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Just shooting the poop with Lori |
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He travels the world on the backs of others Insignificant in his stature and size His journey carries no mission Randomly roaming at the will of his host Sated enough to never question his trek Life is an open adventure without worry If the excitement of his dusty trail dulls Another bus awaits to grant passage With a furry friend to carry him home Ah the wonderful life of a flea |
| Helping my son all weekend work on his Eagle Scout project. He is painting 72 concrete barriers for a community tractor pull arena. Every muscle in my body is screaming out in pain. My son is sunburned and muscle sore like he has never been before. He is nearing the end and I am very proud of him. It is quite the accomplishment. |
| The What If’s My mind was swirling, as if in the midst of a dream, while I sat on my wooden thirsty- for-paint deck. Temperatures were soaring high in the mid-September sun causing beads of perspiration to trickle down the back of my neck. A frosty mug of sweet tea and two lovable pooches were my companions. Somewhere in the distance a familiar melody drifted through the air, almost seeming to float in the light breeze of the day. Without knowing why, I started to hum the tune. Recognition of the tune came suddenly and it invaded my heart, as it always had. Today, as my lips formed the shape of words in their automatic march of the beloved lyrics, the song held special meaning. The song was God Bless America and today was September 11, 2019. Here, in the simple pleasures of my life, I allowed the music and dream-like ambience of my mood to carry me back through time. I remembered. The first thoughts were of personal nature. I pictured my children, now fully grown, as the small babes that they were on that day and my husband, young and strong without the gray hair that graces his head now. I remember exactly where I was, who I was with, and what I was doing. Like a little micro-chip was stored in my brain, I can feel the turmoil, the fear, the helplessness, the hopelessness, and the overwhelming sense of loss. Even this many years later, the experience is real and it is harrowing. I am bombarded with images of planes, falling towers, falling people, and infernos. The stench of pungent smoke and burning ash wafts across my deck as my mind replays the war-like scenes witnessed on the television over and over again. I am just a bit-part player, an inconsequential bystander, to the horrific visions before me. The ache stabs me like a knife, though I was nowhere near the towers and my feet were firmly planted on the ground free from planes. Even in my trance, I am nauseated by the sights unfolding. I woke from the dream, not knowing how much time had passed. My heart was racing and my face was covered in the wetness of tears. It was sobering moment spent in my lawn chair after waking. My story is not unique as across this country millions of people are paying a silent tribute for all of the lives lost . After calming myself, I visited the what-if’s category of life. What if we had never experienced the trauma of September eleventh? Pictures of the faces of the people that died that day flash through my mind. I imagine all of the contributions they may have made to our country had they lived. For a moment thoughts of worry creep through my mind, that maybe one of the souls lost that day was meant to give birth to the child that would one day save our planet from destruction. It hurts to know how many gifts of talent and potential were lost within mere seconds of hatred. It is a mind-numbing process of what might have been and an effort in futility. I make note of how many ways our country has changed. Intense security on planes, new for the older generations, has now become standard practice for the kids of this generation. Rise was given to the scrutiny of nations and nationalities blamed for our pain. We rallied in our patriotism for a short time with our hands firmly clenched at our chest. We sought answers and we taught respect of one another. So I wonder, on this day that we memorialize a bloody day in history, how almost twenty years later our differences are so great. What if it hadn’t happened? Would our divisions be so varied and longstanding? Would we speak with one voice and raise each other up for the contributions each side brings to the table? The aftermath or outcomes of any historical event will be studied and explored for decades by greater minds than mine. It is my hope that our unity blossoms once again Strength and hope can rise from the ashes of our remembrances if we vow to never to allow another day such as this to happen. The reality is that all of the Americans born before 2001 carry with them a form of post traumatic stress disorder. No one more than the people at ground zero, the families of the people lost, or the strident rescuers on the scene can recall the pain of that day more emphatically. It is ingrained into the persons that they are today and sadly it is a part of their soul. Reflections of 911 appear in the recesses of our minds in unexpected places. Cryptic thoughts are triggered from unlikely sources permitting the sadness to overtake us. I lift myself up from the chair, moving toward the house still feeling the weight of an explicit dream in my heart. . It is the realization striking me, that my what-if tale impacts the masses in ways, we have yet to understand. It is the knowledge that I am powerless to turn what-if’s into reality that saddens me. It is a feeling that our lessons learned from 911 come to surface on only one particular day of remembrance each year that frightens me. |
| I was in the third day of my clinical psyche rotation for nursing school. Our assignment was to talk to the patients about the events leading up to their hospitalization or just things that were going on in their lives that were making it hard to function. We were all gathered in the lounge, playing games and chatting in small groups. There were 3 wanna-be nurses and about 15 patients. There was only one actual hospital employee watching over all of us at the time. One very large television was playing in background, to serve as a distraction during lulls in the conversations. The first lesson of nursing school was that you couldn't force a patient to talk. You could only offer questions or options that made them want to engage. The variety of patients served was vast, ranging from alcoholics that had fallen off the wagon,drug users unable to control their habits, schizophrenics with mania induced delusions, and people with depression and suicidal thoughts in need of monitoring. . The television flickered back and forth in the background between several news stations. The sound had been turned down low. We were watching the aftermath of the plane hitting the first tower as a backdrop to our conversations. No one was focused on the events playing out until the second plane hit. Everyone in the room, rose to their feet, almost in a mechanical fashion, screaming at the television as if it would somehow undo what we'd witnessed. Within seconds the volume was increased on the television and the newscaster relayed news of the events that were occurring. Suddenly, and without warning the room turned into a chaotic center of emotion. Problems once faced by the individual turned to rage for the nation. There were a few patients that cheered as they replayed the plane crash and others that began throwing things at the television in anger. I will never forget the fear I felt, first for my own safety in that moment and then for our country and all that we had lost. We turned off the television and eventually restored calm to the room. There were so many tears and hugs. Our instructor pulled us out of the room during a break and told us to call our families. We were not allowed to leave our clinical commitment because they needed us there. It was the first day that my conflict as a mother and as a nurse reared it's head.I live near an Air-Force Base and my kids attended school in a military community. My oldest son was six and in kindergarten My daughter was in day care nearby and only three years old. When I called to check on them I was told that they needed to be picked up immediately because all of the nearby military kids were being picked up because the base was going on lock-down.I was frantic when I called my husband not knowing how to get to the kids. He was able to leave work to pick them up. He talks about seeing the buses pick up the kids going back to base with armed guards on board. He talks about having to explain to our son that they weren't allowed to take the backpacks with them and that all of his favorite things would be safe at school. It broke his heart to see our son waving goodbye through tears to his friends boarding the buses. None of the children understood the fear and sadness in the faces of the adults that surrounded them. And none of the adults understood the devastation taking place at that time, only later did it become a sad historical page of our history. When I finally got home, I hugged my kids so tight. I wanted only for the ugliness of the day to rubbed away by their goodness. Days later when the kids returned to school and Americans loved each other and our flags were embraced we took a picture of the kids by the fence of the school. The children of the school had made a makeshift flag from painted solo cups glued to the webbing of the fence. I cried once again, but for many reasons. While a nation busied itself with the task of mourning, there were many people lifting us up in unity and strength. |
| WE REMEMBER Where were you when the sky turned to ash? Where were you when the towers crumbled? Did you cry at the site of our nation in pain? Did your heart break as the multitude searched for loved ones? Were you there when so many gave their all? Were you there to see the helmets buried in the rubble? Did you see the American flag flying in the haze? Were you there when the faces worn and weary sought safety? Were you there when strangers became comrades? Where were you when the American spirit soared? Where were you when our nation came together in fear? Where were you when we cried for all that we lost so dear? Did you pray for all the souls lost at the Pentagon? Did you feel great pride for the ones who stormed the plane? Did you see the firemen and police run toward the danger? Were you there to witness the rescue of so many? Were you there to catch the images of the people in the stairwell? Were you there to watch one person help another? Were you there when our servicemen willingly took their post? Were you glued to the television in hopes of seeing the good come from the bad? Did you see the boats filled with people in the New York harbor? Did you see the citizen’s rise up to mourn and honor the people lost? After 9/11 did you hug your children tighter? Did you ask God to never see another day such as this? Were you thankful for a President so strong? Did your sadness turn to anger at the evil cowardice of this act? Did you remember what it is to love America? Where were you when the sky turned to ash? Where were you when the towers crumbled? |
| It's a rainy Sunday morning here in my home town. In my infinite wisdom and with the help of a very loud spouse, I woke up at six a.m. It is now eight and I am still cursing under my breath that I could of, should have, and would have slept in this morning but for the circumstances of my life. I keep grumbling at the dog who is nosing me continuously, for I cannot seem to wake up and be friendly soul. I keep hearing the beast barking outside of my window while I was safe and cozy in my nice warm bed. Part of me holds him personally responsible for my disgruntled mood today. His big ball of cuteness makes it very hard to be a sour being for long. Maybe the sun will shine soon, causing my eyes to open bright and friendly. One can only hope! |
| Had a blast at the annual family reunion yesterday. Lots of boisterous laughter, merry making, and catching up with loved ones. There was, as there always is, an all day volleyball tournament. My bones are aching today but it made for some great fun and good exercise. When we started this annual event my kids were only a twinkle in my heart and now they are thick in the middle of the playing action. They weren't allowed to play with the adults until age ten and it was always seen as a right of passage in the family. It is somehow inspiring to watch the youngest of our nieces and nephews sit on the sideline waiting for their day on the volleyball court. None of us are star athletes and our excitement comes from cheering each other on to victory but we get pretty intense at times. . Always there is joy and laughter mixed into our playtime. During our rest periods, the kids take the court reenacting the hilarity. All of it serves as an example of bonding and camaraderie Many pictures were taken. My husband and I were in the group of older adults. My kids were in the second generation photos. There was a third generation photo as well. We all smiled and laughed as the camera captured our joy in being together, but as we reminisced we remembered the loved ones no longer in the photos. We have been so blessed to know and love many sweet people that contributed so very much to our lives through the years. They are just as important to the celebration of family as the ones photographed today. They are no longer with us but are forever in our hearts. It is truly a family legacy of love. |
| These kits are now being handed out to schools. Watch the video to learn how to use them. Great idea but i will tell you that our school received only 1 kit. I am sure it is based on enrollment. Amazon is selling them for $58.99 To do this program properly a kit for every classroom is needed. The interesting debate becomes are they playing into our fears or is the need a current day reality? If you look past the hype, teaching people how to stop bleeding in any circumstance is a good thing. It is just as essential in saving a life as CPR! https://youtu.be/dkb-Ddb8QFA |
| In case you are curious and needed reminding, today is Tuesday. (not Wednesday). Ran outside in my P.j.'s, with the spittle of rain on my head to put the trash out, fearful of missing the big green truck.The dogs watched from the window eager and ready to see me commit my lunacy. They were disappointed when I returned so quickly after realizing what day it was. HAPPY TUESDAY! |
| Time for a whine-fest on my part.I work nights, 7 p.m. to 7 a.m., at the hospital. That alone is not the problem, I have done it for years so I am pretty much used to it. The problem comes when they decide to rearrange my schedule for every other night, instead of having 2 on, 2 off and then the third shift. Trying to recoop and actually have a day off is impossible with this every other day torture.I am officially protesting in my mind because I am very tired. Whine-fest over, have a great day! I'm off to work. |
| Hello World! Anyone out there? No blog comments make me feel lonely. Talk to me people! I actually am hilarious and fun or at least in my own mind. Delusions can be exciting, as well. Love me, hate me, just let me know that you are reading. My dog just pooped on my patio so I'm feeling blue, not to mention the lovely aroma when the wind blows. Guess I'm on pickup duty, no one else is home. Part of me wants to pretend I didn't see it and the other part would be totally embarrassed if the neighbors caught a whiff. Just when I was wondering why I bothered to own dogs, Dimitri dropped a ball in front of me, eager to play. They have their way of melting away the anger. Have a great day and remember, all comments are welcome and encouraged. |
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