It’s all heating up again and no matter where you turn, people are getting really snippy and confrontational. Yes, I’m talking about the political arena. The 2012 elections are bearing down on us and there seems to be no escape from the constant chitter-chatter and sniping back and forth. It’s enough to make man or woman wish for a remote control to fast-forward through all the impending mayhem.

Just so we all know where I stand on this matter before I take off on this rant, allow me to state unequivocally that I am not excited about ANY – I repeat, ANY – of the choices looming before us. Nay, nay. I am downright fed-up, disappointed and ready to wash my hands of the entire mess. And what a mess it is. Yes, indeed, and not a fine mess either. No, this is a mess of epic proportions, the likes of which have not been seen since the Great Depression. A muddy, sloppy, scary, monstrous mess.

From my perch here on the mountain-top of myopic self-interest, (and don’t give me that hairy eyeball, either; like you don’t sit on the very same perch) what I see looks a lot like a recipe for certain disaster. I don’t know about you, but my mother always taught me to take responsibility when I broke something. Fess up and make it right, she always said. Frankly, I can’t remember the last time one of our illustrious politicians (who are charged with representing the people who voted them into office and with working for the common good of the people) stood his ground and said, “The buck stops here. I broke it, or helped break it, or maybe didn’t even break it, but I’m here to fix it. No more blame game, no more political spin, no more jockeying for position. I’m here to roll up my sleeves and get to work on solving this problem.”

You can’t remember the last time either, can you? Of course you can’t, because it hasn’t happened any time in recent memory. Now, let’s name a few names, just to make it interesting. President Barack–hope and change-Obama. His rallying cry has been that he inherited this economy from President George Bush. Fine, great, no problem. But almost three years later, I don’t think anyone could successfully argue that the country has experienced any hope; a lot of change, sure, but hope? Not so much. So, when does Obama plan to step up and own this economy?

Next name: former President George Bush. I made the statement once that Bush spent us into oblivion. Obviously I completely underestimated what that term actually entailed. I do believe we’re seeing it now.

Another name: Tea-Partiers – words almost fail me. Do we really need another extremist political group wreaking havoc in the middle of the most unstable political and economic arena that the majority of us have ever experienced?

Where are the men and women who are willing to go against the surging tide of Us vs. Them and find a way to cobble together viable solutions? Where are those who truly want to see this country be great again; enough so that they will put aside personal ambitions and personal gain to forge a path through the wilderness in which we now find ourselves? Can the US even produce that kind of public servant anymore? I question whether that is even a possibility.

And that, my friends, scares the living daylights out of me.

 

I've been studying my picture that is posted at the top of my blog and I believe the camera used to take that picture distorted my nose. I promise my nose is not huge like that. I wasn't truly convinced it was the camera and was becoming fearful that my nose might actually have bloomed all over my face until I read an article about photography by a friend today. I can't remember exactly what he said (and I can't refer to it because the STUPID site is down - AGAIN!) but it was something along the lines of a certain lens being necessary when photographing animals because any other kind of lens tends to make the animal's nose appear larger than it really is.

Now, I can hear you saying and that relates to this how? But, seriously, think about it. If a certain type of lens can make an animal's nose appear larger, then why would the same principle not apply to humans? Aside from that, I don't want to believe my nose really has gotten larger. Did you know that the only two appendages on our bodies that never stop growing are our noses and ears? I don't know if that's true or not, but I've heard it all my life, so that must certainly lend some credibility to it. And if it is indeed true, well, what kind of heinously cruel cosmic joke is that, anyway?

Isn't it enough that as we age our metabolism slows to a snail's pace, necessitating that our daily caloric intake drop by 85%? Not to mention the fact that the mere sight of a tasty morsel makes my butt grow by two sizes in a matter of moments. I'm also not really fond of crepe-y skin, upper arms that suddenly take on the appearance of bat wings, or gravity's effect on any part of the body that is not tied down, stretched tight or chemically altered.

As this is the second blog piece I've written in as many days about my growing horror over the aging process, one might infer that I am having some difficulty aging gracefully. One would be correct. It may have something to do with the full-length wall-to-wall mirrors in the dining room of my new house. Those mirrors mock me every time I walk past them. I try to avert my eyes and walk by quickly, but inevitably I feel the magnetic pull of my eyes to the mirror and then... BAM! It wasn't that many years ago when I was a big fan of mirrors. Not anymore. No way. Unh-unh! I think there should be some kind of magical thing where, once you pass fifty, it is physically impossible to look below your chin in a mirror. Of course, if my dream ever comes true and I wake up one morning to find 40 pounds of unsightly fat lying in a puddle beside me on the floor, I reserve the right to change my mind and step over that puddle to head straight to a mirror to ogle my new svelte body.

And remember... that's really not my nose up there.
 

Sheesh! You write a blog entry and suddenly you look up and eight days have passed. Is the world turning faster or something? I swear I was just here.

I just came from Party's blog where he was reminiscing about the Glory Days of Blogville. **sigh** I miss those days, too. He described it as the Perfect Storm - which I thought was the perfect way to describe it. It's funny how those things happen - they couldn't be manufactured if you tried. And certainly they can't be duplicated. They just happen. The other site that I've blogged on for a couple of years went through the same thing - a sudden convergence of personalities that sparkled and shone like diamonds. The words, the wit, the camaraderie - all of it a magical blend, a mystical brew that just happened. And then it was gone. Poof.

As much as we would like to recreate those moments in time, try as we might, it just doesn't happen. Maybe it's because there is no explanation for why they occur in the first place. If something can't be explained, how can it be re-created? It's an unexpected gift and I think we have to look at it that way. We weren't looking for it, because we didn't know to look for it. Suddenly we found ourselves caught up in a blur of excitement, a steady exchange of ideas, friendships that sprung from the infant stage to fully grown in a matter of months. We encouraged each other, learned, gave, received... and we all came away from the experience better in some way.

That was our gift to each other. And what a gift it was. I don't know about the rest of you (or maybe I do), but I will always be looking for that next Perfect Storm. And I'll be jumping in with both feet.
 

It's been a long, long time since I wrote here at WDC. I've been writing over at Open Salon for two years - and it's been an eventful two years. I popped in here the other day because some kind soul commented on one of my pieces and I got an email notifying me about the comment. Once I got here, I had to go looking around for old friends and it was great. Felt just like a trip back to the old home town.

I haven't been writing much lately, but it felt so good cruising around here on WDC that I renewed my membership. Maybe my muse will swing by and visit me in these familiar surroundings. I can only hope.

In the meantime, I have some catching up to do. Now where are my reading glasses? I probably should change that picture up at the top of my blog, too. I'm sure I'll get around to that sooner or later.

'Nite, John-boy!


 

This Christmas wasn't the best I've ever had, nor was it the worst. But it leaned enough toward the not-so-great side that it left me aching to call my mom and be the kid with the scraped knee who needs a band-aid and a quick hug. But, of course, I can't call my mom. February of 2010 will be the fourth anniversary of her death. She never really was much of a nurturing type, but she did have her moments. And this year, I needed one of those moments. If only.

My beautiful boy, my eldest son who is all of twenty-five and still struggling to find his way, spent Christmas in jail. He has been there since December 8, two days after he went hunting with his father and experienced one of the biggest highs of his life when he shot his first deer - an eight-point buck. It has been a long time since I've seen him that excited about anything. His dad said he spent the whole trip home calling his friends to regale them with stories of his hunting trip and his trophy, the eight-point buck. It was the high point of his year, without a doubt.

Two days later, he went to work where he was greeted by an undercover cop who was there to arrest him. He called me.

"Mom, I'm going to jail."

My heart stopped. I knew what this was all about, but we had both foolishly believed that common sense had somehow prevailed in the Texas justice system. I knew better than to think that, but hope springs eternal and all that rot. I know by this time, you're wishing I would get on with it and tell you the nuts and bolts of why he is in jail. I will indeed do just that, but first, bear with me while I give you some history.

Two-and-one-half years ago, my brilliant, beautiful son was in full self-destruct mode when he racked up two DWIs and a drug charge in two months time. Thousands of dollars and several attorneys later, he emerged with a four-month-long stint in rehab and three-years probation. Part of his probation included paying a hefty surcharge to the state for his driving privileges. The first year was rough, the second year he began making progress and over the last six months, I've seen him begin to make strides toward responsibility and maturity. He has been working full-time and has once again allowed himself to become close to us, his family.

Then, he missed a surcharge payment to the state. God forbid. Although he has made his payments faithfully for 2 1/2 years, he forgot to make his payment in November. He was pulled over on a routine traffic stop, the cop ran his license and when it came back as "invalid", she took him to jail. He called me, I bailed him out of jail and he paid off his surcharge online the next day to the tune of almost $900. His license was reinstated. He went to his probation officer, told her what had happened; she assured him there was no reason to worry. Eight days later, the court filed a motion to revoke his probation and he was arrested at work.

My husband and I hired a lawyer to represent him. The charge for driving while license invalid was dismissed, but the motion to revoke his probation was a different matter. The motion contained such atrocities as failing to maintain financial responsibility (a job) during May, June, July and August of 2008 (coincidentally, this was the 4 months he spent in court-ordered in-house rehab... hmmmm), being behind on his court-ordered community service (he has completed only 100 of the assessed 200 hours) and owing $12.00 in fees. The judge's initial response to the motion was to send him to prison for 4 years. Yep. That's right. Apparently, part of the reason our prisons in Texas are full-to-overflowing is because our judicial system stays right on top of those committing heinous crimes such as being behind on community service and failing to make <b>one</b> state-imposed monthly surcharge payment in the amount of $89.00. Yep, we're serious about controlling crime here in Texas. Sure enough.

The lawyer managed to get the judge to agree to 45 days in Harris County jail and reinstatement of his probation with an additional year tacked on. We all breathed a heavy sigh of relief that my son would not be going to prison. Oh, and the judge who wanted to send him to prison for four years? He's been in the news lately because he has a proclivity for imposing an order for the installation of an Interlock breathalyzer in the cars of those who have the misfortune to come through his court. The interesting part is that the judge conveniently owns an Interlock breathalyzer installation business, which of course is the ONE he directs them to in his order. Yes-sirree, we are tough on crime in Texas.

I've always been proud to be a Texan - until now. Something's rotten in the state of Texas.
 

It happened when she was thirteen-years-old. Just out of the blue, with no warning or building of tension or anything like that. She had just come home from school and was in her bedroom sorting through her homework, trying to decide where to start. For once, she didn’t hear the familiar drone of the television from the living room, which was odd, since it was always on. From the moment everyone got out of bed in the morning until late at night, long after she fell asleep, the soft murmur of the television underscored everything that happened in the house. She had just turned from her pile of books on the bed to go in search of her mother when she heard their voices coming from the kitchen.

She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she knew the voices belonged to her mother and father. What is he doing home now? she wondered, with no small measure of irritation. Kimberly treasured the few stress-free hours between the time she got home from school and when her dad arrived home from work, always with a six-pack or two under his arm. The fireworks always started soon after. Either that or the frozen stillness that was louder than any sonic boom ever could be.

Tossing aside the idea of leaving the safety of her room, she settled on the bed with books strewn about her. She was deep into a math equation, when her father walked into the room. A quick assessment revealed he had probably already downed a few beers, but was nowhere near the incoherent drunk he would be later in the evening.

“Hi, Dad,” she muttered, quickly focusing back on her homework, hoping to discourage further conversation. The springs on her bed screeched against his weight as he sat down near the footboard. Crap, what now? she thought, with equal parts irritation and trepidation.

“So, how was school today?”

“Fine.” Not looking up, no eye contact. Go away.

“Fine? That’s all? Jus’ fine?” Slurring his words a little. Maybe more than a few beers. Great.

“Dad, I have to do my homework, okay?” She pushed by him as she made her way to the door and took hold of the doorknob as an indication for him to leave so she could close the door. He sat there on the bed for a minute, looking defeated, head hanging down, quiet. Emotions swirled about in her heart and she was torn between giving him a hug and standing her ground. His next action made up her mind.

He swayed a little as he stood up, tried to get his balance, almost made it, then stumbled over to the doorway, where he stood, unmoving, between her and freedom. They stood like that, motionless, for what seemed like a very long time, just staring at each other, each of them separately heading toward a point of no return.

He reached out a hand to touch her – on the arm, the shoulder, the face – she didn’t know and it didn’t matter. Her decision was made. Before his hand could cross the space between them, Kimberly opened her mouth and screamed.

“DON’T TOUCH ME. DON’T EVER TOUCH ME AGAIN! JUST GET OUT, GET OUT NOW!” She put both hands on his chest and started pushing him out of her room. He reached for her, to balance himself, and she twisted away from his grasp.

Still screaming, “MOM! HELP ME! GET HIM OUT OF MY ROOM! I DON’T WANT HIM IN HERE! GET OUT, DAD, GET OUT!” He fell against the wall in the hallway, his back making a loud thud just as her mother came flying around the corner with a shocked look on her face. She looked at her dad and saw the same shock on his face as he leaned heavily against the wall. Something else, too, though. Behind the shock, beneath the affects of the beer, she saw a crushing sadness in his eyes. So much sorrow, it almost broke her. For the briefest moment, she wanted to run to him, put her arms around him and comfort him. Time slowed to a crawl as father and daughter locked eyes. In that instant, a devastating knowledge passed between them, the truth floating silently in the dead air; the truth of what had been lost to both of them, of what could have been but never would, of a loss so immeasurable as to be lethal.

Kimberly stepped back and closed the door, locked it. She stood there, listening, heard nothing. Finally, her mother’s voice. “What happened?” Then her father’s heavy footsteps trailing away down the hall. “What happened?” her mother cried after him.

“Nothing. Leave it alone.” She heard the front door slam. Then, nothing.

She waited for her mother to come to her, to ask her about what had happened, what had caused the explosion. She never came. Kimberly crawled onto her bed, curling up in the middle of it, pushing books out of her way. She pulled a pillow to her, cradled it close to her and cried. She cried for the knowledge she didn’t want to have, the murky memory of those times when she was a very small girl, the realization of the brief, scary flashes that haunted her, the ones she tried to push from her mind. But most of all, she cried for what she never had; the one thing she wanted more than anything—a daddy who would love her the way daddies are supposed to love little girls.

There weren’t enough tears that night. There never would be.
 

The years passed, time went forward and life in Kimberly’s family became a mixture of hope deferred and turmoil. Some days were better than others; some days were filled with simply survival. Kimberly and Michael learned to be as invisible as possible. It wasn’t a foolproof plan. Sometimes, the house wasn’t big enough for both of them to avoid the cloud of anger and disappointment that filled the rooms and seeped under the doors to envelope them.



Kimberly never knew which Daddy would show up at the end of the day. At times, he was the good daddy who would sit with her as she proudly showed him her schoolwork or read to him from one of her many library books. The good daddy would even play football or softball with her and Michael, and he laughed at their jokes. Those were the times when Kimberly would convince herself that this daddy was the real daddy; she could almost believe that his good heart would grow big enough and strong enough to blot out the meanness that exploded from him without warning. Eventually, though, the bad daddy walked through the door at the end of the day and all hopes were dashed. The man who walked through the door on those days was scary and angry. His presence sent Kimberly and Michael scurrying in search of a place to disappear.



Kimberly’s mother seemed to have perfected the art of disappearing. Every day she faded away a little more. Occasionally though, without any warning, the heavy clouds surrounding her would lift and she would become the mother of Kimberly’s dreams. During those times, when their mommy was happy, Kimberly and Michael were happy, too. Happy Mommy took them to the library, taught them to play Scrabble and even arranged for picnics at the beach with their cousins. But, the best part of all was Happy Mommy’s laugh. Kimberly lived for that laugh and knew that if there was just some way to make her mommy laugh like that more often, their lives would be very different. The best times in her life were when she could make her mommy laugh. Happy Mommy’s laugh could even make the cloud of anger disappear from their house for a while.



But, Happy Mommy always went away, disappearing back into the cloud of anger, fading away as unexpectedly as Happy Mommy had appeared. As Kimberly and her brother got older, their daddy got angrier and their mommy faded away more and more. By the time they were both teenagers, both Kimberly and Michael had learned it was too painful to hope that their lives would ever be any different. They took solace in knowing they had each other, like survivors of a war.



………to be continued………..

 

The little girl named Kimberly was very smart so she quickly learned all the rules of her new family. She also learned to keep all of the secrets, even from Gommy and Bert, although this made her sad. She didn’t remember very much about being happy, now. But she was so busy taking care of her brother, Michael, that she didn’t have time to think about much else. It wasn’t so hard to take care of Michael, but Kimberly wished her mommy and daddy would stop buying him toys that were dangerous. Like the chemistry set they bought him one Christmas. She spent all morning reading the warnings on the box and didn’t even get to play with her new Barbies. Then her mommy and daddy went out and the first thing Michael did was get his chemistry set out and open all the little plastic containers at one time. He lined all of them up on the coffee table and started pouring some of them together in the little plastic bowl that was for mixing.

Kimberly kept telling him to be careful, be careful; but Michael was never careful. She was in the kitchen looking for breakfast for both of them when she heard a big sneeze and then Michael started wailing. She ran to the living room and there sat Michael with a face full of powdered chemicals and powder dust all over his clothes, the table and the couch. He was crying and rubbing his eyes with powder-covered fists and he kept licking his lips and spitting. Kimberly grabbed him by the shoulders, guided him into the bathroom and splashed gallons of water all over his face until he finally wouldn’t let her keep doing it. She made him sit in a chair while she cleaned all the powder from the table and the couch and carefully put the lids back on every container. She made Michael sit beside her on the couch while she read the lid of the box, panicking every time she read something that said do not get chemicals in eyes, nose or mouth.

After a while, Michael stopped crying and wanted to go play, but she made him sit there with her because she was scared of what the chemicals might do to him. She kept asking him if his eyes hurt, if he could see, if he felt dizzy, until finally he told her to stop asking so many questions and he went to find his Mr. Magoo doll. Kimberly was sitting on the couch crying when her mommy and daddy finally came home. When she told them what happened, her mommy ran to Michael’s bedroom and her daddy started reading the box. She could have told him what it said, but she was mad at both of them, so she let him read it for himself.

A few months later, for his birthday, they bought Michael a wood-burning set. Michael was very happy. He went in to his bedroom with his new toy and made burn marks on his headboard, and his dresser. Then he started burning the plastic off his toy box. That filled the house with a terrible-smelling smoke and made Kimberly’s mommy and daddy take the new toy away from Michael and put it away. Kimberly didn’t like hearing her brother cry, but she was glad he wouldn’t have the wood-burning tool anymore.

It was about then that Kimberly knew she would never be able to go back to live with Gommy and Bert. Even if her mommy and daddy would let her, she couldn’t do it, because someone had to be there to take care of her brother. It made her sad to think about never living at the farm with Gommy and Bert again, but she tried to think about the fun she had with her brother instead of about that. She really liked having a brother, and at least they did get to see Gommy and Bert at Christmas. Maybe it will be okay, she told herself.



What Kimberly didn’t know was that everything was about to change.



…to be continued…



 

And so it was that the little girl called Kimberly found herself living a life entirely different from the one she had grown accustomed to during the first three years of her existence. Where there had been peace, there was now tension; where there had been security, there was now fear; and where there had been love, there was now anger. She wanted to go back to the farm, to her Gommy and Bert. She knew not to ask for that, though, because the child-woman kept saying to her, “Do you like living here with your new brother? Mommy and Daddy are so happy you are here with us.”

At least she did get to play with the baby boy whenever she wanted and that made her happy. Since her new mommy liked to sleep a lot, Kimberly learned quickly about taking care of her brother. After a while, she stopped wishing she could go back to Gommy and Bert, because if she did, who would take care of the baby boy? Kimberly liked to push her brother in his walker; it always made him laugh. She would push him faster and faster, screeching around the corner into the hall as he squealed louder and louder. When she reached the end of the hall, she always turned around and went back the way she had come. Even when she was tired, she didn’t quit, because when she did, the baby boy would start to cry. Then the child-woman (“I know you can say mommy, you say Gommy, that’s practically the same. Say ‘mommy’, Kimberly, say it.”) would come out of her room and ask her what she did to make the baby cry. She was smart; she knew it was her job to make the baby happy.

One day she had the idea to push her brother very fast in his walker and then let go. Her legs were tired, that was all; she didn’t know he would crash into the corner of the wall. When she ran to him, he had blood on his forehead and coming out of his mouth. She tried to pick him up, but he was too heavy for her, so she pushed him in his walker into her mommy’s room. That was the day she learned the best way to wake up her mommy. She tried shaking her and begging and pleading with her to wake up. Her mommy just kept sleeping. When Kimberly looked at the baby, he was crying even harder and now the blood was all over his face and on his fists as he banged them on the tray of the walker. She was so scared; she didn’t know what to do. She just stood beside her mommy and leaned over her to stare at her eyes, hoping she would wake up. She was thinking to herself, “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” when, suddenly, her mommy’s eyes popped open wide and she jumped like she was scared. Then her mommy heard the baby and saw the blood and she flew out of the bed. Kimberly followed her mommy into the bathroom and watched her clean the blood from the baby’s face. Her mommy kept asking her, “What did you do, what did you do?” Kimberly didn’t want to tell her that she pushed the walker and let go. Finally, the baby quit crying and her mommy stopped asking.

Later, she heard her mommy telling her daddy that she had pushed the baby into the wall. It scared her when her daddy looked mean at her, but then her mommy put her hand on his arm and said, “It was an accident.”

“Where were you?”

"Oh, I was in the other room for a minute,” her mommy said, “they were playing, weren’t you, honey?” Kimberly nodded her head. She was smart; she had already learned that secrets were very important in her new family.



…to be continued…


 

Once upon a time, there were two little girls. The first little girl was born to an overwhelmed eighteen-year-old who only thought she was ready to grow up. So the first little girl went to live with her grandparents, while her childlike mother set about trying to find the path to sure happiness for herself. The first little girl was happy. She felt loved and safe and when the child-woman came to visit her, she felt special. She liked the visits, but she was happiest when it was just the three of them – her grandparents and her.



The second little girl was born only thirteen months after the first one, to the same mother, only this time, the child-mother wasn’t just overwhelmed. This time, she was scared and confused. “What about me?” she kept asking herself. “How will I ever find my happiness with two little girls already. No one will want me. How will I ever be happy?”



So the child-mother convinced herself that she could only keep one of the little girls. She moved to another town in another state, she signed some papers and in a short time, she came back home without her second little girl. The second little girl grew up with a mother and a father and another sister in a town not so very far away. She always knew she had another mother somewhere; and she always wondered why that mother didn’t want her. She didn’t know she had another sister. Or that she had a brother, too. She only knew she felt sad because her mother didn’t want her and she couldn’t figure out why.



The child-woman married a man she thought could make her happy. She had another baby, this time, a boy. She didn’t know if she was happy or not; she just tried not to think about it too much. Finally, the boy’s father said to the child-woman, “Your little girl should live with us. Three years is long enough for her to live with her grandparents.” The child-woman just nodded her head.

When the first little girl saw the child-woman come through the door at her home, she was happy at first, because she always felt special when the child-woman came to visit her. The child-woman brought the boy’s father with her, too, and the little girl was happy to see the man she had learned to call Daddy. The child-woman was holding the baby boy. The little girl hoped she would be allowed to hold the baby like last time. She liked to pretend that he was her baby. She was so excited, she ran to the couch to sit down and held out her arms for the baby. She put on her biggest smile and waited. But something was wrong. This time wasn’t like the other times. No one was smiling and the man she called Daddy was talking to her Gommy and Bert (this was what she called her mommy and daddy, because that was what the child-woman had taught her.) Gommy was crying and Bert’s face was red. The little girl got up from the couch to hug her Gommy, but as she crossed the room, she heard the child-woman tell her, “You are going to come live with us now, Sweetie.”



The little girl was scared; her Gommy and Bert were crying and she didn’t know what to do. So, she ran to the bedroom and hid in the back of the closet, way in the back, behind the clothes where no one could find her. She tried not to cry because she didn’t want them to hear her. If they heard her, they would find her. It was hot in the closet, and dark, too; but she didn’t care. She could hear them calling her name, coming closer and closer; but she didn’t make a sound. She was quiet as a mouse.



The closet door opened and the little girl watched as Bert’s hand reached in toward her. “Come here, Doll,” he said, “everything will be alright.” The little girl reached out and placed her tiny hand in her grandfather’s big, warm hand. As she stepped out of the closet, she barely had time to notice everyone standing around in the room before he pulled her close to him in a tight bear-hug. He hugged her for so long that she started to squirm. “Bert, you’re squishing me,” she told him, and when he let her go, she saw the tears on his face as she stepped away from him.



The little girl started to cry then because she knew that Bert was wrong. Everything wasn’t going to be okay. It would never be okay again…



to be continued…