Not Being Able to Write . . .

I cannot imagine this concept. It's as foreign to me as not being able to read.

I am certainly not saying that everything I write is perfect prose. Readers of this blog know, all too well, that isn't true. But at least I can put words into logical sounding sentences and sentences into paragraphs that can be linked together by a common idea.

Is that what we've stopped teaching in our schools - how to link ideas together logically?

Am I the only one who enjoyed (such a geek I am) diagramming sentences? By picking apart the sentence's structure, I learned how to build a coherent one. Does that just make too much sense to today's educators?

We did the same thing with paragraphs. An opening sentence that set the idea or tone for what was coming was followed by sentences that built upon the theme. The paragraph would then end with a closing or wrap-up sentence.

I learned to write term papers in the same manner.

But, of course, I'm 57 and my high school days are long behind me. My daughter who went to high school in the 1980s writes clearly and with a strong voice: www.bomberella.com.

What happened since then? Or are we both aberrations of our generations?

I recently posted an article about the specter of the future - a large class of the undereducated being ruled by a small class of the educated. It looks as if neither class will be able to write a logical, clear sentence - let alone an entire paragraph.

From the New York Times - May 31, 2005:

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/05/31/opinion/31fish.html?th&emc=th

An Addition to the Family

I've been looking at them for four years. I gaze longingly every time one passes by me. I just think they are so cute . . . so neat . . . so . . . So I bought one today.

No, it's not a puppy.

A PT Cruiser.

My late mid-life crisis could have been worse. I could have taken a young lover. Hmm? Well, now that I have the hot wheels . . . Ahem! Back to the car.

I've wanted one since they came out - coveted every one I've seen. I am so retro - stuck in a time-warp around the 1930s and 1940s. It's a perfect car for me. I just need to dust off my Ingrid Bergman hat . . .
But on the practical side (and I do have one): my Neon is approaching the 100K mark - quickly. It was time - before I was left sitting along the side of the road.

It has everything I wanted. A cassette AND CD player - since most books on tape are - well - on tape. A sun roof. Power windows and locks and . . . for my aching back and leg: CRUISE CONTROL. Yay!!!!!!!!!!

And here's the kicker - it's BLACK. It looks like a Mafiosa car - or a hearse for dolls. But I love it and I've already named it - The Black Rose. Don't laugh - I have a friend who named her yellow VW Beetle "Buttercup."

I get it tomorrow.
I can't wait.
It's my first new car that's ALL mine.
I bought a Neon the year they first came out but it was for my daughter.
This new car is MINE. MINE. MINE, I tell you. All mine!

Now, what kind of funky seat covers should I get?

Museum Controversy

The title may seem to be an oxymoron – but not to purist historians and some museum aficionados.

The controversial museum is the new Lincoln Museum in Springfield, Illinois. The debate is about the use of high tech to show Lincoln’s life and times. Some historians are saying that this is a misuse of technology.

I haven’t been to the museum – yet. But I watched a wonderful program about it on the History Channel (I am a history geek). The program showed how technology added to the experience – how it brought the museum-goer into the time and mind of probably our greatest president.

How can you understand the man if you don’t understand the times in which he lived?

The looks on the faces of the people walking through the exhibits – individual areas dedicated to each phase of Lincoln’s life – was enough to convince me that the concept was effective. There were looks of awe, wonder, and understanding.

And isn’t that what we want to get from an experience such as this?
Awe for the man who survived and forced a nation to survive through it’s most difficult years.
Wonder at the strength of his convictions.
Understanding of this part of our history and of this great man’s resonance in our own time.

The Lincoln Library and Museum at Springfield, Illinois.
www.lincolnlibraryandmuseum.com

Road trip for this history geek.

The New Underclass

Thought: We make our children debtors the minute they leave college - shouldering the responsibility of paying back thousands of dollars in tuition.

Thought: The spectre of that debt along with the slow job market may cause some not to go to college.

Thought: Am I the only one who sees a problem here?

Maybe not.

For years I've been saying that one day there will be a huge majority of undereducated people "ruled" (governed) by the educated minority.

When a society has a such a big descrepancy between classes, it is ripe for revolt. David Brooks of the New York Times has written a column about this dire warning.

Read it and be warned - whichever category you fall under.


http://www.nytimes.com/2005/05/29/opinion/29brooks.html?th&emc=th

Separation Anxiety

Just a brief blog on this subject.

We all have this problem at times.

I have a touch of it when I go on overnight business trips. It was a bit more intense when Heather moved to Seattle (but those symptoms are getting better all the time).

I also had it when I broke up with Mark. I'd spent almost one-tenth of my life being part of that couple. During those five years I felt as it I had been accepted by his family.

A few weeks ago I received proof that I had been accepted - Mark's sister and her family invited me (months after the break-up) to spend a weekend with them at their home in Baltimore. Fay, his sister, and I would even go to an Orioles game.

Anyone who knows me, knows that Baltimore and the Orioles are two of my favorite things. Fay and her family had been sneaking on that list, too.

But then came the break-up. And when you break-up with a guy, you break-up with his family, too - especially if you've been going to almost all family functions for the last five years.

Deciding whether or not to visit Fay and her family was a difficult. I really was beginning to think of her, Al and the kids as almost-family. I loved their home, loved Baltimore, certainly loved the O's.

After much soul-searching, I decided not to accept Fay's generous offer.

Separation anxiety can occur when you least expect it.

Terminal Connections

By "terminal" I don't mean where you go to get on a plane or a phone connection. I've been thinking about the other meaning.

It's not morbid to think about the end of life - for a nurse who has seen it many times professionally and personally, I can't escape it. I'm faced with my own mortality everytime I walk into one of our nursing homes, whether I'm conciously aware of it or not.

And, over the last few days, I've been to two facilties who have residents (alert and oriented residents) who are facing the end of their lives and each one is facing it very differently - maybe because of their ages. The forty-four year old woman wants "everything done" even though all her organs are shutting down. The ninety- year old just wants to go home for one more time.

I'm off work today, so I was able to spend some quality time with Huusker, my big male tabby, as we snuggled together in bed. Huusk likes to jump up next to me and spoon his warm furry body next to mine. He rests his head on my hand and I curl around him. His loud purring is comforting - a wonderful way for me to slowly awaken.

As Huusker and I cuddled I thought, "This is how I want to spend the last days of my life - being comforted by loved ones - even the four-legged ones." Curled up next to a warm furry body.

But I also have two very unusual requests: Maybe only one of them could be granted - but one would be good enough.

If I'm terminally ill, I want to be able to do either one or both of the following:
1. Pet a tiger
2. Hug and pet a wolf

Number two may be the easier one. I know I can't do it at the Lakota Wolf Preserve (www.lakotawolf.org) because they could lose their permit if they allow anyone access to the wolves who is not an employee. My dying wish is not as important as maintaining that preserve.
However, maybe my memorial service could be there and the guides could get the wolves to howl for me.

Know that I will certainly hear it.

Hurley the Hero

I do watch television - contrary to some of my more recent comments.

One of my favorite programs is "Lost." Most Lost fans think that Jack, the surgeon with father-issues, is the hero. Some think it's really the anti-hero, Sawyer. The feminists out there may believe it's Kate. The philosophers may prefer John Locke.

Me? I vote for Hurley - the big guy with a bigger heart. Hurley is the real person on the island - he's "everyman" or "everywoman." He's not beautiful or handsome, doesn't have an exciting job, didn't kill anyone, and isn't a rock star. Heck, he's not even pregnant. He's just your average overweight guy who found himself with a stroke of luck - we have yet to know if it was good luck or bad luck.

Hurley is the keystone of Lost. He's the stabilizeer, the voice of calm and reason. He's the one who decides to build a "golf course" because too many survivors were worrying about . . .well, about surviving.

Hurley is the part of your brain that says, "Pile of lemons equals pitcher of lemonade."

In a world that seems to value beauty and not heart, Hurley is a stand-out.

Can you tell I have a bit of a crush on the big guy?

Hurley is the hero of "Lost." I'm going to put his picture right next to my one of John Gulager.

Spoke too Soon

See previous post: "Was someone reading . . ."

Today's front page of the Express-Times (a 50,000+ circulation daily in eastern PA and western NJ) has a banner about the "runaway bride" possibly getting jail time and a picture (on the front page, mind you) of the new "American Idol."

Well, at least it's not a story about the American Idol "scandal" - that seems to have disappeared. And that bride should get some punishment - just for being self-centered and insensitive to her family's feelings, if nothing else.

However, former President Clinton is in India helping their government start an HIV/AIDS initiative. There is a lot of discussion about the housing boom going bust in the future. And more people were killed by bombers in Iraq.

It's a matter of perspective, I guess.

Mine's a bit different.

My Lies Aren't as Bad as Your Lies

The news these days does rile me up - as Pop used to say. Ole Pop used to get riled up over completely different type of news events. Pop was the arch conservative ("arch" as in Archie Bunker-conservative), while I wear the bleeding-heart liberal badge proudly.

However, what is right is right - no matter if you're a blue or a red. (Side bar: Remember when being "red" was a bad thing - as in "commie"? Oh, you're too young to remember that? Then go watch Sponge Bob. Sorry - I forgot, SB's supposed to be gay. Forget it, then.)

Anway, I digress - what's right is right - I mean: what's fair is fair.

We went to war on inflated "truths." But let Newsweek run a small article with an unnamed source . . . And I don't for one minute believe that the deaths and anti-American demonistrations in Afghanistan were ONLY the result of that Newsweek article. Not unless an American news magazine is widely read in Kabul.

Editor and Publisher has a great column on the subject:
http://www.editorandpublisher.com/eandp/columns/pressingissues_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1000930844

But can you believe them? After all, it's written by, for and about journalists.

P.S. You can see I'm back to ranting.

"Another Day in Paradise"

I've ranted so many times in this blog, that I feel I need to stop a moment and really do some soul searching.

Okay, search over. This is not a rant - not at all.

I've been in our nursing homes lately - covering for one of my regional nurses who is on maternity leave. Going into these facilities keeps me focused and keeps me "real." During these visits, I'm constantly and consistently reminded why I do enjoy my job most of the time. And why I once wanted to be a nurse. The old cliched answer to that question is "to help people." Well, cliches are cliches because they're usually true.

Seeing the residents in these facilities also gives me a reality check. There's the woman in her fifties who's so large that she squeezes into an oversized wheelchair; the eighteen year old MVA victim who is brain-damaged, a quadraplegic with a tracheostomy. There are many other cases like those - old and young. But recently there was one in particular.

She is a young woman who is virtually dying. She has had severe insulin dependent diabetes since she was a teenager. It's obvious that she did not take very good care of herself. She has had one leg and one arm amputated because of the progressive vascular disease (and subsequent loss of circulation) that is a complication of her diabetes. Her kidneys have failed (also a complication) and she attends dialysis. Severe diabetes can also cause a painful neuropathy, so she is in constant pain. She is no longer on the kidney transplant list. Many people at this stage resign themselves to their impending death and decide to stop dialysis. She's not there yet.

I went in to talk to her. The fingers of her remaining hand are dark with dry gangrene. She's saying she wants no further amputations, so these digits will probably just drop off. She asked for something simple to help with the pain (she is already on medication for it) and I gave her message to the DON and administrator.

The picture of her, years my junior, lying helpless in that bed, has stayed with me.

I may be chubby; I may not be beautiful; I may not be elegant. But I'm upright, functional, relatively healthy. I have a job - I can support myself. I can live my life.

I really needed that reality check - and for that, and many other reasons, I'm keeping this lady in my prayers.

Yep - just another day in paradise.

"A Writer's Life"

That's the name of the column that I semi-regularly submit to the the Pocono/Lehigh Romance Writers' newsletter.

I'm really not an expert on a lot of things - maybe an expert on some aspects of long term care and geriatrics, maybe an expert on Alzheimer's. I'm not even a writing expert. But I'm an expert on being a writer and trying to live a life around that.

That's right - trying to live a life around being a writer.
Being a writer can sometimes be all-consuming. I think of my stories, my characters, the plots - of the books I'm presently writing and the ones that are still fermenting in the little gray cells - I think about it all constantly.

I'm a multi-tasker - I'm a woman - I have to be. I can be reviewing and auditing a clinical record at one of our facilities with one part of my brain while the other part is laying the groundwork for a new chapter. I'm not even aware of it. It must be happening because, after work, in the quiet of my office at home, sitting in front of a monitor, it just spews out of me.

For example: I'm working in several of our buildings this week -as a regional nurse, covering for one of my regional nurses who's on maternity leave. I am fully engrossed each day in what I'm doing in the building. That is, until I'm on the way home - and then ideas come onto the monitor screen of my imagination - like those infernal pop-up ads. Suddenly, I have an idea of how to condense a short story that was aimed for a now-defunct magaizne into something I can submit to "Woman's World."

And I'm not done yet. Chapters for a nonfiction book are coming to me at the same time. I've even started making notes on it - doing research to see if there are other books out there on the market. Goddess bless Amazon.com - here aren't. I'm even reeling wih promotional ideas for this specific book. That reminds me: I must email my daughter about another link I want on my website - being created in the next few weeks.

I want to - need to - stay home today to get everything on paper - well, really, in the computer.
But, alas - I can't. There's a job to be done -clinical reviews that need to be completed before the end of the month. I need to get that paycheck so I can buy cat food and litter.

But through all the days in the office or in the nursing homes, one part of my brain is focused on long term care and one part of my brain is writing away, sending me ideas, pictures, dialogues, entire scenes - heck! - entire books.

Writers hear voices and see people who aren't there. The only difference between a writer and a schizophrenic is that the writer knows they're not real.

At least not until I get them down on paper.

Was Someone Reading . . .

. . .my blogs on stupid news stories?

Maybe. Maybe.

I haven't heard anymore about the American Idol "scandal" or about the "Runaway Bride."

That's a good start.

Now let's hear just what the "hecklers" were saying to the First Lady as she toured areas in the Middle East. What are their real impressions of our country's administration? Could you even imagine anyone heckling Jackie Kennedy when she was traveling as First Lady? Times sure have changed.

I also want to know - right up front, first thing in the AM, along with the news about the pennies change in the gallon of gas - about the genocide that continues to occur in parts of Africa. And I want to know exactly what WE are doing about it.

I want to know - right up front, first thing in the AM - just WHY the Democrats in the Senate have problems with Bush-nominated judges.

I want to know - right up front, first thing in the AM - where this administration thinks advances in medicine will come from, if not from ongoing stem cell research.

I want to know - right up front, first thing in the AM - just what WE are doing to prevent human rights violations directly aimed at women.

I want to know - right up front, first thing in the AM - why ALL cars can't be hybrids.

I want to know - right up front, first thing in the AM - why there aren't more "wind farms" like the one I see on the PA turnpike.

I want to know. . .more things than you can imagine.

Anyone reading this who can let me know - right up front, first thing in the AM?

What's with Me and . . .

. . . Gettysburg?
I spent most of this afternoon reading about the town, the battle, the ghosts. History has always fascinated me – especially Civil War history, especially Gettysburg – even when I was younger.
Abigail was her name – the woman on Cemetery Ridge July 3, 1863. Abigail was in Federal blue – in uniform – a rifle hoisted upon her shoulder – one of the many women who dressed as men to fight for their country. She had been in battle several times in the last few months – but this time was different. She squinted in the hot sunlight so she could see across the wide expanse of meadow to the other side – to the line of gray. The cannonade from both sides had stopped, replaced by the slow drum beat that always preceded an advance. The late afternoon sun was almost in her eyes but she could still see the slight movement of the rebel line – the stirring of meadow grass as thousands began the march.

“You all right, there, Ab?” The soft whisper was at her ear. Private Tom Marshall stood to her right – his shoulder nearly touching her own. Tom knew she was a woman. Many of the men did and the ones that did had kept her secret from the others.

“Scared. But who isn't?” she answered. The stench of the smoke from cannon fire lingered in the heat, making her eyes tear. She moved one arm slightly, still keeping her rifle high, to rub the sting out.

“I bet old Winnie ain't,” Tom answered trying to laugh. Winfield Scott Hancock was their division’s general and much loved by his men.

“ I hear the General has a friend over there.” Abigail nodded her head in the direction of the rebel army without taking her eyes off the advancing line.

“Old Winnie has a friend who’s a reb?” Tom’s voice rose slightly.

“Armisted. General Armisted. They went to West Point together.”

Tom turned to her. “You’re pretty smart for a girl,” he said.

“And a damn good shot, too.”

A few moments later Abigail would prove that by killing a young man in a tattered uniform who was aiming at Tom. A few moments after that she would be dead.

What’s with me and Gettysburg?

Democracy

This thought just occured to be while rereading my last post.

Successful democracy comes from within a nation - not from without.
When a change of government is forced upon a people - even if it will eventually be a good change - there will always be insurgencies. Important change should never be made with armed force.

Democractic ideals must grow inside the people of a country before it can grow nationaly.

And why are they called insurgents and not rebels? Does the term "rebel" hit too close to home?

Rebels or Insurgents? John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin, George Washington

I guess it depends on which side of the insurgency you're on.

R-E-S-PECT

Can you hear Aretha in your head as you read that?

That song popped into my mind as soon as I saw the latest media gaff in this awful war of ideology. The pictures of an ex-president of a country in his underwear was plastered all over British and American newspapers (and TV).

Let's back-up here a moment.
Yes, the man was an evil tyrant.
Yes, the man was a murderer - although he had NOTHING to do with the murders of September 11, 2001
Yes, he should have been removed from power - By His Own People
Yes, he should be held in a prison and be on trial for the crimes he committed

But, NO, degrading him in public is not the way to gain justice.

How does this play-out on the world stage?
Well, it just varifies what the Muslim-fringe have been saying about Americans - we are infidels and barbarians.
Would WE stand for such pictures of American prisoners of war?
Of course we wouldn't.
When did it become less American to take "the high road?"
When did we forget Jesus' teachings? Aha! She's interjecting religion! Ya DAMN right I am! Everyone else does.

His greatest lines of His short life: "Do unto others . . ." "Love your enemy . . ."

We don't have to "love" Saddam - we just have to treat him with some decency.
After all - shouldn't the United States lead by example?
Or is that just liberal, unAmerican thinking?

The Fat Sister

I just had to blog this - and apologize to anyone reading this since it was triggered by an Oprah show - one that's still on as I write.

The show is about being "the fat one in the family." Aha! I'm an expert on that topic. I was always the "fat one in the family" - the entire family, not just my immediate family. Thus I suffered the sharp taunts of my cousin, Butch, my tormentor each summer when we visited my aunt and uncle. My father felt that teasing would get me to realize that I should lose weight. It didn't.

It hurts me to watch these lovely women being put down by the people who should love them.
Been there - felt that.

On Oprah: The thin sister who taunted her fat sister with sexy underwear. The father who called his daughter fat and ugly.


My Life: I overheard a friend of my father tell him that "at least you have one pretty daughter" (to which Pop said nothing). I always felt that because I was "the fat daughter" that I wasn't good enough.

Everything throughout my entire life seemed to revolve around my weight. Until now.

Finally at 57 I realize that I'm losing weight for my health (see previous post) and for NO OTHER REASON. Get that, world? I don't need acceptance - I've proved myself a worthy person many times over. I am beautiful, intelligent and talented.

I'm overweight - but losing and getting healthier. If you can't accept me as I AM, get out of my life. I don't have the time for you - I'm too busy to deal with people who aren't worthy of MY time, MY attention, MY love.

And if you have an overweight person in your life that you "supposedly" love - GET OVER IT!
Love them for themselves - or you may lose them.

Oprah: This poor girl is now being told by her father that she is not good enough unless she loses weight. I just hope that when he's old and dying, that she still loves him enough to be at his bedside. . . .I was . . . .

Some Good News

Actually very good news that got lost in the hustle and bustle of life: going back to work to mounds of paperwork, having to drive to Pittsburgh, Heather leaving. And the good news is most amazing when I think about all the work-angst in the last few months.

Routine doctor's visit to my wonderful Dr. Mehta - wonderful because he puts up with me. Bloodwork was good but the BEST part is: weight is down - oh, it gets BETTER! Blood Pressure is DOWN to normal - and even too low when I move from lying to standing. He cut my BP meds in half - in half, mind you!

I told him about my exercising, watching what I eat (even though I have some special things at times - like at the wedding), taking flaxseed oil, eating lots of whole grains (I AM a whole grain) and also - maybe the biggest thing - meditating. I told the Indian-born internist-friend that I routinely meditated and that I go "into" that place (my "gap" in the words of Dr. Wayne Dyer) whenever he (Mehta) checks my BP. I'm not sure if Mehta believes it - but I believe it - and that's all that matters.

My goal - lose more weight before I go to Gettysburg (I want to walk the Battlefield) and get off most, if not all, BP meds by the end of the year.

Now if I can just get those "first 30 miles" of a trip reinstated.
Maybe I need to learn to "get into the gap" at work.

Thoughts from a Road Warrior

I drove to the Pittsburgh area today - another beautiful May day.

Thoughts as the day ends:

1.Most of the drive is on the Pennsylvania Turnpike through the southern part of the state - a vast area of mountains, rolling hills and patchwork farms. All of these can be seen at once when you come out of the tunnel before the Hancock/Breezewood Exit. The road is high upon a mountainside there and looks down upon a valley of farmland. In the distance you can see Breezewood, "The Motel Capitol of the World" - but there is more land, trees and fields than sprawl.

2.However, the beauty at times is marred by the little swollen bodies of groundhogs and raccoons lining the roadside. Every so often - more times than I could imagine - there is the body of a deer, twisted and broken, pushed up against the median barrier. The reddish brown stains on the macadam are testament to the battle between deer and car - with both losing in the end. My pagan heart silently blesses each animal killed as it tried to maneuver man's concrete paths.

3. I can tell immediately if a hotel room is a smoking or nonsmoking room. My first one today was a smoking room - I started to choke a little the moment I opened the door. Luckily there was a nonsmoking room available.

4. I am too dependent on technology. Rental car only has a CD player, so I had to go to the library to get a book on CDs - I canNOT stand 6 hours in the car anymore without listening to a book. Then I almost busted a blood vessel when I thought I couldn't get online. As you can see, the problem was solved.

5. The back pain has not left me for good. I've been driving more than usual in the last couple of months - I'm beginning to feel it in the nether regions. Soaking in the tub is on tonight's agenda.

6. It's always good to have an Office Max (or Staples) and a B&N nearby - almost like being at home. Already visited both on this trip.

7. Never take yourself too seriously - no matter WHO you are. In the magazine section of B&N under "Entertainment", magazines about the late Pope John Paul II sat in between the "American Idol" magazine (who knew?) and Jazz Culture.

THAT'S Entertainment!

The Rose Bush and the Floods

The title sounds as if it’s a fable – or a fantasy. But it’s not – just a small notation of endurance – of plants, of people, of spirit.

Years ago I had the opportunity to help clean up and plant flowers at a park’s garden along the Delaware River in Easton, PA. The garden would be dedicated to cancer survivors – specifically breast cancer survivors. I chose a rose bush to plant. I planted it in memory of my mother who survived, for a short time at least, lymphoma and Linda McCartney, who valiantly, but unsuccessfully, battled breast cancer. It was also for my sister and me – Pattie had thyroid cancer once – I had it twice.

A few months after I planted the bush I learned that my Aunt Carmen had gone through a mastectomy. It seems as if “the big C” was all around me – all around us.

I would drive by the garden several times a year to see “my” rose bush and admire the other lovely plants. My daughter once lived near the park and she would go there just to sit and watch the Delaware.

The Delaware is the one of the reasons Easton was born almost 300 hundred years ago – a river way and later a canal way – to Philadelphia. In it’s early history the town had ferries that crossed both the Delaware to New Jersey and the Lehigh River that empties into the larger river. The area where the two merge is called the Forks of the Delaware – a beautiful sight.

That is, unless it’s flooding, and then it becomes destructive – and awesome.

I watched the river rise slowly in downtown Easton once within the last year – a flooding brought on by massive rains. Heather had not yet moved to Seattle and we stood on Front Street, two blocks from her apartment and right across from the little park and the Survivor Garden. We had to keep backing up a few inches each minute to keep our feet dry. We finally gave up – and we both went to our respective homes – Heather to worry about the rising waters and me, living miles away, to worry about Heather.

All was well after that flood – Easton had issues but FEMA would be there with grants and low-interest loans. All the businesses ruined vowed a comeback. The small park was still intact and so was the garden. Heather’s street remained dry and she eventually moved to Seattle – with it’s own rain problems.

But then the floods came again in April and this time it was much worse – much worse. There was more destruction and, without the promised FEMA money arriving from the first flood, devastating to the town. The Survivor Garden was decimated – it would have to be cleaned up and replanted.

A friend recently emailed me that my rose bush must have fallen this time to the flood waters. And then another email came – the rose bush was still there – roots dug into the earth deep enough to withstand raging waters.

Easton may have to go under state management – several lost lawsuits and two major floods in one year have damaged their finances. But the city is rebounding – like the rose bush – like the garden – like the people who survive “the big C” – even if it’s for a short time, like Mom and Linda McCartney. Surviving means getting through the tough times – digging your roots in deep and holding on against raging waters.

Heather's Home!

And she just went down to the paper where she used to work (Express-Times in Easton, PA) to say hello to everyone. We spent a good part of last night (actually early this morning) and today talking. So good to have my daughter home - even if it is for only a few days.

She'll be flying home to Seattle on Tuesday and I'll be driving to Pittsburgh for work - and mundane life continues - but until then I will enjoy.

To anyone out there reading my stuff, check out Heather's sites: www.bomberella.com,
www.bf-wf.com and www.adgrunts.com. She's been working extra and hasn't updated lately, but look through her archives - she's smarter than her mother.

I'm just hoping one day she'll be supporting her mother.

The Lilac Lady

Yesterday was another beautiful May day. If man ever is audacious enough to control the weather I vote for half the year of May days and half the year of October days – except for one day of snow – Christmas Eve.

I had to drive to Bloomsburg for a meeting with the pharmacy. Bloomsburg is about 2 hours from home (minus 30 miles – see previous post on mileage changes) and the meeting was at 9 AM – which means I got an early start. I drive Rt 33 to Interstate 80 and then west. I have some routines that I do when I drive to our facilities. For example, I know where clean restrooms are all over Pennsylvania – a necessity for an older woman on diuretics.

My usual stop along 80 on the way to Orangeville or Millville is the Pilot Truck Stop about 10 miles east of Bloomsburg. I answer nature’s call and usually grab a coffee or a bottle of water. Yesterday was no exception. As I took my water and gum up to the counter, I noticed a new cashier – a woman probably in her early forties, plainly attractive (not an oxymoron – an attractive woman without geegaws, as Pop used to say). She was a gentle looking woman – not the usual hard, biker-chick type that waits on people at truckstops – in other words, no mullet and no tattoo.

On the counter was a small vase of lilacs – my very favorite flower but not usuall seen at truckstops. Since Mark and I are no longer a couple, my yearly supply of the fragrant flower has dried up. I have no lilac bush near me and I’m afraid to steal blooms from just any old bush that looks to be abandoned – I could be charge with vandalism. And, because of their short season, you almost never find them in a flower shop. I miss the lilacs almost as much as I miss Mark. Maybe more.

So, of course, chatty Mitzi, liking the lady’s looks, had to mention the flowers. I asked if they were hers. She brightened and said yes, that she had brought them in. I told her they were my favorite flowers and this stranger, this gentle looking woman said, “I’ll bring a bouquet in for you tomorrow.”

Now here I was, a stranger to her, just someone off the interstate, and she was going to bring in flowers for me.

Reluctantly I explained that I was just “driving through” and that “tomorrow” would find more than 100 miles south of her.

But all day long I thought of her kind offer – the purity of it – the great generosity of a simple gift that would have made a stranger so happy.

I do hope I get to see her again – on my next trip to Orangeville or Millville. I want to tell her that her gesture made me smile and gave me a good feeling all day.

Lilacs, even with their short season, return every year to soften our hearts. Like simple gifts – even to strangers.

Another Day in Paradise

And that's true.
I'm lucky. I just have to have someone slap me on the back of the head every so often to remind me of it. (Now, now - too many takers out there.)

I have to just accept that I'm fairly good at the job I have and just get the f--k on with it. I have my dreams - don't we all. But I'm lucky enough to be able to support myself and save a little money to work towards those dreams.

Maybe one day - just maybe, I'll have a book contract and enough guts to say, "The Hell with Heath Insurance! I'm going to write full time and if I get sick . . .well, we'll just burn that bridge when we cross it."

And just what brought on today's epiphany?

1. I think I sort of, like kinda like, well . . . ahem . . . I think I blackmailed our pharmacy company into giving my regional nurses new wireless-ready laptops. It went something like this," Gee, Gary . . ." (He's their CEO) " . . . it's all about support. And if I want to put policies and procedures in place to allow the regional nurses to assist the facilities . . .blah, blah, blah." In other words, give me the hardware and we'll be good to you and promote your computerized med system (that many nurses are scared of).

And . . .
B. It was a damn fine May day.

And . . .
3. I could have had a job interview for the Liaison position at a Visiting Nurse Association (I'm not going - better the devil you know - at least for now).

I just hope all this good feeling lasts - at least through tomorrow.

Flyte's Fantasy

Reality set in this morning when I opened a cabinet door. But I get a little ahead of myself - as usual.

Yesterday I was full of dreams and ambitions. Like maybe I could be a copywriter or an editor for would-be-published authors. I had been judging a contest for writers - something I've been doing for years - and discovered I enjoyed it. I enjoyed taking what someone had written and showing them how to make it stronger; how to make the pacing better; where they were having problems with point of view. Eureka! I got it. I think I got it! What I can do - something I'm good at - something I enjoy and something I can do from home.

I was off! In more ways than one. I figured I could open an eBay business, use Paypal and have the manuscripts sent to me with returned postage. I was even figuring out what to charge per page.

Did I mention that I'm reading the bestseller "Blink"? It's about making decisions based on gut feelings. Maybe it's not a good influence on me. Neither is my daughter who is happier after she gave up most of her wordly possessions - as if she had that much - moved 3000 miles away and is starting over. Maybe, I could do something similar - find my own bliss.

I was really into it until I opened that cabinet door and saw "the line-up" - all the medications that I have to take to keep on going: thyroid (I have no thyroid gland so it's non-negotiable), rocalcitrol for the same reason only with the parathyroids, and various pills to keep my blood pressure down. Maybe the BP would lower automatically with a different job - maybe not.
Without a healthcare plan my meds alone would cost me more than $300 a month.

And then there's my age. At 57 one does not want to go without health insurance. My little savings would be wiped out with one hospitalization.

This morning it was as if my small dream had crawled into the back that cabinet, beside the Norvasc and Hazaar, and peeked out at me with reproachful eyes, whispering, "If not now, when?"

I shut the door and said, "Maybe never."

Here we go again.

I just could NOT let this one pass.

A woman in our area had sextuplets last year. She already had 3-year old twins. Now she has 8 children under the age of 5.

For the last year she has had an LPN for 30 hours a week helping out - paid for by Medical Assistance (even though hubby is gainfully employed by . . tada! the state government). No, this is not a rant against MA and those who need it. The operative word here is "need." The LPN's services will soon be terminated because MA pays for it for one year only. The family was petitioning the state for continuance of the services because it was "not safe for the mother to care for 8 small children alone."

Now let me stop here and say that at first - I was thinking, "Yeah, I understand that reasoning." But THEN I heard on a local radio newscast that the mother is saying that "society should pay for the extra help, because society produced the fertility drugs that created so many children."

Whoaaaaaa, Nelly! Back up! Rewind the tape. What did you say?

"Let me get this straight," mother-of-one says to mother-of-eight. You ALREADY HAD two kids and you took fertility drugs to have more and think it's partly MY responsibility to help YOU take care of them. I don't THINK so.

Ya see, honey. I was a working woman when I got pregnant. I went right back to work after she was born and I've been working since. I knew I would have to continue to work and that our family income could not support more children. Therefore - now listen carefully - therefore, because of the financial realities of life, I limited the size of my family.

Honey, you made the choice to take the drugs, to extend your family that already had two children. You seem to be smart enough to have realized that child care, along with money, does not grow on trees. You did this; you take care of it. Maybe the next woman who "wants just one more baby" and needs drugs that could give her a multiple birth, will make a better decision that you did.

Suck it up, sweetie.
Those kids are your responsibility. NOT mine.
If that logic can work for the pregnant black teenager in the 'hood, it can work for the middle class mom. In fact it works more for you. You should have known better.

A Day Outside . . .

. . .my gift to myself on Mother's Day.

It was a glorious May day - bright blue sky, breezy, with just enough sun for a touch of warmth.
I spent the day at the Lenape Museum (www.lenape.org) on Fish Hatchery Road in Allentown, PA for their corn-planting ceremony. There was drumming, singing and dancing - such wonderful dancing - hoop dancers and Aztec fire dancers. I thoroughly enjoyed all of it - especially the girls and young women who did the Fancy Shaw dancing. The way they dance, a heel to toe hop from one foot to the other while flitting decorated silk fringed shawls, is supposed to imitate the flight of butterflies. They did butterflies proud this afternoon.

I am drawn to the Indian cultures and have read many books on Lenape, one of the names of the people who lived in pre-Columbian eastern Pennsylvania-western New Jersey area. I've been going to ceremonies at the museum for years - long before it became popular to be interested in the ways of the First People. Maybe that makes me ahead of the times. Maybe it just makes me a nerd. I would like to think it's the former but maybe it's more the latter. I'm also the woman with shelves of books on the Battle of Gettysburg - so nerd, it is.

But tonight I'm a happy nerd. I sat in my unfolded, folding canvas chair all afternoon, listening to singing and drumming and watching dancers. I had a smile on my face all day - still do.

Ashay!

Love Letter to John Gulager

Dear John,

This is not the usual love letter. Your sweet lady of more than twenty years (and she does adore you; it's quite obvious) has nothing to fear from me. I'm chubby, older than you and at this time not looking for a realtionship.

I just wanted you to know that, in me - Mitzi Flyte - you have an undying fan.

I've watched you in "Project Greenlight" and have been amazed at how a gentle gentleman was able to get through the Hollywood-types and express his vision.

You have inspired me to follow my dream - to write and possibly, one day, Goddess willing, support myself through my writing.

I cannot wait to see "Feast." I cannot wait to see the next "Gulager."

Blessings to you and your family. Tell your Dad that I once had a crush on him.

Love,
Mitzi

National Nurses Week

I'm a nurse. When I started this blog I touched on how I became a nurse - process of elimination:
1. I needed a profession
2. I didn't want to be a secretary
3. Family could not afford for me to go to college
4. Easton Hospital School of Nursing in 1965 cost $500 for three full years;Washington Hospital Center School of Nursing (near my home and where I wanted to go) cost $2000 for three full years.
Therefore, I went to nursing school in Easton, PA.

I've been an RN for more than 37 years. Sometimes I enjoy what I do - I'm really good at it - or so I've been told. I'm best at teaching inservices and nurse aide classes. I really enjoy that - all the time, not just sometimes. Maybe I should have been a teacher.

I love to write. I love to read. All the time - not just sometimes. I can even quote lines from Shakespeare, Poe (naturally), Yeats, Wordsworth, Blake, Austen. Maybe I should have been an English teacher.

But, alas, I am a nurse - life intervened and other dreams were set aside.

But I revisit those dreams everyday. Blogging is part of that revisit. Writing on one of my Works in Progress daily is part of that revisit. Reading the classics everyday (I read aloud to the cats - thanks you, James Qwilleran) is part of that revisit.

So happy Nurses Week to all nurses - especially those of us who went into nursing because of reasons other than our own dreams. Revisit those other dreams everyday - it will make you a better nurse.

Hawks - again

I believe in animal totems. If you've been reading my blogs for awhile, this is not news to you. If you are new to me, you're probably thinking, "Animal? Totems? Whaaaaaat?"

Briefly, animal totems are animals that come to you, either in dreams, in nature, or through your inner connection to them. Each animal brings you a message - a message that you have to decipher.

My totems, the animals that I've been drawn to, are Owl, Cat, Dragon (yes - even "mythical" animals can be a totem), Crow, Wolf and now - Hawk.

Hawk has appeared to me often lately; so I wondered if Hawk had a message for me. I'm reading "Animal Speak" by Ted Andrews - a wonderful book that is a guide to animals' natural lives and mystical lives.

From "Animal Speak": "Hawk: Visionary Power and Guardianship"
Red-tail Hawk: "This powerful bird can awaken visionary power and lead you to your life purpose. It is the messenger bird, and whenever it shows up, pay attention. There is a message coming."

Now my job is to recognize the message and its meaning.

The "Great" American Idol Controversy

I shall begin by saying that I may be one of the few people in the nation who have never watched one episode of "American Idol." After spending most of my formative years being humiliated for my weight, I am intrinsically adverse to watching people being put down- especially on national television. I didn't even watch the "Prime Time" episode that purported to "investigate" the connection between one of "Idol's" judges and a contestant.

Now you know that I have absolutely no background on which to base my opinion. But an opinion I do have.

STOP IT! STOP IT NOW! (see previous post on the "Runaway Bride")

This is NOT important. This should not clog up news shows and magazines - or even my AOL home screen.

In other words: Who Gives a Flying Fuck?

There, I've used "The F-Word" again - over this country's obsession with faux celebrities. I'm not against the show - let those who want to watch it, watch. I will continue to choose not to watch. I will defend your right to watch. However, please - please- please do not make the foibles of these talented-challenged people (the judges and the ex-contestant looking to expand his fifteen minutes of fame), do not make their exploits more a part of our culture than they already are.

If, when confronted with the story that an "Idol" judge slept with a contestant, the media-types would just say: WGAFF, the world would definitely be a much better place.

Going back to hawk-watching.

Hawk Watching

Well, I'm just going to keep writing about him until someone tells me to stop.

He was there again yesterday as I drove home from work. It is now "his" lightpole - near the post office building on Postal Road - just a few hundred feet from where the bigger man-made "birds" take off. As impressive as those other large birds are sometimes, I am more drawn to the feathered pole-sitter. He's beautiful, graceful, regal - as you can see, I'm totally enamored.

Amazing how easily I can fall in love with something that will not knowingly hurt me. Is this why I just want to surround myself with animals - feathered, furred, finned? That I will always be the matriarch - the giver, the nurturer and they will always "need" me? Or am I just fascinated by their simple beauty and unconditional love for the world around them? Probably a little of both. Instinctively animals know that nature is the real provider, not their skin-mother. Too bad humans have lost that instinct.

I will continue to hawk-watch and write about him. There's too much written about human angst - over problems that, for the most part, we have created for ourselves. (This writer included.) And not enough written about the wonders that surround us.

If enough people forget their inner turmoil and reach out to the natural world, it may go along way to healing the wounds - real or perceived.

I've decided that each month I will try to do at least one thing to reconnect to nature. I may go back to the Lakota Wolf Preserve or I just may take a walk in Hugh Moore Park. I have to do it - for my heart's sake - for my self preservation.

I cannot let that beauty come to me only on the drive home from work when I happen to see my hawk on his lightpole.

Breaking News . . . .

It crawls across the bottom of the CNN screen. "Missing bride found unhurt. . ." or words to that affect. Everyone is elated. The missing bride-to-be, Jennifer Wilbanks, had called from a payphone - she didn't even know where she was. Her family and friends were celebrating. Newsreporters were happy . . . All was right in the world. It was "good news."

But . . .
Something just didn't seem right to me. The hairs on the back of my neck were dancing when I heard about the "Hispanic man and white woman" who had kidnapped the bride-to-be.
And I said as much: "This ain't kosher." However, the cats were the only ones who heard me.

Alas, once again - in the mode of "Scott Peterson did it just as sure as I'm breathing" - I was right. Something, indeed, was not kosher.

This daughter of a pillar of the community, this off-spring of a stellar family, this young woman of the 14 attendants and 600 guests. . .this WASP (white-anglo-saxon-princess) had caused grief and worry to family and friends and $60K to her community by running away from her problems. Days after being brought home, towel over her head as she walked through the airport, she's apologizing . . .saying that there were causes for her disappearance but she's just not ready to talk about them yet.

Well, excuuuuuuuuuuse me, Jennifer Wilbanks. Grow-the-fuck-up.

Take accountability for your actions. Beg forgiveness from your family, your fiance, your community. If your fiance will have you now after you humiliated him and his family in public, have a nice quiet wedding with immediate family. Donate the money you would have spent on the previously planned extravaganza to your town for the hours of heartache and financial cost of your bus ride to New Mexico. Do some community service, preferably with people who hardly have busfare, let alone the money to waste on such a wedding.

However, for the sake of your poor fiance, I hope he realizes that you are not ready to assume the responsibility of being a wife - you're hardly ready to be an adult.

Adults don't run away from their problems. And if they do need some time away, they let the ones who love them know where they are.

Jennifer Wilbanks - you were not worth replacing the news of carnage in Iraq - news of your flight was not worth not hearing about dying Iraqi children.

I know what to do with all the money you would have spent on a wedding. Give it to UNICEF.
Give it to Care. Give it to Save the Children. Hell! Give it to the local ASPCA.

They're worth more than the "problems" of a self-centered WASP.

And to the media who gave her flight credence and were then upset when she had not been kidnapped: STOP IT. STOP IT NOW!
Not one more word about her. I don't want to hear her public apology. I don't want pictures of any nuptials. I don't want to see her picture on "People." Do not have her or her pastor on CNN, Today, GMA or CBS Morning. And for God's sake, DO NOT give this airhead a freakin' BOOK DEAL and subsequent "Movie of the Week." Let it goooooooo. I am after this rant. If she appears on a newscast, I will change the channel.
Go back to reporting the real news:
Dafur, Baghdad, Iran, prisoner abuse, lack of healthcare for millions of Americans, North Korea.
Let Huntley and Brinkley rest in their graves - they've been spinning for a loooong time.

He's Baaaaaack

I just ran out of the office to get lunch (now sitting at computer munching a wrap - healthy one).

I saw the hawk, same big beautiful hawk, sitting on the same lightpole when I was out a few minutes ago.

Just seeing him again brightened a gray (outside and inside) day.

Little things do mean a lot.

Now - after writing "little things . . ." I have the feeling that the term is wrong in describing this bird -any bird - any part of nature.

If we see nature's wonders as "little things" then there is something wrong.
Everything in nature is a wondrous thing - "Bright and beautiful . . ." Things to be cherished.

Seeing "my" hawk again was a BIG thing. I smiled - a lot - after finding him on his lightpole again.

Call of the wild - Part 2

I know why the hawk fascinated me so much. I’ve developed a yearning, a longing, for nature – for being outside. Not just for sitting out on my patio in front of a busy street – but a need to be out in the woods, surrounded by trees, bushes, animals, birds – in the woods – alone.

That's the odd part. I want to be there alone. As in Henry David Thoreau alone. Now I know I’m not capable of building a cabin and living off the land. But I know that I am more than capable of spending time with just Mitzi and nature. No phone, no TV, no (gasp!) computer and internet. All I need is some food and water, a notebook and a sketch book, a supply of pencils, and an adequate area for going when nature calls (I’m not that “back to nature”).

I’ve thought about renting a cabin (no amenities except a bed) or an RV (parked and full of amenities) at the Camp Taylor in NJ. If anyone thinks that NJ is just Atlantic City, the Turnpike and Trenton, they should see Camp Taylor – a campground set in the woods of northern NJ – right off Interstate 80.

Being in the woods of Camp Taylor is not the only ambiance of the place that attracts me. The campground is also the host of the marvelous, wonderful, one of my most favorite places in THE world: The Lakota Wolf Preserve. The preserve houses around 20 wolves in various pack families and cares for them as if they were still in the wild. For a measly $15 one receives a tour of the preserve and expert talks on wolves and other creatures. The memory of the wolves' antics (only a fence separates you) left me smiling for days.

I need this time in the woods alone. I need to hear the twitter of birds without the roar of car engines. I need to stare up at stars without worrying that my neighbors think I’m the “crazy lady with the cats.” I need a place to be Mitzi – if only for a few days.

Thirty years ago my parents moved to an old house in the middle of 110 acres of West Virginia woodland. I was in my late twenties at the time and thought they were nuts. Not today. Sometimes I wish the land were still in our immediate family – a place of refuge for those times when the “real” life becomes overwhelming.

I’ve promised my sister that if I win the lottery I will either buy back that property, or buy two new ones – in the Poconos. One of those places will be the family retreat – where she and Gary, or Tony and Alyssa, or Chris and Aimee can go to “get away.”

The other place will be my year-round home – in the middle of the woods, with a screened-in porch and/or a huge deck. I’ve wanted a screened-in porch ever since reading how Koko and YumYum love Qwill’s (fantasy intruding on reality here)- a screened in porch would be great for the cats. A deck for me to sit out on in the morning, drink my coffee and not have to worry about neighbors or exhaust fumes. And if there’s enough money left over – a Florida room with a soaking tub for me – so I can sit in the tub and watch the snow fall. Glorious – glorious dreams.

But until then, I may have to settle for that RV on Camp Taylor. I’ve decided on the RV since it has indoor plumping, I take diuretics, and back-to-nature for me does not mean walking to the lavatory at 3 AM. Not yet anyway.

Call of the Wild

I left work late last night - close to 6 PM. I had decided to stay later at work to do some of my own writing, email it to myself and then relax when I got home. This is so much easier to do during daylight savings time when I don;t feel like a "mole" - go to work in the dark and go home in the dark.

I was driving along Postal Road, near the Lehigh Valley Airport, when I saw this huge bird sitting on top of a light pole. I immediately put on my four-ways, pulled over to side of the road - under the light pole - and stopped. I got out of the car and looked up at him - big, beautiful and commanding. He gazed down as if to say, "You lookin' at ME?"

Mindful that I could get a head-full of bird poop, I moved back, still watching him - he had to be almost two-feet in height - one of the biggest hawks I had ever seen in the area. I've noticed that hawks love the tall light poles - a perch for them to watch for prey. There is always at least one hawk atop a light pole along Rt 33 by a nursery (garden not kiddie) - looking down into the piles of mulch and shrubs, probably scanning the area for an erstwhile vole or mouse. A sudden graceful swoop and there is one less rodent in the world.

My hawk last night must have been a tad scittery with this big old human in close proximity looking up at him (her?), because he suddenly opened a 4-foot wing span and sailed further away - to a telephone pole.

It had been a long day - a work day with the usual amount of angst. I had written what I thought was a decent scene on my work-in-progress and I was feeling rather good about the end of the day. Seeing this beautiful bird made it even better.

This morning I looked through my book of North American birds. The closest one pictured in book was an "immature red-tailed hawk." I think red-tailed hawks are unusual for the this part of the country - but I'm really not sure. And if he was "immature" I sure as heck would love to see him when he "matures" - hopefully he would not be able to pick up a fat old lady staring up at him.

How Mitzi Got Her Groove Back

I wrote 600+ words last night on “The Change.” “The Change” is my novel about three women, of very different backgrounds, whose lives converge when each one is going through a crisis and when each one is discovering that she is developing supernatural powers while on the verge of menopause. The women meet and unite to “get their grove back” and to seek justice for criminal actions of some of the men who have used them.
Writing the scene gave me goals and motivation for one of my minor characters, a minister who is not all he seems to be. Ruby Kincaid is a black nurses aide who is going to school nights to get her R.N. She is in her forties and raising two teenage boys – sons of a man, languishing now in prison for armed robbery. She has a strong faith which is being tested as she discovers that she seems to be able to heal people with her touch. When her touch fails to heal a fellow parishoner who dies during a service, her pastor reassures her. He needs a scapegoat for his scheme to rob the church of its building fund and Ruby, who tries unsuccessfully to hide her attraction to the younger man, is his most likely candidate.
Mitzi, The Writer is Baaaaaaaack!

Where did it go?

Where did my creative drive go?
I remember when I couldn’t wait to get home – to get in front of the computer (an old, second-hand one with the “floppies” that were really floppy). All I wanted to do was write my stories – spill them onto the “page” – or rather, the screen.
I thought about that yesterday as I watched “Project Greenlight” on Bravo – The Making of the Movie ‘Feast.’ I was fascinated by the drive and vision of the director, John Gulager. I empathized with the screen writers’ angst over constant and budget-driven revisions. The entire process of making that movie held me spellbound.
I was green with envy. I wanted to be doing something that creative – that all-consuming.
I once had it. But it’s gone and I feel empty inside. Cold.
The Fire in the Belly. The need to create – to “do art” as my artist-nephew Chris calls it.
Chris is always in paint-spatter mode. Chris will stay up all night, painting, sculpting, wrapping chicken wire around lumber, feeding the fire in his belly – letting it burn bright. Chris is also 30 years younger than his auntie.
Chris’s auntie thinks more often of the practical, than the creative. She thinks of her 401K, her disability insurance, her healthcare. If auntie didn’t have her health insurance, her drugs would cost her $300 a month. But then if auntie had a job that fed the fire in her belly instead of stress, maybe she wouldn’t need the pills for high blood pressure.
Gulager, the director who won the right to direct Project Greenlight’s winning screenplay, is in his forties – older than Chris – but still with the fire – still with a creative vision.
Maybe mine isn’t lost. Maybe I just have to look for it. Maybe I have to recognize it when it calls to me.
Maybe that little nagging in the pit of my stomach – the little voice that says, “There’s something better out there for you” – maybe that’s the embers of the fire.
And maybe, just maybe, I better start fanning those embers.