What's It Gonna Be

To my dear sweet niece,

At twenty I married your mother’s brother; he liked to hang with the guys at the bar, so I went to the library because I like to read. We were young and in love so we picnicked and made love in the woods, but twenty years later, I’d say,

 “Wanna go to the movies; come on, let’s go.”

“Nah, I don’t want to go,” meant an evening watching TV.

If I wanted to go to the movies, I should go to the movies, so I said,

“I’m going to the movies; you want to come?”

He replied with his usual,

“Nah,” not missing a step towards the family room sofa.

Never had I gone to the movies alone; I held the notion that we should do things together, but had to honor that if he didn’t want to go, it was his right, so when I opened the front door, with my heart pounding, I called,

“See ya later.”

Looking back, I wonder why all the drama; the thought of being a married woman alone in a movie theater upset me, but determined to for once do what I wanted to do even if he didn’t, I left.

I remember my fingers being all sweaty, wanting to sob, but being me, I thought, fuck him and started the car, threw it into reverse and backed out of the driveway. Before I could get into forward gear the front door opened; he threw his shirt on while heading to the car.

“Yeah, a movie sounds good,” 

was all he said in his best nonchalant, cool dude style.

Honey, I don’t know anyone’s life but my own, but I have learned to love and value myself enough to do what pleases me.

Your mom and her brother were tight; she’d tell me stories of things she and her brother did. Oh, my, your family had love.

I remember you with long blond hair and bangs; it seems you were one of the taller kids. What a sweet girl, I thought, you took after your mom.

This much I know; a man who loves you may not go to the ballet with you, but he’ll join you on things he likes because he wants to be with you.

The times I went to things without him, surprisingly, I’d come home smiling. Learning I could have a good time alone helped me get out on my own after he passed.

With or without the love of my life, I must try to enjoy my life or be a miserable old bitch; what’s it gonna be, honey?

Life's Questions and Lessons

We think; we wonder why we’re here or why this or that happened in childhood. Every age challenges us to grow or decline. Pain, suffering, joy, and happiness color our lives.

Each unique journey weaves in and out with others creating the cacophony of our cultures. When life becomes too painful some reach for booze or drugs, some become mean, others turn to religion. We all have a personal solution; even helplessness is a way of dealing with harsh reality.

In one of the neighborhoods I lived in as a young adult, “Take it easy” or “Don’t work too hard,” people said frequently. Their mantra reflected how they limited themselves; from the south side of Chicago, many had never even ventured into the Loop.

Being a driven soul, I bristled at this advice; being young I argued for my opinion as a better way not yet realizing what mental masturbation means.

Over the years we’re exposed to an amazing amount of energy that we absorb and reflect or deflect; through personal choice, we create who we are. Looking back on a life, wondering how well it served my soul, I’m kinder about my mistakes than when I was young.

Not judging others, do we find that difficult? Come on, don’t add lying. Whether we find them wonderful or awful, we judge. Superior or inferior, we see ourselves in that linear way or safe versus frightening; we find valid reasons for judgment.

In my twenties, I doubted that God exists. If you created us couldn’t you take better care of your creations? Who are you kidding? You created everything; that means you created evil. That’s no kind of god I could wrap my head around, so one day for no reason there was this big bang.

Many nights under the stars with cold wind on my face put my thoughts in a different order to glimpse how complex life is and that order began with God. The understanding I have gives me respect for all life whether I like them or not.

How we live now creates our heaven or hell, so it’s not a stretch to think we’re creating our future (life) according to the law of karma.

So now I’m wondering, how do I best set myself up for my next existence? If this life could be a bank account of knowledge I could send to myself, what wisdom would I impart? What questions should a soul preparing for life ask?

Wouldn’t it be nice to know how we pick our families? How many misplaced zygotes are there? Why was I one? Or was I?

And thanks for this life; it’ been a trip.

The Saggy Remainder Years Challenge

Most days I know what I believe, I think about it quite a bit. On what if days, who knows what will cross my mind?

I can see myself as a fat old lady stuck on a broke island waiting to die, which is true or as the adventurous daredevil traveling to beautiful places alone in her spare time, also true.

In between all these good times, I sure can feel sorry for myself. There’s no getting over you, my darling, even after four years.

God, thanks for the opportunity to have the tribulations that balanced my trials. One’s life should be a wild ride; oh, the shit, you do over the years.

Opting out on children means you don’t get to be grandma. It was my husband I never planned on living without. This majorly sucks and how do I let go of the loss enough to enjoy the saggy remainder years of my life?

That’s exactly the challenge; make the best out of the remainder when every day is bitch or brag and the best may be a pain-free day. Our days no longer hold wide open promise; a day working in the garden means happiness.

Daily, my husband suffered physical pain but managed to love his life and bring joy to others; he was one of those guys. I’ve seen a great spirit live a humble life in torture. I can quit complaining. This is me shutting up, accepting the saggy, remainder challenge.

It Is a Big Deal

Sometime in my early sixties thoughts switched to retirement. As part of that process, one takes the look over the shoulder to see the accomplishments of a lifetime.  For me, it was the moment of looking myself in the eye to know that I had earned my respect.

So many things in life aren’t as big a deal as we make them out to be, but liking who you are at the end of your career is important. It’s not a number thing like he who dies with the most toys wins; they’re just toys. I’d rather have integrity than more money, but no mistake I wanted to earn a comfortable living and worked hard.

Over the years there’s always bad times, but I plucked along relentlessly. Earning a big salary may be its own reward, but spending years doing something I didn’t like never made me happy, so I followed the rule of love what you do.

Dogs have perfected the art of presence; in silence, they look at us and perhaps wag their tail with no obvious judgment. Since childhood, I have loved dogs; thank you, God.

After jobs and businesses I enjoyed, the last thirty years of my career I worked with dogs; what could be better? I played with dogs for a living until I ran a dog business that played with dogs, which is almost as much fun but paid better.

Nobody wants to leave a thriving business, but age ain’t easy, so you contemplate and consider before rebelliously declaring,

“I have another good ten years in me, maybe more.”

But the property and the business appraised at a tidy sum, so best think about it; it made so much sense to quit in time to enjoy life. My husband suffered from chronic pain, so he voted to go; we put it on the market and buyers came, but nobody could get a loan.

Bankers lead the news each evening, they called it, the “Great Recession.” Too big to fail, that was the slogan, followed by bailout and lay off.

My modest dog business didn’t count for shit when regular clients can’t afford daycare for the kids and dog, so the dog lived in the yard all day and other clients, I carried. My clients, my neighbors were upside down, as they called it, meaning they owed more than the property was worth. I wasn’t in that boat, but found myself working way harder for a lot less; it was an ugly time, I picked to absolutely need to rest.

We're beaten and broken over time, so when we’re done there’s no debating. I hated to give up everything when we were covering for banking crooks by decree of GWB and company because they caused my pain. Who gives a f---, right?

Greedy bankers invented new products to sell for more than it was worth, oops. We, the people, had to pay; I had to pay when I needed my lifetime payout, another oops.

The Dodd-Frank Act became law to prevent these same greedy bankers we bailed out less than ten years ago from doing the same thing to us again.

I am disgusted by a legislature that would consider repeal of Dodd-Frank. Does the abuse of the people need to become a real ass whipping before we say, “No.”

People in power talked around the problem until I felt dizzy, but superb performances from a stellar cast in The Big Short and Margin Call shine a light on the bad behavior of reputable robbers/bankers. These movies are the modern day equivalent of Redford and Hoffman getting the goods on Nixon.

What is my generation supposed to say to the next?

“Every generation gets its ass beat by government whores with fat wallets of big business money, shut your mouth and take it.”

Please, don’t. 

A Tale of Two Men

Today look to see a young man in a wheelchair, his face contorted with anger ranting at another man speaking to his mom in Spanish in San Juan airport of all places.

The hellfire torture a person feels over the loss of mobility can only be inadequately imagined, my heart felt for this soul, so I watched him rave a second time. Nothing justifies his behavior to people who were minding their own business, but my heart hurts for him none the less.

Only those who have lost a limb or mobility have any idea of how this young man hurts over the life that might have been his or what he could have done. You’re right; it’s no excuse for bad behavior, if you watch it again it’s a cry for help.

Look in the ranting man’s face; do you see rage? You’re speaking Spanish in the airport is getting on my last nerve rage?

Picture the scene that set the rage monster off, a mom chatting with and cooing over her fit and fine young military son in a way Latina women have of adoring their sons. Looking whole and wonderful her son reflected her adoration, and in hellfire, he sat dwelling on his loss; you can say, how sad or man up, but neither change that this man needs help and more compassion than he showed.

The raging man in a wheelchair may be the focus of this story, but on the flip side, we have a young man who I’d like to recognize for his cool and appropriate behavior. Way to go!!

The young man off camera spoke in reasonable tones telling him he too was military; he was talking to his mom who spoke Spanish, hoping for the angry man to empathize. Blessed are the peacemakers. 

Earth School

Souls come to the Earthly plane to learn. I’ve read that frequently; haven’t you?

“Why am I here?”  She asked at age seven, a tender age for so many encounters yet to come.

Self-control, a practice, a goal became her wish, her lesson; what child does this or don’t we all?

No one had the right to hurt her; beating a small child, that should be prohibited in all holy books. All the hate and evil an Earth person does is inversely proportioned to what they suffered in childhood.

Tag on a tad extra just because and you have hell fire. Little bodies quench parental fires feeling the licks of bonfires, not their doing. Outwardly the child learned control, studied her parents to understand what triggered their volatile behavior.

If you love me, why do you hurt me?

Don’t you love me?

Am I so bad, I deserve this?

No matter what I do you hit me, why can’t I ever get things right?

A child with no hope of being fairly treated learns life through a fractured lens. Teens suffer at best, becoming an adult can be more difficult than learning to walk.

From the pain of creation came hell fire; everything is about quenching hell fire’s pain.

The little girl survived her childhood to search for her place and respect; she has many lessons to learn. We learn them or don’t; life is still ours to mold to perfection or screw up royally.

The little girl’s mother shielded herself from hell fire with her daughter's tiny body; karma comes for her, as will compassion.

A life lesson I’m learning is how intertwined we are. The more time I spend alone, the more I realize how much each encounter I have affects me. People who entered my life for moments star in capsules of compassionate warmth.

Those who suffer and manage to quell the fire to a wonderful learn to be A life lesson I’m learning is how intertwined we are. The more time I spend alone, the more I realize how much each encounter I have affects me. People who entered my life for moments star in capsules of compassionate warmth.

Learn respect, learn to be kind; things improve with that. Haven’t we learned on the Earthly plane cruelty doesn’t douse any flames? Or you could believe life’s a bitch and then you die.

Impossible, Unlikely, Oh, No

Note to army: as long as you guys are out there under Martial Orders you can rape if you want. Or was it more of a get out there and rape somebody memo?

What democratically elected president of a country would say that? Officers may start with my campaign volunteers; they’re young and stupid.

Not many world leaders vie to knock the US President off the big jerk platform, but the leader of the free world butting ahead in line paled in comparison.

Young men murdered defending young women in Oregon; that’s too sad. Tell me this is just another day on planet Earth.

World events, the news reads like fiction. Can we own that something’s not right? Greed and stupidity rise from the swamps like a vapor taking over power and populace simultaneously; welcome to the age of the Atavist.

Republicans may trace back on ancestry.com to Atilla, but I’m beyond the pale unhappy with Democrats; the down the aisle difference of opinion doesn’t cut this schism. Everybody has kicked the can into the gutter. People are pissed.

Bernie is the only politician I trust anymore; in fact, I like the way he thinks, but he’s one person. When the government goes against the population we have tremendous problems, so scary we talk around them.

Lying and pot stirring replaced common sense and caring some time ago. Recent events seem like a return to medieval times with jousting for position and raping and pillaging on deck. A return to the dark ages with technology; what does that look like?

Notes with agendas float past on Facebook, saying dear white friend, I know with a bigotry list attached. Mr. Obama would not have been elected twice without the support of white people; these are the people you react with chiding lists claiming we don’t know how great a president he was. You’re bitch slapping the band. Do you think a single Big T supporter read it?

Smart people don’t kick their dear white friends out from under the covers; I don’t care how pissed about history you may be, you’re too smart to do that, right?

As a longtime Obama mama, the dear white friend post twisted my whiskers. Next, they’ll be telling whites and blacks that we don’t revere Gandhi because we’re not in touch with the Indian experience. Do you see how this goes back up the toilet?

A former Speaker of the House charged with pedophilia, again, while Congress holds a party dismantling protections to the environment and every damn thing they can. Choose black and white or living color, the image of them breaking it off in our behinds remains.

Greed and evil versus everybody else, epic battles dating to forever set the mold for continued battles if we don’t learn; angels, demons, and demigods only fight in the movies anymore. Why not us?

How does the working class grab hold of our government? How do we take charge? Historically a hero rises from the ranks with character; I remember John, Bobby, and Martin. I still cry for their loss. An LBJ about now would be welcome.

Rich people have to actually pay tax for the government to survive as an entity protecting the public good. As a middle-class business owner during the Clinton years, I complained when I wrote the check for my taxes, but ponied up and lived a good life.

Rich people ready to kill for the last quarter greedy doesn’t make sense any more than elected officials body slamming people to the floor.

Are they alien? Is something in the water? I have my own reasons for believing beings from elsewhere are here.

Things happen that people sitting on corners see, that if ever they got together Earth would learn something, but we all know it’s never going to happen.

Ancient family owned banks running roughly over unfortunate people would have more empathy run by humans. Educated Earth men know that the best agreements are the win-win model; win-lose always ends in a rematch.

I believe that people are better than this; that after so much fighting we put our fists down and make peace, so we can get on with life. Always, we made things work.

Who but an alien not depending on our atmosphere wouldn’t mind destroying the environment? All the Earth kiddies turn green and die and you don’t mind; what?

Happy Birthday

Released from a life of regular beatings at eighteen, I wanted the pain to stop. Welcome to adulthood, you’re out of the house. With other teens, I celebrated by drinking and drugging.

Nobody will ever hit me again, my fiery resolve reverberated in every cell; I still feel the resolve, but minus fire. The law was finally on my side, I had recourse if my father hit me again.

That should have felt better, but it didn’t because every hit on my baby body stored a rotten energy ready to rebound in fury. I could have been beaten into submission, but I drew a defiant resolve to survive.

The hurt and betrayal a child feels at the hands of parents tilts how you feel about the world. I believed everyone would hurt me sooner or later. Of course, that’s true, but there are limits and we can all be assholes at one time or another, but pretty much we can forgive and move on in different directions or make up.

Lucky for me, I met a man who loved me truly, held on tight and never let go. I wish life would have been simple; no, actually dealing with childhood issues became the foundation of my adult dysfunctions. S.N.A.F.U.

I’d pedal upstream like crazy, trying to bring positive things into my life only to be pulled under. I developed a hyper-spastic duodenum; that’s part of my small intestine. Life swung back and forth between good and horseshit. Did I get better?

Oh, hell no, by twenty-five, I had what they called a nervous breakdown. The out of control feeling that goes with falling apart made me think I was losing my mind. Thinking about going insane really made me crazy if you know what I mean.

In a nervous breakdown, days end by crying yourself to an exhausted sleep only to awaken to more crying. Pull it together to go to work, cry on the drive to the office, check face in the mirror before exiting the vehicle, and life goes on like normal. I remember how miserable I felt and only knew worse the day my husband died.

He told me straight out that he didn’t understand people who treated their children like that, but he held me through many tears. With him, I learned to appreciate the beauty in even a bad day.

Life punches and jabs, but then there are the moments with your head in someone’s lap and they’re stroking your face. To appreciate the strokes, I’ve had to give up focusing on the jabs. Do you have any idea how long that takes? I’ll let you know when I arrive.

Joy inhabits a day focused on even the smallest positive details; eventually, it overrides the pain. That may be one of the biggest lessons of my life; it’s a favorite. I like healing a lot.

Today, San Juan here I come with plans to go to a dog show. It’s funny but, when I told a friend at the gym, she rolled her eyes to say, “Who would want to do that?”

I would to celebrate my birthday. For years I didn’t celebrate; how sad is it when your birthday doesn’t make you happy? I hear it from others all the time, so it’s not just me.

During his life, I treated my husband to dinner or parties and gave the best gifts, including our first Rottweiler; or we went to a resort. Good God, I love that man.

Since his passing, my goal is to love myself as well as I loved him.

A lifetime of repairing self-worth follows a shamed child. What I’ve done in my lifetime says who I am; wow, who’d have thought it? I’m proud of me. Happy birthday.

Act Three

I am a Plebeian woman in many a marketplace examining the wares. Being of humble means I look much and purchase little. As I go I look into eyes and see the world; many souls look back, sharing their truths in a passing moment. I see hurt, love, and humanity, as well as, shame inflicted, but mostly not deserved.

I am proud of my cast, commonplace people, the salt on our table. During my productive age, I seldom looked directly into eyes; I didn’t trust, nor wanted to learn their secrets, or them to see my shame.

When you begin with little or nothing you have a plan and stay focused to get something. I believed in business old school, which meant doing my best each day, having integrity. I worked hard and managed to live a life that pleased me. I was blessed by opportunity.

Most of us don’t want to rule the world, just let me do something I can be proud of at the end of the day; it doesn’t matter what. My husband was proud to be a truck driver. He held respect within his company and his boss trusted him. As a Teamster in 705, he played his part in life, as I did as his wife.

The curtain rises on my third act: old age alone. Compliments of unscrupulous bankers, one of my least favorite presidents, and bad timing I have nothing, but thanks to Social Security am able to survive.

Ever wonder if walking off into the sunset means we die together? It didn’t; here I am. Does it matter? Why am I still here?

Act three, old and alone, who wants to see that? But wait a minute, each day holds promise, maybe not like my younger years, none the less, I see a beautiful sunrise and feel the arms of God under stars.

On the internet, I read inspired words from poets responding to their call and see what talented artists produce. I live on a tropical island, driving roads canopied with orange, purple, and white flowers in trees with trunks so wide I can but wonder what changes they’ve seen.

Enjoy the day, each day, one day in the not too distant future will be my last; this much I know. Those I loved, the comfort I strove for is gone, but there is so much value in the humble. I’m blessed when the bones don’t ache.

Travel alone I never thought I could, but adventure need not include tachycardia. Planning, budgeting, and learning about a destination give as much pleasure as the trip, well almost. So often I hit the financial wall with no way written all over it; my challenge to take a break, do something else, and come back with fresh eyes relishes the moment when doable pops into view.

Europe in 2018 what a dream I have for my third act; what do you think, a little Spain and, of course, some Italy?

Next Trip

What’s next? When living in a time suspended between past and future, planning a new adventure beats the hell out of dwelling on how much I miss my honey, so what’s next? 

An adventure frequently includes some peril such as the distinct possible of being alone on a boat dock late at night and the cell phone battery dead due to all the pictures you took. It happened to me last January in St. Thomas, but rather than that scenario I hopped into a private car with people I’d never seen before. My heart beat fast and I kept wiping moist fingertips on my pants. Fear  gave way to euphoria when I recognized the light in the distance as my hotel. The lines of waiting cabs left before I caught the ferry from Water Island, where I sat less than six feet away from a piano being played by Julian Gargiulo. The stars were out metaphorically; it drizzled sporadically during my time between heaven and earth, a surrealistic evening absolutely worth the peril.  

Memories give the heft to your soul, most of mine are of evenings enjoyed with my husband. That night, I thought about a Tennessee Williams play in which in the movie version Elizabeth Taylor belts out, “Maggie, the cat, is ALIVE! I’M ALIVE!” We were kindred spirits in that burst of joy  of life. Welcome to a positive, no wonderful memory during my time alone.

If only I could write a story to entice you to come along for the ride, I’d be a good writer, but I’m having enough difficulty in becoming the responsible  adult again. I just want to run away and play. The list of I shoulds grows but I get to prioritize. This could be fun.

Cuba calls me back. My sister from another life lives there. We met in  Trinidad in 2013. Have you ever had an energy connection with someone across a crowded room? This could have been a scene in the movie, Cloud Atlas, with Hallie Berry and Tom Hanks. Of all the people currently on the planet, two of  my best are in Cuba. 

In what Kirt would call, “One of your but firsts,” I want to attend another writers conference and spend more time in Florida. Old dude chic resonated on the Gulf Coast last year during my trip to Orlando from New Orleans. It’s funny that in my twenties I had a fantasy about driving Florida alone in my TR6; come to think about that car would still be fine for the drive if I can still drive stick. 

The hunt for an affordable airfare or what free music offerings are in the area begins my planning stage. This time the search includes writers’ workshops and conferences. Maybe its all in my head, but I think my writing gets better after a little effort. 

Post Trip Blues

We were going to weather every storm and enjoy every sunset together. Before that horrid day in July of 2013, I hadn’t thought about life without him more that briefly; I couldn’t contemplate being without my honey. 

So often one person in a relationship cares more than the other. Sometimes people take turns, but when you get it right and you both care it’s beautiful. For the rest of my life I may never have that beauty again; why wouldn’t I be sad?  

I hate being sad, during the last three years I’ve traveled to Costa Rica, Cuba, Trinidad, the Dominican Republic, New Orleans, and Orlando; all were fantastic. Living on a lush tropical island poses no hardship, so why do I think of these last years as miserable? 

Accepting my new reality is another one of those sheer cliffs to be climbed. After three years some would say not a new reality, but to me as yet unacceptable. I have a reputation for being stubborn. 

Perhaps I’m feeling post trip blues because for a month living in St. Rose, Louisiana I lived more in the moment and thought of Kirt less. 

The artwork collected at auctions with the passion of a zealot lays on the floor waiting to be re-framed. Pray, God, I live long enough to see pretty pictures on my concrete walls.  

My overall mental health can easily be identified by what I’m wearing. Days in my honey’s 1990’s cotton pants mean moody or who gives a shit.Positive days wear a new outfit and makeup. And, Friends, if there ever were an age for makeup I have surely found it. 

Would that I was an old soul with wisdom seeping out my pores, but my soul is young; I make mistakes. 

So much to see, and go, and do beg me to come and play, but a to the bone budget demands frugality. Discipline is difficult in a poor me frame of mind, but if I 

want another adventure, I’d better kiss it hello. 

Speaking of frames I lost the nails and eye hooks; I’d better learn those words in Spanish before shopping. 

Yes, it’s the post trip blues, just selecting a potential next trip has me feeling a tad perkier or maybe it’s fresh air after the rain. Today is a friend’s birthday; happy birthday, Gloria! 

We’re going for decadent chocolate cake before I hit the gym. 

An Ordinary Man

Stories are told about beautiful people with photographic memories who can sing. One of the first things we learn about our heroine is that she has flawless skin and great legs. Our hero excelled in the military before retiring to become rich.

Invariably they come from the lower ranks, so they came up the hard way. Ninety-eight percent of us love the tale of hard work and success. It gives us hope of being special.

Our identity, what’s more personal, what do we hold more sacred? I mean have you ever met a lawyer without finding out they were a lawyer in the first ten minutes?

Everybody wants to be special, to excel at something, or to be someone who matters. I met a man poolside at a resort in the Dominican Republic, who without even being introduced told me he was wearing a five hundred dollar tee shirt, named the artists and pieces hanging on his walls, and what type of car he drives. I left before he could brag about his other investments.

Image building beginning immediately alternately bores and frightens me. Image builders seldom want to hear anything about you; have you noticed that? I remember a man, a grand champion of image building say about people he had just met, “They were very impressed with me.” It’s easy to see where this could become a toxic pre-occupation.

What’s the matter with being ordinary? I know a man who upon mentioning someone of his acquaintance fastidiously lists all of the person’s special qualities. When I heard my credentials recited, I laughed; must we be so special?

Nobody wants to be thought of as a dumb ass, but this competition to be the special one annoys me, since I’m alone so often; who wants to spend precious time listening to someone brag? Or worse yet they brag until it drags your inner bragger and you catch yourself bragging back.  

My husband was an ordinary man, who identified himself as a teamster, the last of the American cowboys. He taught young visitors to our small farm how to track animals in the woods. He talked about nature. Men referred to him as a man’s man, a manly man; he was respected. I appreciated the uncommon qualities in an ordinary man; he was special to me.