Little Boys

A quote from my nurse friend Rebecca, mom of two boys:

Trying to explain immunity to Joshua, my 5 year old. I told him sometimes our body gets stronger after we get sick because we make our germ fighter cells better. To which he said, without missing a beat, "So I can lick my feet to get sick and then I'll be stronger?"

Mommie, Dearest, Do I Have To Go To School Today??

Wonder if the 'pottie training' involves wire hangers...

I Don't Need No Stinking Wicca To Be A Witch!

Yes, I Am The Boss of You

For the time that you are incapacitated, unable to defend yourself, vulnerable, and physically incapacitated, I am your protector. As are all the nurses you deal with. One of the first roles that we are indoctrinated into is 'patient advocate'. Your time without consciousness is one of the most important times of your life; your nurse is there to maintain your airway, protect your privacy, and assure your gentle emergence without injury.

Not exactly the 'doctor's hand maiden', is s/he?

Scheduling Wars

I was hired years ago at the hospital as an 'evening' per diem. Meaning, I let the scheduler know my availability, I am schedule me the days I am needed, not necessarily all of the days I list. In my initial interview, the nurse manager assured me, in response to my concerns, that almost never would I be required to work later that 1930 (seven thirty p.m. for you non-military time types). I was open about my late evening fatigue and distractedness, a by product of injured muscles and Fibromyalgia.

For the years since my hiring, I am home by 1830, often by 1630 or 1730. Suddenly, after a few nurses took maternity leave or, in one case a leave of absence, in another outright resignation, the per diems have been tapped to fill the gaps. Two of us are suddenly scheduled for late starts (afternoons) and late endings (2200, often). Evenings? Suddenly, that is looking a lot like nights. And, I can tell you, my 50+ year old body doesn't like it. In my younger days, I tried late shifts several times, and never could hack them. Well, that ain't gonna change now.

Additionally, from four day weeks, I have some five day weeks scheduled, against my wishes.

Okay, what to do? I have to look out for myself and my health. So, for the first time, I have become a 'circle the wagons' employee. Use me once, shame on you. Use me again, shame on me. So, I simply put down fewer available days. I would be willing to come in more, but not when I work for a unit that can rearrange my days by six or seven hours without speaking to me or regarding the schedule I have come to expect, based on a precedence of years.

I hate that I have to think like this; to find a way to protect myself, to resort to checks and balances, to end games and punishment. But, as an older and wiser person, I accept that it is what it is, and will look out for me and mine. Another team player goes down in disillusionment...

A Letter to My Friend Who Is In Pain

Dear Sweet Friend,

Thank you for asking me for advice. I will offer my thoughts, and remember, I am looking in from outside, and can't know all the issues, let alone any of the solutions.

In eastern philosophy, there is a saying, 'When the learner is ready, the teacher will appear'. I thought and thought about that saying. It does not mean that God determines our readiness and poof! provides a teacher. The teacher may have been there all along, sleeping in the same bed with us or working in the cubby next door, but we don't listen and learn until our mind, heart and life is prepared. Another, more direct Western, way of saying this is 'When the soil is ready, the seed will sprout'.

You have been placed in this man's path twice in ten years. Neither time, for very different reasons, was THE time. Because you are the more sensitive, dreaming, hopeful and open one, you get hurt. You are the little seed that tries and tries to push into the hard dry barren soil without success. I am sorry for you. But, even if allowed to sprout this time in his life, it would turn out poorly, and you would grow to become weak and stunted. He is barren and non-nourishing right now.

Cut your losses. Gently but firmly close the door NOW. He will respect you more for not dithering or begging or flaring. State your case clearly and lovingly, saying that you have expectations of the man who will become your partner and he is unable to meet those at this time. You have given, you have a right to expect to be given back to, without score keeping or dramatic reluctance. You are a catch. You aren't perfect, but you also don't expect your ultimate partner to be.

Wish him luck and blow him a kiss as your helicopter lifts off, taking you to another adventure. He will feel the loss, and, more importantly, you will be providing him with what could be a life altering lesson, if he is ready. If not, know that you are doing what is best for you.

Good luck. I love you.

Elk Hunting

Beginning tomorrow, I get to participate in that millenia-old practice of hunting for food, the four legged, hard-to-find kind. Elk.

I love the challenge, the exposure to the elements, the physical ferocity and mental determination necessary to hunt at 7,000+ feet above sea level in knee deep snow and single digit cold. I love stalking and winning my own food.

I hate packing, cooking and preparing for the trip. It makes me realize how ill-prepared we humans are to face harsh environments. We must have adequate shelter, clothing, food, directional support, and rescue provisions.

I love to hunt, I love to brave less than perfect elements, but I am not a cave woman. I want to have a warm drink and soft bed when I come in for the night.

Why Does This Scare Me?

The only thing funner, more exciting in terms of television watching, than watching Ice Road Truckers battle the elements to get their load to isolated frozen communities, is watching my husband watch IRT. Actually, no, it is only instructional...

When I met my husband, he was a truck driver, on his way to law school. He had driven massive Euclid pit trucks in a copper pit in Nevada. He had near misses with the huge trucks on narrow, recently constructed roads winding hundreds of feet up the the surface. He remembers, viscerally, the close calls when he watches these shows and, years later, the true meaning comes back to haunt him. It is a PTSD-like experience, accompanied by elevated heart rate, blood pressure and temperature. He gets a lightheadedness, a near panicky reaction.

At the time, decades ago, he did what he had to do. He was in the moment, dealing second by second with a vibrating resistant steering wheel, a steep drop off, and a sliding, slewing load. Death or disaster was near at hand. Now, his body and mind remember, and allow him to process; the fear, the anxiety, and the flight or fight reaction. Problem is, he doesn't need the input now. Dang, he had a cerebral hemorrhage only seven months ago...But, the body makes no distinction between then and now. And, so he feels everything, but has a morbid attraction/curiosity to the show. Maybe in a 'facing the fear' kind of way.

That, my friend, is PTSD. In a nasty nutshell...

Stalking the Elusive Elk

Hunting season #1, Mule Deer, is over.

Hunting season #2, Rocky Mountain Elk, begins next Saturday.

I am finishing the laundry from #1, sorting and repacking for #2. Since all of the hunting gear is at our home, the kids need us to pack for them so they can go.

This season, it means that I pack for two sons and myself. Camo, cold weather unders, overalls, hats, socks, gloves, guns, ammo, backpacks, survival gear, boots.

Additionally, I pack food for everyone, most of which needs to be cooked first so it can be quickly reheated after a day of hunting. This year's menu is meatloaf, chicken enchiladas, turkey and dressing, calzone, broccoli cheesy rice casserole, and whatever else makes me drool as I am planning and shopping.

I work everyday but Thursday, and I have a dental appointment that day, so I guess I better get busy...

For now, my house resembles a sporting goods store that just had a grenade lobbed into it...

What A Real Man Does

A real man is a woman's best friend. He will never stand her up and never let her down.

He will reassure her when she feels insecure and comfort her after a bad day.

He will inspire her to do things she never thought she could do; to live without fear and forget regret.

He will enable her to express her deepest emotions and give in to her most intimate desires.

He will make sure she always feels as though she's the most beautiful woman in the room and will enable her to be the most confident, sexy, seductive, invincible....

No wait... sorry... I'm thinking of wine.

That's what wine does...

Never mind....

Deer Hunting Season Once Again

(Jupiterimage, from Google)

Why do I hunt? It's a lot to think about, and I think about it a lot. I hunt to acknowledge my evolutionary roots, millennia deep, as a predatory omnivore. To participate actively in the bedrock workings of nature. For the atavistic challenge of doing it well with an absolute minimum of technological assistance. To learn the lessons, about nature and myself, that only hunting can teach. To accept personal responsibility for at least some of the deaths that nourish my life. For the glimpse it offers into a wildness we can hardly imagine. Because it provides the closest thing I've known to a spiritual experience. I hunt because it enriches my life and because I can't help myself. . .because I have a hunter's heart.

---David Petersen

Great Tee Shirt

Miss me yet? How's that hopey-changey thing going for you?

Fat and Sad

My 500 pound patient asked why I was so nice to her. I said, 'Because you are a good person. You deserve it.' She began to cry, and said that most people deal matter-of-factly, or barely civilly.

How would it be to go through life, with almost everyone judging and dissing and being disgusted?

She hugged me with tears in her eyes when I sent her to the floor. She said, 'I want to take you with me.'

I Am (Sorta) Ready

A year ago April, my little dog Caliente died in my arms after a long illness and heroic efforts to save her. She was a sweet, kind, silly and devoted little bit of life force that touched my heart and my person daily for over ten years. Losing her left a void in my heart, and by my side in my chair.

I think I am now ready. No, not to have another dog, but to change my introductory description of this blog. I have not been able to delete 'an old Chihuahua'. Today, I will.

I poured out my pain on this blog as she progressed in her illness, and I wrestled with my decisions and tried to decide how much help is too much, how much medicine is futile, how I could bear to make the ultimate decision for her. It seems appropriate that I address the pain of deleting yet another reminder of her mark on my life.

I have given away the doggy beds, the electric warming pads, the toys, collars and laser pointers she loved so much, except for a few raggedy toys she shared with her sister, Gordita, and her foster mother, Lacey the Beagle, both of whom predeceased her in the two years prior. I was moved to tears when I found her pirate shirt last weekend in my Wii bowling bag that matched mine. I have washed the blankets she slept on in her warm little crate. She has slowly been leeching out of the topsoil of our daily lives.

And, I have noticed, fought, acknowledged, and finally accepted the fading. Today, another.

I won't let her be gone, nor will my family. She is here, along with the others that made our pathetic humanness more bearable, more fun, more joy-filled. Just, now, not in the blog description.

Friendly Parasites! It'll Be Worth It!

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Always Remember

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It was a morning none of us could imagine ever happening. But, it did.

I was waiting to take my teenagers to school, and we didn't watch television in the morning. The phone rang. It was my son's friend, Jordan, who said in a strained voice, 'Have you seen what's happening in New York on tv?' He was a latch key kid, and I worried about him being alone. 'No, what's up?' 'Just turn it on and call me back'. I did.

Every station was filled with the images of the planes, the crashes, flames and smoke. Of white dust encrusted figures running away from the devastation and yellow coated fire fighters running toward it. Of filthy people in business suits crying into bloodied hands. Of loved ones being restrained by others.

I went to my kids and shared the news, then led them into the family room to see the images, those that would come to define America's interaction with the rest of the world during their lives. I knew that life as we had known it was over; changed by the raging extremism of others. As it so often is. I looked at their young, unlined faces frozen in horrified fascination and trepidation and felt deep sorrow for them. It was a loss of innocence, exposure to a toxin so profound as to taint their souls forever.

I hated the men behind this evisceration of the U.S. The ones who could think of something so horrendous. The ones who plotted, planned, and executed such cruel mayhem with impunity. I hated anyone who would forever change my children's lives in such a manner. And make me party to that change, as the one who led them to the moment of knowing.

I knew that my priorities for the coming days and weeks and months had instantly changed, constricted to a small circle in that moment. One including my husband and I, my children and whatever friends needed us, and my closest community. I felt palpably the duty of a mother, friend, a sister and a matriarch. I gathered my big kids into a tight hug circle, and we stood silently, stiffly, as if at attention and ready to defend against an incoming blow.

We went to our lives later, walking carefully, talking quietly, thinking before speaking or acting. As if we were trying not to disturb someone in the next room. In fact, we were uncomfortable in our own lives, our own clothes. We were here, safe and whole, and the world just shifted. Shouldn't there be some outward change, some open wound to tend, some deep feeling of hunger or fear? Should we have to give up something, run away from something, hide in the dark from something? Life was just so normal as the days unfolded, except for what we saw and read through the media and the talk.

We were torn, wanting to have some thing to tend to, some manifestation of our pain, some proof of our victimization, but there was none. Only the vague uneasiness, like fear, like pain, like grief, like hatred, but not quite. The most were were able to do is to cling tightly to one another, to talk, to tell one another 'I love you'.

We craved a wake, a ceremony, an official opportunity to show the world our pain, our shared loss, our bewildering muddle of emotion. But, we were way out west, far from the action and the drama of the real story. We didn't feel eligible to say 'I hurt'. That was for the victims, the families, the bloodied business people. Our hands and clothing were clean and whole. All of our bleeding was on the inside.

Heroes

God Bless Organ Donors and Their Families...

(dedicated to a young, healthy drowning victim I have recently become acquainted with,

and said goodbye to...)

Entry Level Horse Budget

Horse.........................$3-5000

Horse Trailer............$3000-7000

Truck..........................$5000-25,000

Round Pen.................$1000-1,500

Saddle.........................$250-1200

Headstall, bit, reins..$100-250

Loafing Pen, Stable or Barn.....$500-10,000

Vet Check....................$180-350

Immunizations...........$20-50

Farrier.........................$150-300

Food.............................$100-350

Riding outfit, boots, rain gear..$250-500

Time in the saddle.....PRICELESS!

Crawdaddin'

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Crayfish, crawdads, 'dads, fresh water langostino, whatever you call the little red arthropods that scurry on the bottom of most fresh water lakes and streams, they are tasty treats when prepared correctly. They have a mild lobster taste and firm textured white meat.

We get them by net or by ring. We usually bait with fish chunks, salmon being the preferred delicacy, then pass by the bait several times to net the critters lured out to the bait. Or, we use rings with nets baited similarly, coming by after a bit to bring them up and reap the bounty.

We cook them by bringing salted water to a boil that has a generous handful of pickling spice in it. Then, we put the crawdads in live, bring back to a boil, and cook for twelve minutes. We remove them and eat them with melted butter, sometimes mayonnaise. They are also delicious cold with mayonnaise.

We eat tails and claws. Some folks suck the brine and innards from the body of the shell. It is popular in the south to do so. My family and I have never developed a taste for that. In fact, I find the idea of it nauseating. But, to each their own...

Things That Kept Me Sane, Or Led Me Back To Sanity

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Okay, so I am not entirely what most folks would call really sane. but, I am not quite at the definition of insane, legally speaking. I am sort of..., functional and pretty much okay. Like most of us, I dwell in that wide band in the middle of the spectrum referred to as 'normal'. Where one appears on that spectrum is variable, so most of us just don't talk about it.

When my kids left home, or at least the last one did, I felt like I was going nuts. I was so sad, so angry, so critical of life and people, so disillusioned. The now and the future held no interest or excitement for me. I took long naps, stopped doing stuff that I love to do, gained weight, cried over baby clothes as I was purging the clutter in storage.

I was depressed and pissed off, and borderline mutinous. I contemplated faraway places and new faces. I was approaching the edge of that wide band of normalcy, moving closer to 'nuts'.

Then, I started blogging. I wrote about anything I could think of. Not emotions or empty nest syndrome (that's what they call it, it has an actual name), there are plenty of sites for that. Just my life, my animals, things I found funny or motivating or outrageous. I didn't care if anyone read it. I love to write; always have. I used to journal regularly, a habit that went away as I advanced career, marriage, childrearing. (Ewww..., I wonder where all those journals went?)

I found, as the months passed, that I was soothed as I 'talked' about things on my computer. It calmed me, made me focus, helped me see and appreciate the funny or quirky or poignant stuff of life. If that ain't therapy, I don't know what is.

And, also, after a year or so of healing, I got a horse. As a child and adolescent, I spent as much time on horseback as I possibly could. My horse loved me unconditionally, never spit out venomous words, never hit me, never shamed me. Just carried me to places far away from the hell of home. Munched grass around my dreaming form lying in high meadows under wispy clouds. Warmed my cold hands on dark winter evenings as I watched him eat in the low pole tar paper building we called the barn, as I escaped the bottled up anger in our steamy rickety house.

A horse represented freedom, calm, escape, independence. It conjured images of having a friend that is loyal and loving and nonjudgemental. Just the thought made me smile.

So, fast forward to now, once again a horse owner, once again riding alone or with friends, escaping, calm, focused, filling my empty nest heart and my 'what now?' mind. A balm on four legs, an elixir of life that is real messy.

I'm ready for the next chapter, Life, bring it on...

So Long, Sweet Albert

Albert found the food scoop

Albert and Timora, his surviving wife

Bundled up in a towel

Bath time

In the end, it was not a predator that claimed the life of brave Albert. It was an unresolved encapsulated abscess. Our little rooster, he who fought off skunk, hawk, snake, dog, cat, other roosters and human alike to safeguard his mate, his food, his domain, succumbed to mortality in a sadder and more mundane fashion than I would have anticipated.

I would have thought he would go out of this world in a blaze of glory, all blood and feathers and fury. I expected him to die as he lived, all out of proportion to his size. But, it was not to be.

Over a month ago, Albert sustained an injury, probably a puncture wound of some sort, in his right thigh. It became infected. Eventually, we noticed him limping. Examination revealed a hard hot mass in his thigh, one that quickly rendered him unable to walk. I called around to find an avian veterinarian at 1830 at night. After a succession of 'no's', I got a yes, at, surprisingly, Banfield's at PetSmart. $120.00 later, I had an injected chicken, take home meds, and a probable diagnosis.

When avian pus gets old within a nondraining wound, it becomes hard and dry, or caseous. It is difficult for the bird to reabsorb this nonperfused junk. It lingers for weeks. Sometimes, the whole mass of stuff is removed surgically. If I were braver or more experienced, I might have tried this approach. If I were richer, I might have asked a vet to it. But, I am neither.

I gave the first round of antibiotics and pain medication, then a couple weeks later, another round. I used the massage, tissue mobilization and physical therapy techniques I have learned over the years. I gave injections, special diet, sunshine, heat, love... I took Albert to Reno for a family birthday party in order to continue his treatment uninterrupted. I kissed him a lot.

Last week, he had a really good couple of days. He got up and walked, quite upright, and began talking in sweet little coo's and clucks. He asked to go outside and then alternately laid in the sun and in the shade, picking at the dirt and under the leaves for goodies. I was so tickled by the progress, I cried and laughed at the same time. When I kissed his comb, he shook his head, to free his face from my dripping tears.

But, like so many other animals and people I have known, he changed when the temperature at night dropped. He became weak and immobile, sleeping a lot and less responsive to me. In a few short days, he was gone.

I have a belief that ill and compromised organisms know when a winter will be too much for their own limited reserves, and choose an earlier, easier death over a chilling wasting away. I have always applied this graceful leave-taking with October, the month of true entry into winter's inescapable pull. My father chose that month, many of my patients choose that month. In the later hunting seasons, later October and November, I often encounter the remains of older or injured animals.

I think I helped Albert feel content and loved during his last weeks. He ate well and he was safe. He was affectionate and occasionally mobile. I never felt that he would have been better off dead. I would not have let him live if I had felt he was suffering. I was beginning to worry on the last couple days. But in the end, I would not have to make the difficult choice. Albert made it on his own.

He lived on his own terms, wandering free and taking on all comers. And, he died on his own terms, choosing his time. Classy little guy start to finish.

Go with God, little general...

False Advertising

I wonder, no, I doubt, if the 'ads' on women's tee shirts are really true. You know the ones: Juicy. Sinful. Hanky Panky. Torrid. Heartthrob. Hot and Wild. Too Much. Anarchy. Angel. Affliction. Baby Cakes. Hott.

I see the muffin tops with their fat bulging over low rise jeans that are three sizes too small sporting a shirt that proclaims that they are 'too hot to handle', 'too much for you, loser', or one of the in-your-face brand names that promise willing and prepared parts. It makes me sad.

Because I doubt it. I think it is a sad, 'whistling-past-the-graveyard' stance designed to make insecure, pathetic girls and women pretend to be something they are not. SEEM to be unaffected by their own hated obesity. PRETEND to be sexier than they will ever regard themselves.

Sad. Pathetic. Wrong. And Untrue...

Chicken Legs

Poor Albert, the Little General, he of upright stature and Viciously Protective Tendencies, is crippled. Like a wounded soldier, he bears the humility, immobility, and pain with a clenched mouth (beak) muttered '2' when considering his own pain on a scale of 1 to 10 (unlike the flip '10' offered by the twenty-something broken wrist who is eating pudding and watching 'The Kardasians'). Like a WWII vet.

I took Albert on the road trip to Reno for my brother's 70th birthday party (said bro is WAAAY older than I...just so you know...). In a clear plastic tote, so he could see me and not be cut off from stimulation. So I could give him his IM (intramuscular) injections of the third antibiotic in recent weeks. I also provide electrolytes and vitamins via his water supply, and will give oral antibiotics via his drinking water beginning tomorrow. I massage the frozen joint, and perform 'tissue mobilization', taking care to give an oral pain medication first.

Then, my son e-mails me from his home in Mexico, where he is playing professional soccer. Seems his contact 'family' has chickens. One is a wanderer, and they don't want him to escape. They don't want to build a coop. So, they laid out a little wooden/stick-type perimeter for him to stay in, and broke his legs so he couldn't get out.

'OMG!!!' I texted back. 'Even my dad in his worst moments of rage would never do that...' But, unfortunately, I get it. It is a reality in a third world country. Animals are 'things', people are all. The animals exist at the pleasure and use of the humans. And, often, that sucks.

But, it stands in stark contrast to what my son has known in his life, in his reality. I am glad that he is shocked and repulsed by the barbaric practices that often define animal husbandry in foreign places. It breaks my heart that my kid (he still is, you know...) has to learn about this lack of development in kindness, but I am proud that he is so impressed and sickened. He is the better, more fully evolved human.

I am proud of you, my son...

White Trash Taxidermy

I only wish I'd thought of this first...

White Trash Memories

Daddy kept a still in the pole shed where he conditioned his fighting roosters. He kept vats of fruit wine and green beer in different stages of fermentation. Once, when I was twelve and the green beer was ready for bottling, I helped cap the newly bottled beer. He instructed me to drink each bottle down to the right level and then cap it. He filled every bottle a little too full. Later, the world spun and shifted and I was scared when, on my knees, I threw up behind the shed while Daddy laughed. The next time, I didn't let him see me throw up.

White trash memories; bloody spurs and feathers

When I was a child, my dad held chicken fights at our place. Sometimes a hundred or more people brought their best birds to do battle in the round plywood pits down in our woods. Cars and trucks with license plates from a half dozen states lined our long muddy drive. The smells of coffee and beer mingled in the damp morning air. Cigarette coarsened voices softly called out bets. The stern command of the referee to 'Pit 'em!' broke the fog muffled surrealism. Bright feathers and flashing steel spurs entangled with the thump and shuffle of feathers and wings. The men hollered out their encouragement and predictions, cursing and condemning and celebrating in turn. Blood scented steam rose from the damp panting birds, sharp and stimulating. During breaks, the handlers in the pits opened their mouths wide and laid them across the saddle feathers to breathe hot air on the bird. 'To make 'em mad,' Daddy said. Once, I saw a guy put his plug of chewing tobacco into the bird's vent. 'To make him mad,' I thought. Soon the sounds of mortal combat would slow, then stop. After that, only the rustle of money could be heard.

White trash memories; hard life lessons

An organized rooster fight can be stopped in one of three ways: one bird (the winner) kills the other outright, a referee can declare one bird the winner if he has so badly beaten his opponent that there is no real fight left (this keeps the action in the pits moving along), and an owner can forfeit a fight before his bird is killed so that he might save it to use as brood stock or even to fight it again later.

After the referee declares a fight, the losing bird is in bad shape, full of spur holes and bacteria, suffering from blood loss and trauma. As a joke, the bird owners that came to our place for the fights sometimes gave half-dead birds to me, an eight to eleven year old, knowing I would nurse them and care for then the best I could, until their inevitable death. It was a joke on my dad, but I never knew that until I was grown. One such bird, a big Dixie Blue Shuffler, was my favorite. I was ten years old.

Every hour, I fed Dixie milk-soaked bread, cornmeal mush and water. I put medicine in his water. I set his broken wing with masking tape. I sang to him and covered him at night. He was getting better, I was sure. But, my dad kept pestering me to trade Dixie for a sleek and sparkely blue-black three-spurred Sumatra stag.

Finally, I agreed to the deal, knowing that Daddy was so much better at caring for sick animals. I figured that 'that ol' bird' would be up and around in no time, under my daddy's care.

In the hot July sun, we met in the middle of the barnyard, the Sumatra's tail feathers glistening against Daddy's faded bib overalls. I handed off Dixie, dirty masking tape trailing like streamers. I took the firmer and lighter young bird, trying not to crush his long dark feathers.

Suddenly, Daddy grabbed Dixie's neck and flipped him over and down. My father's arm jerked up as the bird's body reached the end of the arc and I heard the dull crack of neck bones separating and sinew stretching. I felt like someone had planted a man-sized fist in my belly. I managed to cry out, "Daddy--you killed my bird!" Daddy leaned down and looked into my teary eyes and said, "No, Fuzzy, I killed my bird. He stopped bein' your bird when you traded him off..." He turned and walked out of the barnyard, tossing the carcass onto the burn pile as he passed.

White Trash Memories

There were no light switches in our house. Light bulbs suspended from a wire coming through a hole in the ceiling. You had to screw in to turn them on, then unscrew to turn it off, but ya better lick your fingers first so you don't get burned.

Lullaby For My Children, Every Night For Twelve Years... Morningtown Ride

Train whistle blowing, makes a sleepy noise,
Underneath their blankets go all the girls and boys.

Heading from the station, out along the bay,
All bound for Morningtown, many miles away.

Mack is at the engine, Garrett rings the bell,
Emmy swings the lantern, to show that all is well.

Rocking, rolling, riding, out along the bay,
All bound for Morningtown, many miles away.

Maybe it is raining where our train will ride;
But all the little travellers are warm and snug inside.

Rocking, rolling, riding, out along the bay,
All bound for Morningtown, many miles away.

Somewhere there is sunshine, somewhere there is day,
Somewhere there is Morningtown, many miles away.

Thank you, Malvina, for the memories, the tradition, the little smiles and little squirms when each child heard their name sung in turn. Thank you for reassuring my babies that sleep was a gentle journey, not to be feared or fought.

With your words and your talent, you brought peace to a young family tattered by the time nightfall descended, and gave a sweet familiarity to the routine of bedtime. You gave a reason for my bad vocals to croon to my babies, a balm to us all. In their adulthood, they still remember me, and you, and the nightly journey to Morningtown...

Do I Hafta Go To School?

My horse, Cruz, is learning manners, the Parelli Natural Horse-Man-Ship way. Sounds cool, doesn't it?Well, it is cool. He has been under daily training for three months. And it has come to pass that I, too, must learn what he knows. So that I know how to lead him, manage him, give him direction. So that our future together is better than our past.

But, I have learned something new about myself. I have become intolerant, and resistant, even afraid of, certain learning scenarios. I don't want to drive for a half hour, ride slowly in an arena for an hour and try to follow instructions from someone else. No matter how much I like the idea of learning, no matter how much I want to know this stuff, I hate doing it. I have become someone who wants to stay in a comfort zone.

I wonder if it is because I spent three and a half years being worked to death, scared to death, studying like hell, attending classes and learning nursing skills under the strict scrutiny of evil instructors, living in another town from my husband and children, spending twelve to twenty hours a day trying to become a nurse. I turned fifty years old in nursing school. Then, I was ejected into the profession of nursing where I was sucked in, chewed up, spit out and ground down trying to become good enough to be respected and regarded. Even now, I regularly come face to face with self doubt and second guessing. It gets pounded into your head in nursing school.

I, in some ways, regret not having waited until the kids left home to go back to school. I feel like I missed so much of their lives in high school. I did take my eldest, Mack, to the town where I went to nursing school, and he completed his Associates Degree there. We were roommates in college, we tell people.

But, I think a direct result of all of this late-in-life learning, being micromanaged, being exhausted and overworked, is that I have little tolerance for any but short and sweet lessons or classes. I find myself judiciously avoiding being tied down to a classroom, being lectured at, being watched and judged, that is, feeling like I did in nursing school.

We nursing students joke that nursing educators tear you down and rebuild you in their own image. We cried, ranted, got drunk, laughed until we cried or threw up. We all walked around like zombies. We lost or gained weight, let our hair, nails and skin go to hell, screwed up relationships, got sick and had no time to get better, so we got worse. We all did, men, women, young and older. I would watch the young students drag themselves in to class, exhausted and ill and discouraged and scared of failure. And, I thought, if that is how hard this is on someone half my age, what the hell am I doing here?

Anyway, that is my hypothesis of why I resist classes, restrictions on my time and movement, and ongoing lessons and learning. Please understand that I love to learn; I consider myself somewhat of a renaissance woman, having learned and succeeded in four diverse consecutive careers areas, each lasting a decade. I have had to do things I don't want to do, many times. But, I think I am all done being stressed by learning or restrictions.

I want things to be easy now. I want to be left alone more. I want to feel accomplished and proficient. I want to decide my activities and the amount of time or energy to invest and where to invest it. I am looking for Life's Easy Button. Or maybe just an extended vacation where I can catch up on my sleep.