Monday, July 15, 2019

Haiku

Bales of reddish brown
hay look forlorn as the sun
sets and my heart aches. 

Friday, July 12, 2019

Across The Divide

My bed is no longer mine. I sleep
across the hall where it is cooler
in the winter and too hot in summer.

My dog is confused and stares at me
when I emerge from the darkness
of the room across the hall. Her eyes

show her sorrow. She is old now
and quite likely to leave us soon,
and for that I grieve more than I do

for the loss of lying down in my blue
room with the red accents and the art
which tells the story of my life. This

night, I want to go in there but can't.
All that kept me there was a matter
of degrees, and I have adjusted now

to the difference, the loss of bedfellow,
the sad look in my sweet red girl's eyes.

Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Jackson 5



Remember watching this.
Back in the day when everyone was innocent and all things were just rock and roll songs. The day he died, I was driving someone I cared a great deal about to a psychiatric hospital in another state. My grief over his death took a back seat to my immediate concern for that loved one. The hospitalization lasted for some time, and there was no time for grieving childhood idols. Michael's legacy is a troubling one. I do not know if he did what he has been accused of doing, but it looks likely that he was sexually inappropriate with young boys. To say Michael was the first victim does not minimize the pain he inflicted, if he did, indeed, inflict the sexually inappropriate acts on these young boys. Pedophilia is a sickness that destroys so many lives. It has been ten years. I remember my fear driving that night, a celebrity's death nowhere on my radar. I found out later that Farrah Fawcett died that same day. When we are in the midst of living, we do. We act. We go. We drive. We listen. We are fearful. We are hopeful. We are so very very very worried. All that being said, I do want to say that I felt Michael was my playmate many times as a child. I loved listening to him sing ABC and Rockin Robin. It took me away from my own pain.

Friday, June 14, 2019

Facebook response #1

I am the only one near my mother (geographically speaking), and I do not check on her. The reasons are filled with complicated nonsense, but it is what it is. Someone does check on her. I am glad you could be there for your parents, James. I think you are a better human than I am. I can't do it. Yet, I think of my mother when I hear this, and I think of me and how I am likely to be in that same place some day. I won't say bad karma coming back to get me because I know the deal. I would like to think I am fairly evolved but with miles to go before I sleep, but I can't do my mom. I can't. As long as I know someone is there, I can feel somewhat better about the dissonance and the guilt and shame. I really have nothing to feel guilty about though I have lived my entire life thinking that I do. Keeps me awake many nights. Wakes me up many nights. Destroys many moments of could-be happiness. I am still working on this. I may not get to any good place before she dies or I die, but it is not because I am not trying. I have a few friends who had a less than idyllic childhood who stepped up to the plate and cared for their ailing and dying parents I have great admiration for them, as I do for you for being there. I feel like you guys were able to overcome the adversity that I have not been able to do--me, with all of my social work and crisis years--me. I can't do it. Not yet. Maybe some day. I appreciate your thoughts, James, and what you were able to do for your aging parents.

Facebook post

Sometimes, it is so hard to think our parents failed us that we can't bring ourselves to say it. You may not feel that way. I feel that way, often. I try hard hard hard to think they did the best they could, and I think perhaps they did, but I can't know for certain. I can rationalize what they had to work with as they became parents, and I know some things about their lives as children. How do we fail our parents? By not being what they wanted us to be? By getting into trouble? By making bad decisions? By not being there to visit? I have to tell you that I feel I did everything I could do to "make" my mother love me. Make her love me. Make her love me. That is just the most ridiculous thought. Make her love me. I love my children. I have made so many mistakes, and I still do, but I love them. Unconditionally love them. Feel so incredibly grateful for their lives and presence and all they have given to me and to this life and to themselves. They are incredible people. I cannot imagine that one of them would ever have to say they did everything they could to make me love them. *sigh* My father was 13 years older than my mother. He was 32 and she was 19 when they married. My oldest brother was born 10 months after they married (57) and the rest of us were like this: 57, 58, 59, 62, 74. My father died 13 years ago this past April. He was kind to me but always on my mother's side. This is the way it goes. Some of us are more capable of handling the abuse. Some of us hold onto it like a stigmata through our palms, bringing up the pain over and over with scars that can't be seen. Some of us just can't move on. We are stuck, like the hamster in the proverbial wheel, running running running with nowhere to go. At one point in time, someone suggested that I have a blog to post these types of thoughts. I suppose they thought FB was not the place. I have a blog. I choose here and now. What are we if we can't be honest with our hearts? Trapped and sullen and morose and troubled. I choose to speak about my feelings this night. That is not always the case.

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

Molly

Totally off topic here but have to vent. If Molly does not quit licking, I'm going to lose my frigging mind! Arrrrgggghhhhhh! It is really getting on my nerves. We are doing everything we know to do except putting her in a collar, which I am going to have to do if she doesn't stop. It is driving me bonkers! She's on steroids, gabapentin, zyrtec, and Tussigon as needed. She has pulled her fur out with her teeth and chewed herself and created lick granulomas on every leg. This is the worst flare up ever! We could have a series of tests done to try to determine what she is allergic to, and then a serum would be created, and we would have to give it to her for several months at a tremendous expense. The vet keeps pushing Apoquel, but I tried it once and she started vomiting up blood. I don't feel good about trying it again. We don't bath her because that makes her skin drier even when using an oatmeal bath. Aye yi yi. I feel bad for her, but I don't know what to do. .You guys have heard all of this before. You know that Molly goes through this every fall and every spring. I know it will pass, but I sure need some patience right now. I have had it!

Monday, May 27, 2019

Salisbury Steak Recipe from the internet

SLOW COOKER SALISBURY STEAK
8
 
20 MINUTES
 
4 HOURS 30 MINUTES
 
4 HOURS 50 MINUTES
For beef patties:
2 pounds ground beef
5 garlic minced
2 whole eggs
⅓ cup breadcrumbs
4 tablespoons finely chopped parsley
1 tablespoon worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoons black pepper
4 cups thinly sliced cremini mushrooms
2 bay leaves
For gravy:
4 tablespoons butter melted
4 tablespoons all purpose flour
2 cups no sodium beef broth
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon seasoned salt
Combine ground beef, egg, garlic, breadcrumbs, 2 tablespoons chopped parsley, 1 tablespoon worcestershire sauce, 1 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon black pepper. Make 8 (4 ounce) patties. Arrange in a 6-quart slow cooker.
Spread mushrooms and bay leaves on top of patties.
To make gravy: In a bowl whisk together melted butter and flour to form a paste. While whisking, gradually add in beef broth to avoid lumps. Add in lemon juice, seasoned salt then mix.
Cook on low for 7 hours or on high for 4 hours and 30 minutes.
Garnish with remaining 2 tablespoons of parsley.
Tip: For a thicker sauce add in 2 tablespoons of cornstarch to flour.

Tuesday, May 07, 2019

The Come Apart revised

The Come-Apart
It seems to be about the tag. It gets
more illuminated than the thought at times.
On this ordinary night, doing the ordinary
thing we do, we calculate who will be
chopped and who will remain to claim
victory on a show we watch. Invariably,
Molly decides to stand directly in front
of me on the huge purple ottoman I bought
with her in mind. Sometimes, I get pissed
that she won't sit down, allow me to watch
the expected stream of innocuous competition
which steadies me in my most difficult times.
Tonight, as a competitor took her knife
to the soft underbelly of an unknown white
fish, my eyes were fixated on the rabies
tag dangling from my big red dog's collar--
bone-shaped--reflecting light from the television,
from the lamp purchased in the middle of what
I thought was the end. It was after my father's
death and before Molly came to live with us,
love us, destroy the us-ness of this house, bestow
upon us her dog-love thing, slobber and chewing
a constant proverbial pain in the ass, a reminder
of what it takes to love when everything you know
has been obliterated, and all of love as you ever
knew it is perpetually at risk. The measure of all
of your remaining days becomes more real than
ever imagined in the light of great loss; a token
of belonging hanging from my dear dog's neck
becomes the angst my heart wishes to shy from,
to retreat, to escape to parts unknown as it weighs
out the inevitable odds attached to losing a beloved,
wearing jeans or a shiny signet of love unfettered.

The Come-Apart

The Come-Apart
It seems to be about the tag. It gets
more illuminated than the thought at times.
On this ordinary night, doing the ordinary
thing we do, we calculate who will be
chopped and who will remain to claim
victory on a show we watch. Invariably,
Molly decides to stand directly in front
of me on the huge purple ottoman I bought
with her in mind. Sometimes, I get pissed
that she won't sit down, allow me to watch
the expected stream of innocuous competition
which steadies me in my most difficult times.
Tonight, as a competitor took her knife
to the soft underbelly of an unknown white
fish, my eyes were fixated on the rabies
tag dangling from my big red dog's collar--
bone-shaped, reflecting light from the television,
from the lamp purchased in the middle of what
I thought was the end. It was after my father's
death and before Molly came to live with us,
love us, destroy the us-ness of this house, bestow
upon us her dog-love thing, slobber and chewing
a constant proverbial pain in the ass, a reminder
of what it takes to love when everything you know
has been obliterated, and all of love as you ever
knew it is constantly at risk. The measure of all
of your remaining days becomes more real than
ever imagined in the light of great loss, a token
of belonging hanging from your dear dog's neck
becomes the angst the heart wishes it could shy
from, retreat, call a truce as it weighs out the
inevitable odds attached to the life of any you love.