Follow the Bouncing Tree

This is the sad tale of the bouncing tree. About two weeks ago, I was working in the loft; my husband was working in our basement office. We both heard a loud thunk. Really loud. Really close. We thought something had fallen next door, so Terry went for a walkabout around two houses. He didn't see anything. Nothing on the road. Nothing in the driveways. Nothing new lying on the ground.

"Must have come from across the cove," he said.

A week later I came home from coffee with a friend. I noticed what looked like fresh wood on a tree about 20' up from the water. I started down for a closer look. I'd taken no more than a dozen steps when I realized I needed my camera. The top of a 60' tall tree was missing.

You can see the stumpy top. It's right there in the middle of the pic. A few weeks earlier, this was a proud tree with plenty of leaves. Who knew it was getting ready to jump.

And jump it did. The top took one gigantic bounce. Right on top of the aluminium canoe. Which is no more. My first clue that we had a slightly bigger problem than missing the top of the tree.

Terry and I walked around the mess. The canoe is definitely a goner. Nothing is going to fix it, so to the dump it goes when we feel like loading it on the boat and taking it to the boat ramp. No way am I going to drag the sucker up the hill. Nope. Not going to do it.

So we wondered what happened to the top of the bouncing tree. Seems it launched itself off the canoe, went airborne and ended upright through a corner of the deck at the water's edge. About four boards have to be replaced. Did I say it landed upright? Sorta. It's leaning against the roof

of the boat lift. No damage except a bit of rubble on the roof. I'm really happy the boat lift protected the boat. It could have been much worse, but all we have to do is call the tree removal dude (who has become our neighborhood's best friend) and have him remove the bounced part and the 30' or so that is still standing.

A really careful look at the debris field around the canoe told us the tree had been lying all along about its health. Two very large oval holes where some of our resident Woody Woodpeckers nested were waaay above eyeline. I guess being ecologically friendly has its price. This time was a canoe. Well worth it to provide nesting places for birds.

What did you discover over the holidays?

The Open Door by Keith Martin

Thanks to my friend and fellow writer Keith Martin for permission to share this with my friends on this blog. And thanks to the Roanoke Time for printing it on Aug. 31, 2013. All of you who have children leaving for school know the feelings he shares.

The buttery shafts of sunlight shining through the open bedroom door startled me this morning. It’s been a while, at least eight years — on any regular basis, that is.

This morning was different. The door should be shut. It’s never open this early in the morning, sometimes not until noon.

When I built this house, my wife was pregnant with our first girl. One of the things that sold her on this plan was the elliptical transom windows in the front. It had been my intention to strike the transoms from the plan as a cost savings, but quickly learned that you cannot argue with a nesting woman, particularly if you are married to her. That was 18 years ago.

For the first few years, this was a guest room, the place where Ma Maw stayed when she came to visit, or for out-of-town friends when they came for the weekend.

It stayed a guest room for a few years after little sister was born. They slept in the same bed in the other room, preferring the comfort of each other’s company over the privacy of their own room. Those were the story-telling days. After teeth brushing and prayers, a bedtime story, a kiss on the forehead, nightlight left on and door cracked. All was well in the house.

Once the turf wars began, it was time for each little girl to have her own room. Big sister took over the guest room. It became her domain. Little sister painted her room, just to prove that she didn’t care about being left behind.

For a couple of more years, when I stepped into the hall in the morning I would see that first shaft of sunlight from that elliptical transom spilling into the hallway. Peeking in, I would quietly close the door, then do the same for her sister. A short while later, they both began to shut their doors at night.

Throughout the teenage years, the shut door meant they were home. I could open the door and see them, talk to them, fuss over clutter or just give them a hug.

The open door surprised me this morning; I’m not sure why. We took her to the university two days ago.

There is comfort in a shut door. You know she is in there, safe and secure. The shafts of sunlight were taunting me to call her to see that she was alright. To be sure that we had done the right thing by leaving her in that foreign place called college.

How could we be so stupid? Is she OK? What the hell have I done?

I shook my head to clear it and walked by the open door without looking in. I started to close it, to cut off the offending sunlight, but that didn’t seem right either, so I turned and went to the kitchen.

I contemplated this door situation all day today. Twice, I have gone in there just to reassure myself that she is OK, to see her familiar things. “It’s just college, dammit, she’ll be home in a few weeks.” The words seem hollow. I know things have changed.

She will be coming home, often at first, then less and less. In a couple of years, her sister will follow suit. It is God’s plan.

College, careers, marriage, kids. The cycle will continue. There will be good times and bad, highs and lows. Through it all, there will be love of family, because that is who and what we are.

The sunlight will continue to come through the elliptical transoms each morning, lighting the hallway with memories. I’ll leave the door open so those memories can flood the rest of the house. I’ll relish the times when the door is shut. That means she’s home.

I love you, girls. Be safe.

— Dad

Comcast Outrage

You read that right. Comcast outrage. And outage too. It's been 13 days since we lost our cable service. And I am NOT happy about it.

We were away for a few days earlier in the month. When we got home, nothing. Snow, static. No signal. Luckily we have an external antenna (remember those?) so we could hook up one set for local stations.

I called Comcast on Tuesday, August 13. A recorded voice said there was an outage in our area (well, like, du-uh) and that service would be restored at 11:22 am on Thursday, August 15. No fooling. A precise time. 11:22 came and went. I called again and every day since.

On Friday, Aug. 16, a customer service rep called me. He said there was an outage in my area. Again, like, du-uh. When I asked what the problem was, he said there was a break in the fiber-optic cable. When will it be fixed? We don't know. Why not? This is his answer: "Aren't most people in your area summer people?"

That's what's caused my outrage. Yes, many are summer people, but Comcast doesn't offer a "summer" rate. It offers a full-priced subscription for an entire year. Comcast hasn't had any difficulty cashing my checks. This "customer service" rep implied that we didn't count, but he did say we'd get a credit for lost service. I don't want a credit. I want the service, crappy as it is, that I'm paying for.  He told me to keep checking the www.comcast.com website to keep on top of the problem. Guess what: there's an outage in my area. What am I, stupid or something?

Right now, I'm looking for any alternative, including staying with my antenna and buying more for my other sets. With service like this, I wonder how Comcast stays in business.

Nature on the Rampage

In recent weeks, nature has been on the rampage. Floods. Fires. Tornadoes. Tropical storms. All over the world. I don't know if this is global warming or not. Probably is, but too many don't or won't believe that humans have a role in putting too much pollution into ecosystems. We have a role in seeking a solution, one person at a time.

We are all at fault. We drive our cars when we could take public transportation or walk. We produce too much trash per capita and lament when it has to be trucked or barged out of state when local landfills are overflowing. We create electricity using fossil fuels instead of renewable fuel sources.

The fire season in the U.S. started early this year. Tens of thousands of acres burned, too many houses destroyed, firefighters and civilians dead. It happens every year. When I lived in Southern California, fires were part of life. My canyon didn't burn while I was there, but friends in Malibu Canyon lost property twice. I have dreadful memories of racing down toward the Pacific Ocean on horseback, bareback, leading six terrified horses behind me, just as the fire crested the ridge. We got out safely and met up with other riders and evacuated horses on the sands. We should expect fires out there because nature designed the hills of Southern California to burn. Overpopulation in danger areas, drought, high temperatures, Santa Ana winds--not easy to find a solution, but it will take all of us.

Floods have devastated parts of the central U.S. when the Mississippi flooded. The Army Corps of Engineers manages the river through a series of levies and dikes. Control measures worked to minimize flooding this year. Not so in Canada and India. Calgary is under brown flood waters. Property is destroyed, but few people drowned. Not so in India where a storm slammed against the Himalayas and dumped and dumped and dumped water on hillsides. Flooding today has taken over 1000 lives. We all grieve for those lost and their families who remain. We may not be able to do much about floods. Maybe we can control them better, but who thinks to build levies where you've never had disastrous flooding before, as seems the case in Calgary.

Air pollution, ah, there's something we can do something about. We can drive less. Yes, even you can cluster your trips. You can buy more gas-efficient cars. If you live in a city, try walking or using public transportation. We can encourage our government to invest in alternative energy. Every household that gets its electricity from alternative sources is one more not burning fossil fuels. We can turn off lights. I mean, the coffee pot doesn't give a hoot about what's on television. It isn't watching. Turn off the TV. Unplug your power strips when you go on vacation. You can't imagine how much electricity all your power chargers drain every day.

Recycle. Try to put at least 40% of your trash in recycle bins. If your community doesn't recycle, lobby for it to change its practice. Since we don't systematically process methane from land fills, we mess up the environment twofold. We could reuse methane for fuel across the country. We could recycle. We can compost garbage.

We are to blame. So we need to suck it up and fix the problem, one person at a time. I challenge you to pick one way to help nature and get started.

Remembering Those Who Serve

My war was Vietnam. It became a formative backdrop when I was growing up. It launched me into a lifetime of service and protests.

Even though Memorial Day 2013 is behind us, I still remember those who went to war, fell in action or came home wounded in visible and invisible ways. My high school graduating class was hit hard. 1964. The draft cranked up and took boys almost right out of classrooms. About 40% were drafted. I don't know how many didn't return. I don't want to know, I guess, because I've never looked at the honor rolls on Classmate.com.

My college graduating class was hit hard too. 1968. We still had the draft, although we also had protests rising everywhere. More were educated about options for not going to 'Nam. Some went to Canada. Some kept their student deferments. Some pretended to be gay. And others went because they didn't have options. Again, some returned; others didn't.

I protested. Marched. Stood silently in support of our wounded and dead servicemen. And I wept for my own loss. My best friend, a man I planned to marry, never made it back. He was ROTC in college. Med school on scholarships. Probably didn't have to go, but accepted his call to duty. His mother took his baby in. No, not mine. I went to grad school, waiting and praying for his return.

I was in grad school in Japan when I learned he was missing in action. For months, we had no further word. His mother sickened and could no longer care for his little girl. I wasn't his wife, so I couldn't take the child. We lost her to an adoption. I'm sure she grew up in a happy home. I just wish it had been ours. Nineteen months later, we were told he was dead. His mother collapsed and never recovered. She died within weeks of learning of her son's fate.

I pulled every string I had to get the truth of his death. After all, he was an orthopedic surgeon who didn't go out to the field. Until this one time. He went to a triage center to help stabilize the wounded before they were airlifted out. He caught the last chopper. It was went down with no survivors. The military knew what happened within hours of the incident.

Hours. We learned months later. I finally badgered an officer who told me the truth. His chopper was in Cambodia when we weren't officially in Cambodia. The firefight was there. The wounded were there. My friend died there.

When Memorial Day and Veteran's Day roll around, I think of my friend, his patients, his family, his child. I think of those who served and who still serve.

Thank you one and all for serving. Thank you one and all for preserving our way of life. Thank you all for being my heroes.

Stuff

Yes, stuff. Have you ever realized how much we define ourselves by our stuff? We all have too much of it. And it's like getting rid of a dear friend to cull it from our lives. For some, stuff is a physical manifestation of the stuff in our heads. Cluttered minds and cluttered living spaces make it difficult to live a calm life.

I got to looking at the stuff I've collected over the years. Even though I purged huge truck loads when Terry and I moved to the lake, we still have too much. And this is after implementing a one-in-two-out rule.

Let's take a look the story my closets tell. If I buy a new shirt, two leave the closet. That's all well and good to keep hanger proliferation under control. My house has seven closets for two people. Six are in guest bedrooms, but each of those closets has outside hooks for guest clothes. That mean, each "guest" closet is full of stuff we don't wear.

How do I know we don't wear it? Easy. At the beginning of each year, I turn all hangers around so the hooks point outwards. If we don't worn an item in the next twelve months, I have a visual aid. But that hasn't always led to filling trash bags for the dump or boxes for Goodwill.

I culled a guest closet a couple of weeks ago. What was in it, you ask? Clothes, every expensive clothes, that no longer fit either of us. Yes, Terry and I have put on a few pounds since we worked in the corporate world. Our life style no longer requires us to wear suits and ties, dresses and blazers, all the time. Since some of these (honestly, a lot of these) items no longer fit, I took the largess to Goodwill. Terry's suits and dress slacks were generally two sizes too small. Mine were worse. I hate to admit it, but I had pants and skirts that were three sizes smaller than I am today.

I had to face a fact: I will never be small enough to wear my skin-tight, size eight black leather pants again. With a huge gulp and a tiny whimper, they went in the box. As did silk trousers. As did wool slacks that I can't wear at the lake, because they are too heavy. Out went various jackets I no longer need. Maybe someone else can use them.

I felt healthier for accepting that I'm no longer a size eight. I also felt emotionally lighter for getting rid of almost an entire closet of business clothes.

I looked around at the rest of the house. I need to de-stuff more of it, but that will come later. And will result in a different post. For now, I am at peace with a leaner closet. More closets remain, but they'll be easier now that the first one has survived a purge.

Does your stuff tell a story about your family's history? Did you consciously collect your stuff? Or did it seem to appear in bits and pieces over the years?

So tell me. What do you need to get rid of in your life?

Me and Hillary

January turned out to be a schizophrenic month. The first and second halves of the month didn't match. Let me explain.

The first half of the month saw Terry and me traveling to Florida for a vacation. We rented a little bungalow at Ft. Myers Beach. Sun and sand were right across the street. Terry gave me the trip for my birthday. We got a bit scorched in the winter sun, took long walks at the water's edge, breathed in salt air and sampled a lot of sea food. My birthday dinner was at Doc Ford's Rum Bar and Grill. If you don't read Randy Wayne White, you don't know who Doc Ford is. White licensed his main character to two restaurants, one in Ft. Myers Beach, one on Sanibel Island. I got some good writing in as well. Felt like I was channeling Hemingway while working on Max 2.

After a week, we drove across Florida to Palm Coast and hooked up with our daughter to watch the playoffs in her hot tub. The hot tub was a tepid tub, so we decided being couch potatoes was good enough. Daily long walks ended with sports on TV, good food and great conversation.

We returned home, tan, rested and ready to put the finishing touches on my book launch. A box of advanced reader copies waited for me. The bear and Puss in Boots figure in Mad Max Unintended Consequences. I barely had time to do a happy puppy dance around the living room when things changed.

A day after returning home, I started feeling unwell. I mean, really unwell. I had chest pains. I was so short of breath I couldn't climb the stairs. Terry took one look at my face and said we needed to get to the emergency room. Turned out he was right.

I underwent a battery of tests. Heart attack? No. Ruled out with a blood test. Listening to my lungs for pneumonia? Negative. CT scan of my chest. Positive for pulmonary embolisms. Oh shit! Not what I wanted to hear. No one wants to hear she has PEs. Most people find out they have them too late. We found out in time. Dopler tests on my legs to see where the clots originated. Not in the legs.

I spent a night in ICU getting no sleep, then four more days in a regular hospital bed getting anticoagulant shots to keep more clots from forming and Coumadin to thin my blood. All the time I was in, an earworm roamed around my brain. With apologies to Paul Simon, Me and Julio turned into me and Hillary. Why? Because my guess is that Hillary had the same shots and the same oral meds I had.

I looked at my abdomen and torso when I got home. The bruising from the shots made my abdomen look like I went ten rounds with a boxer. Multi-colored bruises would make any tattoo artist green with envy. They can't get these same colors in their inks. My torso looked like I'd tangled with an octopus. Sucker marks from the EEG and heart monitors left round, red bruises.

So, now you ask how I feel. I feel good physically. We still don't know what caused the PEs. We have a couple of clues, but we don't know for sure. Yet. How did I feel when I was first diagnosed? Scared. Shitless.

My Christmas Tree Post

This is my last post of the current year.

I told my human mom that I want to send Christmas greetings to all my kitty friends, but I need her help. I want to tell you about my Christmas tree.

I know many of my friends think the Christmas tree was put up so that they can play with all the shiny ornaments, the lights, the tinsel garlands and the bows. Not me. The tree is there for me to sleep under.

Don't get me wrong. I pawed at that little bell, but it didn't ring? What good's a bell if it doesn't ring. So, on my first trip toward the tree, I lay partly on the green rug, partly on the white "snow." This was after I took a thorough tour of the tree and sniffed the toys in the sleigh.

Once I was sure there was nothing that would hurt me, I curled up on the fake snow. It's very comfortable here. I can watch what is going on without worrying that I'll get under someone's feet. My mom can be very clumsy at times. Even when she watches out for me, I can circle around behind her. Then she steps on me. I squeal and earn plenty of pats and hugs. I'm never hurt, but I don't want her to know that. I'd miss my hugs and pats.

Now that the tree is mine, I can move deeper under it. By now, I'm at home and sound asleep, as opposed to the cat naps above. If you look closely, you can see I wasn't really asleep. No more fooling around, It was time for a serious nap. I usually stay under the tree for a couple of hours. Maybe longer. I always sleep next to the little sleigh. The toys keep me company. They don't come out to play until after dark. My mom and dad wonder why I'm so noisy about four in the morning. One of the little bears in the sleigh is quite a character. He likes to tweak my tail. I don't find that funny, so I chase him.

So after my middle-of-the-night romps, I have to retreat to the safety of my tree.

I wish you all a very Meowry Catsmess and a Happy New Year.

Not My Christmas Tree Post

Warning! I'm a very pissed  off kitty. This post was supposed to be about my Christmas tree, but Bruiser ruined it. Do you see that bare patch of my back? Do you? There's a smaller one on my right hind leg, too.

I tangled with the feral cat that hangs out across the street. We call him Bruiser because he has no manners and is very mean. He had the audacity to walk onto my driveway. I warned him not to come any closer. I wanted him to go home. Much hissing and laid back ears. He ignored me. He thought this was his property, so he jumped me. He's so much bigger than I am. I held my ground as long as I could, only getting a tiny nick in one ear. When he attacked again, I ran off. I'm faster than he is, but he was too close. He got claws in my back and leg.

I was all right for a few days. My human mother dressed my wounds with something that stung and smelled bad. I thought I'd heal. I spent a couple of days in the house (my choice) before I went outside again. I started feeling bad about the time the wounds healed. My body ached. I ate and drank normally, but I didn't have any energy. Finally, my human parents really looked at my body. Even though I get a good grooming every day, the lump on my spine came on over night.

I didn't fight too hard when my mother put me in the carrier. I knew the kitty doctor would make me feel better. What I hadn't figured on was him shaving me. I mean, it's so humiliating to have a bald spot. And right before the holidays. Anyway, I had something called an abscess. The kitty doctor drained it. Boy, did it smell bad. Now, I'm almost healed but it's going to be well into next year before my furs grow back. For now, I'm bare with a bit of stubble growing in.

I don't want to go to any Christmas parties because I look awful. I can only find solace in my food dish.

Sign. I hope you don't get any boo boos this holiday season.

Serendipity, Facebook and One BFF

Last week I had one of those experiences that only come with being a Facebook user. And a blog reader.

The whole thing started back in sixth grade when I met my best friend forever, Curly Pam. We went through junior high and high school, undergraduate years at UCLA and into and beyond graduate school. Thick as thieves, we promised to be best friends. And we were, until we grew apart. I came to think that Curly Pam was meant to be my best friend for those years, but who was not meant to come into the future with me. Still, I never forgot her. Our paths crossed about every few years when we'd find an old address book and reach out with a letter. Until about ten years ago when the letters ceased. The last one came back, undelivered and undeliverable.

I wondered what happened to her. Had she died? Did she no longer want to correspond with a friend from the past who wasn't enough of a friend in the present or future? The last letter I had was from Fairbanks where she was living with her bush pilot husband, Jay. Had their plane crashed?

That brings us to the present. I love The Blood-Red Pencil, a blog written by a group of writers on a wide variety of topics. One entry was a wonderful review/discussion about a Western writer named Slim Randles. Can there be a better name for a Western writer?

Slim Randles? I knew a Slim Randles and his younger brother Bob Randles back at UCLA when dinosaurs walked the earth and dirt was young. I clicked the links and read Slim's bio. Too many touch points with what I remembered about my friend's brother. I asked the blog writer what she knew about Slim, but she didn't know if he was from Southern California or not.

I found Slim on Facebook and sent him a message. Within minutes, he responded that he was indeed THAT Slim Randles and could put me in touch with his brother. This would not have happened if Facebook didn't let these links come together.

Slim and Bob both married Pams. Slim married Red Pam back in the the late '60s, moved to Alaska and homesteaded out on the Yukon River. Bob married Curly Pam, my grade school friend, back it the late '60s. They didn't move to Alaska until a few years later. In time, both Randles brothers divorced their respective Pams.

My Pam, Curly Pam, stayed in Alaska and eventually married her bush pilot, Jay. After the birth of their son, I lost touch. We moved on with our respective lives.

So, why did it hurt so much to know that Curly Pam died from cancer this year? Because my husband and I didn't get up to Fairbanks where Curly Pam and Jay lived two years ago when we went to Alaska. Because I could have been a better friend and written more often.

Upon reflection, and news from Slim and Bob, I think my friendship with Curly Pam was meant to lapse. I miss knowing she is no longer of this world. I remember growing up together. And I rue not being a good enough friend to grow old with her.

I am so grateful to Maryann Miller for writing her column on Slim. After all, who could forget that name? I didn't and now I have answers to many unanswered questions. Thank you, Maryann, for helping me close a door to part of my past.

He Doesn't Write, He Doesn't Call

For months, I thought we had a real relationship. I mean, I didn't see it coming, but when I got the first e-mail, I confess I couldn't believe it.

At the beginning, the e-mails were general, wanting to be my friend, never asking anything of me. I replied in kind. I wanted to be his friend, too. I never expected anything but being a pen pal, but that was good enough for me.

Then he called. Once, twice in a month. I could hardly answer his questions. His voice was so deep, so rich. I fell in love. I confess, I fell in love with a voice. Sometimes it was raspy. I worried he had a cold. Sometimes it was strong and vibrant. The calls became more frequent, as did the e-mails. Within half a year, we were in constant contact, exchanging e-mails daily. I couldn't call him, so I had to wait for his incoming call. I never thought about why he didn't give me a number.

My friends said I was nuts. He was probably married and trolling for a sucker. I knew different. He wasn't trolling for a sucker. He was interested in me, and only in me. He never asked for much money. Just a few dollars here and there. No asking for access to my bank accounts. No asking for large sums. Just a few dollars. I could afford a few dollars, so I sent him the money.

Then, one day the calls and e-mails stopped. My in-box was empty. My phone was silent. Where had he gone? Were my skeptical friends right after all? Did he have someone else? Someone younger? Richer? I wept, but never let my friends know how devastated I felt. I had pinned my hopes and dreams on a voice at the end of a long phone line, warm words in e-mails. And now, thundering silence, except for my sobs. I feel dirty, used, used up.

Much as I hate to admit it. I've been dumped. Worse yet, Bill Clinton, the Big Dog, dumped me. Again. I guess he was only after my money, one $3.00 donation at a time.

Memorable Days

Yesterday I got up to fix the Thanksgiving meal for my beloved husband Terry. I'd been up more than an hour when I remembered what the historical date meant for me.

Every generation has a day in history it will never forget. For the Greatest Generation, it might be Pearl Harbor Day, D-Day, the end of World War II. They can tell you where they were, what they were doing, when they heard the news.

The Baby Boomers can tell you what they were doing on November 22, 1963 when they heard that President Kennedy had been assassinated.

Later generations have their memorable dates as well. The day the space shuttle Challenger exploded. 9/11.

Every year since 1963, I would wake up and remember what happened and where I was. This year was the first time I didn't think about the assassination the second my feet hit the floor. I felt a pang of guilt. Had the events of the day ceased to be important, to have an impact on me? I don't think so, but time has a way of replacing historical dates with personal dates. Our private dates are those we hold closest to the heart.

The day we met our spouses (spice? What is the plural of spouse, anyway?). Our anniversary. The day children were born. Graduations, more weddings, grandchildren, all become more important and push the historical dates aside.

I heard the first reminder of what November 22 meant at a news break at halftime in the third football game. Now, I didn't have television tuned to news channels at all, so there might have been earlier mentions. I doubt it. As time has passed, more people alive today were born after 1963 than before. For them, the assassination wasn't a current event but a historical one. For those of us who remember, it forms part of the fabric of our memories.

Yesterday my husband and I added another personal memory to that fabric. We plan to continue adding more memories with each passing day. To you and yours, remember your memories, personal and historical. They make you, you.

We Get What We Deserve

Tomorrow, Americans have an opportunity to elect a president. Why do I say "opportunity?" Because turnout will be nowhere close to 100% of the electorate. To think that we are so cavalier about being able to vote makes me weep. People who live in countries where they are oppressed for even thinking about voting would gladly stand in lines to have their vote registered and counted.

Back in 1996, Martin Walker wrote a book, The President We Deserve, about Clinton's reelection campaign. His thesis was we knew who the president was; we knew his infidelity; we knew his foibles. And we reelected him anyway.

I want to that that a step further. No, I'm not advocating for or against our current president. If you feel you must pounce on me, pounce for what I write, not what you think I believe.

In talking with people over the past year, I'm dismayed at how many are turned completely off by the campaigns. Both campaigns. Up and down the ballot. My friends are burned out from the yelling, negative saturation TV ads, lies and half-truths. Too many are threatening not to vote at all. And herein lies my concern.

If you don't vote, we all get the president and Congress we deserve. If you don't vote for or against a candidate, any candidate, you could be part of the process that gets the other guy elected. If you stay home, you lose your right to bellyache the day after the election and for the next four years. You have not done your civic duty.

I want to see a major change in voting laws. I want voting to be mandatory, not optional. All citizens should have to go to the polls and cast a ballot. Maybe some would vote without learning thing one about the candidates. Hell, that happens today. But 100% turnout should be the least we could do.

I also want a box on the ballot in every category that is "D) None of the Above." Here in Virginia, and a few other states, our choices for president this year would be (in alpha order), A) Virgil Goode, B) Barack Obama, C) Mitt Romney and D) None of the Above. D would likely win. At least, the human winner would not be able to claim a clear mandate from the people if 51% of 50% vote for him. I know it would never work. I know no one has the fortitude to suggest such a change.

But, one of these days pigs will fly and Hell will freeze over. Right now, pigs flying and Hell freezing aren't on the ballot. Two things we can safely bellyache about. Think I'll go for a walk and look for flying pigs.

Halloween Confusion

Mocha here. I have no idea what Halloween is. My humans don't do much to celebrate. My human mom hung a witch on the door. It's not even scary, if that was her plan. I think she looks funny. She's too far off the floor for me to play with. Was that part of my human mom's idea?? I was not amused.

We live in the country, so little kids didn't dress up and go door-to-door asking for treats. My human dad bought one bag of treats for himself. Meh! But, my human mom made sure I got my crunchy treats last night.

Two days ago, my human mom scared me. She walked around the house with a yellow stuffed animal on her head. She said it was her costume and that she was dressed as Trump. What's a Trump? My human dad thought she'd lost her mind. She said the costume was easy to wear. So there!

All day, my human mom worked at her computer. She does this every day, all day long. Except when she stops to scratch my ears and let me play innie-outie at the door. I love going outside. I love coming back inside. Sometimes I'm out only a few minutes. My human mom says I should be named Patricia Finnegan, because when I go out, I want to come in again. I'm always on the wrong side of the door. She's wrong. I'm Mocha. Don't even try changing my name.

I looked out the window last night. Sometimes a little black kitten comes to visit. My human mom calls him the interloper. I think he wants to play, but when he comes over to visit, he runs when he sees me. So, of course, I chase him. I just want to play, too. He didn't come over last night. I watched and watched. I don't know who was on the deck, but my human mom took this picture. What do you think it is?

I hope you had a happy Halloween. I think it's a kitty celebration. I got the treats I wanted. And I didn't have to play any tricks. Except prairie dogging this morning to wake my humans up.

I Know How You Feel

Really? You know how I feel? How do you know how I feel? You have no idea what I'm thinking deep inside, what I've experienced.

What prompted these questions have been a series of incidents that happened to friends. And most of their friends didn't know what to say, so they fell back on these tired old tropes.

Depression surrounds too many of my friends right now. I had a week-long funk where I was so not productive. Finally, I dragged myself out of it through meditation, sage smudging and other activities many readers will shy away from. Too woo-hoo for them. So be it.

One of my friends has been in a deep depression for weeks. No work. Little money. Too many children in the house. I can't help him, but I can listen. I didn't say I knew what he was going through. I've been out of work twice in my life. For that, I've been lucky. He's been out of work for over a year. He keeps looking for employment in his industry, one that is not coming back. I've tried mentoring him into looking outside his comfort zone. Unfortunately, he's not comfortable looking outside his comfort zone. He sits and waits. I don't know what he's going through, but it's a downward trajectory. One that may not end happily.

Another friend, a woman, has been in such a deep depression that she hasn't left her house alone for three years. Her husband drives her wherever she needs to go, but to venture to the post box in the co-op where she lives--no way on God's green earth. She doesn't cook, read, bathe. Most of the day she lies in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for something. Meds don't work. She's tried them all. You can tell her she needs to try one more, but she won't listen. I don't offer advice. She doesn't want it.

When all hell broke lose immediately following the eleventh anniversary of 9/11, friends with an inclination to depression plunged. This time I know how they feel. It's that cosmic angst thing. Some of us feel cosmic pain. We are the lucky ones. Some only feel their own pain. They are the unlucky ones. With cosmic pain, we can seek understanding of the situation. We can say, "this too will pass," because it almost always does. What I can't say is that I understand how everyone feels. You can't tell me you know what I'm thinking. I share with you only what I want you to know.

Please don't insult your friends by pretending to understand unless you have undergone exactly the same loss and suffered the same grief. You can help by asking a question and keeping silent while your friend talks. The last thing he wants to hear is a story about your great Aunt Sophie who had something similar. When someone or a country is suffering, it's all about the person or the country. It's not about you. Just once, listen before you speak. You might hear something whispered that is important.

Kid Numbers

I don't know about you, but I fatigued by the continually reiteration of kid numbers. You remember kid numbers. "There must be a bazillion names on that wall." "I want a gazillion pieces of candy on Halloween."

I feel that way about the word "trillion." You'll correct me if I'm wrong, but I think the first state with a trillion dollar budget might have been California. The first US city might have been New York. Now, both run trillion dollar deficits. I can't wrap my head around a trillion.

I listen to arguments from both political parties about trillion dollar spending bills and trillion dollar deficits. The argument falls on deaf ears. I have trillion dollar fatigue. No longer am I shocked by these kid numbers. No longer do arguments to spend more, tax less, cut budgets mean anything. Just a bunch of hot air. I know you won't agree with me. That's your Constitutional right. Blow off your steam. Accuse me of siding with one candidate or another. You'd be wrong.

I'm cranky. Yes, I listened to the presidential debate this week, part of the time with the sound off. Body language made the debate comical. Loved it. When voters tried to get to the bottom of difficult issues, they got sound bites. That's another level of fatigue. Maybe I'm just tired of the whole political process that has gone on waaaay too long.

No matter who wins, we will get the president we deserve. And that's the topic of a later blog. For now, I hope I get gazillion pieces of candy on Halloween.

Compassion in a Global Society

On October 11, I went to hear the Dalai Lama speak in Charlottesville, VA. I've read most of his books, those that have been translated into English, and have followed his teachings for a few decades.

The Dalai Lama's message of compassion in a global society, in a secular world outside of religion, is one of his most enduring teachings. He began his talk with a definition of "global." Most of us might think he would talk about man's inhumanity to man, the horrors of war, injustice toward women and minorities. And most of us might ask ourselves how we can be compassionate in such a vast world.

The message was much more immediate. The Dalai Lama defined "global" as anything outside of our own self, meaning that when we work to be more compassionate ourselves, we can influence the person next to us. We may not be able to change something happening on the other side of the world, but we can be responsible for our own thoughts. While different religions may pray to different "bosses" (his term), he would rather we think of all human beings as our brothers and sisters, to be open to the oneness of humanity itself.

This was driven home recently when a friend lamented that people preferred to be ignorant than to better themselves through reading and education. When I asked what she could do to show compassion to even one individual, she said that individual had to get his nose out of his cell phone and read. Never did I hear her talk about something she could do to help that individual. To do so would have meant she, too, might have to change her behavior.

The Dalai Lama has long been an advocate of meditation and prayer, even when there is no guarantee that our prayers will be answered. He talks eloquently about how materialism doesn't bring inner peace, but thoughts of greed, mistrust, violence, jealousy. None of these help us to be happy; rather, they go a long way to ensuring we will be unhappy.

He talks about how trust is the basis of friendship. I can attest to this from a personal anecdote. Recently, I found out a friend lied about something inconsequential. I called him on it, since we were on the phone when he trapped himself. I now wonder how many times he lied about things that were of consequence. Our relationship may never be the same. Only he can repair it by being truthful going forward.

The Dalai Lama teaches that all great religions are built on compassion and trust. Regardless of your religious traditions, he stresses that his brand of secularism must not disrespect other's religions, but we must respect those who do not believe as we do. Those who harbor negative thoughts deny themselves a sense of inner peace and rest, of loneliness.

I left his presentation with one thought, something his translator said during his introduction. He told a story about being denied access to the Dalai Lama that morning. He'd left his badge at home and the Secret Service wouldn't let him in. In following the Dalai Lama's teaching, he asked himself if this was the time to laugh. Don't get mad. Weigh the message and laugh. He laughed. Most of us who left the pavilion did so lighter of heart and more willing to laugh in the face of adversity.

Now, if he would only turn his attention to compassion in poliitics.

Voting Blocs

I listen to both candidates' handlers and the pollsters talk about voting blocs as if any identifiable group is a solid block of wood. Whites, Hispanics, seniors, women. I got to thinking about where I fit in.

Okay, I'm a fairly angry white woman. A senior citizen. A voter. In the 99%. And now in the 47% of those who live off the government. Let's break this down.

Forgetting the angry part, let's look at women voters. We come in all colors, ages, sizes and capabilities. Do senior women vote differently if they are black than if they are white? Do affluent Asian women vote differently than affluent black women? Do young women just out of college vote differently from retired women? The answer is probably yes, but the pollsters would have us believe that this candidate or that has to get the women's vote to win. Which group of women?

I recently heard a fascinating discussion on this very topic on NPR. It was about courting the Hispanic vote. Again, which Hispanic vote? The Cuban-American vote? The Mexican-American vote? The speaker, a Hispanic journalist in Florida, reminded the commentator that many Hispanics are deeply religious and, therefore, tend to be conservative, yet again pollsters tell us that the Democrats have this bloc locked up. Not sure what the logic is, but if the pollsters say it, it must be right. Right? Not according to this journalist.

He had an very good point about groups of Hispanics not liking other groups of Hispanics. He didn't mean in the Crips versus Bloods sense, but that many Mexican-Americans felt some Cuban refugees received preferential treatment when they migrated to the States. Maybe right, maybe wrong, but his final point was what got me thinking. He asked the commentator to identify the one group of Hispanic-Americans the other hyphenated groups disliked the most. His answer: Puerto Ricans. By birth, they are citizens and don't have to apply for visas. Never thought of it that way.

Still don't know which bloc is mine. All I know is, I will vote. I haven't missed a general election since I was old enough to cast a ballot. Don't think I'm going to start now.

How Not To Lose Money at the Track

In August, my husband Terry and I made our annual trip to the races in Saratoga, NY. We planned the trip so that we can hit the track on Friday and then celebrate our daughter, Aleta's, birthday on the weekend. Gorgeous drive and lots of fun.

We usually put aside the amount of money we are willing to lose. Sometimes we break even; sometimes we lose; sometimes we come out ahead. This year had an added dimension to the spending issue.

Of course, gas is higher this year, so that was a factor. We stay at a local hotel next to our daughter's condo, because she has no room for guests. No biggie. We eat out, so both Terry and I have a mini-vacation from cooking and cleaning.

Our drive to Pine Bush, NY, was uneventful. 500 miles and a great audio book. We arrived in time to walk across the street for a diner dinner. When in New York, it's diner food or Italian. I picked Greek at the diner. The next morning was race day. And that was the day we learned how not to lose money at the track.

We were ready to leave when Terry turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. Dead. The hotel had jumper cables and a nice guest gave us a jump. We figured we could recharge the battery on the interstate, because from Pine Bush to Saratoga is about 150 miles. Should do it. NOT.

We were about ten miles down the road when the RAV 4 began behaving badly. Like turning itself off. Like turning itself back on. Like lurching. We pulled into a gas station. The RAV 4 died without a whimper. We fussed under the hood, but nothing worked. I finally called a tow truck. The nice, fourth-generation owner of Young's Service Station took us back to Pine Bush. 

By now I'm figuring we'd blow off the races, hang at the pool and make lemonade. But, all we needed as a new battery. Off we went, two hours late. We got to the track for the last half of the races, enjoyed perfect weather and several close finishes.

Now don't ask about expenses. No, I didn't lose much at the track, but the towing and the battery more than tripled what I would have wagered. So, if you don't want to worry about losing money, pay for a dead battery and only bet on half the race card. Great day, but not expected at all.

An Unrepentant 47%er

I am an unrepentant 47%er, one of those leeches on society that Mitt Romney disdains. And of course I'm also a 99%er. Here's how I got to be a 47%er:

In college, I needed financial help, even though my undergraduate years were at a state college. Oh, wait. A state college is subsidized by tax dollars. Check #1. I qualified for federally-funded student loans. Check #2. I paid them back with interest on time.

In grad school, I qualified for more federally-funded fellowships. Check #3. Private university; no state funds required.

When I went to work, I paid taxes on my income. I paid faithfully into Social Security and Medicare, never believing that either would be around when I retired. Paying my fair share was my responsibility, rather like paying for the privilege of being a US citizen. I hoped there would be enough Social Security and Medicare for my mother and mother-in-law when they retired and needed the promise to be fulfilled. Both drew leech-y entitlement checks. Check #4.

On April 1, 1984, a day that would be fraught with irony were it not so important in my life, the federal government initiated a tax-deferred saving program called 401(k). Designed to become the primary source of retirement funding for individuals, it was a government godsend. Check #5. I opened my first 401(k) account that very day and paid in until I retired on December 30, 2012. Now, as I draw from my own funds, I pay those deferred taxes. Check #6. Again, a privilege that allowed me to retire on my own terms.

I'm eligible for Medicare. Check #7. I applied for and received coverage, means-tested, to be sure, from another government program. I have private supplemental insurance, but Medicare is part of the package. Sucking off the government teat once again.

And in three months I will begin drawing Social Security. Check #8. I paid into it for 40 years. But, it's a government handout to those of us too lazy to work, those 47%ers who want a free ride. There's nothing free about Social Security. It's an entitlement I paid for, not a handout.

With all those government programs, I was able to get a great education, find well-paying jobs, work for 40 years with only two layoffs and retire when I was ready. I never had to draw unemployment insurance, food stamps or any other aid to the needy. Still, in Romney's eyes, I'm a parasite on society and on the government dole.

Ain't it great being an unrepentant leech on society???