustration, sharpness, violence erupts within my head, out my mouth.  Frantically, I'd try to contain myself, knowing that I am accountable for my actions at all times, and yet, I was sure that I was bursting from my skin.  Hyperaware of every single thing.  Unable to tone down anything.

For years, I'd cycle thru the range so quickly, so rapidly, that within five minutes, I'll have gone from tears of despair to the other extreme end of elation and back again.  Days on end of no sleep.  Those days adding into weeks, my heart on the verge of giving out, my brain exploding into horribly vivid nightmarish slashes of screaming color that howl and sharp shadows whose edges cut into my vision with such precision that I was sure blood was leaking from my eyes for all to see.  Anxiety ridden moments stretching into hours of panic attacks that physically, emotionally, mentally, intellectually, take a toll an every aspect of my life from being a grad student, to relationships, to being able to complete any task including brushing my teeth without turning the toothbrush into a tool for scrubbing my entire kitchen floor.

After years of this, I ground haltingly to a smoking stop.  My resilience shattered like an aged frozen rubber band that was dipped in liquid nitrogen, then dashed to the jagged glass embedded concrete.  I crumbled into a million pieces that would never be put together, I would never be restored to a complete whole.  The dust of me blew away in the savage gusts that ate holes into my life.

Then began a loooooong, arduous rebuilding process.  The process itself either so exhausting that I would sink into depression or so demanding that it would trigger mania and I'd spin out of control only to crash again.  And again.  and again.  yet again.  again.  and each time, I'd try again.  Cuz the alternative was not viable.

So now, where am I now?  How am I now?  I'm good.  I'm usually better than ok.  I'm sometimes in a bad way, but very rarely do I reach the extremes of either pole.  I stay in the mid~range as much as possible.  I know I need lots of rest.  I know that anxiety is a sign.  I know that what are some common triggers for me.  I monitor myself, all the time.  I have an amazing support system, made of an awesome husband, wonderful care givers like a counselor who I've seen for years and a general practitioner who has seen me in every single situation that is possible, a mother who continues to learn more about me, and a community that allows me to be me, within bounds.

I will not attempt to describe in detail the healing process here.  Except to say that it takes a team of truly committed folks to have a hope of moderation.  And it takes a deeply intimate knowledge of self to know when to say when.  I've reached my limit for today.  Perhaps I will discuss the reconstruction process here some other time.  Or not.  It depends on too many uncertain elements at this point.

Today, I am good.  And that's the best place to be for now.

Two lil knitted blankets for Lil Suthern Belle

I don't always take the time to upload and post pix from home, preferring to wait til I am at the BookMart & Cafe' DownTown and use their faster speed WiFi to accomplish in a flash what would take my DialUp a looooooooooooong time.

So here are two lil baby blankets that I've made for the newest member of the family, who should arrive in just a few weeks:  Miss Lil Suthern Belle.  She's my husband's youngest son's first child.

He and his wife chose to go with a coral and grey, with white accents theme for their daughter's room.  So the first blanket pictured here is a simple garter stitch, done on the diagonal, in Caron's Simply Soft persimmon and grey.  It's small, just 2'x2'.

The next is a simple 1x1 rib stitch, done in Sensation's Classic Rainbow, coral.  It's also variegated with a soft grey and white.  This is a slightly fuzzy fabric that is nice and squishy.  It's a lil bigger, 3'x3'.  mmmmmm, sleeeepeeeeee time

I also have some Caron one pounders.  I thought about what to do, have come up with five or six different ideas, considered and discarded them.  I think I have a solution, tho.  It involves a grey hippo with white eyes and toenails on a persimmon background.  This one will be crochet, from a graph of a cutely squashed baby hippo.  It makes ya wanna hug her and squeeze her and call her "George".

The Depression of "Manic~Depression"

It seems like there isn't much that I can say that isn't intensely personal right now, but I feel I let that interfere with my writing and other activities.  In the past, when I would feel that I couldn't get out of my own head or events in my personal life; well, then I'd withdraw from most of my interactions with acquaintances, groups, and public activities; for fear that I'd alienate folks by saying the wrong things or focusing too much on personal stuff while in the company of folks who might find that inappropriate.  My filters begin to slip or simply vanish and then I say and do things that I later wish I had not said or done.  So the way I dealt with that was to withdraw for a time.

Some consider that isolation.  But I think that it can be a smart thing to do.  Sometimes, personal reflection, rest for the mind and body, is just the thing.  This type of behaviour can be restorative, healthy.  Withdrawing becomes problematic, or isolative, when it contributes to life's malfunctions instead of helping to solve those troubles. 

For instance, about ten years ago, I discovered that I sometimes needed complete peace from interactions with the outside world.  At that time, I found the phone to be particularly irritating.  It was an insistent interruption and would bring the outside social world right into my own peaceful place that was my sanctuary from invasive chaos.  I was experiencing heightened anxiety and would have panic attacks in public places often.  There were triggers that would startle me into losing my shit quickly and with a frightening intensity that seemed to never quite abate completely.  One of those triggers was a ringing telephone; so I silenced the ringer on my land line {I had no cell} and would periodically check caller id or the messages if needed.  My friends and family knew to leave a message if they wanted a return call.  Cuz really, I lived by myself, was not responsible for anyone but myself, and what sort of emergency was any one going to have that would require my immediate response?  Really?  Absolutely none.

So for five years, I didn't use the phone, wouldn't take incoming calls, and rarely made outgoing ones.  At first, that was fine, it was what I needed.  But then others began to worry because they felt that I was isolating myself.  I can see from their perspective, and in our society, at this time, yes, it probably was a bit excessive.

But then I rejoined the world at large.  Or rather, my community.  I met a wonderful man who become my husband within a year.  I began to get involved with several smaller groups, a few who met monthly or even less frequently.  I was careful not to commit to any obligations that would overwhelm me.  I was gingerly moving; but still, it was forward movement.  And that, my friends, is something.

I've made lots of progress over the past decade.  But then there are times where something so completely blindsides me, that I don't just have a set~back...I seem to fall to my knees, die a cutting death with great agony, and sink into the mucky mire of dreaded despair.  Then I want to retreat.  I need to retreat.  I crave that retreat so totally, it scares me.

Here's the thing:  when I feel this way, I feel like I will always feel this way.  Even tho I know that I won't.  It feels like I will.  And that feeling swallows me whole and with such relish that I cower in corners, under covers, shutting out the world.  Or at least I think I want to cower in corners, under covers, and shut out the world.

But I don't.

Cuz to do so, would be too easy.  It would lead me too easily into isolation, an unhealthy dark dank place that deadens me and scares my loved ones.  And that is what depression is like for me.

Welcome

Dear College~Student,

This is a hugely exciting time of your life.  You are meeting new folks, getting acquainted with your roommates, and stretching your wings.  There's a new town for you to explore, with all its cute lil boutiques, cafes/restaurants, and such.  I get that.

You've got lots of emotions running rampant.  Yea!  You finished a life~long endeavor to get here!  Be proud of graduating, completing thirteen plus years.  Yea!  You're starting something new, hitting the big leagues.  Wahoo!  You're leaving home and moving on.  Get that.

And I get the whole text book, class, professor thing.  It can be overwhelming.  It can be exciting.  You might say and do all sorts of things while you're finding yourself, trying this and that.  You might even say and do things in fits of nervousness that you'd probably never say or do at any other time.  I get that, too.

So go have fun.  Within reason.  Have a blast.  Within reason.  Enjoy the whole college experience.

BUT, {and you knew one was coming right?}  keep in mind that while YOU are not the center of the universe, neither are you alone.  Lots of others are willing to help you thru this process.  BUT you have to be willing to help yourself too.  Please get that.

Understand that not everyone around you is experiencing exactly what you are.  And neither do we want to do so.  I really Really REALLY do not want to hear about your dilemma over which ice~cream you choose and why you did so, and I certainly don't find the process of how you chose the ice~cream that you did nearly as fascinating as you do.  Please get that.

If I can hear your squeals of excitement while your describe your great love for Snickers Nutcracker, while I have earbuds routing Garbage's "Shut Your Mouth" into my head; then there is a likelihood that you are too fricken loud.  Just sayin'.  Please get that.

If I can hear your one sided conversation {that'd be a monolog, right?} as you chat away on your cell, while I am eating across the restaurant from you; please get that the entire room doesn't share your exuberance in finding just the cutest lil boots ever and on CLEARANCE {especially since it's AUGUST in Mississippi, you do get that, don't you?}.

And dudes!  If you are standing in line in a store, while the cashier is ringing up and bagging your purchases; be ready to pay.  If you and your roommates have turned shopping into a group event, and want to pay as a group; then try to work your strategy out ahead of time.  Huddling up at the end of the counter, while more folks queue up, is not effective.  If you can't divide the total bill by the number of housemates {or whatever your plan of attack is}, then just pay; and worry about divvying up expenses fairly later.  The cashier is not amused with your witty excuse that you are all poor college students.  Especially if you are dressed in clothes that would require an entire month's wages.

Please respect others; like the residents of this town, the employees who serve you, and your fellow students.  You will receive more respect yourself, if you treat others accordingly.  If you want to, get involved in the community.  Volunteer with some of the excellent efforts in the area.  But at the very least, be responsible for yourself.

Welcome to college, may you enjoy your years here.  May we enjoy your years here too.  Let's work together to make them good.