Digging deep…

Saturday, Day #18:

“Tell a story from your childhood.  Dig deep and try to be descriptive about what you remember and how you felt.”

Jenni, StoryofMyLifetheBlog.blogspot.com, sets a great challenge for us today.  Especially if you have legally passed the posted speed limit out on the roadway.  Remembering is one thing, but trying to recall, accurate and descriptive details, may become the real challenge(s).  (I’m sure I can get Bubba and Big Sis to clarify things if this goes legal.) ;)

…

It’s a game of warfare out in the backyard.  Setting:  San Benito, Texas.  Heat hotter than Hades.  Three, maybe four (sorry, Bernie, I don’t know if you were with us or inside napping), but Bubba Joe-Fred (a name I have affectionately since given to my brother), and ‘Big Sis’ the nickname we all had for our oldest sister, and myself, are out in the backyard trying to figure out how to shuck the heck out of some boredom, or maybe we weren’t bored and we were just acting, ‘normal’, destructive and full of mischief.

Back to the setting, the backyard, blazing heat balls of humidity, but we are blessed in that our property has two navel orange trees, heavily laden with fruit (Joy #1).  One of our neighbors has a lemon tree, or two (Joy#2), and ONE MASSIVE grapefruit bush (Joy #3).  I say, bush, because this is where I settled in for the battle.  It’s not as tall, has heavy coverage and my cannon balls are HUGE!

Bubba Joe-Fred, had to be the instigator, he was always in charge of mayhem.  It was his duty.  Outnumbered by a house of female siblings, it was up to him to defend all that he felt due to claim.  He took shelter under one of those navels, as did, ‘Big Sis’, I think she flanked the second, either that, or she was in charge of keeping him ready with his next juicy sidewinder.

Fruit started flying, now and then we would hit one another. My grapefruits gave me challenge, by size alone, but I knew I had secured the most massive of missiles.  The bulb in my attic failed to flicker, brightly, and eventually, I was taken over by enemy forces.  I had no reinforcements which meant that retreat was my only option(s).  I wound up in the lemon tree forest.

Efforts were diligent by all forces.  Refreshment never felt so good, nor tasted so sweet, or sour.  (I think they cheated and reused my artillery.)

Oops!  Eventually all three of us ‘pretend’ warriors were spotted by a set of TRUE enemy forces.  A mother (our own), and the owner of the lemons and grapefruit weaponry.  One called screamingly, and most threatening, the other gave chuckle and encouraged us to continue, much to the dismay of our mother.

…

Have a hankering for mischief?

Got fruit?

Want to play?

Meet me out back in five!

P.S.  I have thousands of rotting acorns, gravel, and heavy stones.  At sixty, you never know what I’ll be throwing.

…

(My photo and my header are related.  I think.?.  A few weeks back, I began photographing a swallowtail pupa.  While checking my garden this afternoon, this beautiful and massive creature came to thank me for the dill I’d planted.)

Prized!

Day 17, Friday, and as we round the corner and head down the stretch, Jenni,(StoryofMyLifetheBlog.blogspot.com), requests, “A favorite photo of yourself and why.”

This became an easier assignment than I thought.  I actually don’t enjoy being photographed, it’s a challenge, the older that I get. But I think that’s a fairly normal thing for those of us that live in our heads, holding onto ‘yesterday’ and those days and times when our clothes fit a bit better, and the hair color/texture played by a different set of ‘rules.’ ;)

This is an extra-special photo.  My oldest daughter (M1), arrived from northern California last night.  She’s in town for a quick trip to Austin for a best friend’s wedding, tomorrow. I’ll see her again Sunday evening, and then she leaves for home on Monday.

 

I would have loved to have included M2 in our photo shoot, but she had long departed for work, two cities over.

(Next time, Mips!  Mom promises we’ll have our act together and we’ll include you.)

I own this

Thursday, Day 16th of our writing challenge that, Jenni, hosts: StoryofMyLifetheBlog.Blogspot.com .  Our goal, “Something difficult about your “lot in life” and how you are working to overcome it.”

…..

Depression.  I work on it daily.  Take meds.  Keep in touch with friends (okay, I admit, sometimes I ‘hide’ from them too, especially if I am feeling overwhelmed).  I exercise. And I try, daily, to accept that there are people who are uncomfortable with ‘my lot in life,’ because it carry’s a stigma so caustic, to some, that they cannot, and will not allow themselves to be involved with any part of it.

Allow me to allay some fears for you.  Not all of us with a mental illness wish to do harm. Actually, statistically speaking we are some of the ‘safest’ people to be around.  It is the hell we live, inside of ourselves, not the one that other’s fear we may wish to create, outside our person.

I am on a mission for the rest of my life.  As embarrassed and ashamed as some of my loved ones are, I no longer wish to hide the ugly secret that I have a mental illness.  I will not fear that you will hold this over my head, claim me as, ‘unfit’ any longer.  There is dignity within this soul of mine.  Do not cast a stone toward a glass building, you may find yourself injured by the shards of glass that blast your way:  Others may judge you for judging me.

Stigma can stab deeper and hurt longer than anything I’ve ever encountered.  Please do yourselves a favor and move forward.  My goal is to educate those that live in fear that they will be discovered, the ones that live in shame because of the mark upon their forehead, reflected from within by the wounds written across their heart.  The shame of who they are, because they can never again be who they were.  It will never happen. To you, I say, “Go forward.  Live this new life and do it knowing that you can, and will, survive.”

A person struggling with depression does not want sympathy, pity or an assigned seat at the back of the bus. We’d like respect.  I know it is difficult for you to trust us, because far too often we are reminded that we cannot be trusted.  Sadly, it is our families that fear us most.  They hate their burden.

My greatest fear is not my illness, it is the loss of faith by the ones I love(d).  Or perhaps, they too, are simply looking for a way to exit.  And to this, I would simply ask:

“Go.  Be free.”

Living the sweet life…

Okay, sweet Jenni, author of TheStoryofMyLifetheBlog.blogspot.com, has asked us to give you , “A Day in the life (include photos from throughout our typical day – this could be “a photo of an hour” if you’d like).

Can I start by saying that I don’t have a normal day, ever?  I’d like to, but haranguing four animals and two other grown adults that occupy the 1800 square foot of our existence simply does not allow it.  I’m going to go with option B.  This would be the details of what appeared as of this Wednesday, May 15th, 2013.

Coffee cup #1 that included a serenade

(I wanted to stay for the encore, but company is arriving tomorrow.)

A mission awaits

(She’s thirteen, clean as a whistle and gets me where I am going.  I love you, Betsy!)

Southlake, Texas, Central Market

Some folks love the mall.  I love the grocery store, especially this one.  :)

Guess where my favorite spot is?

 

And when I am thirsty for tea?

I drive down the street to this place.  :)

Detours and road construction can do this to $236.82 worth of groceries:

Game Plan:  A walk with my best friend

“But, Mama, you promised!”

“I know, sweet puppy, but rain beckons, and there’s a storm advisory!”

Surrounded by angel(s)

(Today’s disclaimer reads like this:  That header?  Yeah, the one at the top of this page, far left, and a feline trying to hide from me?  He escaped in the midst of the mayhem.  Rain is falling.  He’s late for dinner, but he’s afraid of the locked cubby that awaits him when he finally decides to ‘come begging’ for rescue.  T-minus 90 minutes, and those nasty storms are going to be his awakening.  Of course, he’s an animal.  He’ll arrive 15 minutes before the straight-lined winds, hail, or whatever comes hither.)

Momma is not happy.  At age 60, it’s a bit of a challenge to bend down to the bottom of the cabana and flash bulbs in his eyes.

Fret not.  I am only as bad as the decibel level of my screams.

He is clueless.  I warned you yesterday, remember?)

P.S. Jack, thank you for my haircut.  Stay well, or else!

A bucket full of ‘happy’

Jenni, StoryofMyLifetheBlog.blogspot.com, spreads sunshine all over the Internet today.  This is her request for our writing today, Tuesday, May 14, 2013.

“Ten things that make you really happy.”

Children, M1 & M2

Holding and hugging them, smacking them with kisses.  One enjoys it, the other cringes and pulls away.  I fault neither for their actions and respect the space that allows them the freedom to feel that they can be who they want in front of me.  (Sometime’s I believe only a mother can understand this enigma.)  I know that they both love me in their own way and my heart sings because of them.

M2′s proudest honor

Graduated, August 2012

Pets

Hannah, my priceless Lab.  No greater hero, hath I.  J and M1 rescued her while living and going to school in Stillwater, Oklahoma (Go Pokes!), but when J went to Egypt for the summer and M1 went off to intern in the west, I was asked if I could keep her until they reunited with her.  (hehehehehehe.) I stole the dog!  Changed the locks on the doors of this house.  I did.  Changed my phone number and officially secured an alias.  My neighbors helped me devise and implement my plan.

Hannah Princess of Grace Hoberg (age 7)

Eventually, I spilled the beans.  Gave in and let ‘em have the low-down on what really happened.  Six words.  They sound so simple, but they truly were/are complex:  ”I fell in love with her.” The rest is history.  :)

M1′s, & J’s Proudest Honor

Graduations, December 2006

..

Bridget-Renee Jones.  Prissy.  Fussy.  Rescued from the backyard when her former owners drove away to Laredo and left her to forage for a new life. Brown and gray tabby, wears eyeliner better than any chick I know.

Bridget-Renee (age estimated between 9 to 11)

Rico-Chico, ‘The Man’, I am jealous of him.  He also has crossed eyes, but his do him justice.  Butterscotch tabby, white/orange and wears tail rings that are more stunning than any sight seen at a Paris runway show

Rico, (age 8)

Rico

Gilbert Grape.  Black and white, tuxedo. Oh heavens, how can I put into words what this cat is to this household?  I really can’t, each day is a new day for this fella.  He rides the short bus and never fails to surprise us.  I paid a $150.00 for him at the shelter.  Now generally those folks don’t charge nearly that price, but they needed some reimbursement assistance.  This little guy came with baggage.  He’d had a broken leg, a nasty ear mite infection and must have bedded down at the flea-bag haven.  He had also been in their care for about three months.  Seems dragging a cast around can be a bit challenging. Yes, this guy needs a home, he appeared a bit clueless, but he also had a charm about him that REQUIRED that I have him.  I needed to love him.  I needed to be his mama.  I needed him more than he needed me.  Okay, I was in love.  Smitten.  First sight.  Absolutely grabbed and gravitated.  No turning back. No excuses.  I LOVE YOU!. We do have to keep a close eye upon him.  Burning candles are his fancy.  (I’ve notified Dept. #3, five blocks from here, that he has this problem, so be ready.)  One afternoon, while baking in the kitchen, I thought I smelled something peculiar.  I checked the oven, the stove-top and then it hit me!  Somethings burning outside this room.  It reminded me of that smell of burning hair, back in my high school days, before hair straighteners were invented, where we resulted to using the iron, and ironing board to straighten (and sometimes scorch the dickens out of our tresses.)  I rounded the corner to see Gilbert Grape investigating my burning Christmas candle.  Well, how in the world a cat thinks he can warm his backside, SAFELY, while leveraging it above a burning flame is beyond me. Did this not hurt?  Does he not have a sense of smell, much less a sense of pain?  I went swiftly toward the t.v. console, grabbed the cat, patted the singe and blew out what remained of the pine scented votive.  The underside of his tail had a frizz perm that lasted through the holiday season, and a bit beyond.  (THANK YOU, GOD, for he was not injured.  However, it took me days to recover, emotionally.)

Gilbert Grape (age 3)

We no longer light candles and leave them unattended.  Fire Station #3, and hundreds of media outlets have tried to get this point across, but it took Gilbert Grape to set it aflame for us.

Magie Noire

oh my goodness, I do believe that heaven must smell like this.  I do.  I really, really, do.  I am in love with every note.  Every beautiful detail.  

Coffee

That first cup of coffee in the morning, and the three additional cups, consecutively consumed.

My garden

It is screaming at me as I type, something like, “Hurry it up!  We’re waiting.”  … I’m replying back, “I’m coming, I’m coming AND, if you don’t hush, I’m sending in the British!”

The mockingbird family

that lives outside of my kitchen window, year after year.  They come again, and again, to birth those babies and sing those tunes.  This year they are not getting a wink of sleep. The squirrel population has exploded, due in part to the age of my oaks and their fruiting season(s).  Hannah and the three cats have actually become friends with the birds. They guard the bay window area right outside of where the holly bush bassinet sits. Mother or father birdie sit upon the OSU flag pole and with reinforcements, there’s a steady bit of whooping, hollering, screeching and mayhem that ensues each time one of those squirrels scampers a bit too closely to the nursery.

Best Friends

old and new.  Lost, and then found.  You bring me joy that is boundless.  Thank you.  I love you.  Even if I am unable to express it, it’s there and it has your name on it.

Siblings

and all the history that we share.  Yes, all was not pretty.  I’m sure that most of it was downright, ugly, but we had each other.  We had each others backs.  We’d go to bat for one another, even if it meant something painful would be our reward.  Sure, we bitch and scream, yank and bite.  But we never stop loving one another.  I’ll bet if you put all six of us in a room together (even without a cold beverage to soften the edges), well, I’ll bet we’d all stand there and crack jokes about each other, tease one another, we’d all try to get back into sync with one another.  And, before we knew what had happened, we would be back to page one of our existence as a whole.

We don’t even have to talk to one another, separately or collectively, to understand any of this.  It is written in blood and true for Life.  It will never leave us, oh yeah, I’m sure that sad day will come when one of us departs this crazy world we have carved our way through, but even then, we will always still count the one gone as if he/she is still beside us. Nothing will wipe our slate clean.  We own it.  Have earned it.  It is ours to claim.  We will lay our lives down for it, just as we would lay ourselves down for one another.  It is pure and it is promised. No love runs deeper, for this I am sure.

Admitting that I can be wrong

I am happy that it is okay to make mistakes, because without the error of my ways, I will not grow, prosper, or love as deeply as I can.

J, my son

He dares to go where others fear to tread, Mount Shasta, and another vista that has escaped this aging brain for the moment.  Both bitterly cold and haunting.  I once asked him if he would attempt a third challenge of the sort.  He replied something like, “Don’t ask me that today.  I am still thawing myself out.” … Oh, and then there was the night he slept hanging from the side of one of those massive rocks in Yosemite, tethered by ropes, dangling in a hammock.  And least of all, let me not forget the joy of having him pilot me to Kelseyville, California, out of Sacramento, navigating a single-engine airplane that lost its audio transmission as we flew above the mountains and headed north. (Our mission, his wedding to my daughter.)  He plays the guitar, writes music, and also plays the harmonica and piano.  He’s an artist when it comes to wood-working, too.  I love all of his accomplishments, but I have to admit that my greatest love is that he loves my daughter, openly and honestly.  I pray that their journey through life keeps an even keel and if not, that the two of them can repair the wreckage, united in their love and respect for one another.  I love them, they compliment each other in such sweet ways.

(DISCLAIMER:

My header is a photo of my granddaughter

She is Miss Zulu.  Adorable,and I am currently working on a plan to kidnap her.  (Please keep this between you and me, okay?  My neighbors are preparing for their part in the heist.)

…..

P.S.  The British have arrived, that garden simply did not know when to hush!  (Surprise of all surprises!  The Queen has GARDEN GLOVES!) :)

This thing is anonymous

…

For obvious reasons as we get closer, and deeper into my subject matter.

Day 13, Monday.  Jenni StoryofMyLifetheBlog.blogspot.com, asks that we write a public apology today.  She doesn’t care if we use wit, seriousness or go dirt-deep into our creative side.  She just asks us to apologize.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve got an inventory and a laundry list that could fill Hades, if you know what I mean.  Okay, I do have to admit though, deep-down, I don’t consider myself vindictive or malicious, although, as we all know, it is not so much how we see ourselves that matter, but how others receive us.  We all come with history packages, the demons that carved us into the reality that stand before the world each day, part and parcel.  I said I was going to be anonymous, that I wasn’t vindictive and I tried my best not to be malicious, but when a certain boss I once worked for held expectations that were beyond any humans reach of conquering, well, I did what I am want to do, I tried anyway.

Example:

M, be sure you lock your desk, remove all incidentals from the desktop before doing so. Place your mechanical pencil in THIS tray.  Not the one behind it, or elsewhere within the drawer of your desk.  (I should note, I tend to be quite meticulous, hell, I’m downright compulsive/obsessive on the clean-freak thing._

No. I was not working a secret mission for the CIA, FBI, the Farm Bureau or any other government agency, although I did have security clearances (in an early employment and had also been cleared to work with this agency, i.e., background checks, etc.).  So, to make this short and as snappy as I can, because I am windy and repetitive, let me just quickly glaze over the facts that were required of the other five people that worked within the same department:

“Oh hell ya, that picture looks nice on your desk!  Do you collect those?  Wow! Where’d you find that?  Did the kids make that for you?  I like the assortment of pens and pencils you have.!  (His endless list of platitudes…i cannot roll my eyes, further, they are now stuck in the back of my head!)

So, here is my apology to Mr. R.D., where ever you reside, and whomever became your future employer, because, yes, I heard they phased your position, OUT.  (Remember, I quit.  Gave notice.  Left a spot-less desk, and even-handed over that mechanical pencil you took a fancy to.).

I hope you are doing well.  I just want you to know that I will always enjoy my memories of winning the trophy that the American Airlines Plane Talkers Toastmasters presented to me (upon many occasions, if you recall), and that box of Kleenex.  The two items that I kept atop the clean desk each evening, as I locked it, but not initially.  (Remember, Ron, no one else had to lock their desk, much less clean it, and I’m not sure how many mechanical pencils they had, but I fear it may have been more than one.)  Awe to heck with it.  Let’s face this and get over it, you and me.  Let’s bury my hatchet.  I’ll dig the hole and throw that danged thing in, but you have to sit here and listen to me spew my ugliness.

Do you recall the day one of the big-wig managers (A/A), came by to congratulate me on winning one of those speeches?  Ahh, I didn’t think so, but I’ll never forget the look on your face when Mr. Big-Wig asked me where my trophy was and I blurted out:

“Oh, Ron does not allow items upon my desk, during, or after work.”  Those words fell so fast that I didn’t have time to think about how vile and ill-willed they must have sounded to you.  But I do remember the aftermath.  When the gentleman looked at you, smiling and said,

“You don’t let her enjoy her awards?”

Now, I’ve got to admit, this is where I get a little brain-fogged.  But knowing how important that desk was to you, I’m sure I bent my head forward and began slave-driving toward ninety.  I seriously do not recall what occurred next between the two of you, other than you both disappeared from my doorway.  Time would follow and I would/recall visitors from time to time.  They came to view my Kleenex box, smile at that cheap trophy, and say something along the lines of:

“Job well done!”

And finally, I get to the apology part.  This is where I say, from that day forward I could give a CHIT about what you thought about the two things that I allowed going forward.  The Kleenex and the trophy.

Seriously,

I hope you are well. All I ask is this:  Can I send you a mechanical pencil?  Brand-new, any brand you want.  Any color, any lead size.  I will award it to you as ceremoniously as that gold  pen and pencil set that your superior awarded me.  One of the leaders of “XYZ”.

Your Obsessive/Compulsive former employee. (On site, contract.)

Miss M.

P.S.  I did not feel it necessary to edit and precisely articulate this message.  I somehow understand no matter how I wipe this thing, it’s still not going to be as clean or sufficient enough to meet your standards.  It does meet mine, though.

I miss you, Prescilla

Jenni (StoryofMyLifetheBlog.blogspot.com), and Day #12, asks us to write about, “What do you miss?  (A person, a thing, a place, a time of your life…”)  She gives us an open door, one where we can spill the goods.  One that happens to fall upon Mother’s Day…and by the way,

Happy Mother’s Day!

Now, there are MANY things that I miss, but with this being a mama’s day, I want to applaud everyone  (female and male), that step-in each day and fill the world of those who make our worlds rock:  our children, whether we have birthed them from our own canal, or captured them as they floated the sea of ‘unknown’.

I digress, but then I needed to, I think we should thank ourselves for our attempts to do our very best, even when we fall.  We try.  What more can one ask of oneself?

…

A gift for ‘Silla’

Prescilla, I miss the pool parties, the Oreo cookies dunked in the kiddie-pool, lips licked with deliciousness (Megan Kathleen!).  I miss folding my laundry at your house while we tuned in to the soap opera’s.  I miss our children playing together, the bitch sessions we had over the various and sundry things that cratered our world.  I miss the yelling of, “Stella” from outside our doorsteps. ( ;) ) I miss Christopher calling my name from his bedroom window and Boo-Boo (sorry, Amanda), the way she cocked her head and asked, “Why?”  when we asked her not to do something.  (Eye-roll, wink, kiss!)  I miss Randy, and seeing the respect and love he never failed to display, openly, towards you.

And I thank you, for all those things that only you and I know about, the ones where you picked me up, dusted me off, held me close and promised me that you would find help if it meant dialing every phone number in the book.  I love that you never gave up on me, when it felt as if everyone else had.

I love you, hold you precious and dear, and know in my heart-of-hearts you love me, equally.

Thank you for everything, and for all!

 Have a wonderful, Mother’s Day!