A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan NOVEMBER 18, 2013 - DECEMBER 1, 2013

November 16, 2017 Dede Ranahan

Walkin' the Cat * It's Criminal * Follow the Leader * November 22, 1963 * Happy Birthday, Marisa Elizabeth * Little Things * God Bless Us Everyone * Thanksgiving * Which End's Up? * Topsy-Turvy

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."

NOVEMBER 18, 2013: WALKIN' THE CAT

I've gone and done it. Didn't want to do it in broad daylight, but the way I figure, it's now or never.

I'm still reading Rebecca Skloot's, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Last night, I fell asleep readin' the book. That's why this dialect is stickin' in my brain. I love the honesty, the energy, the music in it. As one of Henrietta's relatives told Rebecca, "If you pretty up how people spoke and change the things they said, that's dishonest. It's taking away their lives, their experiences, and their selves."

Anyway, I woke up this morning with a tellin' in my head — as if I spoke like one of Henrietta's relatives. Perfect timin' cuz I'm not sure I want to reveal what I'm doin'. This way of talkin' will be part of my disguise. Not that my inflection or phrasing is accurate. It's not.

So I been pushin' this new cat stroller round my house for two weeks. I been hopin' The Jazz would get curious and want to ride in it so I can take her for walks. She's curious 'bout everythin' else. She jumps in boxes. Jumps in paper sacks. Soon as I open a cupboard door, if I'm not watchin,' sure enough she's in that cupboard. And she ain't comin' out.

Like an idiot, I'm pushing this kitty carriage around in my house, at night, with the shutters closed. The Jazz loves riding on the seat of GG's walker. She loves riding on the back of my desk chair. But she doesn't even sniff at this stroller. She doesn't get near it.

This morning, I decided the time has come. We have to try this thing out or I'll have to talk it back to the pet store. Got a good deal on it too — half off. I make sure the zipper on the stroller's mesh covering is aligned and ready to zip. I pick my kitty up using a soft voice to not scare her too much. I plop her in the stroller and zip it shut. Fast as I can. She's not happy but she's not screaming, either.

"We're taking a walk," I say. "Out to see the birds and the bees and the trees and the flowers. Out to see the big wide world you never get to see."

I start down the sidewalk and, boy, am I hoping no one is coming out on the street today. I should have a worn a big, floppy hat and dark glasses to cover my face. Too late. I round the corner and wouldn't you know. Here comes a neighbor from the next street over. Orchid Lane. That's the fancy street. She's out walking her dog. She's coming right at me.

"Well, isn't this great," she says. "You're walking your cat. Makes sense since she probably won't walk on a leash."

My neighbor doesn't know how right she is. Her dog's yapping at The Jazz who's hissing through the blue mesh covering. She's got a view out all four sides of the stroller.

"You didn't see me," I say. "We never had this conversation," I say.

My neighbor nods and moves on. I round the next corner and the next corner and the next corner. We're in the home stretch for our first outing. The Jazz is turning back and forth in the stroller. Looking out the back at me. Looking out the front at Lord knows what. But like I said, she isn't screaming.

Back to the front door. I push the stroller inside and unzip the cover. The Jazz flies out. She's glad to be free. Guess we'll keep this pet contraption. It wasn't that bad out there — long as I don't catch eyes peeking through curtains as we pass by.

I'll stop trying to pretend I'm not doing what I'm doing. I'll hold my head high and wear bright colors. Don't know why people can walk dogs but not cats. It will broaden Jazzy's life experience. It will be good exercise for me.

Don't tell my kids about this, though. I'll never hear the end of it.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Don't look back. "A mind that is stretched by new experience can never go back to its old dimensions." Oliver Wendall Holmes, Jr.

NOVEMBER 19, 2013: IT'S CRIMINAL

More talk in the news today about murders and suicides attributed to guns and mental illness. More talk about the lack of services and beds for the mentally ill who ask for help. More talk about the failure of our mental health system.

I've fought the battle for better mental health care for a long time. Between 2001-2003, for example, in the university system where I worked, I produced seminars titled "Mental Illness in the Classroom - How to Recognize It and Who Can Help." Teachers, kindergarten through university level, were hungry for this information and came to these workshops from throughout California and from out of state.

For one symposium, Tipper Gore sent a personal video message to the audience. For another, we featured the award-winning KQED documentary, Hope on the Street. In the film I narrated our family's anonymous story, which was one of five stories. With the KQED producer, I travelled to the Carter Center in Atlanta, at the invitation of Rosalyn Carter, to show the film there.

In spite of worthwhile projects and sold-out attendance at our conferences, university resistance to dedicated mental health programs was entrenched. Deans were interested only if programs would bring in big bucks for their schools. Some professors said, "Forget it." In a focus group for faculty readiness, one professor told me, "I'm fed up with students making irrational outbursts in my classroom. I'm a professor because I want to teach. I've no time for this other nonsense."

Resistance was widespread. A ranking member of the State Department of Education said to me, "Please don't educate teachers about mental illness. They'll become more frustrated than they already are when they learn there are no resources to make the changes that need to be made."

When my position at the university was cut, my mental health programs languished. I found out, later, that certain administrators and faculty members experienced mental illnesses within their own families. The powers in charge, however, could not or would not connect the dots. Much stigma and shame existed.

In 2013, there is still much stigma and shame. I get asked, from time to time, to get back in the fray. I say, "My energy, these days, is concentrated on my son."

I know that younger advocates will continue the struggle, but it's sad that getting timely, appropriate, stigma-free mental illness care remains a huge challenge. For those who suffer from serious mental illness, priority for their care continues to sink to the bottom of the proverbial heap.

It's criminal.

NOVEMBER 21, 2013: FOLLOW THE LEADER

Kerry and Regan are at a parent-teacher-student conference so I'm with Ayla. We're in the backyard. Ayla's blowing bubbles and Piper's trying to catch them. She jumps and chomps at them in mid-air, and makes them pop.

Ayla says, "Popping bubbles is Piper's favorite thing to do. She was born to chase bubbles. She's a crazy dog."

It's windy so we go inside. Ayla has an idea. "Let's play my cherry tree game."

Ayla sets up the game and explains the rules. We start playing, but we're running out of cherries. Ayla makes a unilateral decision.

"This game's too hard for you, Mim. Let's play another game."

We're playing CandyLand. For Ayla, CandyLand isn't a competitive game — it's a team sport. The red, green, yellow, and blue plastic people must all advance toward the CandyLand castle together. If one plastic person draws a good card, all plastic people get the same good card.

"I'll be the leader," Ayla says. "The rest of you come with me."

Now, we're building something — a tower slide for marbles. Ayla knows exactly how to fit the green tubes and purple tubes together. She holds up a silver marble.

"This is the test marble. Let's see if it goes."

The marble rattles down the tubes to the bottom. Our marble tower is a success.

Kerry and Regan are home. Regan got all T's on her report card. T stands for On Target. Boy, have things changed. On my report cards, we got E for Excellent, S for Satisfactory or U for Unsatisfactory. If I'd gotten a T, I'd have torn up my report card and run away from home. I'd have thought that T meant Terrible or Terminated.

Kerry takes me upstairs to Regan's bedroom. She shows me the dresser she's spray-painted white. It used to be my dresser when I was 15. I didn't like it at the time. Made from solid maple with tongue-in-groove drawers, it seemed like furniture for old people, not me. Today, the dresser has been passed down to my granddaughter. It looks modern painted white. It has clean, classic lines. It will, most likely, be in the family when I'm no longer around. I could get sentimental.

Ayla's rolling on the floor. "Look at my butt, Mim."

Kerry says, "Stop, Ayla. you're not being polite."

Ayla's laughing. Butts are funny. One can't get maudlin with Ayla around. If we follow the leader, we'll find lots of fun things to do.

President and Mrs. Kennedy November 22, 1963

NOVEMBER 22, 2013: NOVEMBER 22, 1963

It's 10:45 a.m., November 22, 1963. I'm in Father Fagothey's philosophy class at the University of Santa Clara. I'm sitting in the fourth desk from the front in the third row from the left. My off-again-on-again boyfriend, Jim, is sitting in the desk next to me on the right. A student enters the room and hands a note to Father Fagothey.

Father Fagothey's reading the note. He's not moving. He's looking down. The room is silent. Father Fagothey looks up and says, "Class is dismissed. President Kennedy's been shot."

There's a collective gasp. Students run out the door. Jim picks up his books and disappears down the hall. I'm walking across campus back to my dorm. It's a crisp, clear day. Leaves are falling. Like the leaves, students are scattering in all directions. Some are gathering in small groups. Everyone's crying. I'm crying. I pass Jim. He's sitting in his white Ford Thunderbird in front of the student union. He doesn't see me. His eyes are closed.

The TV's humming in my dorm lobby. I don't stop to watch it. I go to my room and throw some books and clothes into a small bag. I'll drive home — it's minutes away. I'll watch the news in my living room. I'm praying that when I get home and turn on the TV, the newscaster will say that the President's in surgery and expected to survive. The President's going to be fine. The country's going to be fine. The world's going to be fine.

I know, fifty years from now, I'll recall I was in Father Fagothey's philosophy class when I learned President Kennedy was shot. I hope I'll also recall that, when I got home, TV reports said he was out of danger and receiving good care.

NOVEMBER 24, 2013: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARISA ELIZABETH

Tomorrow is Marisa's 40th birthday. This weekend Megan and Kerry have joined her in Seattle for a sisters' weekend. They're posting photos on Instagram. They're all smiles and hugs. A candle is blazing like a sparkler on Marisa's birthday dessert.

I'm pleased that my daughters are good friends. Not all sisters end up being friends. I hear. I don't know. I never had a sister, really. I say, "really" because my mother did give birth to a little girl, Loretta Marie, when I was four. I didn't learn about this until later. She lived a few hours.

I was excited that my mother was having a baby. I couldn't wait to hold it. Then Pop walked in the front door empty handed. He said, "They were out of babies at the hospital today."

That was it. No further discussion. What? How could this be? The day my mother goes to the hospital to get our baby they're out of them? Could we only get a baby on this one day? What about tomorrow? Will more babies be coming in? I didn't ask these questions. I mulled them over in my four-year-old mind. Thinking about this, now, my chest feels heavy. I've never talked about it.

About six years later, when I was ten, my friend's mother was expecting. I was jealous. Mary Jo was about to have a baby in her house. I knew, by then, that hospitals didn't run out of babies, that babies grew in mothers' tummies. I understood I had a baby sister who died. What if Mary Jo's baby would die? The thought crossed my mind. Then Mary Jo's little sister died during childbirth. Did I wish that and make it happen? The thought haunted me. I was a terrible, terrible, little girl with evil powers. Another thing I've never talked about.

Wow, Marisa's birthday and the subject of sisters has gone in an unexpected direction. Back to my daughters. Once again, I'm jealous. I have a perfectly okay brother. I'd also like to have a sister. And Jim would probably like to have a brother.

I talk to my cousin, Annette, in Kansas City. "You need to come out here," I tell her. She says she'll think about it. She doesn't like traveling and making trip arrangements. Maybe, if I tell her I have to have a sister and she's it, she'll come.

Meanwhile, Happy 40th Birthday, Marisa. I love you and Kerry and Megan. And Patrick. And Jim. We mustn't forget the brothers. Here's to at least 40 more years — for all of us.

NOVEMBER 25, 2013: LITTLE THINGS

First thing this morning, I called to wish Marisa "Happy Birthday." I asked her about the wine and chocolates I'd ordered for her room. And about the note that said, "Have a Wonderful Sisters' Weekend."

I'm bummed. Marisa didn't get the wine, or the chocolates, or the note. I can't reconstruct the situation. This error can't be undone. I call the hotel and ask to speak to the manager. I'm connected to Edward. "I'm looking at your daughter's hotel record," he says. "I apologize. We totally dropped the ball on this. I can offer a discount on the next booking of our hotel. I'll send you an email to track this offer."

I'm waiting for the email. I'd rather have had an excited text from Marisa at the beginning of her birthday weekend about the surprise in her room. Maybe whoever "dropped the ball" won't do it again. Maybe he or she will remember, next time, that little things can mean a lot.

An email exchange with Pat.

"Hi, Pat. See you Thursday at Kerry's. Can you pick up GG at 4:00 p.m.? Kerry and I will be cooking. I have a postcard here for you. I'll bring it on Thursday." Mom

"Hi, Mom. Yes, I'll pick up GG on Thursday. I think, after the last payment to the bankruptcy lawyer we owe three hundred sixty dollars. I made a little money last weekend and I'm wondering if we could pay off the total if I give you half — one hundred eighty dollars. Thanks." Pat

"Hi, Pat. If you can pay half, that is a huge help. How did you make the money? At the church?" Mom

"Hi, Mom. I made the money helping a friend of mine with his screen printing business at an Irish dance competition at the Sacramento Convention Center. I'll call and verify what the total is. So, if I pay half, can we pay the total and get this over with?" Pat

"Hi, Pat. Yes, let's get this over with." Mom

"Hi, Mom. Thank you." Pat

PATICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I just spent two days helping a friend with his vending business at one of the most bizarre cultural events I've ever witnessed. It was called Oireachtas 2013 and was the Western Region Competition of Traditional Irish Dancers. There were about 2000 young girls competing for national and world qualifications and most of them were anywhere from 5-13 years old and they were all done up like beauty pageant contestants in full costume dresses, wigs, and makeup. I might have some serious nightmares tonight.

NOVEMBER 26, 2013: GOD BLESS US EVERYONE

Whoa. I just called Irene. She's always the same - calm and grateful. Ed has taken a turn for the worse. Irene says that hospice has moved in full-time. "They're wonderful. And my daughter, Eileen, who's a nurse is here, too. I couldn't manage without her. Thankfully, we're able to keep Ed comfortable. And the grandkids have decorated his room with deer antlers and photos to make his room look like his room at the ranch. That's his favorite place to be."

"Is he awake?"

"He comes and goes. He's such a nice guy."

Irene and Eddie have been married 51 years. What a wonderful thing to be able to say after 51 years - "He's such a nice guy."

"I won't keep you, Irene, but I want you to know I'm thinking of you."

Irene wishes me "Happy Thanksgiving." She and her daughters are planning to fix a turkey and celebrate with the grandkids and with Eddie in his room. He won't be leaving it again. More of my friends are dying with grace. I'm thankful for their example. God bless us everyone.

NOVEMBER 28, 2013: THANKSGIVING

First time, ever, that I haven't hosted Thanksgiving. I used to have 25 to 30 people for Thanksgiving. Then it dwindled to ten. Now, I'm passing turkey day to Kerry.

I'm at Kerry's. We decided it would be fun, as long as we're both spending the afternoon cooking, to do it together. I'm preparing a new recipe for roasted Brussels sprouts. They remain attached to the stalk. They'll serve as both the centerpiece and a side dish. My cell phone rings. It's Pat.

"Mom, I'm having a really bad day."

"What's happening?"

"I can't find my wallet. I've looked everywhere. I had the cash in it that I planned to give to you today."

Here goes my stomach. I've already put $360 on my credit card to pay the bankruptcy attorney. Pat is supposed to give me half today. I've been feeling proud that he's earned some money and offered to pay some of the bankruptcy expense. Is this for real? Have I been set up? Why do I never know how to handle situations with my son? They always catch me off guard.

Pat arrives at Kerry's. "Did you find your wallet?"

"No."

I'm home again. We had a scrumptious Thanksgiving dinner, but this money thing is throwing me. Why the drama? On Thanksgiving? I'm forgetting about the things I'm thankful for. I send an email.

"Pat, I'm counting on that $180 for Christmas expenses. I wasn't planning to put $360 on my credit card." Mom

"Mom, hopefully my wallet will turn up soon and I'll have the money to give you. If not, I'll get the $180 to you as soon as possible." Pat

"Pat, I took you on good faith and I'm disappointed. I can't keep being the financial fall guy. I'll deduct the $180 from the bills I pay in December." Mom

"Mom, I had the money set aside to pay you. You don't even care that I am out nearly $200 if I don't find my wallet. Please give me some time to either find my wallet or come up with the $180." Pat

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

NOVEMBER 29, 2013: WHICH END'S UP?

Early morning email from Pat.

"Mom, I hardly slept at all last night. Not only am I upset and worried that I lost $200 that I intended to give to you and that I worked very hard to get, I'm terrified that you're going to cut off my cable, internet, phone, and renter's insurance.

"I'm already having a terrible time finding work, but without these things it will be basically impossible for me to look for work, send out resumes, or reply to employers via phone.

"Please don't do this to me. I feel like you are punishing me for something I shouldn't be punished for — losing my wallet. I realize that I still owe you $180 and I fully intend to get that to you as soon as I'm able, but taking away my communications with the outside world is not going to help me achieve that." Pat.

No matter what I do, I always feel like I've done the wrong thing with my son. I've been too lenient or too strict. I call Pat. "I'm coming over to help you look for your wallet. Maybe a different set of eyes will find it."

I'm at Pat's. His house, as usual, is in disarray. Dirty dishes in the sink. Dust everywhere.

"The last time I used my wallet was at Walmart. I don't remember seeing it after that."

"Do you think someone took it out of your pocket?"

"I've thought about that."

"Call Walmart and see if someone turned your wallet into lost and found."

Pat calls. No one's answering the phone.

"Okay. I want you to go there and check with customer service."

I look upstairs, downstairs, inside, outside, in the garage, in the car. There's no sign of a wallet.

"I worked really hard for that money. I was feeling good that I could buy Lexi's dog food this month and pay for her shots."

I'm home again. I get an email from Pat.

"Hi Mom. I forgot to ask you if you could drive me to my MRI for my brain tumor on Tuesday? I'm supposed to take an Ativan and not drive. Thanks." Pat.

Everything's so mixed up and convoluted with my son. Every day I question my own judgment.

NOVEMBER 30, 2013: TOPSY-TURVY

It's 8:30 a.m. The phone's ringing. It's Pat.

"Mom, I think I'll have some money to give you tomorrow."

"Did you find your wallet?"

"No, I sent an email to the church and told them what happened and I think some of the people are going to help me. I'll let you know, tomorrow, how much I can give you."

Back and forth. Up and down. I'm feeling topsy-turvy. Also, I'm hiding out.

Six months ago, a dermatologist determined that chemicals in my hair products were the cause of my then swollen, itchy eyes. He prescribed a new shampoo and my eyes cleared up. Yesterday morning, I woke up with two bulging eyes. By evening, they were much worse. I called a hospital advice nurse. She scheduled an appointment with the dermatologist this coming Monday.

Meanwhile, trying to think of a clever metaphor or simile but nothing's coming to mind except a cliche. I look like shit.

Not a fun way to begin the holiday season.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I picked up a Christmas tree a few months ago. It's fake with pre-strung lights. I put it up today. Gaping holes in places, two strings of lights don't work, top is broken and leans off to one side. It's a Charlie Brown Christmas! Funny, sort of, because it's unfortunately true.

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

COMING UP THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 2017: DECEMBER 1, 2013 - DECEMBER 16, 2013
Hiding Out * Keeping On Keeping On * It's Complicated * It's Idiopathic * Nelson Mandela * Abundance and Hunger * Snow * Showing Up * The Thrift Store * Give This Man a Chance * Back to Square One * Hiding in Plain Sight *Christmas Gifts * From My Now to Your Now

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

November 10, 2017 Dede Ranahan

Think Mom would let us get one?

Hope you have a good weekend everybody.

MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan

November 9, 2017 Dede Ranahan

Dede Ranahan graciously shares her story with us and it is absolutely amazing.
Thank you Dede ((((♡♡♡♡♡)))) Mary S

Enjoying your diary. I can relate to you and your son, Pat. I wish I'd written a journey on Shane but had no idea that I would out live my son or that I would lose him at 39. Savor your time with your family. Even the difficult times. May God bless you and your family. Darlene

I've been reading your diary, Dede. It's beautiful. And so are you. Jean

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

COMING UP THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 2017:
NOVEMBER 18, 2013 -DECEMBER 1, 2013: Walkin' the Cat * It's Criminal * Follow the Leader * November 22, 1963 * Happy Birthday, Marisa Elizabeth * Little Things * God Bless Us Everyone * Thanksgiving * Which End's Up? * Topsy-Turvy

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

HAPPY PIC

November 3, 2017 Dede Ranahan

Looking good. Feeling fine.

Hope you have a good weekend everybody.

A MOTHER' DIARY by Dede Ranahan NOVEMBER 3, 2013 - NOVEMBER 16, 2013

November 2, 2017 Dede Ranahan

High Tech low Tech * Spending Plan * Equanimity * Insignificant or Not? * Family Mental Illness Support Group * Missing Teeth and Too Much Hair * That's Italian * Snap it Up * There's the Rub * Perfect Day * Batkid

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."

NOVEMBER 3, 2013: HIGH TECH LOW TECH

Another day at the computer paying bills online. Online sites are supposed to be safe and protected by firewalls and other technology I don't understand.

There's a two-page article in today's Sacramento Bee about the National Security Agency (NSA) and some of the questions raised since Edward Snowden began releasing the agency's documents in June. According to the article, a former NSA official says, "Without new leadership, new laws, and top to bottom reform, the agency will represent a threat of 'turnkey totalitarianism,' and the capability to turn its awesome power, now directed mainly against other countries, on the US public."

This is a scary thought. It sounds too incredible, but is it? Why do I feel apprehensive for my grandchildren? No wonder I'm writing in this journal. The simple, tactile act of putting words on a page is comforting. Old school. Low tech. Connected to that primitive man who drew on rock walls. But wait. What do I know about that caveman? When he wasn't marking his cave, he was probably clubbing his wife. I wouldn't have trusted him anymore than I trust the NSA.

Here's crossing fingers that our collective wills and wisdom prevail, and we'll figure out a way to keep technology and humanity in sync. Here's hoping the NSA isn't tracking my online bill pay, and this is my imagination, stoked by newspaper accounts, needing a time out.

NOVEMBER 4, 2013: SPENDING PLAN

Financial guru, Sure Orman, would be proud. I'm reviewing my budget spreadsheet for 2013. Heading into the home stretch, I'm coming in $7,000 under budget. I've been cautious all year because I wasn't sure how much financial support I was going to need to give to Pat.

So I cut back. I didn't take a vacation — only a weekend visit to Marisa in Seattle. I didn't make any major purchases. I budgeted $1,000 for medical expenses and used $150 of that amount. I budgeted for home maintenance and yard maintenance and came in as budgeted. I budgeted for car expenses and came in $500 under budget. With no major catastrophes, I'll end the year in the plus column.

I have no debt, I own my home. I have solid medical coverage. I pay cash or I don't buy it. Where I'm not doing as well as I'd like is in putting what money I have to work. I'm not in the stock market. Own no bonds. I'm still benefitting from CDs earning 3.5%. Once they mature I don't know where I'll turn.

I know the drill. Asset diversification. Asset allocation and reallocation. Percentages in cash, stocks, and bonds. I also know that no one cares as much about my money as I do. I've been screwed by financial advisers in the past.

Meanwhile, I sit on the side lines of the great stock market run since its last down turn. Nevertheless, like the tortoise and the hare, my net worth keeps increasing because I draw less from my saving than it's earning in interest. I'm not rich but, with diligence and luck, I'll take care of myself and not become a burden to anyone. I intend to spend my last dime on the day of my departure.

Next year, I want to include a trip in my budget plan. A trip to somewhere I've never been before. Actually, I prefer the term "spending plan." Sounds less onerous than "budget plan." A trip might be someplace not that far away. There's a whole world, right in my back yard, waiting to be explored.

I'm sending this travel thought out to the universe, waiting to see what exciting proposition it presents for my consideration — within my 2014 spending plan parameters, of course. And the universe knows what they are.

NOVEMBER 5, 2013: EQUANIMITY

Okay. I've changed my mind. I can't be sanguine about my demise. Not on days like today.

The news from NASA, and their Kepler space telescope, is that billions of earth-size planets exist in our galaxy. A planet for every person on earth. These planets don't necessarily have the same biochemical conditions that led to life on earth. The earth has features that are amenable to life — a circular orbit, a good-sized moon, and tectonic activity that recycles the planet's carbon. With zillions of planets out there, however, the chances are good that some form of life exists elsewhere in the universe. SETI, the search for extraterrestrial intelligence, thinks we'll find earth-like worlds soon. What is their definition of "soon?" Soon as in my lifetime? NASA and SETI better get to work. I'm not leaving until we find out if somebody else is out there.

On the other hand, it may not make any difference. We must consider the distances between us and habitable planets. A light-year equal 5.8 trillion miles. Twelve light-years to the nearest possible ocean planet would compute to about 70 trillion miles. The velocity of the New Horizons probe is 35,800 mph. That speed, times 24 hours per day, times 365 days per year means (by my calculation) it would take around 225,000 years to get to the neighbors next door. By then they may not be home. They may be on vacation. They may have moved to another planet.

Then what?

A girl can change her mind. I'm changing my mind. Again. Becoming stardust myself may be the most efficient way to uncover the mysteries of life in the universe and to circumvent barriers of time and space. My equanimity is being restored.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I want to open a pizza place called Failure Pizza. We would have specials like the Power Failure, the Personal Failure, the Marriage Failure, the Nuclear Failure, etc. Employees would answer the phone, "Failure Pizza. Describe your failure."

NOVEMBER 6, 2013: INSIGNIFICANT OR NOT?

"Whatever you do may seem insignificant to you,
but it is most important that you do it." Ghandi

That's where I am, today, in this writing endeavor. Doubting. What difference does it make?

Meanwhile, my Kansas City cousin keeps sending me family photos and documents. I'm looking at a copy of my great-great-great-grandfather's will written in 1840.

"I, Christian Shelly, of Washington Township, Franklin County and State of Pennsylvania, being weak in body but of sound mind and memory do make this as my last will and testament to wit:

First, I allow that all just debts be paid by my executor as soon as can be done after my decease.

Item; I devise to my wife, Magdalena, the use of my plantation wherein I reside and also the part which lies opposite Adam Sesher's building and the improvements which are on both tracts all during her natural life;

And also one horse creature and all the cows and all my household and kitchen furniture, bedstead and bedding, stove and vessels of every description and all other articles which may be in that part of the house which I occupy — all of which my said wife is to have during her natural life."

I'm fascinated by this peek into nineteenth century life. Not because it's family history, but because it's common detail from another time and place. I try reading between the lines. I hear a man, who I'm guessing never cooked a meal or washed a dish in his life, saying, "I'm not sure why we need all these pots and pans." I hear a man saying, "While I'm alive these are my possessions." Not "our" possessions.

I've never heard of Christian Shelly before. The copy of his will arrives because my cousin saved it, packaged it, and mailed it. But when I open the package, it feels like this document time-travelled to get to me. Is Christian Shelly's spirit hovering nearby as I examine his will? Is Magdalena's spirit hovering nearby as I read her name on a 173-year-old document? Are Christian and Magdalena urging me to keep writing?

Will my record of ordinary life, early in the twenty-first century, be interesting to someone in the future? Will a great-great-great-grandchild read it and say, "I wish I'd known my great-great-great-grandmother?" Or will he or she say, "What a crazy old lady?"

For some reason, today, keeping this journal "seems insignificant" to me. Does Ghandi's imperative — "it is most important that you do it," — then apply?

NOVEMBER 8, 2013: FAMILY MENTAL ILLNESS SUPPORT GROUP

Random comments at today's meeting:

"My son's having a difficult month. My brother died. Our dog died. A staff member at a health food store recommended that my son take a certain medication and it can be deadly if taken with the wrong combination of other drugs. My son's new psychiatrist told him he shouldn't take that medication and he's listening to him."

"Our daughter's really ill. She can be violent and dangerous. We don't know what to do and we're hoping someone in this group will have a suggestion."

"I'm here because my thirty-three-year-old grandson, who has bipolar disorder, is stressing everyone in the family, especially his mother."

"This has been a really bad month. I don't know if I can talk about it without crying. My son's in Southern California and I'm glad because I'm afraid of him. He has drug and alcohol problems and I'm sure he has underlying mental illness. He's living on the street. I don't know how to help him. I can't stop thinking about it."

"I don't know if I belong here. I'm dealing with depression myself and trying to find help before it gets out of control."

NOVEMBER 9, 2013: MISSING TEETH AND TOO MUCH HAIR

Regan calls on FaceTime to show me her missing front tooth.

"Regan, where is your tooth?"
"The tooth fairy has it, Mim."
"What did the tooth fairy leave you for your tooth?"
"Four dollars and ninety-five cents."
"Wow. That's a generous tooth fairy. What are you going to buy with the money?"
"I don't know."
"Do you have a bank for your tooth fairy money?"
"No. I don't know if the money's any good."
"Why?"
"It's got gold sprinkles all over it."
"Tooth fairy gold dust?"
"Yes."
"That's very special money. Does Ayla have any loose teeth?"
"She has one that's kind of loose. She fell and knocked it loose and chipped it."
"Do you have any more loose teeth, Regan?"
"Yes, see? The front tooth next to my lost tooth is wiggling. Mommy says not to wiggle it. She's afraid I won't be able to eat anything if both of my front teeth are missing."
"You'd have to drink chocolate milkshakes all day."
"I know."
"Can I talk to Ayla for a second?"
"Okay. She's drawing with my art set."
"Hi, Ayla, What are you drawing?"
"I'm drawing a picture of you, Mim."
"A picture of me?"
"Yes, you're holding my hand. See?"
"Ayla, Mim doesn't have long hair. She has short hair. You drew her with long hair."
"I know. I don't care."
"I like your picture, Ayla. I like that we're holding hands. Remind me, Regan, to pay you the money I owe you for your school marathon."
"I walked ten laps."
"Then I owe you ten dollars. A dollar for each lap."

Oops. We're disconnected. This conversation is over. I love my iPhone and FaceTime. They're perfect for viewing missing teeth and original artwork. And for getting on-the-spot reporting from people in the know.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Went to a wonderful concert last night chock full of classic jazz standards from Porter, Gershwin, Cohen, Kern, and others. That incredible and beautiful vocalist, Ann Roach, at the helm backed by master percussionist, Michael Bayard, keyboards, Doug Matson, and stand up bass, by Rob Lemas. The tunes are all echoing through my mind today with the highlights for me being "Dance Me to the End of Love," "Let's Do it," "Luck be a Lady Tonight," "If I Only Had a Brain," and "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." "Fever" was scorching hot and an amazing encore of "What a Wonderful World." Can't believe I get to work with such incredible talent, awesome.

NOVEMBER 11, 2013: THAT'S ITALIAN

Home again. I visited my friends, Jan and Jim, in San Carlos. We went to Yoshi's on Jack London Square. We ate dinner and attended the evening show - Pasquale Esposito Rendering Italian Jazz. He gave an energetic performance, engaged with the audience and revealed a flair for comedy.

I think, in a past life, I lived in Italy. I once walked into a 400-year-old farmhouse in Montecatini and got goosebumps. It's the only time I've ever thought to myself, I've been here before. I remember this room.

In my next life, I want to live in Italy, again, and have a mad, passionate affair with an Italian singer. Not a marriage. I'm not sure Italian singers would be good at marriage. Too many luscious ladies to distract them. But a fling with one would be fine. Then I'll call Jan and tell her all about it. She's alway looking for a guy for me. Remind me to share my Match.com and It's Just Lunch stories sometime. They're not pretty.

If a good guy comes along, that will be great. If that doesn't come to pass, that's okay, too. I'm leaving it up to fate. Che sara, sara. That's archaic Italian for Que sera, sera. What will be will be. And this week I'm in one of my Italian phases. Thanks to Jan and Jim and Pasquale Esposito.

NOVEMBER 12, 2013: SNAP IT UP

I'm at Snap it Up working the cash register. Lots of customers this morning. One lady spends $196.00. "I have five children," she says. She doesn't want her receipt. "I like kitties."

Another woman, her friend, says, "She spends money like this everywhere she goes." They live out of town but I encourage them to come back. "Come back often. Come back soon."

A young woman buys three pairs of jeans for $15.00. Another considers ten etched wine glasses for $10.00. "I'm not going to buy these," she says. "I'm not. I'm not. I'm not. Please ring them up."

A ten-foot artificial houseplant goes for $10.00. Prices are low. The intent is to move merchandise. The strategy is working. Word is getting around that this is a nifty thrift store. I'm not usually a thrift store person. Thrift stores are often crowded and packed with so much stuff I can't see anything. They smell dusty, musty, old. Not this store. Merchandise is displayed with care. Clothes are steamed if wrinkled. Duplicate items are kept in the back until the first item sells. Adoptable kittens and cats swat at strings and balls in an adoption area. People see that their money is being used for a good cause.

I'm not immune. I'm buying a Christmas ornament for $2.00, a Christmas music box with dancing elves for the Grandma drawer for $4.00, and a brand new Westinghouse iron for $5.00. I'm working for free and paying for the privilege. I'm being a very good volunteer.

NOVEMBER 13, 2013: THERE'S THE RUB

An email from AARP is asking for donations to help the victims of Typhoon Haiyan in the Philippines. I click on the "Donate Today" button. I change the designated donation from $50 to $25. That's as far as I get. Will this donation provide food and water to someone who needs it? Or will it be swallowed up by bureaucratic ineptitude? Or worse, will some middle man simply fold my dollar bills and slip them into his own pocket? I'm leery.

On the other hand, I can't mail $25 to someone in the Philippines. There's no means of delivering mail. I can't ship food and water. My donation of a few cans of beans would be eaten up by shipping costs. It would end up where?

It's a conundrum.

Should I simply make the donation to AARP, close my eyes and trust that it will get to someone in need? The message says, "One hundred percent of all funds raised will go to organizations helping the victims of the typhoon."

Ah. There's the rub. The synapse where money changes hands. I'll never know how my donation is used, of course. The other option is to do nothing. The classic approach-avoidance scenario.

The AARP Foundation will match, dollar for dollar, contributions up to $500,000. I guess I'll click again on the "Donate Today" button and then click the "Submit" button to complete the transaction. Why do I have such angst over $25? Because I want the donation to help, and because it's the principle of the thing.

NOVEMBER 14, 2013: PERFECT DAY

I wake up at 8:00 a.m., make coffee, and read the paper. I water houseplants, launder a couple loads of clothes, and vacuum the house. I shower and dress, pleased with my shrinking waistline. I can tuck my top into my jeans. I can wear a belt.

I visit the new Dollar Store near the market. A neighbor's there. We chat and catch up. Her husband died earlier this year. She's doing okay. We give each other hugs.

At the grocery store, I check out tomatoes for a recipe to try for dinner. "What kind of tomatoes are best?" I ask the produce guy. His name is Scotty.

"Sometimes," he says, "tomatoes look good but then they don't have any flavor. The heirlooms are best. I promise. I don't get a commission."

At the checkout counter, I joke with Scotty, who's now working the register. "You said these tomatoes are free. Right?"

He doesn't blink. "That's what I said. They're free today."

"Really?"

"Yep. I didn't ring them up."

On my way out of the store, I scan my receipt. No tomatoes listed. What a simple little gesture that makes my day. Thanks, Scotty.

At home I make corn, zucchini, and tomato pie. The pie and the tomatoes are flavorful with the help of parmesan cheese, garlic, and salt and pepper. Soon, I'll climb into bed and read more of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. I'm learning about HeLa cells and ethical dilemmas in scientific research.

Nothing happened today. Yet, on many levels, it was perfect. A perfect sort of day.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: 10 things you didn't know about me and were afraid to ask:

I've written two books — a book of poetry and a memoir.
I was second in line for the starring role in the movie "Lucas" about a kid who plays football.
I became close friends with Nobel Prize winning poet, Joseph Brodsky, when I was in college.
I, too, have been to over 20 Grateful Dead concerts, Tanya Rosa.
Once met Bob Weir at a house party after an Oakland show.
I did a solo motorcycle trip through 29 states when I was 24.
I am a survivor of heart surgery and brain surgery.
I once lived on the island of Guam.
I got to sit with Bill King on the radio broadcast bench at a Warriors' game when I was a kid.
Used to be a teen model for Macy's, JC Penney, & Sears.

NOVEMBER 16, 2013: BATKID

The City of Gotham, a.k.a. San Francisco, is saved today by Batman and Batkid, a.k.a. Miles Scott. Miles is a five-year-old cancer patient whose wish to the Make-A-Wish Foundation was to help Batman.

At 10 a.m., a plea was broadcast on San Francisco public television. The San Francisco police chief asked for Batkid's help in apprehending the Riddler. During the course of the day, Batkid did the following:

Rode in a black Lamborghini Bat-mobile.
Locked up the Riddler.
Saved a damsel tied to cable car tracks.
Rescued the San Francisco Giant's mascot, Lou Seal, from the clutches of the Penguin.
Ran the bases in AT&T Park.
Read a message from President Obama.
Claimed a key to the city from the mayor of San Francisco.

Twelve thousand people turned out to role play and root for Batkid in his pursuit of justice and the American way. The San Francisco Chronicle published 1,000 copies of The Gotham Chronicle.

What an amazing display of communal whimsy. Long live Batkid. Long live the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Long live thousands of people, at the ready, to cheer our hero on — with heart.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Gradual Facebook withdrawal: I'm going to go get something to eat and I'm not telling you where and I'm not going to post a picture of my food.

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

COMING UP THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 2017: NOVEMBER 18, 2013 - DECEMBER 1, 2013
Walkin' the Cat * It's Criminal * Follow the Leader * November 22, 1963 * Happy Birthday, Marisa Elizabeth * Little Things * God Bless Us Everyone * Thanksgiving * Which End's Up? *Topsy-Turvy

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

HAPPY PIC

October 27, 2017 Dede Ranahan

So excited. My pregnancy test is "positive."

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!

MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan

October 26, 2017 Dede Ranahan

So happy for the readers who will discover you. Liz

I loved your diary entries today and laughed out loud several times. I also am reminded that you're a very talented writer! I guess you acquired your large vocabulary from reading. JM

Dede, I very much enjoyed the recent posts from your diary. Glad you are sharing these writings with others. Nancy

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

COMING UP THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 2017:
NOVEMBER 3, 2013 - NOVEMBER 16 , 2013: High Tech low Tech * Spending Plan * Equanimity * Insignificant or Not? * Family Mental Illness Support Group * Missing Teeth and Too Much Hair * That's Italian * Snap it Up * There's the Rub * Perfect Day * Batkid

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

HAPPY PIC

October 20, 2017 Dede Ranahan

Almost finished...

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!

A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan - OCTOBER 19, 2013 - NOVEMBER 2, 2013

October 19, 2017 Dede Ranahan

One Day * Stories Inside Stories * Fashion Shows * Distractions * Damsel Braids and Inchworms * Ode to Cleaning * Busy Day * Gravity * Animal Sanctuary * Elder Ride * Halloween * Obsession * A Calling to Write

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."

OCTOBER 19, 2013: ONE DAY

Kerry and Marisa are walking a ten-mile Nike marathon for breast cancer in San Francisco.

Megan's hiking with her family in Utah's Kolob Canyon.

Pat's working the sound system at Unity Church in Roseville.

GG's attending a tea party in her assisted living facility in Roseville.

I'm playing duplicate bridge in Lincoln.

Four kids.

One mom.

And me.

One day.

OCTOBER 20, 2013: STORIES INSIDE STORIES

I'm taking my Prius in for its 60,000-mile service. The dealership shuttle drops me off at the Galleria Mall while I wait for my car. The shuttle driver tells me to call her when I'm ready to be picked up. Sounds like a plan. The mall doesn't open until 11:00 a.m. and it's 10:30. I find an open entrance next to Pottery Barn. A woman is letting someone inside the store.

"Are you open?"

"No, but we're giving a decorating class and you're welcome to attend."

A sales associate carries a water canister filled with ice, water, and lemon slices out to the desk by the cash register. This is an item I've been thinking about for a while and here it is, right in front of me. And because I'm attending the decorating class, I get a coupon for 10% off anything I buy today. I ask the salesperson to put a water canister and its white porcelain base aside for me while I look around. I love browsing in this store. I enjoy the displays of pillows, candles, artificial flowers, and baskets. As if every home in America looks like this. It's a Norman Rockwell marketing strategy.

I scoot over to Crate and Barrel, which is right next door, to check out their water servers. They have more expensive models but they're not as nice as the one I have on hold at Pottery Barn. This is a shopper's dream. I've found a better buy and I get 10% off. The devil's leading me on. Before going back to pay for the water server, I see white dishes. I'm not looking for white dishes. I don't really need white dishes. But dishes and serving ware are two of my guilty pleasures. These dinner plates are labeled a "Best Buy." They're $5.95 each or eight for $41.95. They're oven, microwave, and dishwasher proof. They'd look perfect on my table at Christmas. To be an equal opportunity consumer, I buy the plates at Crate and Barrel and head back to Pottery Barn to purchase the water canister. This is turning into a successful shopping trip.

The dealership calls to say my car is ready. They've found some suspicious looking bubbling around the water pump seal. It should be watched.

"How much is the water pump replacement?"

"Four hundred fifty-seven dollars."

"No way."

They're not telling me I can't drive my car off the lot without repair. And a water pump isn't nearly as much fun as a water server and white dinner plates. I call the shuttle driver to tell her I'm ready to be picked up. I get a recording that says, "The shuttle will get to you in the order of your call."

I head over to Nordstrom's and sit down on a bench in the entry way between the parking lot and the store. This Nordstrom entrance is where the shuttle driver said she'd pick me up. Half an hour goes by. I call the shuttle service again and get the same recording. I leave another message. I'm in my people-watching mode. A lanky man and a lumpy woman walk through the door.

"I won't wear something like that," she says, "I'm too chunky."

I make up a back story. They're dating. They haven't slept together yet. She's trying to prepare her guy.

Three teenage girls run out the door. One shouts, "There he is. Hey, dude!"

They sprint and scramble into a car. Back Story: The "dude" is the girl's older brother who just got his driver's license. In return for getting to drive the family car, he has to drive his little sister and her friends to the mall.

A Russian family of five charge through the entry way. The mother barks something at the father. Sounds like "$%#!(***." Back story: The husband and wife are fighting over how to spend their money at the mall. She wants to buy a pressure cooker. He wants to buy boots.

A bald man and a long-haired woman enter from the outside door. She races ahead and opens the inside door to the store. "People don't have to open the door for me," she says, "I do it myself."

Back story: The woman asked the man to take out the trash this morning and he said, "Do it yourself." She's pissed.

It's two-and-a-half hours since I called the shuttle service. Something's amiss. I call the service tech. I get his cell phone and a recording. I leave a message. I'm tired of people-watching and I'm losing my sense of humor. I call an office number. A perky girl answers.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so."

I tell her my back story. She puts me on hold. Several minutes later, she comes on the line again. "We're very sorry. The shuttle driver never got your message. She'll be right there."

The shuttle arrives. The driver's apologetic. "It's my third day on the job. I'm so sorry." She apologizes all the way back to the dealership. Inside, the service technician apologizes.

All's well that ends well. I drive back to the mall to pick up my packages. At home, the water server and the white dishes look even better than they did in the stores. I usually hate shopping, but today felt spontaneous and in-the-zone. Next time I go shopping, I'll probably end up buying a new water pump.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I spent a week in my car yesterday. Accepted a ride-share gig to drive a guy to Oregon to bring his daughter to her mother as part of his custody agreement. The ride up, starting at 6 a.m., was narrated all the way by a three year old demanding food, water, hand-holding, song-singing, and frequent bathroom stops.

The way back was narrated by a guy (who had a gleam of danger in his eyes) who could not stop talking and would become emotionally agitated every time we saw a policer officer on the road. He pontificated endlessly on how much he hated cops, government, "anything related to social control."

I still hear him babbling. Didn't get home till after 9 p.m. What horrors I have to subject myself to in order to put a few bucks in my pocket. Beware of babblers who can't tolerate silence and who begin almost every thought with, "You know, a lot of people don't know this, but..."

If nothing else, the creative material is piling up. I feel a book of short stories coming on.

OCTOBER 22, 2013: FASHION SHOWS

It's been 30 years since I've been to a fashion show and, today, I'm at a fashion show put on by community volunteers. Three stores are providing the outfits. The models wear lots of palazzo pants that make everyone look shapeless. Baubles, bangles, and beads remind me of the sixties. Very Bohemian.

Ten women are sitting with me at a round table. Four are in long-term marriages. Four are long-term singles. One, who is 70-something, is newly wed. One, who is 70-something, is newly widowed. The circle of life on display in a circle of women.

The woman next to me says, "I hope the show ends soon."

Me, too. I'd like to see a few ensembles put together from the clothing at Snap it Up. At intermission, I ask the woman in charge if they've ever used outfits from a thrift store.

"We don't do that here," she says.

Another 20 minutes and this fashion show will be over and, then, I'm good for another 30 years.

OCTOBER 23, 2013: DISTRACTIONS

This morning I woke up to the sound of someone walking on my roof, the gutter cleaner guy. Talked to a plumber about the faulty garbage disposal in the house GG rents to Pat, and told him to replace it. Now I'm getting ready for the carpet cleaner. I'm moving floor lamps and small tables into the kitchen.

With all this home maintenance, my focus is on materials. I'm feeling out of touch with my spiritual side. I take deep breaths and think about how to make cleaning and repairing a meditative exercise. Especially, when it's costing me money I'd rather spend on other things.

OCTOBER 24, 2013: DAMSEL BRAIDS AND INCHWORMS

Kerry and Regan are attending a Brownie meeting to pack Thanksgiving baskets for people in need so I'm babysitting Ayla. I pull into Kerry's driveway.

"Boo!"

A pouf of red hair pops out of the shadows.

"Look at the ghosts Mommy hung in our tree. Look at the scary pictures in our window. Want to come in and see our skeleton?"

Inside, Ayla's house isn't as scary as outside. Inside, we're reading books — a Bad Kitty book and a book about a chameleon. While we read, we wear damsel crowns and braids made of corn-yellow yarn and entwined with artificial flowers.

Ayla says, "We must wear them together, Mim."

She looks much prettier in her damsel braid than I do. "It will puff your hair up, Mim, but your hair is shorter than mine so it won't puff it up too much."

We're in the backyard, in our damsel braids, looking for bugs. Right away Ayla spies a tiny inchworm. "I love bugs, Mim. When I grow up, I'm going to work with bugs."

Ayla picks up the inchworm and cradles it in her palm. "This is Bumpy. He's the same worm I found last week."

"The same one?"

"Yes, but this is the real Bumpy."

We pick leaves and grass for Bumpy and throw a couple of pieces of bark into his plastic bowl. Ayla notices a pink flower on a small bush. It looks like a miniature camellia. "Isn't it beautiful, Mim?"

Ayla drops Bumpy on the flower. He's taking a nap.

Still wearing our damsel braids, we're back in the house and using Kerry's iPad. Ayla knows the password. She finds a screen of Halloween games. She's facile. Playing games on iPads is easy — like reading books and finding bugs.

"Show me how to play the games, Ayla."

"It's simple, Mim. Watch me."

I am watching you, Ayla. Watching you is pure joy.

OCTOBER 25, 2013: ODE TO CLEANING

The whole house is torn apart
The furniture's piled high
The ceiling fans whirr overhead
The carpets have to dry.

The cat can't find her litter box
The sofas are still wet
The more I try to clean my house
The messier I get.

OCTOBER 27, 2013: BUSY DAY

My busy day:

1. I refilled two bird feeders. They've been empty for weeks. The word in the trees is, "Don't bother with that house on Periwinkle Lane. Food's good when you can get it but the management's unreliable."

2. I put the house back together from the carpet cleaning.

3. I took my evening walk early since it's getting dark sooner. I was happy to note that most of the pumpkins are still where I placed them.

4. And finally, I bought it. Something I've been thinking of buying for a long time. I'll only use this item when it's pitch black outside. I have to work up my nerve and listen to my give-a-shit self and then maybe, maybe I'll say what I've done. Stay tuned...

OCTOBER 28, 2013: GRAVITY

Went with my friend, Kaye, to see Gravity. My favorite line in the film is when Sandra Bullock's character says, "I hate space." She's having a really bad day in the universe.

I'm sore and out of shape. Kaye is older than I am and looks great. She gives me the phone number of her personal trainer, Deanne. She can show me what gym equipment to use and how to use it. Paying for a personal trainer isn't in my budget. But being out of shape isn't in my budget, either. This is preventative care.

I know I won't stick with a workout routine unless someone expects me to show up. Deanne will expect me to show up. The time's come. I'm out of excuses and gravity makes things fall. Improving my strength and flexibility is important.

OCTOBER 29, 2013: ANIMAL SANCTUARY

My friend, Grace, and I are at the Folsom Zoo Sanctuary. The emphasis is on sanctuary. The animals, about 90 of them, are rescued. They're not forced to appear if they don't feel like it. An attendant says, "They can't choose their food or where they sleep, so we let them choose where they want to be within their space."

It's overcast today and some cages seem empty. Time to stay inside perhaps?

A declawed mountain lion, rescued from a family keeping it as a pet, strides back and forth.

A raven sits alone. The attendant explains. "The other ravens were picking on her so we had to isolate her for her own protection. She's very sweet. We talk to her and spoil her."

A tiger is sleeping A sign on the cage says, "There are more tigers in captivity in the US than remain in the wild."

Peacocks and chickens roam about the grounds with us. A feral cat cage houses four residents. The information says,"An estimated 40 million feral cats live in the US. Their average life span is two years. An indoor cat can live 14 years or longer."

A bear is rooting on the ground for insects. He ignores the fruits and vegetables mounded nearby.

Two condors, a male and female, share an "apartment." Both were found injured and are retired to this compound. The male rebounded from his injuries but suffers from arthritis.

A restless coyote, Maggie, paces in circles. She's anxious. An attendant says, "She's too tame to survive in the wild. She's too wild to be in a cage."

A macaw monkey drinks from a pond. He sometimes has seizures and is on medication. The sign says, "Please alert an attendant if the monkey appears to be in distress."

I'm grateful to this sanctuary for its care of these animals. At the same time, I'm sorry many of them seem to have human-like afflictions and/or afflictions caused by humans. Our relationship with animals is such a mixed bag.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I just got home from a terrible Mexican dinner. I ordered the two- cheese enchilada plate and realized a couple bites into my first enchilada that the cheese wasn't even melted. I sent it back asked the kitchen to heat it up for me. They brought it back with a fresh, hot melted enchilada which was good but they returned the original second enchilada with unmelted clumps of cheese. I know, I know, first-world problems, but hell of an aggravation when you spend as much time as I did justifying spending money on dinner the first place.

OCTOBER 30, 2013: ELDER RIDE

Irene calls to thank me for the book on MS. "I received the package last night," she says. "I can't talk long. We have a meeting this morning with the hospice staff."

Hospice? When did Ed's brain tumor move from treatment to hospice?

"He's getting worse. We looked into a hospice facility near our daughter, but it's expensive and we've decided to use hospice assistance in our own home."

As usual, Irene sounds calm and resilient. She'll call me and give me an update when they have more hospice information. Another friend whose husband is dying. My new normal?

My cousin, Annette, calls. She's bubbly about the packages she's sending. "They'll drive Monday by UPS. Will you be home?"

"Yes, I'll be here."

Annette, my 75-year-old cousin, is putting lots of effort into gathering, organizing, and forwarding family history and heirlooms. I ask her how she is. "I was really sick in July and August with asthma but I'm better. My daughter-in-law has to have hip surgery and my son's asked me to come help."

My friends, Jan and Jim, have invited me to their home in the Bay Area in November. Jan goes to physical therapy for back and hip issues. Nevertheless, she's making plans to go to Yoshi's, a favorite jazz club in Oakland, on a Sunday night. She wants me to join her and Jim and a few of their friends.

I hate the drive from here to there but I have to go. This elder ride seems to be getting more unpredictable for everyone and we all need to stick together.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: What a morning! Met up with some regulars from the dog park and we drove up to Auburn to take the dogs to the river as a treat. My dog, Lexi, who hasn't had lot of experience off leash in the woods, took off in a mad sprint the moment I unleashed her and disappeared into the forest. Three hours of wandering around the woods calling her name, whistling, searching to no avail. Drove around the perimeter of the forest but couldn't find her. I had resigned myself to the fact that she was indeed lost and was dreading the long drive home without her when two guys showed up on the trail with Lexi on a leash. Thanks for the scare you damn dog!

OCTOBER 31, 2013: HALLOWEEN

I'm among that spooky percentage of people who don't like Halloween. I never have. Oh, sure, when I was a kid I went trick-or-treating. I hid my stash from little brother. But somehow, I never got into celebrating ghosts and goblins.

As a mother of four children, Halloween loomed like a gotcha test. Other mothers were creating clever outfits for their children. I didn't sew. I wasn't crafty. I hated the pressure I put on myself. "You must come up with original, complicated, over-the-top costumes for your kids. You can't use costumes from last year. You can't cut holes in sheets for eyes and drape them over small bodies. A black mask does't count as a costume. A witch's hat doesn't count as a costume. A pair of surgical scrubs? Absolutely not!"

As an adult, I don't enjoy costume parties. Don't ask me why. I don't know why. It's one of life's little mysteries. My best year, I made ladybug costumes for me and my husband. My worst year, I went to a costume party without any Halloween attire at all — not even an effing pumpkin necklace.

My daughters send me cute pictures of my cute grandchildren in their cute Halloween costumes. Kerry and her crew gather at an RV campground every Halloween with their friends. The campground sponsors contests for the best decorated camper and best costumes. The children trick or treat among the campers in a safe, controlled environment. My grandchildren are being gifted much better Halloweens than I gave to my children. My daughters, their mothers, get mega Halloween brownie points.

In this over-55 community, I don't get trick-or-treaters at my door. I miss them. I enjoy seeing their colorful costumes and their expectant, painted faces. I adore their squeaky little voices saying, "Trick or treat." I like to be the good guy and hand out candy bars. I don't do fruit.

To my credit, perhaps, I have a living, breathing black cat. She sits in my kitchen window every day all year long. Maybe the Halloween committee will give me one or two Halloween brownie points for her.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: The last five years I have had like zero trick or treaters. This year I moved into a new house in a nice neighborhood so I wasn't really prepared for the gangs of ghouls on my doorstep. I ran out of candy with the last bunch. Guess I'm not answering the door anymore tonight.

NOVEMBER 1, 2013: OBSESSION

I'm online reviewing recipes — some new ones sent to me by a friend and some sent in a daily email from allrecipes.com. I check my recipe box on that site. I've saved 1,599 recipes. That's 4.38 years of recipes if I were to make a different one every single day.

Not only have I saved 1,599 recipes, I've scanned at least that many more and not saved them. I've read thousands of reviews by other users. I've studied a gazillion photos that accompany the recipes. What is this? It must be some kind of addiction. Recipe insecurity? Recipe obsession?

I get dozens more recipes each week from Pinterest, more recipes than any one person could use in a lifetime. Sometimes GG says, "This recipe is very good. Will we ever get to eat it again?"

Good question. I'm always onto the next, yet-to-be discovered gem — the recipe to end all recipes.

This recipe thing, it has to be genetic. GG never cooks in her assisted living facility. She never shops, but she checks the grocery inserts in the Wednesday newspaper each week. She compares prices and looks for special offers. She doesn't pass the information on. She reads the ads and dumps them in the waste basket.

So what's that about?

I sent a recipe to my friend, Grace, a while ago. She keeps raving about it. She says, "Every time I serve it my guests love it."

I want to make it again but I can't find the bloomin' recipe anywhere — not in my online recipe box, not in my document file, not in my cookbooks. I have to ask Grace if she can send my recipe for zucchini ribbons back to me. When she does, I better print it and tape it to the inside of my pantry door. My pantry door is finite. When it can't accommodate one more recipe, that should be it. The pantry door collection will be my one and only recipe collection.

Maybe, then, GG will get something "very good" served to her more than once.

NOVEMBER 2, 2013: A CALLING TO WRITE

In her book, How the Light Gets In, Pat Schneider talks about writing as a calling. I think about Pat's words and sit here at my computer because, if I don't, I may miss something. Who knows, it could be something funny, sad or even brilliant. When I write, words appear on the page and show me things I wouldn't otherwise reflect upon.

To begin writing, Pat says to take whatever comes. Whatever image. Whatever words. Whatever first flashes into our minds. "It's a gift from the unconscious."

Each of us has a unique voice. There never was and never will be another voice like mine. Or yours. We need to find our voices and put them to work. I write so I might think and act with both mindfulness and exuberance, and to tell the stories that are mine to tell.

As I write, I recall Pat Schneider's "Blessing for a Writer," and sprinkle it on myself like holy water:

"...lost though you may be in the forest,
drop your own words on the path like pebbles
and write your way home."

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

COMING UP THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 2017:
NOVEMBER 3, 2013 -NOVEMBER 16 , 2013: High Tech low Tech * Spending Plan * Equanimity * Insignificant or Not? * Family Mental Illness Support Group * Missing Teeth and Too Much Hair * That's Italian * Snap it Up * There's the Rub * Perfect Day * Batkid

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

HAPPY PIC

October 13, 2017 Dede Ranahan

"I'm listening. I hear you."

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!