A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan SEPTEMBER 8, 2013 - SEPTEMBER 16, 2013

Gravy * Happy Birthday, Jazz * Multiple Sclerosis * 9/11 * Where is Warren Buffet? * Holding It Together * Focus * George Clooney * The Milkman

To read "A Mother's Diary" from the beginning, click on the June 2017 archives in the right hand column and read "Before: Scenes from the Trenches."* 

Photo credit: Hasbooloh1/Flickr

SEPTEMBER 8, 2013: GRAVY

Linda Ronstadt's no longer singing because she has Parkinson's Disease. She says, "People with Parkinson's can't sing."

Linda is of my generation. I remember her top hits — "Blue Bayou," "Desperado," "When Will I Be Loved," and "You're No Good."

In a New York Times interview, she's philosophical. "By the time you reach your late sixties," she says, "it's all gravy from here on out, you know?"

I haven't thought about my late sixties like this before. Passing can happen anytime — the cyclist in Utah was a young father. Just because you're old doesn't mean you'll die tomorrow. Just because you're young doesn't mean you won't die tomorrow. There's probably a German word for this that I don't know. Like bildungsroman or schadenfreude.  A word that means the perception of one's inevitable demise can be variable. It can be meaningful. It can be sobering. It can be ignored. Or it can be denied until the last minute.

My perception is colored by the fact that I have a ninety-five-year-old mother. She's the old one. I'm still her young daughter. I'm not going to die yet. Parents die first. This rationale seems to work in reverse for my mother. "I'm not old. I still have a young daughter. I'm not going to die yet."

Thanks to both my mother and father, I have good longevity genes. These genes may or may not get their chance to show off. I could slip on the proverbial banana peel this evening. Linda Ronstadt's statement is a timely reminder. As I approach seventy, tomorrow can't be taken for granted. Every tomorrow, from here on out, is "all gravy, you know?"

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Poetry is essentially not even the printed page anymore. It's the everyday conversations we have as we go through our days, at the grocery store, at the dinner table. It's the social media tweets and updates, the threads on Facebook. It's the glimpses of beauty and synchronicity in our everyday lives, the recognition and utterance of this beauty and so it is more fleeting than ever, like dreams we struggle to remember, and rarely capture in verbal description.

SEPTEMBER 9, 2013: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JAZZ

Today is Jazzy's birthday. She's nine years old. I'm a little sad. A cat's average life span is 12 to 15 years. Of course, some cats live much longer. Mom's outdoor/indoor cat lived to be 23. I hope Jazzy is primed for the longer end of the age spectrum.

When I adopted her from the SPCA, Jazzy was two. Her biography said she was there because the older woman who'd owned her had fallen and broken her hip. The bio said, "The woman fell because Jazzy tripped her."

What a fluke, I thought. Poor lady.

As I read Jazzy's history, she stuck a paw out of her cage and waved it in the air. "Notice me," she said. I took it as a sign.

My previous kitty, Kitty, was also a black cat. I'd put her to sleep three weeks prior to my visit to the SPCA and I wasn't doing too well. I was observing a mourning period. I decided I'd simply look at the shelter and not make any decisions. I asked to take Jazzy - then known as Katie - into an observation room. She was curious. She was purring. She was in my arms. I took  her home.

One year later, while getting ready to go to a business meeting in Los Angeles, I walked into my bedroom to get my suitcase. Jazzy came charging into the room at 30 miles an hour. She ran headlong, with the force of a 12-pound bowling ball, into the back of my right leg. I heard a sound like a tree branch splitting. I looked down to see my right foot pointing to the right and my right leg pointing to the left.

At the end of the day, I'd had surgery and a steel plate and six screws implanted in my right ankle. I'd be out of work for three months. Another elderly lady felled by her black kitty. Some people said, "Get rid of that cat."

Jazzy didn't break my ankle on purpose. I know she didn't. Anyway, it was too late to get rid of her. We'd already bonded. She was and is a steady companion. In the morning, when I wash my face, she washes her face in the second sink. I let the water drip from the faucet for her. When I'm at the computer, Jazzy rests in front of the screen or rides on the back of my swivel chair. When I eat breakfast, she eats breakfast. When I watch TV, she sprawls on my glass coffee table and watches TV with me. When I come home, after 10 minutes or 10 hours, she greets me at the door.

Most afternoons we take a 45 minute break in the backyard. Jazzy swats at butterflies, glares at hummingbirds, and basks in being an outside cat. When it's time to come in, she comes in because there's an agreement. "We'll go back outside again tomorrow. I promise."

I used to be a dog person. At different times, I've owned a Boston Terrier (Cinderella), a Winchester Terrier (Wimpy), a Cocker Spaniel (Buster), a Bassett Hound (Joy), a Norwegian Husky (Yoda), a Lhasa Apso (Snickers), a Rottweiler (Schatze), and a stray mutt (Scraps).

For some reason, I seem to love the most recent animal best. Of course, Jazzy's the most recent animal. As all my pets have done, she increases my awareness of a different kind of consciousness, a different kind of soul. Some people scoff. My darling brother, when he's visiting, brushes Jazzy out of his way. Should she come between him and whatever he's doing, he says, "Get that damned cat out of here."

My brother's an engineer. What can I say?

I can say, "According to an article in Scientific American, a cat's brain has 1000 times more data storage than an iPad and works a million times faster. Please show some respect."

Please stay well, little black cat. You're a special kind of friend. Happy Birthday, Jazz. And many, many more.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I just made  chicken stir-fry with a chicken that said use or freeze by 9/7. Wish me luck tonight.

SEPTEMBER 10, 2013: MULTIPLE SCLEROSIS

This morning I'm at the public library for an author presentation and book signing. The SCLH Multiple Sclerosis (MS) Support Group is sponsoring it. A Santa Rosa resident, Ronda Giangreco has MS. In 2008, back from a cooking school in Italy, Ronda's life was good. She was healthy, had a solid marriage, four grown sons, a comfortable home, and lots of friends. Then she woke up one morning numb on her left side. She was diagnosed with MS and was told she might not walk much longer.  She asked herself, "Then where should I walk now?" Her answer was, "To the place I feel most grounded — to the kitchen."

Her book, The Gathering Table, recounts the challenge she laid out for herself. She would prepare dinners every Sunday for eight people throughout 2010. The caveat was that everything — bread, pasta, dessert — had to be homemade. Ronda would defy MS one week and one meal at a time.

Thinking about my friend, Irene, who has MS, I'm here to learn more about this illness. National MS Society brochures are on the front table next to copies of Ronda's book. I flip through the brochure before the program begins. There are different categories of MS. Irene has secondary progressive. People with this type of MS  experience a slow but nearly continuous worsening of the disease. There can be variations in rates of progression and temporary minor improvements.

Ronda is a relaxed speaker. She shares a few, well-chosen slides. Her husband's mother died of MS when he was a teenager. Ronda's diagnosis was devastating for him. Ronda asks, "How many of you have MS?"

The majority of people in the audience raise their hands. They all shake their heads in recognition of the travails that Ronda shares. She says it's important for people with MS to have friends who are knowledgeable and understand what they're going through. I buy copy of The Gathering Table for Irene and ask Ronda to sign it. She writes, "Irene, stay strong."

I'll read the book to learn more about MS. I'll be careful not to bend the pages. Then I'll send it to Irene. Maybe something in the book will resonate. At the least, she'll know I'm thinking of her. 

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a Far Side comic strip, like when I go to Walmart and see morbidly obese people puking in trash cans in the meat department. Problem is, nothing about it is even remotely funny.

Lara: Really? This happened?
Patrick: Yep, a woman was coughing and hacking her way up the meat aisle when she hunched over a garbage can and vomited.
Lara: Wow! I guess this is why my mom refuses to shop there.
Patrick: There are a lot of good reasons to refuse to shop at Walmart and every time I have to go there I swear I'm never going back, but I get lured in by some of their prices.
Greg: Doesn't sound like a Far Side to me, just sounds like Walmart.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2013: 9/11

This is the 12th anniversary of 9/11. I'm flying the flag in front of my house. I'm pausing to remember. I'm saying a prayer for those who were lost and for those who remain. That includes all of us.

Meanwhile, I haven't talked to Pat in a week. I don't know what's happening with his teeth. I'm trying not to call him. Waiting, always waiting, for the other shoe to drop.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Getting mail is pretty much the highlight of my day so every time I open my mailbox and there's nothing in it my heart sinks a little.

Meredith: I say nothing is better than bills.
Patrick: That's true Meredith. I'm usually hoping to get a check.
Angie: What's your address? I'll mail you something so you have something to look forward to.
Lara: Hey Pat, message me your address and I'll send you something. Don't worry I won't stalk you...LOL
Angie: Unlike Lara, I might stalk you though. J/K

SEPTEMBER 12, 2013: WHERE IS WARREN BUFFET?

Mom calls. "Now that you're finished with all the cremation stuff, I have another project for you. That CD I cashed is sitting in my checking account earning no interest. I want you to find a better place for it."

I don't remember at what point I became Mom's financial adviser. She's a tough client. She's never participated in the stock market. She's adamant, "I lived through the Depression and I don't trust Wall Street."

At ninety-five, Mom doesn't like complicated investments. Her current stash is mostly the result of doing nothing. She and Pop bought a modest tract home in San Jose in 1959 for $16,000. In 2004, she put the house on the market and sold it in three days for $600,000.

Mom says, "I want another deal like that one."

Mom owns the house she rents to Pat but times have changed. This house is underwater. More and more, she's dipping into principal to cover her expenses and, like many of us, she's worried about outliving her resources. My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to go out there and find a risk-free, no-fail, get-rich-quick scheme Mom can put to work immediately.

Cremation planning was a cinch compared to this. I'll go online and do some research but I'm not holding my breath. I need help big time. Where-oh-where is Warren Buffet?

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I love sleeping when I'm not having nightmares and I love eating good food, but dammit wouldn't it be great if we didn't have to eat and rest so much? No more endless worrying about the next meal, no dirty dishes, just go, go, go.

SEPTEMBER 13, 2013: HOLDING IT TOGETHER

This afternoon, a new woman joins our Family Mental Illness support group. She's in tears telling us about her son and daughter. They both have schizophrenia.

When she was 47 - she's now 73 - this lady left her native country and came to the US "to escape communist oppression and to escape my husband, who also has schizophrenia."

Her daughter has returned to Europe. Her son lives in the Bay Area in low-income h housing. "My son's been with me for the last week," she says, "and sometimes I'm afraid of him. He's struck me in the past."

The woman refuses to call the police because, "In my old country, police make irrational arrests of innocent people."

She's sad. "I love my son and there's no help in this country for people with illnesses like his. I'm angry and frustrated. I've been trying to hold it together for a long time. I can't do it anymore."

As the woman leaves the meeting, I tell her, "I'll call you Monday and we'll meet for coffee or lunch."

God bless my mother. She adds some lightness to the day. She sends Jazzy a birthday card: "Dear Jazzy, I wish you a very Happy Birthday with an extra sardine for dessert. I also wish you a Happy Year ahead with Dede. She needs a lot of furry hugs and a lot of TLC. With love, GG (Great Grandma)."

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: It occurs to me that for each and every one of you on my friends list, I catch myself looking at your pictures, sharing jokes and news, as well as support during good and bad times. I am also happy to have you among my friends. We will see who will take the time to read this message until the end. If you appreciate your friends from all over the world, go ahead and copy this into your stats too, even if it's just for a minute. I'm going to be watching to see who takes care of the friendship, just like me. Thank you all for being a part of my life. Copy and paste please, don't share. If no reads my wall, this should be a short experiment. This is a Facebook game to see who reads and who just scrolls. If you read this, leave one word on how we met. Only one word, then copy this to your wall so I can leave a word for you.

Kristiyn: Thriftway!
Emma: SF Christmas Eves
Kerri: Poetry
Danielle: Your sister
Pam: Aunt
Ray: Squint
Lara: School

SEPTEMBER 13, 2013: FOCUS

Headlines on my cellphone this morning:

• "Four men sentenced to death in gruesome India gang rape."
• "Man kills wife behind Texas school, shoots self."
• "Wrongly convicted man released after 12 years."
• "Bride who says she pushed husband off cliff released."
• "Boston bomb suspect's friends plead not guilty."
• "Man accused of planning to kidnap, eat children."
• "6.6 million children under 5 died last year."
• "Report will show chemical weapons use."
• "Suicide bomber kills 21 at a funeral in northern Iraq."
• "Catholic priest sentenced to 50 years for child porn."
• "Man  who burned woman's corpse charged with rape."

I have no way to process this information. Nor do I want to. I wonder, with a daily news diet like this, what are we doing to our collective psyches? We need to focus on what's uplifting in our world and in our lives. Some days, with horror and trauma coming at us from all directions, it feels like keeping that focus is almost impossible.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Shhh... don't tell anyone. I love my life.

SEPTEMBER 15, 2013: GEORGE CLOONEY

Oh, my gosh. This is kind of embarrassing. For some reason - I've no idea where this came from — last night I dreamt I was out with George Clooney, the George Clooney.

We were at a fancy cocktail party with hundreds of movie stars. I didn't know a soul, other than George. Sounds exciting but he kept disappearing. The last time he left me stranded on a grand, sweeping staircase. In the disjointed way that dreams make perfect sense, I found George crouched in a coat closet. He was gnawing on chicken wings.

I said, "You were rude to leave me like that."

He said, "I needed to hide from all the gawking guests."

I said, "I want you to take me home."

CUT.

I see heads shaking. You cannot believe I told George Clooney, the George Clooney, to take me home.

NEXT SCENE:

Somehow we ended up in a bedroom. We ended up in a bed. Me and George Clooney. And, in this unbelievable dream, we did the deed. Then darn. I woke up in the middle of our private, little orgy.

I told a friend about my dream. She said, "All women dream they're in bed with George Clooney. No big deal."

Well, no big deal for her. I, for one, am getting in bed early tonight to dream again. George might be waiting for me and, with luck, we'll pick up where we left off.

Photo credit: The Shifted Librarian, Flickr

SEPTEMBER 16, 2013: THE MILKMAN

Marisa posts a photo of her house on Instagram and writes, "Sometimes Keith and I joke that it feels like we've time traveled with this Seattle move, but I'm not sure what year to say it is. We have one shower for the four of us, little doorways, creaky floors, random light switches downstairs that turn lights on upstairs, high speed internet, and now, a milkman."
kikishivers: Thumbs down on one shower. Thumbs up on the milkman.
chiamy: Love that you have milkman! That's hilarious! Wish he delivered to Encinitas!
suzyj6: I'm so jealous of that milkman!

I remember the milkman, the Fuller-Brush man, the knife-sharpening man, and the Encyclopedia Britannica man. Memories are tumbling all over my page. Each one cries, "Pick me! Pick Me!"

I remember competing at hopscotch. For a long time it was my favorite game.

I remember climbing to the highest branch in our big, old fig tree and singing, so the neighbors could hear, "On top of old Smokey all covered with snow, I lost my true lover for courtin' too slow." I thought Smokey was a train engine and I had no idea what courtin' was.

I remember making up skits and dances and putting folding chairs on the patio for my one-woman talent shows. I was the talent. The show stopper was my rendition of a Patti Page song:

How much is that doggie in the window?
The one with the waggly tail,
How much is that doggie in the window?
I do hope that doggie's for sale.

In addition to being producer and star, I was also the concessionaire. I sold home-popped popcorn, with butter, for five cents. The price of admission was ten cents.

I remember running up and down mounds of dirt in the torn up lot in our backyard, building forts with rocks and cardboard boxes, and yelling, "Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier."

I remember how good it felt to lie, spread-eagled, on warm cement with sunshine burning on my back.

I remember the first one-act play I wrote, "The End for All." One by one, each of the characters (portrayed by my neighborhood friends) ended up dead in the middle of my living room floor.

I remember listening to conversations on our telephone party line. It was fun because we weren't supposed to eavesdrop.

I remember walking home from school at lunchtime for mom's homemade vegetable-beef soup and her homemade apricot pie.

I remember racing outside at recess to get in line for handball and tetherball.

I remember Moon Fairies, a game I made up. My friends and I played it in my front yard after sundown. We sat on the porch steps and took turns doing cartwheel wheels on the grass. When someone spotted the headlights of an oncoming car, we had to run and hide behind a bush or a tree or a telephone pole. Mortals weren't allowed to see Moon Fairies. When the car and its passengers, unaware of the night's hidden creatures, drove out of sight, it was safe for us to come out again.

Yes, I remember the era of the milkman. Just yesterday, really, yet it seems like a long time ago.

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 2017:  FALL 2013

Fall is an earnest season. In fall, nature reflects on itself
and summons acceptance.  Dede Ranahan

"FROM CALIFORNIA" by GARY THOMPSON
ON JOHN MUIR'S TRAIL
Bear Star Press 1999
FOR PATRICK RANAHAN

SEPTEMBER 18, 2013 - OCTOBER 1, 2013: Aging Can Wait * Real Change in the Air * Who's on First? * Silence * Old and Cranky * Off * Helena * A Pleasant Day * Today's News & Tomorrow's Rewrite * Before and After * Odds and Ends * Worth a Try * Too Much Fun

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

 

HAPPY PIC

Thinking of you - Flowers for Houston.

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!

MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY - by Dede Ranahan

I'm enjoying your Sooner diary blog so very much. (Is "enjoying" ok to use on a mental illness blog? :-( You are such a fantastic writer and advocate!  Your pain and humor come through clearly. Makes me frustrated for you and all in the circle. Stace

OMG!  The posts from others and your writings are so very, very moving!! Your messages to and from Patrick almost had me in tears. Hope your site is getting more and more people visiting/posting.  I hope things change in our lifetime.  At least there are no more lobotomies.  But we are still in the Dark Ages as far as mental health. Joan

I've enjoyed reading your blog and your memoir. I like the way you've included some funny stories with the thoughtful and frustrating stories.  I feel like I can relate to your life, Dede.  If this was your purpose, then you've succeeded in writing an engrossing and moving memoir. Jan

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2017: SEPTEMBER 8, 2013 - SEPTEMBER 16, 2013

Gravy * Happy Birthday, Jazz * Multiple Sclerosis * 9/11 * Where is Warren Buffet? * Holding It Together * Focus * George Clooney * The Milkman

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

Pat and Me in 1969

HAPPY PIC

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!

A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan: AUGUST 30, 2013 - SEPTEMBER 7, 2013

Beautiful Feet * Quandaries * Cookies I * Cookies II * A Teacher's Tirade * Which End's Up? * Homemade Books * Tournaments and Wars * Getting Real

To read "A Mother's Diary" from the beginning, click on the June 2017 archives in the right hand column and read "Before: Scenes from the Trenches."* 

 

AUGUST 30, 2013: BEAUTIFUL FEET

I had a pedicure this morning. By coincidence, a vet tech, Becky, is coming to the house to clip Jazzy's nails. I can't do this myself. One cat plus one set of nail clippers plus one pair of hands equals total chaos.

I ask Becky to call me on her cell phone when she arrives. Jazzy will run and hide if she hears the doorbell. With faked nonchalance, I shut the doors to the bedrooms and the laundry room, closing off escape routes. When Becky calls, I answer with my usual phone voice.

"Be right there."

But, damn. Somehow Jazzy knows. She knows something's up. She sprints for my bedroom where she can hide under the bed but the door is shut. I scoop her up.

I open the front door and Becky comes in. She's only been here once before but Jazzy remembers. She squirms in my arms. Becky grabs her by the scruff of her neck and places her on her side on the dining room table. She show me how to hold her neck and how to brace her back with my arm.

Jazzy relaxes. She doesn't fight as Becky clips her nails. In less than a minute, the nail trim is finished. I let go of Jazzy's fur and she dashes under the table.

Becky leaves. Shortly, all's right in our world again. Jazzy's sprawled in front of the computer as I type. She's gazing at me. She's purring. We're still friends. And, we have six beautiful feet.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: R.I.P. Seamus Heaney, Irish poet extraordinaire.

AUGUST 31, 2013: QUANDARIES

The Syria thing is heating up. Russian President Vladimir Putin urges the US to reconsider a military strike against Syria. Russia is a Syrian ally and Russia-US relations are strained, among other things, over Russia's giving national security leaker, Edward Snowden, diplomatic asylum.

Putin challenges the United Nations. "Present evidence that proves it was Assad's military that launched the chemical attacks in Damascus, and not Syrian rebels trying to draw the US into the conflict. Remember what happened, in past decades, when the US initiated armed aggression in different regions of the world. Did US involvement resolve even one problem in those instances?"

Some of our elected representatives in Washington are asking different questions. Is it our mandate to monitor and vindicate international norms? Is military action required in Syria to protect our national security interests?

I try to process foreign positions and US positions the same way. Are the people in power trustworthy? Do they really know the proper course of action? Are hidden personal and political agendas in play? Of course they are. Answers are not easy to sort out.

Across the world, the people I'd like to sit down and talk with are sixty-nine-year-old Syrian grandmothers. What's their take on the situation? What are their ideas to stop the killing of innocent children and grandchildren? Like me, they lack the power to make the killing stop. I'm guessing, though, that they'd be willing to join hands and say a prayer for humankind. I bet that, after prayer, they'd agree the next best steps are to take care of our own families and friends, and to root out the weeds in our own back yards.

SEPTEMBER 1, 2013: COOKIES I

For some, I hear, baking is meditative. Sinking hands into flour, sugar, eggs, and butter, one can connect with one's higher self. This has not been my experience.

I'm not a baker. I'm more of a souper, or one who makes soups. A pinch of curry instead of salt, Italian sausage instead of ground beef, kale in place of spinach, navy beans for kidney beans. You get my drift. Souping is flexible. It leaves lots of room for error.

On the other hand, baking is precise. You need to attend to exact measurements and baking times or you court disaster — pathetic pie crusts, cracked cheesecakes, and sickly soufflés.

A recipe I've come across for caramel corn cookies has broken my resistance to baking. I love caramel corn and I need a dessert to take to a Labor Day get-together tomorrow.

The recipe sounds straight forward enough. Nothing too complicated here. First step: Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Check. Second step: Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Uh-oh. I'm in trouble already. The sheets of parchment paper I've torn off are too long and too wide for my baking pans.

I press one side of the parchment paper up against the rim of the baking pan. I'm trying to put a crease in it to make it fit. It doesn't want to crease. I turn the paper over and try to crease it from the other side. No luck. I fold the paper and force creases into the folds.  Now the paper fits but it's ballooning in the middle. I need those pie bead thingies to hold it down. Not a good idea. They'd end up in the cookies.

I'm 10 minutes into this project and not yet working with ingredients. I grab the kitchen scissors and cut the parchment along the folds I've made. I gather up the parchment scraps to put them in the waste basket under the sink. The basket's too full. The parchment scraps fall all over the floor. I'll take care of that in a minute.

Next step: Beating and mixing go okay but this cookie dough seems really dry. I double check the recipe. I haven't missed anything. I continue on faith.

I bake the cookies for ten minutes, as directed. I let them cool five minutes on the baking sheets, as directed. I transfer the cookies to racks to cool, as directed.

Meanwhile, the parchment scraps need to be picked up. Flour and oats have drifted everywhere — on counter tops, on the floor, on my blouse, in my hair, in Jazzy's fur.

I used half the bag of caramel corn. Someone has spilled much of the remaining half into the sink. Flakes of coconut are swimming in puddles of almond extract.

How did this happen? Who made this mess when I wasn't looking?

The directions don't state how long to wait before sampling the cookies. I decide it's time. I take my first bite. I eat the whole cookie. I give it another shot and eat another cookie.

These cookies are okay but they're not good enough to take to the potluck tomorrow. They're not dry, as I feared. They're flavorless. They don't add up to the sum of their parts. I can't even taste the caramel corn.

This hasn't been a zen experience. I'm not in the right frame of mind to close my eyes and focus on my breathing.

What to do? It must be five o'clock somewhere. The clean up will have to wait.

SEPTEMBER 2, 2013: COOKIES II

Time's getting short. The potluck's at 4 p.m. I go to my recipe book and flip to a proven recipe - Peanut Butter Cup Cookies. All the ingredients are on hand except the peanut butter cups.

I'm at the market to get the candy. Standing in the cake mix aisle, I spy a peanut butter cookie mix. This would be so simple.

The good angel on my right shoulder says, "No. That's cheating. You must make the cookies from scratch."

The bad angel on my left shoulder says, "Naw, go ahead. Stop worrying. No one will know the difference."

I buy the peanut butter cups and the cookie mix. I can decided what to do when I get home.

I'm home. I'm reading the recipe. It involves flour, salt, baking soda, butter, white sugar, peanut butter, brown sugar, eggs, vanilla, and milk.

I'm staring at the cookie mx. It involves the mix, oil, water, and one egg. It's a moral dilemma. It's a no brainer. I go for the cookie mix.

I roll the dough into 36 balls, coat them in sugar, and put them in mini-muffin tins to bake for eight minutes at 375 degrees. I remove the muffin tins from the oven and push one peanut butter cup into the center of each cookie. All done. One dirty bowl and not a trace of flour anywhere.

I'm testing a cookie. It's perfect. It's delicious. The baking is successful. After yesterday's fiasco, one might even go so far as to call it a "zen experience."

Peanut Butter Cup Cookies

SEPTEMBER 3, 2013: A TEACHER'S TIRADE

Megan calls. She's at the vacation rental house she and Britt own in New Harmony, Utah. She's cleaning toilets, changing bed linens, and getting ready for the next guests to arrive. She's wound up.

"I may quit teaching. I t think I've had it."

These words are spoken by the daughter who knew in third grade she wanted to be a teacher and never wavered from that career choice. She's been teaching first, second or third grades for almost twenty years. This year, she's teaching third grade. What's happened?

"My class size is getting bigger and bigger. I have more and more children with ADHD, autism or some other learning disability. I can't move the whole class forward because these children occupy most of my time. Some of them are abusive to me and the other students.

"I told the principal about one boy, in particular, and his disruptions in the classroom. She said, 'Handle it. Nothing can be done unless the student hurts someone.'

"Yesterday, he gut-punched another child at recess. The vice-principal asked the little guy to stop and he sneered, 'Try to make me.'

"I was glad, actually, that someone else was witnessing what I'm dealing with everyday.

"Two years ago, our school scored high on the required student tests. Last year, our scores weren't as good. This is to be expected depending, in part, on the quality of students coming to the classroom. Some of our children are transient or homeless.

"The principal says, 'You teachers must have rested on your laurels from last year. You must have let down a little.'

"I didn't rest on any laurels. I didn't let down a little. I worked as hard as I always work. What's worse, we're required to teach like robots. We have to put the same posters in the same places in each classroom. We have to teach to the tests.

"The principal wants us to stay later after school and monitor the kids while they do homework. I said, 'I won't do it. I have my own children and I'll be at home helping them with their homework.'"

What can I say to my daughter to make her feel better?

"Megan, you have many skills."

"Yes, but there aren't many career opportunities here. Women are either nurses or teachers."

Why does this conversation seem like one out of the 1950s? Have women made career progress in only certain sectors or geographic locations? Are teachers and students trapped, like hamsters on a wheel, in unmanageable educational bureaucracies?

In my experience, bureaucracies are scary beasts that dwell in dark places, feed on greed and incompetence, and suck human spirits dry.

Megan is a seasoned, dedicated teacher but she's burnt out. Wish I had a magic wand or a brilliant suggestion. All I can think to say to my daughter is, "Megan, listen to your own voice."

SEPTEMBER 4, 2013: WHICH END'S UP?

The phone rings at 7:30 a.m. It's Pat. I need a cup of coffee before I answer.

"Mom, call me as soon as you get this message."

Not the way I want to start my day. Pat was here yesterday and made an announcement. "I need six hundred dollars worth of dental treatment."

I'm afraid to hear what today's call is about.

It's 9:15 a.m. Pat calls again This time I answer.

"I called you earlier," he says.

"I know. I needed a cup of coffee first."

"Okay. I need to see the dentist today. My jaw is aching and if we let this go on it will get worse."

"I'm sorry, Pat, I've run out of funds. You'll have to ask someone else to help you."

Mom calls, "Pat phoned. He says he needs six hundred dollars for dental work."

"Did he say he needs to see the dentist today?"

"No, I said I'd think about it and get back to him."

I go to bridge and I'm unreachable for five hours. When I get home, I check my answering machine. My son's called four times.

Pat's trying hard. He's had two job interviews this month but no luck. His resume is full of holes and I don't know if he presents himself with energy. I wish I could meet all his financial needs, but I can't without ripping a hole in my financial safety net — a hole we'd both fall through.

Where's this psychiatrist who's told my son he doesn't have a mental illness and doesn't need medication? Maybe he could pay for Pat's dentist. On the other hand, what if he's right? Maybe I'm the one who needs medication.

An email pops up on my computer. It's from a member of my Family Mental Illness Support Group: "Hi Dede! I announced to my classes today about your wonderful group and what a great resource it can be. I invited those who are  interested to attend the next meeting to hear the MediCal speaker. Save me a seat for the 13th. God bless you for your talents and leadership for all of us! Cheers."

Thank you. I need this feedback. Maybe I'm not losing it after all. But things feel topsy turvy and it's hard for me to tell.

SEPTEMBER 5, 2013: HOMEMADE BOOKS

I'm babysitting Regan and Ayla while Kerry and David attend Back to School Night. These redheaded granddaughters are super cute. Four-year-old Ayla yells, "Mimmy," and gives me a hug. She's wearing a new headband with a big, glittery red bow on top.

"I'm going to wear it every day."

Seven-year-old Regan is typing on the laptop. She's writing a letter to me. "Mim, show me how to print."

Regan prints her letter: "Regan Ayla Kerry David I love you. Because we have fun. And it is awesome. I am excited to make cookes with mim it is going to be fun and the cookes or going to be yummy because it's peanut butter. Love," Regan.

We start making cookies. We crack an egg and Ayla tries to dump it into the mixing bowl. Most of it ends up on her arm. She says, "I have to go wash."

She comes back and adds the chocolate chips. Regan and Ayla dip stray chips into the cookie batter. They lick the beaters. Cookies are an afterthought. They're into the here and now.

I ask, "Where are the toothpicks?"

Regan's looking. "I'm the one who usually knows where Mommy keeps things because Ayla is younger than me and my brain is bigger than hers."

Ayla runs off to play with Kerry's iPad. Regan is assembling treats for Mommy and Daddy - three carrot sticks, five blueberries,  and a tablespoon of peanut butter for dipping. She pours lemon water out of a jar from the refrigerator into two paper cups.

"Mommy made it yesterday. Mommy and Daddy love their lemon water."

The cookies are done and cooling. Regan and Ayla are modeling their new Taylor Swift t-shirts. They show me tiny frogs in their goldfish bowls.

"The fish died," Regan says. " I want a bunny but we can't get one. Piper might chase it. Daddy wants a lizard and a snake. My room's messy because Ayla let her friends in while I was at school. I put a 'stay out' sign on the door but she still comes in."

Chatter, chatter, chatter. I want to bottle it.

David and Kerry are back. It's time for me to leave. Regan and Ayla charge out of the den. They've printed Regan's letter dozens of times and stapled pages and pages together to make three books.

"Mim," Regan shouts, "these books are for you. You have to take them home."

"Thank you, Regan. I will take them home."

I most certainly will.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Her last words to me were, "No hard feelings," but I'm beginning to think she meant "Know hard feelings."

SEPTEMBER 6, 2013: TOURNAMENTS AND WARS

I played in an all day bridge tournament today that was held in an uncomfortable community recreation center. An outmoded air conditioning system froze our hands and feet. Cold, hard, folding chairs stressed our bottoms. Worn cards and bidding boards strained our eyes. The tournament started late and ended late. My partner and I were rummy by the end of the day. We came in third in the morning session, but were too tired to hang around and see the results of the afternoon session.

During the tournament, I look around the room at people playing an intense, competitive game and think about Syria. I wonder what news I'll hear when I get home.

I don't want to find out that we're committing our military. My heart is breaking for the Syrian people, but I believe that violence begets violence. I don't know what we can accomplish with more bombs and bloodshed. So many factions are involved we really don't know whom we might be helping. We can't anticipate unintended consequences.

Call me a skeptic. I don't trust power players anywhere. Not because they're bad people — they may be — but because they're people. In armed conflicts, humans have always made, and will always make, tragic mistakes.

The international decision makers in the Syrian situation are mostly men. They move bodies around in war zones like trump on a bridge table. They set up strategies and signal their partners. They make bad calls and play bad hands. They win some and lose some. Men have been playing war, like bridge, a game of errors, forever.

It's time to forget scores and put egos aside. Everyone, let's call it a millennium. Like leaving a bridge tournament, it's time for all of us to go home.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Went to Papa Murphy's yesterday to get a pizza with my food stamps. (Only place you can use your food stamps to buy prepared food.) Food stamp machine was down. Owner said, "You're in here all the time, we're not gonna worry about it," and gave me a free pizza and even threw in a jar of hot red pepper. Still some good people around.

SEPTEMBER 7, 2013: GETTING REAL

I call Megan. It's been another stressful week at school. One of Megan's students is the son of a teacher Megan has co-taught with in the past.

A few days ago, the boy's father was riding with his cycling group practicing for an upcoming marathon. His was the last bike in the line. Traveling around a curve, the sun blinded an oncoming driver. He hit the boy's father and killed him instantly. No charges were filed.

Yesterday, teachers and students attended a Celebration of Life held in the school auditorium. Megan gave cards to each of her students so they could write notes to their sad little classmate. Megan can hardly speak on the phone. She chokes up.

"My trouble-making student is on medication and has calmed down. He's not as combative. He wrote the kindest note out of the entire class. He wrote, 'I know your father will live in your heart forever.'"

Now I'm choking up.

After the memorial service, everyone turned out for the first flag football game of the season. Selected by his peers, Ashton, my grandson, is quarterback for his 4th grade team. During yesterday's game, he threw a touchdown pass, made an interception, and completed an impossible catch. His team won 12-0.

Ashton has Perthes disease, a serious degeneration of the hip socket and femur bone. He's had surgery and time will tell if it's successful. Meanwhile, one leg is longer than the other and Ashton walks and runs with a limp. No problem in his mind, especially when he's on the football field.

"I wish he could play every day," Megan says. "People tell me, 'Quite an athlete you have there.'"

So many powerful emotions crammed into one day. Life doesn't get more real than this.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I am not even going to look into the game Candy Crush Saga. It seems a lot of my friends are lost in deep candy space.

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2017: SEPTEMBER 8, 2013 - SEPTEMBER 16, 2013

Gravy * Happy Birthday, Jazz * Multiple Sclerosis * 9/11 * Where is Warren Buffet? * Holding It Together * Focus * George Clooney * The Milkman

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

 

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MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan

 Dede, I am so enjoying your story. So rich and naked. Linda

I read this blog. It's terrific in every way. I see the intelligence and the illness in Pat's posts. He made me laugh — but also evident is the stress on you. I also love Mary Oliver's poetry and I won't shop at Walmart (love Blue Bunny ice cream). I could really identify with how Bridge takes your full concentration — a real diversion from the "family" issues. My go-to diversion is golf. I could go on and on — your writing style is really special — take my word for it - UC Berkeley English major and avid reader. Now I will go back and read your previous blogs. I hope you realize what a gem you have in that diary you kept. Pat really comes alive. (is that terrible to say?) I can hear his voice. Kudos to you. Chris

 Thank you for sharing this difficult journey. Stay strong! Dori

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, AUGUST 24, 2017: AUGUST 30, 2013 - SEPTEMBER 7, 2013

Beautiful Feet * Quandaries * Cookies I * Cookies II * A Teacher's Tirade * Which End's Up? * Homemade Books * Tournaments and Wars * Getting Real

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

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A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan: AUGUST 18, 2013 - AUGUST 29, 2013

Making Amends * Bridge and Bill Gates * The Morning News * Race * Last Steps * Overstating the Obvious * Happy Birthday, Patrick Sean * Part of the Universe * Russian Dolls and Blue Dragons

To read "A Mother's Diary" from the beginning, click on the June 2017 archives in the right hand column and read "Before: Scenes from the Trenches."* 

AUGUST 18, 2013: MAKING AMENDS

Home again. I'm doing laundry and reading Catching Fire. The book belongs to Sam. He says, "You should read it, Mim."

I have to hand it to Suzanne Collins. She's written a page-turner. Age doesn't matter. Young and old are among the book's raving fans. I plan to see the movie.

Jazzy's sitting in front of my computer screen with her back to me. She's swishing her tail on my keyboard.

"Stop typing. You left me for five days. Five days. You went to visit Butters. I hate to be a bad news bear, but Butters is a dog. A yappy, little, froufrou dog. What were you thinking?"

"Sorry, Jazz. Let's go outside and explore the back yard. For the next hour, I'll watch you chase lizards."

Once in a while, I'll look away and read book number two of The Hunger Games.

BUTTERS

AUGUST 19, 2013: BRIDGE AND BILL GATES

It's Monday and I'm still basking in my Saturday duplicate bridge score. My partner and I came in first in our section with a 60.74 score. We earned 1.69 OA BLK points.

I'm not sure what those points mean — they go toward life master points. To be a life master, you need 500 points. I have 25 points so life master status isn't happening for me in this incarnation. But this is my second best score and I'm trying to improve my game.

Bridge isn't easy. My partner and I review hands from Saturday's game. We talk about leads — leading the fourth down from the longest and strongest suit in a no-trump contract, and leading the top of a two-card sequence in a suit contract.

Warren Buffet plays duplicate bridge. So does Bill Gates. Sometimes they play together as partners. When Bill showed up at a youth bridge tournament, the kids asked him why he likes playing bridge.

He said, "Because I think I'm getting better at it."

If that's a good enough reason for Bill Gates to like bridge, it's a good enough reason for me. Today, after my Saturday game, I think I'm getting better at it.

AUGUST 22, 2013: THE MORNING NEWS

Horrific news in today's paper. Photos show bodies of small children in white shrouds lined up on a street. They look like they're sleeping. They're not sleeping. They're dead.

Parents point at small figures and claim their sons and daughters. Unbelievable loss in Damascus, Syria. It may have been a chemical attack. It's not yet clear.

Some people live in violent areas. Some people live in safe ones. Who gets to live where?

I'm sitting in a comfortable chair in my den surrounded by family photos, books, and my grandchildren's artwork. It's a small, quiet haven. Everyone deserves a small, quiet haven.

Pat calls. "Mom, Monday's my birthday. Can we go to that sushi place for lunch? I have a coupon for one free lunch if another person buys one."

"Yes, we can go."

It's Pat's 45th.

Mom calls. "I can't go to Regan's birthday dinner tonight."

It's Regan's 7th.

"I'm attending a fashion show. I signed up for it weeks ago. It's sold out and I don't want to lose my place."

"Who's putting on the fashion show?"

"One of the employees owns a wonderful collection of period clothing. One year the theme was the 1890s. That was when Pop was born. Another year it was depression era styles — flappers and stuff. The dining room staff model and serve us fruit salad, coffee, and dessert. It's a very good event."

"Guess we need to give you more notice next time."

"Yes, give me a month's notice so I can get it on my calendar. Bye."

"Bye, Mom."

Her calendar is busier than my calendar. She's my antidote to the morning news.

AUGUST 23, 2013: RACE

This morning I saw The Butler. This film presents an account of a black butler in the White House. He served eight presidents from 1952 to 1986.

In the car, on the way to the movie, I listen to Capital Public Radio and a discussion about a new school program in Oakland, California. Volunteers and staff, in the African Male Achievement program, mentor young black students to help them navigate the academic and cultural hurdles they face at school and at home.

In Oakland, in one recent year, according to the reported statistics, eight hundred black males were killed by gang and drug violence. In the same year, eight hundred black males graduated from high school ready to enter the California State University and University of California systems. In other words, in that year, black males in Oakland were as likely to be killed as to graduate from high school and go to college.

And tonight, I'm watching a television special about the 1963 civil rights march on Washington, DC. I was in college in California, removed from the march, and naive about race and racial issues. Growing up, I'd had limited encounters with African Americans or with any ethnic group.

My first African-American friend was a young man who worked at IBM, as I did, during our college summer breaks. We bantered when we found each other in the copy room. While he changed toner in one machine, I ran copies on another.

I believed in God. Michael wasn't sure. He bragged about his college, San Jose State. I bragged about mine, Santa Clara University. We were both sad about losing President Kennedy. We were both hopeful for the Civil Rights Act of 1964. We each thought that interracial dating was okay, although neither of us knew anyone in a bi-racial relationship.

When we left the copy room, Michael opened the door and waited for me while I gathered up my copies. In retrospect, I think we had some chemistry.

Michael came to my wedding in 1967, our only African-American guest. I encouraged him to bring someone with him but he came alone. After my marriage, I moved to Chicago and lost touch. I wonder where Michael is today. I'd like to know his thoughts and talk with him again. But fifty years later, I can't remember his last name.

I regret that I haven't had close, longtime friends of color. I know my life would have been richer. I have a Japanese friend, now, who exposes me to a culture dedicated to the preservation of family history, respect for elders, and traditions that honor the deceased. She expands my world.

I hope it's a two-way exchange.

AUGUST 24, 2013: LAST STEPS

I'm at Beryl's Celebration of Life this morning. The room in Kilaga Lodge is packed — a testament to Joan and Beryl's impact on this community, and a testament to this community's supportive network.

Beryl was an artist. His stone and bronze sculptures serve as table centerpieces. A family friend presents a slide show. It's fun to see Joan and Beryl smiling and waving when they were young. It's inspiring to see them, older and heavier, with their arms still around one another. They were married thirty-five years.

Beryl's children are present and grateful for Pops. His daughter-in-law, Lisa, acts as mistress of ceremonies. She introduces each member of the family, including Beryl's daughter, Jennifer, Lisa's new bride.

Lisa moves across the room. "Among his passions," she says, "cars, art, bowling and football, Beryl loved rocks. So I've left the best introduction to last."

Lisa introduces Joan. "Joan was Beryl's rock."

I believe it. Joan is quiet and often stands in the background. When you talk with her, however, you find a person of substance.

Tonight will be Joan's first night alone without family present. She says reality hasn't hit her, yet. In a few days, I'll go for a walk with Joan - a walk without Beryl. Beryl's taken his last steps.

Footsteps and life end so soon.

AUGUST 25, 3013: OVERSTATING THE OBVIOUS

I'm starting out the door to go for a walk but it's too hot and, anyway, I'm stalling. I don't want to do what I have to do — complete the paperwork for my prepaid cremation. It's not that it's about cremation. It's that it's about paperwork.

Always there's so much paperwork, including online paperwork. I have a stack of bills to pay — mine, GG's, and Pat's. I have to start an Excel file for GG's rental house. It's time to update my revocable trust.

Mom calls to give me her grocery list. She's very specific:
   1 package 60 watt light bulbs
   2 packages dental tape, NOT floss
   3 packages super-maxi pages, 48 count, Safeway brand
   2 boxes Kleenex, 200 count, white
   2 24 count packages toilet paper, double ply

I add her list to the pile.

Now I'm staring at the Authorization for Cremation and Disposition form. A notice at the top, capitalized and in bold red letters, says:

CREMATION IS IRREVERSIBLE

This is not self-evident?

"All the information requested is required by the state in order to file a death certificate. Incomplete information could lead to delays in the processing of permits in time of need."

Oh-Kay. I'll give you guys complete information. Co-mingle my ashes with my pets' ashes and return them to my family.

Marisa asks me to forward the cremation information to her. My brother and his wife request the Webb address. My hairstylist thinks she should give a brochure to her parents. My mother's following my example. I must be good at this — selling cremation. Maybe I could get a referral fee :-)

FACEBOOK POSTS TO PATRICK:
Angie: Happy Birthday Patrick. Hope you  have a great day.
David: Happy Birthday!
Kelly: Happy Birthday to you. Hope you're having a great day!
Erin: Happy Birthday Pat! ROCK ON!
Chris: Happy Birthday! Have a great one buddy!
Dana: Happy Birthday
Steve: Happy Birthday Pat. Hope you have a great one!
Molly: Happy Birthday!
Jordan: Happy Birthday, Patrick!!
Cheryl: Happy Birthday!
Mark: Happy Birthday!
Annie: Happy Birthday, Patrick!
Geoff: PaRana! Hope you have a great day!
Cara: Happy Birthday, Pat! Enjoy!
Veronica: Happy Birthday Pat! Have some fun!
Alex: Happy Birthday!!!
Janet: Happy Birthday Pat! Have a great day!

AUGUST 26, 2013: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PATRICK SEAN

August 26 is a complicated day. It's Pat's birthday. It's also my wedding anniversary. If I were still married, it would be my 46th anniversary.

I open one eye this morning, not two.  Before I'm awake enough to remember what day it is, I'm hesitant. What is this? Am I still not over my divorce?

I don't mourn the marriage. We were both young, inexperienced, and immature. If we'd lived together first, as all my daughters did with their spouses, I'm guessing each of us may have said, "I love you, but this doesn't seem like a good fit."

In our defense, we were trying to be "good, Catholic kids." And when it became clear how different we were, the wedding certificate had long been signed and the bed made many times.

We never know what goes on inside a marriage, but from outside appearances, my three daughters have solid partnerships. They and their spouses work as teams. They make joint decisions. They parent together. They support each other. When I'm visiting them, I sometimes get those pesky feelings like I did in Seattle.

I watch my daughters and their spouses interact and I experience opportunity loss. I touch base again with the loneliness I felt in my marriage. I'm sure my daughters wish their mother would find a new relationship.

I give myself a pep talk. "Get a grip. Get over yourself. Rejoice in your daughters and their families. Give thanks for them."

A therapist I saw, when I was first separated, kept telling me I was stuffing my feelings and pushing them down. What if I'm still doing that? What if that's why, this morning, my stomach's churning like an overloaded washing machine?

Maybe writing about my feelings of loss will bring them to the surface so I can dismiss them. "Go away. I have no need of you."

Maybe, next year, on August 26, I'll remember only that it's Pat's birthday. Maybe, next year, August 26 will be an uncomplicated day.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: FORTY-FIVE AND STILL ALIVE!

FACEBOOK POSTS TO PATRICK
Ryan: Happy bday
Laura: Happy Birthday Pat! And many more to follow.
Brad: Happy Birthday Pat!
Robert: Yo Patrick! Happy Birthday brother. Hope you're doing well.
Donna: Happy Happy Birthday Patrick. Hope you had a good day.
Scott: Happy Birthday from Berlin, Mr. Ranahan! I send you an ever full stein.
Patrick: Thank you Mr. Shepard. Happy travels!
Lisa: Happy Birthday, Pat!
Merideth: Happy Birthday Pat from all of us! Pam, Dennis, Kevin, Mickey and me!
Urs: Happy Birthday Pat. Wishing you a useful B-Day & many more
Tiffany: Wishing you a very Happy Birthday Patrick!
Jay: Happy Bday!!!
Jen: Happy Birthday Pat!
Cory: Happy Birthday Patrick!
Lara: Happy Birthday Pat! Have a wonderful day.
Keith: Happy Birthday and many good wishes to follow.
Brandi: Happy, happy birthday to you!
Roger: Happy Birthday Pat!
Tanya: Happy Birthday!
Connie: Glad to hear it!
Kim: Happy birthday my friend. I hope this year brings you much happiness and good fortune.
Patrick: Thanks Kim, good to have reconnected with you on here.
Amy: Happy Birthday, Pat!
Kate: Sending more birthday love your way! Wishing you happiness today and everyday!
Kim: Happy Birthday Patrick!
Steph: Wish you a happy birth day/week/month!
Paul: Happy Birthday Pat!
Patrick: Thanks everyone for the birthday love and good wishes. All in all, a good day.

AUGUST 27, 2013: PART OF THE UNIVERSE

I'm picking through my mother's papers looking for the plot number of Pop's grave. Mom wants her ashes scattered there. I come across a poem I've not read before. I google the first line. The poem was written by Mary Elizabeth Frye in 1932.

According to Wikipedia, a German-Jewish woman, Margaret Schwarzkopf, was staying with Frye. Margaret's mother was ill in Germany, but warned her daughter to stay away because of Jewish persecution. When her mother died, Margaret said, "I never had the chance to stand by my mother's grave and shed a tear."

Frye composed the poem on a brown paper shopping bag to console her friend. She didn't published the poem but did share it privately. In 1995, the father of a soldier killed in Northern Ireland, read the poem on BBC radio. The soldier had left the poem in an envelope addressed "To all my loved ones." Requests for the poem began immediately.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there; I did not die.

I email the poem to Joan. Joan emails back.

"I'm making a copy. It's something I want to remember as I think Beryl is now part of the universe."

AUGUST 29, 2013: RUSSIAN DOLLS AND BLUE DRAGONS

I'm at a meeting of a new group that's trying to get off the ground — the Lincoln Lollies - or Lovely Older Ladies Laughing, Loving, Interacting, Enjoying, Sharing. Fifteen women have joined so far. Nine are present this evening. We meet in the waiting room of a small counseling office. The organizer is a therapist.

I recall a scene in the Richard Dreyfuss film, Close Encounters of the Third Kind. People are scrambling from every direction to get to a mountain top without knowing why.

The women here responded to an email and came from all over Lincoln to the first meeting of the Lolllies not knowing why. Obviously, the invitation tapped into some needs.

This meeting, as the others, is free form. We go around the room and each of us talks about whatever we want to bring up.

Yvonne, the therapist, has shelves in her office filled with miniatures — angels, animals, houses, cars, tools, rocks, children, grown-ups, and mythical creatures like fairies and unicorns. When everyone has spoken, Yvonne asks if we would like to try sand tray therapy. She rolls out a box of sand on wheels — three feet by two feet by two inches deep.

"Pick two figures from the miniatures on my shelves and place them wherever you want in the sand tray."

I can't decide at first.

Yvonne says, "Don't think too much, just choose."

I pick a Russian matryoshka, or wooden nesting doll, and a blue dragon.

"Why did you pick these?"

I'm not sure. From all the miniatures, they jumped out a me. I know the nesting doll has many dolls inside. It suggests the peeling back of layers. The dragon isn't scary. It isn't breathing fire. It looks protective and magical.

The doll, as I placed it in the sand tray, is gazing at the dragon with big, wide-open, unblinking eyes. She's unafraid and very close to the dragon.

What am I feeling when I look at the doll and the dragon? I'm feeling that they're telling me something. They're telling me to follow my muse.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: One year ago today I reported for brain surgery. One of the scariest days of my life. Today I can say that things are back to normal, going out to dinner with my dad to celebrate my 45th birthday.

Lara: Wow, Pat I'm shocked to hear this, and yet happy to hear you're doing well.
Patrick: Normal in a relative sense.
Keir: Awesome. Happy Birthday!
Donna: Glad to hear. Tell your Dad hi!
Julie: We are thankful Pat. Have a great time at dinner.
Veronica: You ROCK Pat! Prime example of living life!
Stacey: Have a great dinner Pat!
Scott: Normal?  Who needs it? My relatives aren't normal either.
Katie: Stay strong Pat! Have a fantastic dinner and say hello to your dad from us!
Pam: Happy Birthday Pat! I remember first meeting you when you were about 3 years old.

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.

COMING UP THURSDAY, AUGUST 24, 2017: AUGUST 30, 2013 - SEPTEMBER 7, 2013

Beautiful Feet * Quandaries * Cookies I * Cookies II * A Teacher's Tirade * Which End's Up? * Homemade Books * Tournaments and Wars * Getting Real

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

 

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