A MOTHER' DIARY by Dede Ranahan DECEMBER 1, 2013 - DECEMBER 16, 2013

November 30, 2017 Dede Ranahan

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 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."

DECEMBER 1, 2013: HIDING OUT

Pat calls. "I have your money for you."

"All of it?"

"Yes, I told the people at the church what happened and they all chipped in and gave me the money. I'll give it to you on Tuesday when you take me for my MRI."

"Stash it someplace safe in the meantime. Don't lose it again."

"I won't."

I'm putting my collection of Thanksgiving pilgrims away and gathering Christmas decorations from the garage. I'm trying to forget that I look like I've been in a knock-down, drag-out fight. Hope no one comes to the door or calls me on FaceTime. I won't answer, either way, if they do.

Good thing about The Jazz. She doesn't seem to notice or care what I look like. She purrs and cuddles with me on good days and bad.

DECEMBER 2, 2013: KEEPING ON KEEPING ON

Irene calls. "Dede, thank you for the beautiful Thanksgiving e-card. I just opened it. Am I calling at a good time to talk?"

"Yes."

"I want to let you know that Ed passed away on Thanksgiving morning. All the family were gathered in his presence. It was very peaceful and he didn't appear to suffer. It's too soon, of course, but I'm glad he didn't linger. He wouldn't have been good at lingering."

"How are you, Irene?"

"I'm okay. Both of my girls are here with me and I couldn't have made it without them. I go in for more MS treatment on the tenth. There are many decisions to be made. Ed will be cremated and his ashes will be scattered beneath his favorite oak tree on the ranch. I'll put the house on the market in the spring. Eileen wants me to come live with her in Grass Valley. I may do that for a while, but I need full-time assisted living. I'll be looking for a facility I can afford that has some residents in my age group. It's a bit overwhelming. I'll stay with Eileen for a few weeks while I sort through some of these things."

"Irene, when you're in Grass Valley, let me know. I'll drive there to see you."

"I will. How's everything with you, Dede?"

"At this moment? Everything's okay. I try to take one day at a time. Thank you for calling. And please Irene, take good care of you."

DECEMBER 3, 2013: IT'S COMPLICATED

I'm at the dermatologist's office. He looks at my swollen eyes. "Your eyes are much worse than the last time I saw you. I'm stumped. This problem is more of an internal medicine problem. You should see the allergy doctor."

I'm with the allergy doctor. He's showing me photos of people with swollen eyes on his computer. "We have to figure out if this is an outside-in problem or an inside-out problem. I'm ordering some blood tests to determine your thyroid function. Orbital edema is one of the least understood diseases on the planet."

I have a disease?

"Whatever explanation you offer for your swollen eyes, I guarantee that the theory's already been studied and found lacking. If you want to get a Ph.D. in this illness, medicine will thank you. This occurrence is idiopathic, or of an unknown cause. Meanwhile, another option is to start a course of prednisone. It will be hard on your bones, but if I were in your shoes, I'd opt for the prednisone. You are, medically speaking, becoming a complicated lady."

Hmm? Usually, I think "complicated" sounds interesting. Not this time.

Home again. I'm discouraged. I look like some kind of freak with huge, swollen eyes and enormous bags of fluid hanging down my cheeks. Have to keep this in perspective. I'm sure most folks would think mine is a minor problem, compared to MS or to dying.

Santa, all I want for Christmas are two normal looking eyes.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I know I should take it as a compliment, but getting carded at the bar when you're ordering a beer and you're well into your forty-fifth year is getting a little tiresome.

DECEMBER 4, 2013: IT'S IDIOPATHIC

I'm picking Pat up to drive him to Kaiser for his six-month MRI. I try not to think about why we're doing this. It's to check if his brain tumor is returning. I wonder what he's feeling when he goes through the procedure. Fear? Worry? Like a time bomb's about to go off in his head? When he gets in the car, he takes out a wad of dollar bills.

"Here's your money."

"One hundred eighty dollars?"

"Yes."

"All from your friends at church?"

"Yes."

I never cease to be surprised by this son of mine. And by people in his church.

Home again. I'm taking prednisone, Benadryl, and non-aspirin acetaminophen, trying to fix my itchy eyes. I email the allergy doctor. "Anything else I can do for this itching?"

He emails back. "Wash your eyelids twice a day with warm water and no tears baby shampoo to remove any irritants. All the blood tests are coming back normal. As we discussed, it's idiopathic angioedema, or no known cause."

I have to remember this word. Next time I have to explain why something's happening that I don't understand, I'll say, "It's idiopathic. It's occurring spontaneously. I don't know why."

I don't have to know why. It's a foolproof answer for whatever you need a foolproof answer for. It covers all the bases and gets you off the hook.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Tried very hard to hear the music in the industrial noise of an MRI of the head, but there's no music to be found there, it's just horrible noise.

DECEMBER 5, 2013: NELSON MANDELA

Nelson Mandela is dead at 95. One commentator says, "Some leaders are respected. Some are loved. Mandela was both loved and respected around the world."

How long does the influence of a world leader last? Will South Africa remember Mandela's example? Already there's talk that the integrity he modeled is coming undone. Scandal, greed, and political corruption are reported in his homeland. Is it inevitable that we regress when an icon no longer stands before us?

Mandela thought for himself. He was pragmatic. Nonviolent resistance was not an inviolate principle for him. When nonviolent resistance didn't appear to be working he promulgated a course of limited violence. "There is no moral goodness in using an ineffective weapon," he wrote in his autobiography. Yet, when the burden of decision-making was upon him, Mandela often used other tools in his toolbox. He chose forgiveness and reconciliation.

Mandela honed his ideas and his values during 27 years in prison with lots of time to think. A convergence of time, circumstance, and character gave his life historic meaning. He didn't nudge the world. He shoved it.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Glad I had the chance to hear him speak in Oakland. R.I.P. Nelson Mandela.

DECEMBER 6, 2013: ABUNDANCE AND HUNGER

I'm stocking up on staples at the local discount grocery outlet — getting ready for Christmas week and the marathon of holiday meals. I'm culling my recipes and making selections.

I'm at the check out register. My total is $168.83. For this amount, I get black beans, white beans, garbanzo beans, kidney beans, bread, soups, canned tomatoes, assorted shredded cheeses, tuna, evaporated milk, olives, cottage cheese, peanut butter, pasta, Tabasco sauce, Worcestershire sauce, cereal, walnuts, almonds, lemon juice, sour cream, sausage, sugar, flour, baking soda, Canadian bacon, and cat food. The list doesn't include perishable fruits and vegetables which I'll go back for next week.

I'm heaving eight heavy bags from my car to my kitchen. By the time everything is put away, this will have been a half-day's undertaking.

Pat sends an email:

"Hi, I signed a petition to the United States House of Representatives, The United States Senate, and President Barack Obama, which says: 'We demand that Congress cease playing political hunger games that hurt vulnerable families, children, and local communities. Vote against any cuts to the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program - Food Stamps. Will you sign this petition? Click here. Thanks.'" Pat

I sign the petition.

It's 10 p.m. and I'm in bed for the night. It's 37 degrees outside and a heavy rain is falling. I hear it thudding onto the bark in my backyard. I pull up the red blanket I throw on top of my quilt. I'm warm and toasty under the covers.

I give thanks for this comfort. As I rest my head on my pillow, I close my eyes and imagine looking through the plaster ceiling, through the cement tiles on the roof, through the cloud cover, and into the dark, endless expanse of the universe. I breathe in and out. I'm one with what is. I fall asleep.

At 2:30 a.m., I'm wide awake. Prednisone is reducing the swelling in my eyes, but it's revving me up and interrupting my sleep. Canadian geese are flying over. They're squawking back and forth. Where are they flying in the dark, in the rain? Are they looking for shelter? Are they looking for food?

I remember the staples in my cupboards. I consider abundance and hunger. I don't go back to sleep.

Photo credit: ilze Longflickr — Photo credit: ilze Long
flickr

DECEMBER 7, 2013: SNOW

I was supposed to play bridge in an all-day regional tournament today. A new bridge partner has to cancel. Her daughter has bipolar disorder and lives at home. Her daughter's going through a rough patch. She's talking about not wanting to live.

"We can't leave her alone."

This friend comes to the family mental illness support group. Our December meeting will be next Friday. I'll send out a reminder and ask for an RSVP. With the holidays, people may be too busy or out of town. Or, with the holidays, there may be greater need to convene and support each other. Holidays can increase stress, push buttons, pull triggers.

It's still raining. Oh, my gosh, it's snowing. The black bark in my yard is turning white. I'm cocooning. I'm turning on the Christmas tree lights, lighting candles, and heating the oven — getting ready to bake banana bread to put in the freezer.

I'll call my friend, later, to see how her family is doing. Maybe the falling snow will provide a quiet distraction — a meditation on things bigger than ourselves.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: First sign of the apocalypse: local grocery store discontinues Heinz 57 steak sauce.
Found a flash drive in my winter coat pocket that I was certain I had lost in a public computer room. It contained some very private data so glad I found it.
It's actually snowing here. Rare.

DECEMBER 9, 2013: SHOWING UP

I'm sitting here staring at the computer screen as if something wondrous is about to crash through the glass. A brilliant thought? A novel idea? A 3D-living-technicolor manifestation of my awesome mind at work?

Writing pundits say, "You have to show up." Show up or you might miss the moment an inspiration bursts into view. Right over your head. Like a cloud with a candle in it or something.

So here I am. Waiting. Watching, Wondering. Thinking about that box of dark chocolate marshmallow Santa Clauses stored in the garage. I bought the candy to be Christmas after-dinner treats, but they've been delivered too soon. There were 18 in the box and they're disappearing one at a time. There are nine left. I need twelve. I'm short three. What to do?

I could order more but I bought them on sale and now I'd have to pay full price. And the timing would still be off. They need to arrive right in time for dessert on Christmas Day. Not a moment too soon.

I could have them delivered to a friend's house. I'd ask her to bring them over with an invitation to join us for dessert. This plan has defects though. Which of my friends is trustworthy enough? Which doesn't like dark chocolate covered marshmallow? Which has nerves of steel and oodles of willpower?

None of them. We're all wimps.

There's another plan coming into focus. Plan B. I could skip the dark chocolate marshmallow Santa Clauses altogether. It's not like I've announced them already. I could serve peppermint ice cream with chocolate sprinkles and who the heck would know? And since nobody would know, nobody would be disappointed.

I wouldn't have to bother a friend to store the Santas and deliver them. I wouldn't have to worry about the timing thing. There'd be no reason not to go into the garage right now and take one Santa out of the box. The more I think about it, the more I'm liking this Plan B. It makes a lot of sense.

The writing pundits are right. I'm glad I plopped myself down in this desk chair, glad I sat waiting in silence, glad I didn't let a blank computer screen scare the you-know-what out of me. If I hadn't shown up at my computer today, I'd have missed this inspiration, altogether.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: You have reached the end of the internet. Turn around and go back.

DECEMBER 10, 2013: THE THRIFT STORE

I'm at Snap it Up for my Tuesday morning shift. People come in the door one and two at a time. It's a steady stream this morning. The first customer says, "I'm buying these clothes for my sister. She and her long-time boyfriend broke up. She's wearing his clothes and he's wearing hers."

"Can she go to his house and pick up her clothes?"

"No, it's a volatile situation. I'm trying to stay out of it, but she needs some winter clothes. She's wearing summer stuff."

Another woman's found three strange looking red cords. I don't know what they're for but she does. "They're Christmas lights. Please plug them in and make sure they work. I've lost my job and I have to be careful spending for Christmas."

All lights light up. Three light sets sold, fifty cents each.

I show a small, petite lady the dressing room. She's holding a brand new pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. I think they look a little big for her. She better try them on.

A woman with a walker hands me a denim jacket, a headset, two Christmas wine glasses, a lavender and peach scarf, and a green bracelet. "I'd like to see that lavender beaded bracelet in the counter, too."

The bracelet's three dollars. She clasps the bracelet on her wrist. "I really like it. I better not. I have to make the check I got today last the rest of the month."

I tell her maybe her luck will hold and the bracelet will still be here next month. Damn. Wish I'd t thought to offer it to her for half-off.

A young girl asks, "Do you have any ugly Christmas sweaters? My brother needs one for a work Christmas party." We search both the men's and women's racks. No ugly Christmas sweaters.

"Let me look in the back and see what's come in." I find three ugly Christmas sweaters — all large women's cardigans. The girl's eyes get big.

"Let me go get my sister-in-law."

A few minutes later the sister-in-law flies in the door. "Can I see those sweaters? It doesn't matter that they're women's." She's giddy to have three sweaters to choose from. She picks a tan sweater with a green Christmas tree on the front and a brown moose on the back.

"My husband will be so excited to have this sweater for his party."

Another happy customer. I love this job.

A new woman says, "I'd like to look at that Christmas creche in the cabinet."

I pull out a boxed set with 15 pieces - Mary, Jesus, Joseph, the wise men. The whole enchilada. The box is worn but it looks like Mary and Joseph and crew have never been out of it. The woman inspects the plastic pieces for chips.

"I'd hate to buy this creche for my daughter and then get stuck with it if she doesn't like it. I'll re-donate it if that happens, but she keeps telling me she really wants one."

Sold for eight dollars.

Three Hispanic women pile a mountain of clothes on the counter. Most items are one dollar or uno. A few are two dollars or dos. That's our bilingual exchange. I smile. They smile. Everyone's laughing.

An Asian man comes in the shop, inspects some items on the Christmas decor table, and leaves.

The woman with the jeans comes out of the dressing room. The Gloria Vanderbilt jeans are too big but another pair is perfect. I put the Vanderbilt jeans to the side and ring up her purchase. Those are really nice jeans she didn't buy. They're size eight. Hmm? When was the last time I wore a size eight? Do I dare try on these jeans when I'm through for the day?

The Asian man comes back. He buys two Christmas ornaments. One for fifty cents and one for ten cents, plus tax. He gives me the exact change.

Last sale of the day — a two-dollar Christmas ornament. I hope it's for an ugly Christmas ornament exchange. I don't say that.

I'm in the dressing room with Gloria Vanderbilt. I look in the mirror. I turn around. I look again. I'm so excited I have to tell someone. I tell the manager. "Jennifer, the jeans fit."

Sold for five dollars. And throw in a Christmas scarf for The Jazz.

What a great store. It raises funds for FieldHaven. It gives exceptional value to the community. To me, it feels like home and a breath of fresh air.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Just love the feeling of creeping along in a parking lot, looking to the right at the empty spot you're about to pull into, when you hear the crunch of a collision from a pickup truck backing into you. Which is to say that I don't really like the feeling at all.

DECEMBER 11, 2013: GIVE THIS MAN A CHANCE

The December surprise arrives. Actually, it's not a surprise. The surprise would have been if there were no surprise. Pat was in an auto accident yesterday.

"Mom, it's a fender bender. It happened in a parking lot."

He's called the insurance company. He's taking the car into a collision center for an estimate. "The other guy says we're both at fault. I might have a thousand-dollar deductible."

Lord. Who might have a thousand-dollar deductible? I'll be the one who has the deductible.

Pat says, "It's bad timing. I have a job interview in Davis tomorrow. I can't drive my car that far with the driver's side rear view mirror torn off."

"Okay. Drive my car to the job interview."

Pat arrives to pick up my car. He's printing forms for the DMV that the insurance company told him to fill out. They think it was the other guy's fault. Pat says his policy doesn't include rental car coverage while his car is being repaired.

"Let me know what the insurance company decides and how the job interview goes."

Pat looks handsome in his tan jacket, white shirt, and polished black shoes. My son's trying hard to get his life on track. I gaze at him in awe. He never gives up. This man, this son of mine, deserves a chance.

DECEMBER 12, 2013: BACK TO SQUARE ONE

Pat Calls. "I didn't get the job."

That was fast. "What did they say?"

"They had fifty-six applicants for five positions."

"Well, it would have been a long commute."

"I know, but I would have driven it."

"What about your car?"

"The other insurance company is saying that we're both at fault. USAA is saying it's the other guy's fault. They may have to get a third party mediator."

"Okay. Let me know when they make a decision."

"Okay. Bye, Mom."

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: My dog's defecation clock somehow got set to three a.m. this week. Guess it's good practice if I ever have a child.

DECEMBER 13, 2013: HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT

There are 13 people at the mental illness support group meeting today. One new person shares her story — long-standing and difficult. She's trying to get better services for her son. He hears voices. He says, "The voices are telling me I need to help them blow up the world or I need to kill myself."

The woman's been unable to get an appointment for her son to see a psychiatrist. She's trying to get assistance from someone in a state senator's office. She's also collecting gloves, hats, and coats for the homeless. Her son stays in a grungy downtown hotel and she's concerned for those who don't have an inside place to stay in the 20-degree weather we're having.

"Is your son still talking about killing himself?"

"He says, 'Mom, I'm handling it. I told the voices I'd help them blow up the world. I called their bluff. They've quieted down.'"

A marriage and family therapist joins the group for the first time. "I've worked with clients who have mental illness and I've worked with many families. I came today thinking maybe I could answer some questions or make some suggestions. I'm aware that everything said in this room is confidential. If I meet you the neighborhood, I won't acknowledge you unless you want me to."

An elderly couple sits close to one another. She looks frail. He's been here before by himself. "I brought her today so she can listen and I'm here to support her."

I ask, "Do you want to talk about anything?"

"No, we're observing."

We sit at a u-shaped table in a grocery store that lets us use a conference room once a month. Shoppers walk by the closed, folding plastic doors. They can see us but they can't hear us. Mental illness doesn't exist in this country. We hide it in plain sight.

DECEMBER 15, 2013: CHRISTMAS GIFTS

I've ordered Frozen dolls, Anna and Else, for Regan and Ayla. Have calls into Megan and Marisa to see if there's something I can send for Aidan and Ashton and Sam and Elise or if cash in a card is in anyway exciting.

"How much do you want to spend?"

I hate this question. It touches on issues behind issues behind issues. It verges into psychology, financial literacy, and emotional conditioning. It's one of the fundamental questions about aging on a fixed income. How do I make sure I don't run out of money too soon? How do I weigh living now versus living later? How do I discern when to splurge and when to save?

I'm on the phone with Marisa. We're online for hours, trying to find a pair of pink, fluffy slippers for Elise. Who would think that pink, fluffy slippers would be difficult to find? Finally, we find slippers. They're not pink. They're not fluffy. They're brown with chocolate dots on them. Elise says, "They're good."

Sam wants a Golden State Warriors beanie. That search takes a couple of minutes. The slippers and the beanie are both available on Amazon. Shipping times are good for Christmas delivery. Christmas gifts for two sets of grandkids down. One set to go. I'm waiting for a call back from Megan.

DECEMBER 16, 2013: FROM MY NOW TO YOUR NOW

Megan's on the phone. Aidan and Ashton need rubber bands for their Rainbow Looms. So, I'm sending money gifts to buy rubber bands and whatever else they want.

My cousin, Annette, calls from Kansas City. Her son, Danny, recently met a man from Wayne County, Pennsylvania. The man says, "The county's crawling with Funks." Funk is my mother's family name. Danny's trying to get more information about possible, current-day relatives.

Annette and I discuss a photo of an 1890s farmhouse. She and I both have copies. An unknown relative wrote on the back of the photo, "This is grandmother's house. On the porch is one brother, and on the lawn is another brother, and another brother is to the left."

A reminder to give more specific information.

This evening, as I slip under the covers, I'm thinking about my descendants. I want you to know dear children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren, that I'm thinking of you. I hope this journal will give you a picture of life in the distant past - in the years 2013-2014.

My "rainbow loom" uses words. With words, I'm trying to weave a big, warm hug that will wrap around you in the future.

HERE'S A BIG HUG FROM MY NOW TO YOUR NOW.

Love, Mom, Mim, Great-Grandma, Great-Great-Grandma.
Love, Dede

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

COMING UP THURSDAY, DECEMBER 14, 2017: WINTER 2013-2014

I prefer winter and fall,
when you feel the bone structure
of the landscape. Something waits
beneath it; the whole story doesn't show.
Andrew Wyeth

TONY'S FINGER by PATRICK RANAHAN

December 18, 2013 - December 25, 2013: On the Back Burner * Plans and Priorities * In the Moment * How the Light Gets In * Christmas Eve * A Christmas Card

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 24, 2017 Dede Ranahan

Johnathan Livingston Seagull

"You don't love hatred and evil, of course. You have to practice and see the real gull, the good in every one of them, and to help them see it in themselves. That's what I mean by love.”
Richard Bach

Hope you have a good weekend everybody!

MORE FEEDBACK FOR A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan

November 23, 2017 Dede Ranahan

Your diary's never boring. Love it. I'll cry if it ever ends!! GM

omg, you're breaking my heart already in the first "trenches" post! guess we are in the same club...will keep reading Randye

I’ve really been enjoying your diary. Nice to get to know you! Judy

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

dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

HAPPY PIC

November 17, 2017 Dede Ranahan

Hope you have a Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

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.

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!