I'm Not Ready To Write This, Yet

A beloved friend died today.

I am not ready to write about her.

I am not ready to write about her friendship with my other, and to a lesser extent, me.

I am not ready to write about our shared pastime, working flagging and communications at the track.

I am not ready to write about her beautiful heart, her beautiful home, her beautiful art.

I am not ready to write about her poor old cat, who will surely wonder where she has gone and why there is no more lap for her to rest her weary bones on.

I am not ready to upload photographs of the glass she transformed into marvelous creations, some of which grace my home, among my most treasured possessions.

I am not ready to write about her husband, also my friend, left behind in the quicksand twilight of Alzheimer's disease.

No...I am not ready to write this yet.

Maybe tomorrow.

Wherein Sprout and I Go In Circles

"Mama?"
"Mmph..."
"It's morning time.  You hafta get up."
"I'm not getting up."
"But you have to get up!"
"Why?"
"Because it's morning time!"
"What if I don't want to get up?"
"But it's morning time, you hafta get up?"
"Why?"
"Because...mmm...it's morning time!"
"I see that it's morning, but that doesn't mean I have to get up.  I'm not getting up.  Maybe I will stay in bed all day."
"But you can't!"
"Why not?"
"Because you hafta get up, it's morning time!"
"But I can sleep in the morning time.  I can sleep any time I like, and I like to sleep all day today."
"But you can't!"
"Why not?"
"Because it is time to get up, Mama."
"Why?"
"Because it's morning time!"
"What does morning time have to do with getting up?  Some people work at night and sleep during the day."
"Because you hafta get up inna morning time!"
"Really?"
"Yup."
"I have to?"
"Yup."
"May I have a few more minutes to snooze?"
"No, Mama, you hafta get up because it is morning time NOW!"

She won.  I'm up.  Dang.

Inches

Casa de Crazy is huge.  I don't know if I have ever written about the dimensions of this house, the denizens being my usual blog fodder.  I lovingly - and sometimes not so lovingly - call it a giant cracker box; the house doesn't have a lot of character in its architecture, being a product of the times it was built in, when houses were large, utility bills were lower, and entire neighborhoods were built in a matter of months using a handful of floor plans and whatever paint was on sale by the tankerful.

Strictly speaking, this is a five bedroom, three bath, split foyer house.  We had the back deck enclosed and a room built beneath it that extended the bedroom downstairs into a two room suite.  We can't call it two bedrooms because there's no closet in the addition, but a suite?  You betcha!  Right now, that pair of rooms is kind of a catch-all for everything we don't want upstairs, and that's driving me nuts because the original bedroom was/is the library and my boos are a cluster fuck, to put it mildly, with boxes everywhere and no way to walk into or through it without dodging...umm...crap.

The second bedroom down there is my craft room and we'll just scream "HOLY CARP WHAT A MESS" and leave it at that.  The closet in that room is our preps closet, and it's the neatest part of that space.  There's a bathroom down there, and the laundry closet, plus the door to the two car garage that we cannot, right now, park even one car in.

Up stairs we have kitchen, dining area (it's not a room since it's open to the living room), living room, a hall bathroom, the kids' rooms, and the master bedroom with its own bathroom and a small but very serviceable walk-in closet.

This huge house is stuffed to the gills, crammed with crap, packed beyond reason with knick-knacks and doodads and things that might be useful later, and it's killing me.

The dust hurts my lungs.  I am constantly barking my shins or stubbing my toes or wheezing or coughing or wrenching my back avoiding things.  My spirit is stifled.  My mind is numb.  I do not clean, do not even attempt to clean, anything but the kitchen and upstairs bathrooms, because it's overwhelming to me.

The time I lived here with T was a time of collecting, hoarding, pack-ratting.  I was the only one doing any housekeeping, but not the only one making the mess, and I rebelled, often not cleaning anything for months because I was in a snit.

When Someone moved in, he brought very little with him because he had very little...which, as it turned out, was a good thing because there was no room for him to put anything,  As it is, he's only just recent;y gotten two whole shelves and half the hanging space in the closet because I finally sorted through and got rid of a whole mess of my old t-shirts.

It is still overwhelming to me, to even consider cleaning this whole house.  I need to purge a lot.  Years of accumulation, mindless accumulation, hoard-type accumulation has to go.  I can't afford to be sentimental about things, or I will never get rid of anything and one day you will read about how they found my dead body crushed under the weight of boxes of unidentifiable crap labelled "Stuff That May Be Useful Some Day" or "Thing People I Love Gave Me".

Since I can't deal with thinking globally in this house, I am doing it by inches.

A shelf here.  A counter there.  A drawer or cupboard somewhere else.

Saturday I tackled the master closet floor and the linen shelf that goes around the top of it.  I folded all the sheets and tucked each sheet set into one of its pillow cases.  Got rid of a few things.  Tossed a bunch of old pairs of shoes that I haven't worn in more than a decade, and even some moccasins that I was keeping for sentimental reasons (I had them in boarding school).  Swept the floor.  Tidied up my ridiculous slippers and got all the duffle bags combined into one bag which will go downstairs so its out of the way and neatly stowed in a closet.

Sunday I took out all of the clothing I had hanging in the closet and tried it on or assessed whether I really wanted to keep it.  Gone, now, is the blue outfit I wore when I receiver the Worker of the Year award back in the '90's from the SCCA.  Gone the black dress I wore to the Festival of Trees preview party.  Gone several dresses and skirts, shirts, and many pairs of jeans - I tried on almost thirty pairs - and button down shirts.  I also cleaned off the tops of the two small bookshelves, culling the stuffed animal herds, dusting, relocating a few things from my too-cluttered night stand, putting other things away.

Today I cleaned off my wooden chest, putting things away that I'd haphazardly stacked on it in a rush, tossing other things, sweeping the floor around it, tidying.

Tonight or tomorrow, perhaps I will manage to clean off my night stand.

An inch at a time.

I hope that by the end of next year, I will know the lightness that comes with having less because I want to have less, and the lightness of having a body not wracked with pain or plagued by discomfort because I have wrenched, broken, sprained, banged, or stubbed a body part on another box, bag, or pile of crap that I didn't have a place for.

Inch by inch...

Fire

We have a fire pit dug into the little hill behind our house.  It's not pretty or especially large and it's a little lopsided, but it is dug into the red clay and serves its purpose and contains fire well enough that I don't worry about setting the woods alight and causing havoc among the neighbors.  We are slowly improving it.

We burn as much paper trash as we can to keep it out of the landfill.  We also burn dead fall, cardboard, and the occasional candle end or wax spill.  The ash goes into the compost from time to time.

One of Sprout's favorite things is to help her Papa with the fire.  She helps him pile on the paper and then twigs and larger sticks, and once it's lit she will toss on a stick or two (supervised, of course).  She dances about in the yard and sings a little, and sometimes they carry drums down the back steps and have a little jam session.

This evening, we had a burn - that's what we call lighting our little fire - and I went down, too.  I often miss it because I am busy indoors with cooking or cleaning or napping or something.  Tonight, the flame would not catch and Someone was getting frustrated.  I happened to have finished cooking dinner and it was something that could sit.  I took down a small candle, some papers, a butter wrapper, and a what we call a "god stick", a flame stick style lighter.  With a few carefully placed splashes of wax, some strategic paper and cereal box additions, and possibly an incantation, we finally got it lit and had a lovely little burn.  Sprout cavorted about, urging her Papa to swing her around and dance with her, and Someone and I sang while he played with our girl.

Sometimes I am caught in the middle of a moment and I want to absorb it with every bit of my being, every sense, brand it into my memory against some future need when he is absent and I am feeling forlorn.

Right now, Sprout is nestled against her Papa on the big lounge, leaning against him warm and content.  She has been his shadow all day, intent on working where he was working in the yard, riding her bike in circles around him, always questioning what he was doing, and why.  They just shared a bowl of ice cream, one of her nightly rituals with him that I couldn't curtail if I wanted to.  She has her head on his shoulder and is droopy-eyed, watching some cartoon or another but not really paying attention - all she knows is that she feels safe, loved, warm, and comfortable cuddled up to her favorite man in the whole wide world.

I know just how she feels.

Balloon

There's often a balloon.  Tonight it's red.  Somewhere is an orange one, sadly deflated from its prime.  It languishes in corners and under beds until Sprout needs a pretend orange or something small and squashy.  Tonight it's the red one, still large, round, proud.

There was a blue one that lasted quite well, several weeks, until an unfortunate popping from an enthusiastic bite.  The terrific bang it made surprised me into dropping a spoon in the kitchen and made her laugh maniacally for several minutes, then mournfully cry out "My 'loon!  My 'loon!" followed by "Mama, can I have another one please?  Pleeeeeaaaaase???" and then exhortations of "Papa, you blow it!"

The red one is a good size for hands both small and large.  It's been stuck between the fan blade and the ceiling until Papa effected a rescue.  She likes to rub her teeth against it, making a kind of squeaking, frog-ish noise.

Her favourite thing, though, is to toss it at her Papa, then catch it when he boinks it back towards her with his fingertips.  She could play endlessly.  When the balloon goes wild, she shrieks, giggles, chases it, tosses it back to him.  From time to time she will stop, lie on the lounge, hold the balloon, roll from side to side.  Or she'll carry it about, tucked under her arm.  She talks to it.

When it pops, there will be another one.  And another.  We buy them by the bagful, worth the few cents per balloon - imagine a few pennies for hours of fun.

It would be worth far, far greater expense just for the joy of watching them play...

Wading in the Stream

I can smell the edge of winter in the distance, a cold and outdoors sort of scent riding under the loam and the smoke of burning leaves and dead fall branches that are crackling into flame and falling to char and ash in the fire pit, scorching brick and earth, contained if grudgingly from consuming yard and woods beyond.

The smoke drifts in lazy curls, beginning low down and rising ever higher, tendrils reaching into the open window to tantalize my nose and tickle a few soft sneezes out of me before moving on to the trees, sending a shiver through them as if they envision some future when they, too, rise on the wind lit by crimson heat.

It isn't cold, not yet, but there's an edge to the air that warns of future need for socks, long sleeves, perhaps a jacket or shawl, a scarf.  The girl-child will have to curtail her sudden bursts out the front door, clad only in underwear and sunlight.  She will not like the need for clothing, will frown and demand going out just like always, only to turn back into the house with shivers and laughs and the realization that she will be COLD if she doesn't get dressed.  I need to get her some shoes for the winter.  The Evil Genius, too.  And clothing with more substance than gossamer summer things.

I am steeped in a kind of melancholy.  My bones soften, my muscle weaken, and I sink down onto a chair, the couch, the lounge, with a sigh and every intention of rising again, only to find myself there an hour later, nothing done, just wrapped in a soft grey haze that dampens my senses and leaves me exhausted.

I love the cinnamon-and-leaf-mold smell in the woods, but I do not walk in them.  I am too tired.  Now, more than ever before, I feel as though I could descend into a long sleep and not waken until winter's dark is well past, if ever.  Dreaming away the darkness seems like a fine thing, to me, if it can be done.  I don't think the darkness can be so easily shaken.

There's a depth to the sky that summer doesn't have, a clarity that only comes when the hot beaten copper light from the sun turns to the softer peat whiskey of autumn.  Looking up into that unmarred light, I can feel myself shaking free from gravity's grip, rising up, dissipating into the boundless blue, and I smile a little.

If I am struggling with myself, that is hardly new.  I can, struggle be damned, still see how marvelous this world is through all her changing days, and for that I am blessed more than many.

Dog Gone It

I had to call animal control last night.  I hated to do it, but the neighbor's dog, Diablo, was in our driveway beside the van, and when Sprout went outside to play, he started barking, growling, and snapping at her, inches from her face.  She screamed bloody murder - it sounded like there was a horror movie happening outside our garage - because HE may have thought he was playing, but SHE thought he was going to eat her face.

Doubly upsetting is that he really is a big old baby, afraid of anything loud (lawn equipment, thunder, fireworks) and none of his humans seem to care a fiddler's fart for his well being.  Worse, the adult male of the household is a law enforcement officer!

Someone had to chase the dog down the driveway and into the cul-de-sac, and Sprout sobbed on my shoulder - she doesn't understand why the dog that gives her kisses and cowers against her when there's thunder would suddenly turn Cujo on her.  She doesn't understand that sometimes he may get surprised or frightened, or maybe he thinks he's being playful - to a three-and-a-half-year-old, he's a huge black dog that is, without warning, a monster.

Animal Control does not work on Sundays here in Redneck Central.  They forgot to mention that to the animals...  This morning, we had a call from one of their officers, who left a message telling us that the dog's owner has been spoken to and the dog will be contained.  I am not holding my breath, but hope springs eternal.  I really don't want to be party to punishing a dog for being...well...a dog.

I'd much rather be permitted to shoot his human in the ass with the pellet gun.

Gah!

If you've been reading my maundering for a minute, dear reader, you know that I adore language.  Word play delights me and finding new words with which to express myself is always marvelous.

What bothers me, sometimes to the point of head-twisting, eyeball-rolling, fire-spitting fury is the misuse of language.

Take, for instance, the phrase "reverse discrimination".

Reverse:

adjective

1.

opposite or contrary in position, direction, order, or character:

an impression reverse to what was intended; in reverse sequence.

2.

with the back or rear part toward the observer:

the reverse side of a fabric.

3.

pertaining to or producing movement in a mechanism opposite to that made under ordinary running conditions:

a reverse gear; a reverse turbine.

4.

acting in a manner opposite or contrary to that which is usual, as an appliance or apparatus.   
Discrimination:

noun

1.

an act or instance of discriminating, or of making a distinction.

2.

treatment or consideration of, or making a distinction in favor of or against, a person or thing based on the group, class, or category to which that person or thing belongs rather than on individual merit:

racial and religious intolerance and discrimination.

3.

the power of making fine distinctions; discriminating judgment:

She chose the colors with great discrimination.

4.

Archaic. something that serves to differentiate.

Discrimination of the second definition has become an ugly word, a verb as well as a noun, and it is not a nice label to be pinned with.  It is, sadly, still quite active everywhere, and many types of people have experienced it.

To reverse is to go backwards form or opposite to some reference point.

So what, I ask you, is "reverse discrimination"?  Does that mean that one is indiscriminate?  Does it mean that one is inclusive rather than exclusive?

"Reverse discrimination" is nonsense.  It matters not if one is black, white, purple, or green, male, female, or somewhere in between, if one is treated differently, as lesser or greater, because of the color of one's skin, who one worships, who one loves...?  One has experienced discrimination.  Period.

Would someone please inform the press and various religious, political, and racial groups of this?  The slinging about of the phrase "reverse discrimination" is making my head ache.

Thank you.

Thoughtfetti

Fall teased us with some deliciously cool nights and mellow days, but Summer has knocked Fall off the seasonal perch and regained supremacy.  The AC is not happy.
~~~~~
Hot or not I am making soup.  Fall is the beginning of soup season, and by gumbo I am not letting the resurgence of humidity, mosquitoes, and sweat-inducing days stop me from exercising my stock pot!
~~~~~
We have taken in one of the (not terribly) wild kittens - he turned up with a terrible wound on his leg and we're nursing him back to health.  The vet was kind enough to charge me only the Humane Society price, about half what he'd normally charge, for our initial visit.  Here's hoping the wound will mend on its own and won't need stitches.
~~~~~
I feel at odds and ends.  I feel trapped by all the possessions I possess that are really possessing me.  Today I cleaned the pantry and got rid of a lot.  Much went into the trash, open, old, well past date...but some of it will be donated to anyone who wants it.  I'm still slowly working at decluttering the Casa, but have been sidetracked.  It happens.
~~~~~
Here in Redneck Central, a journalist has been slapped with a restraining order and told he violated it by writing about being slapped with a restraining order...all because a politician didn't like what the journalist wrote.  WTF???
~~~~~
This:

~~~~~
We are all worthy of compassion, love, and kindness.  All.

Who Wants Music On Monday?

Yes, I know it's not Monday - but I have an attachment to using that title for musical posts.  Check out this tremendously talented group of folks:

Aren't they marvelous?

I adore them.

I said this on Facebook a few days ago, but I'm not ashamed to repeat myself:  It isn't often that we are fortunate enough to witness this kind of conjunction of talent, personality, a bit o' the glamour, and what I call "Shiny People", that is, people who are unquestionably doing what they were made to do, doing it well and with such joy they cannot help but shine. 

They're delightful people off stage, too, and I count myself thrice blessed for being considered a friend.  I only regret that they're so fantastic they never have any peace at the events we attend, so I don't get to spend a lot of social time with them...because making music with people of this sort of talent feeds my soul in unimaginable ways.  They won't let me pay for their music...so I have to be stealthy and buy things when they aren't looking...and you have no idea how difficult that is.

They would have no problem selling YOU their music, though, dear reader, so feel free to visit their website and feast on their auditory offerings.

Lost and Found

I'm a Witch.  Y'all knew that, right?

Lately, I find myself thinking about that.  I'm a Witch, but sometimes I forget what that can mean to me, to the people around me.

I'm not one of those wart-nosed, angry, cackling*, evil Disney critters that seem so popular around Halloween, or, as some of us Witches call it, Samhain.  I'm not a TV witch who can twitch her nose and make things happen, nor am I one of those movie witches who turns into things or bibetty**-bobetty-boos things into other things, nor am I one of those book-y ones.  I've never flown on a broomstick, and more often than not my wand is more useful for stirring things (but not trouble) than for unleashing some kind of light-effects zapperoonie.

Nonetheless, I am a Witch.

I do things.  Not big, flashy things, not turning-a-frog-into-a-prince things, but still...I do things.  I bless houses and by gum, they STAY blessed.  I de-spook places, and the spooks stay gone.  I mend broken things that cannot be mended.  I find things, all sorts of things, when no one else can.  Sometimes, if I am fortunate, I can even help people find what they've lost of themselves, help them stitch together their broken parts, heal their hurts, and move along life's path once more.

I'm a Witch.  I'm a warden for this Earth that I love.  I am part of the web of life, and more, I am a weaver of it.  I pulse to the pull of the moon and sun, ebb and flow with the tides, move with the timeless dancing of the stars, sing the Song, the Note, am part of the grand music that came before everything, before the bang and the rush and the whoosh and the frantic scrabbling of life.

I am a Witch.

It's so easy to get lost in ordinary entanglements, to forget who and what I am and have built a significant part of my life on.  It's not a costume or an act or an excuse to wear funky clothes and jewelry and scare the Mundanes.  It means that, against all sense, I believe in Magic and fairies and things unseen, that I believe in spells and poppets and all sorts of foolery that would never make it past my more pragmatic and even skeptical sides.  It means I believe, Believe, that I not only can but DO have a hand in calling upon those things unseen to manipulate reality when that manipulation is warranted, and I am willing to accept the consequences when I am wrong...and when I am right.

I've been so lost, the last few years.  Longer.  I've been lost and struggling.  I need to find myself again.

I'm a Witch...and it's time I started acting like it.



* Not that there's anything wrong with a good cackle...
** I was raised to believe that one should never bibetty in public...it's rude...

Murky Waters

A dear friend of mine* recently bought a house.

It's an old house.  It has old house issues and quirks.  Before she bought it, she had it inspected and asked all the questions she could think to ask**.  She bought it outright so she wouldn't have to worry about payment, a mortgage, all the little things that go along with dealing with banks and their foibles, and she bought it knowing that she was eventually going to need to make some repairs - houses, like people, need upkeep and the older they get, the more upkeep there is.

The seller told her that the well was good and the septic system was healthy, and the inspector gave the house the thumbs-up with a few small exceptions, items that weren't urgent but that would likely need attention sooner rather than later.

Yesterday morning, she discovered that she had no water.  her well, it seemed, had run dry.

Wait, what?

The well that had never given any trouble to the previous owner just suddenly went dry?  Not even two weeks after she moved in?  She's not a profligate water user.  She doesn't leave taps running or take insanely long showers or run a sprinkler on her driveway or display any wasteful water tendencies.  How on earth could this "perfectly fine" well be dry?

Hmm.

She called a company that deals with these things.  How interesting to discover that they've been to that house before to work on this supposedly good well.  How interesting to learn that, according to them, they had told the previous owner that his well didn't have enough water in it, that it could possibly run dry, that ca certain part needed replacing right now.  How interesting that the previous owner never mentioned this to the real estate agents or to my friend.  How interesting that her neighbors confirmed that the wells are old and shallow and that they had to go on city water because THEIR well kept running dry, and that they offered to include the previous owner if he wanted, and that he refused and became contentious with them about it.  How interesting to learnt hat the septic tank is, in fact, too close to the house and well, and not up to current code and that sometimes the neighbors smell sewage when they walk by.  How terribly interesting it all is.

My friend faces an uncertain future - she is without work, but diligently looking (I have never known ANYONE who filled out more applications, sent more resumes, worked so hard at finding work!), without the funds to make all the repairs or pay for the city to bring her water (because she just bought a house, for cryin' out loud!), and without water.

The previous owner claims the well company never told him the part needed replacing, that he never was offered access to the city water lines basically that all these people are lying.  He says he never had any problems, although he doesn't deny having called the well company to begin with...so yes, there was at least ONE occasion where he had a problem, and he forgot to mention that when he sold his house.  It seems sadly likely that he lied outright and hid what he could so he could sell quickly and get out of the house without dealing with the problems.  Perhaps he was simply too tired, too sick (he has cancer) to wait any longer.  My friend would probably still have bought the place, but maybe she would have offered a tiny bit less so she could pay for the repairs needed, would have been forewarned about the well so she would be even more careful with water use until she could find a solution that fit her needs.

I am trying to help my friend see the bright side of this mess, which is something of a challenge.  She has no water, doesn't know when or how she will restore water to her new home, and is staring at a worrying financial future.  Still...these things were going to need to be dealt with eventually.  Dealing with them NOW means, hopefully, she won't have to deal with them later.  If she does have to go on city water, she can count on having water even if she loses power.  And?  This is an opportunity for her friends and family to show her that she is loved and valued, that we will not let her fall far before we catch her, that she can accept help with grace and see that whatever we can give her is given freely and with love, without strings or expectations (or at least with clearly given expectations) and no hidden agendas.  It is an opportunity for her community to shine, and for her to allow herself to ask for and receive help.

Also?  The well company has offered to come on Monday and complete what repairs they can on the well without charging her another fee.  In the meantime I bought her some water for drinking and we are filling up jugs for her to use to flush the toilets.  Mum (who lives far closer) has offered my friend the use of the shower and the bathroom at Dragon's Rest, and will likely also permit her to fill jugs from the tap so my friend doesn't have to keep buying water at the store and can flush her toilets.

From murky water, lilies may grow.





*I am refraining from naming her here fro privacy reasons.  Unless you are she, please do the same.

*Not all of them answered or answered honestly, as it turns out.

Not Hot Hot

I made salsa yesterday.  I've never made salsa before, so I exercised my Google Fu, found a recipe that looked workable, and mostly ignored it because that's how I roll, yo.

I don't eat a lot of salsa, but Someone does, and he mentioned the many tomatoes lurking around our kitchen and how maybe they'd be better used in something rather than sitting about growing long hair and menacing the other produce or earnestly insisting that the denizens of the veggie drawer hold a poetry slam, so...salsa.

I used a great many yellow pear tomatoes, a few Romas, one rather orange tomato of a different sort, several green onions, a green bell pepper, and a Thai Insanity Pepper from out garden.  I added some white onion, chopped garlic, key lime juice, cumin, black pepper, and Celtic sea salt.

I refused to eat any until Someone tried it - he has a better tolerance for spicy than I do, and those Thai peppers?  Are angry, angry critters. 

He liked it well enough to eat it with chips, and then on the fish I cooked for dinner, and then with more chips, so I guess I can safely say it turned out okay and I'll be playing with the recipe in the future.

We were sleeping.  I was still married, T worked nights, we slept late into the morning.  There was a knock at the door, the man here to do the annual termite inspection.  He said, offhandedly, "You hear about the plane that crashed into the World Trade Center?"  I hadn't.  He was so casual, I thought it must be a small aircraft, a little Cesna or something.  I turned on the news.  Woke T up.  Called family.  Called friends.  Cried.  Cried more.  Watched them fall.  Spent days stunned, trying to grasp the enormity of what had happened, even as I thought about how it was, in some places, an almost every day occurrence.

Somewhere, I still have a VHS recording of it...some day I may watch it, or maybe I will just destroy it.

The days following, so eerily quiet, the sky empty of everything that nature hadn't put there.

Oh, how I cried.  So many lives gone, so much more than mere buildings destroyed.

In the months following I railed against the Homeland Security act and everything that accompanied it - passing those laws stole away a large measure of our freedom, the freedom so reviled by the people attacking us.

The victims - the people inside those buildings just going to work, going about their day, trying to pay the bills and save up for a vacation, retirement, paying off the house or the car, living out their military careers...the passengers who spent Goddess knows how long thinking about their end, knowing they were doomed, wishing for one last opportunity to kiss someone goodbye, to hold them close, to whisper "I love you" before boarding, regretting angry words or what they'd left undone...

The heroes - the people who, against all instinct, against all sense, went IN to save others, to help them out and down and through, to rescue strangers at the risk and eventually cost of their own lives...the people on the one aircraft that didn't make its target, who chose to shape their end THEIR way rather than let strangers use them to kill others...

They have names.  They have faces.  They have left behind children, spouses, partners, pets, homes, cherished memories, gaping holes of used-to-be-them.

There are conspiracy theories.  There are claims that our own government did this, or that there were no aircraft, or that the aircraft were empty, or...or...or...

I believe that three building fell in New York City, that the Pentagon was hit hard, and that a bucolic field will never, quite, be the same.  I believe that people died who, under normal circumstances, would have lived out the day and continued on Life's path.

I believe that we honor the dead by living, not by allowing fear and hatred to win.  I'm alive.  I remember.

No, They Aren't All the Same

So this started as a comment on a Facebook post, but it got too damned long.  Caution, my opinion on this matter is vehement and I am understating it here for the sake of politeness.  I wrote this in response to this little gem.
~~~~~

Ugh.  This is inflammatory writing, biased and without anything remotely resembling objective thought.  Not all sex offenders are pedophiles.  Most aren't.  That is a common and terribly damaging assumption, often used to persecute not only the EX-offenders but their families.  Why not pick on the pervert's family, too, huh?  They deserve it for not abandoning the rapist, don't they?  Why not deny that child molester a job, a place to live, a support system?  After all they're all child-rapists anyway right?  Right.  None of them made a mistake, had sex as kids with other kids, peed in the bushes, or mistakenly thought they were at the nude beach that was actually a mile down the road.  None of them had sex in the wrong position, had vindictive ex-family who framed them, were lied to about the age of their partner, took a photo of their kid in the bath because cute! and shared it with family, only to be told that's child pornography AND it crossed state lines.

You'd think, though, that given the assumption that ALL SEX OFFENDERS ARE CHILD MOLESTERS!!!!! the author would be DELIGHTED that so many of those awful offenders who are clearly NOT human or worthy of compassion are contained in one place rather than living with their tainted families in the community at large.  Thank goodness we are free to judge them all the same without reservation and without actually having to KNOW the nature of their offense.

Also, FYI - I do not know a single person, NOT ONE, who wouldn't be considered a sex offender in the state of Redneck Central, which only recognizes missionary position marital sex as legal...everything else, ALL OF IT, is unlawful and a sex offense.  Peeing outside is a sex offense.  Living with a partner but unmarried?  Unlawful.  Gay?  Living as partners? Holy cats, SO UNLAWFUL!!!  That's right, not a single one of you who knows me IRL ISN'T an offender under the law.  Think about that...

Yes, there are monsters out there.  Yes there are drunk, stupid, unthinking horndogs who maybe could use learning a lesson.  No, they aren't all alike and they aren't all dangerous and they aren't all stalking your childrenz all day long.  Truth is, most of them are reeling from their experience and just want to try and live out their lives as quietly and inoffensively as possible.  And yes, I think we should not only let them, but do our damndest as a society to help them instead of blocking them at every turn.

And before you tell me I have no idea what I'm talking about, I was molested by a serial offender when I was a child, and I know a couple of people who fall under the "I fucked up" label, so I get to look at this from both sides.

Not that I feel strongly about it or anything.

The Exchange

It was a scorching day in June.

She was at the fuel pump, cell phone pressed to her ear, trying to get the nozzle into the opening on her car while juggling keys, gas cap, and listening to the phone.  She wasn't frowning, quite, but she wasn't smiling.  It was an old look, a tired look, an expression that spoke volumes of such phone calls flooding her day, a tired patience that was pained, a sort of wistfulness about the edges as if remembering or dreaming of better days, or even minutes.  She had to go inside to pay for her fuel, returning to her car with a dejected expression and her phone still pressed to her ear.

When the van pulled up to the pump behind her, she didn't notice it.  She was busy trying to take care of too many other things to see the world around her.  The driver of the van got out, fueled up, took her receipt, and got back into her seat, watching the rest of the motorists at the station - the man on the ground under his car, tapping at something with  hammer, then getting in and trying to start it.  The woman who went into the building and came out with cigarettes, a fountain drink, a lottery ticket, scowling.  The woman at the pump fumbling her keys, her phone, stuttering and stammering, trying to speak but seemingly interrupted every few words by some sort of tirade.

The voice from the phone carried to the van and its driver, not in detail but enough for her to hear anger.  The other woman's face confirmed that what she was hearing was unpleasant.  She pulled the dispensing handle on the fuel pump.

It only took a moment.

The pump nozzle jumped from her car, spraying liquid in an arc that went from the tank to the woman's torso and face, finally falling to the ground before shutting off.  There she stood, dripping, trying to tell whoever was on the other side of that phone conversation what had just happened.  She finally hung up, hung her head, and sighed.

The van driver left her van, telling her children t wait a few minutes, Mama would be right back, here's a snack and she'd leave the AC on.

She approached the driver of the car.

"Are you okay?"
"Not really..."
"Did any get in your eyes?  Your mouth?"
"No, it's okay, I just need to go wash my hands."  She looked at the pump, where it was clear that most of the two dollars in fuel she'd paid for had landed on the pavement.  Her eyes teared up.
"Come on inside and get cleaned up."  The van driver placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Thanks.  I was on the phone...I don't know what happened...I was talking to my husband.  He's mad because I went out for a drive and got a little lost, turned around, and took longer than he expected.  I ran out of gas...just stopped here to get enough to get home."
"I'm so sorry.  Rough day."

They went into the gas station.  The woman from the car found the restroom, washed her face, hands, and arms, rinsed her shirt a little, and came out.  The van driver walked her back to her car.
"I bought you some more fuel.  It's only ten dollars...I'm afraid things are a little tight right now...but hopefully it'll get you home."

The driver of the car cried.

"I don't...I can't...you don't...I can pay you back, just give me your address."
"No...just pay it forward.  Some day you'll run across someone who needs a friend.  Be that friend."
"I will.  Wait!  Here...take this!"  She fumbled in her car, removed the decoration that was hanging from her mirror,a moon and stars with a prismatic crystal suspended from the bottom, the words "Follow your dreams" etched into it.
"It's okay, you don't need to..."
"Please!  I sell these at the store where I work, I can get another one!  Please..."
"Thank you.  Take care, now..."
"Thank you..."

The woman fueled her car and the van drove away.

Doing Windows

What follows is a mostly accurate (I may have forgotten a few things - if it was more than ten minutes ago I refuse to be held accountable for remembering all the details) of several calls received over several days.  Yes, really.
~~~~~
The house phone rings.  I stop washing dishes, dry my hands on my shirt, check the caller ID, and answer.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"  A heavily accented, sounds Indian, male voice queries.
"Hello."  My voice is flat - whatever he's selling, I ain't buying.
"Yes, this is Shayne from Microsoft calling about your computer..."
I interrupt - this isn't my first dance.  "Which one."
"Oh, ah, the, ah, the one with windows..."
"Which one?"
"Ma'am, your computer is reporting a problem to Microsoft..."
"No it isn't.  This is a scam.  I will now be reporting the number you called from to the FCC.  Have a nice day."  I hang up.

It IS a scam, by the way.  Microsoft would rather burn their collective hair than actually call you.  They don't even want you to call THEM!  They would rather you simply take a sledgehammer to your current PC and buy a shiny new machine.  I think the computers are actually designed to go kerfluey after a certain amount of time.  Planned obsolescence and all that.  These people calling me?  They want to seize root and make my computer do things, or steal my information, or get me to pay them to "fix" this problem they say I have at a substantial cost to me.

The house phone rings.  I stop folding laundry, check the caller ID, and answer.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"  A heavily accented, sounds Indian, male voice queries.
"Hello."  My voice is flat - he's interrupting my day.
"Yes, this is David from Microsoft calling about your computer..."
I interrupt.  "David, huh?  What's your real name?"
"Ma'am, my name is David and..."
"If your name's David than I'm the Queen of Sheba."
"Uh, Ma'am, I am calling because your computer..."
"Which one."
"Oh, ah, the, ah, the one with windows..."
"Which one?"
"Ma'am, your computer is reporting a problem to Microsoft and..."
"Which computer?  In this house we currently have three PC towers, four laptops, a some kind of Mac thingy and a Frankenstein.  Which one is reporting a problem?"  No, I don't really have that many machines in here, but he doesn't know that.
"Uh...your computer with Windows is reporting a virus to our repair center and our technician in your area..."
"No it isn't.  This is a scam.  I will now be reporting the number you called from to the FCC.  Have a nice day."  I hang up

The only way your computer reports a problem to Microsoft is if YOU tell it to.  If it's off, or even in suspend mode, it's not telling anyone anything but "Zzzzzzzzz..."

The house phone rings.  I put down the mop, wipe my brow, check the caller ID, and answer.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"  A heavily accented, sounds Indian, male voice queries.
"Hello."  You'd think they'd learn.
"Yes, this is Ron from Microsoft calling about your computer..."  It's always "Ron" or "David", isn't it?  Why can't they at least TRY to be interesting?
I interrupt, because really..."Which one."
"Oh, ah, the, ah, the one with windows..."
"Which one?"
"Ma'am, your computer is reporting a problem to Microsoft..."
"Which computer?  I have several of them."
"Ma'am, your computer, the one with Windows, has communicated that there is a virus in your area and we need to repair it or...
"No problem, I got this."
"Ma'am, excuse me, but you should only let someone from Microsoft make such a repair..."
"No, I got this - it's that sonofabitch roommate of mine.  He's been watching donkey porn again and infected my system, I bet.  Well, me and the Louisville Slugger know how to deal with him AND his diseased computer!  Right after I call the FCC and report the number you're calling from for fraud."
Click.

These people prey on the weak, the frightened, the ignorant, the elderly...they deserve to get a little of their own back.

The house phone rings.  I pry my eyes open, awakened from the nap I was trying to take because my head feels like small explosions are regularly being set off somewhere in the middle where I can't reach with an ice pick to make it stop, check the caller ID, and answer.
"Hello?"
"Hello?"  A heavily accented, sounds Indian, male voice queries.
"Hello."  My voice is groggy and flat - It's on, now, assholes.
"Yes, this is Bob from Microsoft calling about your computer..."
I interrupt, making myself sound a little older and more feeble.  "My what?"
"Your computer ma'am, it is reporting a problem with Windows..."
"My computer doesn't have windows, it has a screen."
"No, the one with Microsoft Windows..."
"Soft windows aren't very effective.  I prefer the ones made of glass."
He's quiet for a moment.  "Ma'am, your computer with the Microsoft program Windows is reporting a problem with..."
"What about my windows?  I just had them washed!"
"No, ma'am, there's a problem with..."
"You bet there is.  I paid you people to wash all my windows outside and the top ones are still filthy.  Shame on you for taking my money, I'm only living on Social Security and ate cat food for a week to pay you!"
"No, ma'am, we didn't clean your windows!  Your computer has a problem with Windows and we need to..."
"Bob...I knew a Bobby once, shifty eyed fellow who never tied his shoes the right way and always smelled of musty rutabagas, are you THAT Bob?"
"No, ma'am..."
"No, you wouldn't be, I don't think he knows how to use a phone OR clean windows properly.  Are you going to come do my top windows or not?"
"Ma'am, I am calling from Microsoft..."
I'll give him this, he's persistent.,  A lesser scammer would have hung up by now, sure I was having him on.  This fellow's no slouch, though, and he is determined to get to the end of his script or die trying.
"Bob, why won't you come fix my windows?  The one in the second floor bathroom squeaks, too, and the least you could do is fix it since you didn't do a proper job before."
"No, ma'am, I'm calling because there's a virus in your Microsoft Windows which is causing a problem with your computer..."
"Oh, no, that's not possible, I have those fancy, double hung Andersen windows, I don't think a virus could get through those...neither can sunlight since you didn't clean them right."
"Ma'am, Microsoft..."
"No need to get personal , Bob.  When you reach my age, you'll be a little soft, too..."
At this point, Bob gives up and ends the call before I can tell him I'm reporting his number to the FCC.

Dang.

The next few times they called I waited until they said my computer was reporting a problem and told them "No, it isn't, this is a scam and I will now be reporting the number you called from to the FCC."

I'm working on my next whammy...maybe something along paranoid lines, since i DO have that and why shouldn't I have some fun with it?

I despise people who prey on others like these scammers are doing, and I think a little righteous fuckery is justified.  Who's with me?

What's In A Name? I'm Not Sure I Want To Know.

Here It Comes

No, not my nineteenth nervous breakdown.  Honestly, I bet I've had enough psychological events to count for at least treble that number!

No, I mean Autumn, Fall, the transition between HolyHellIt'sHot! to OhmuhgoodnessWillItEverBeWarmandDryAgain? that never lasts quite as long as I'd like or grew up with in more northern climes.

Yes, the days are still rising into the mid-to-upper nineties.  Yes, it's still warm and humid at night, humid enough to feel like one is breathing through a wet sponge.  Yes, the AC is still laboring to keep it even a degree or two cooler than outside.

But.

But.

But...there's the light.

It changes.  Stealthily, the shadows alter their creeping courses across the floor, the walls, the yard.  The moon comes around by a different path, and the sun is zealous for shorter hours. It all slowly adds up, and there's a part of my brain that is aware and anticipating the coming coolth.  That part of me is thinking about roasts and soups and making sure the blankets are washed and ready.  It'll be months before we need blankets, but my brain doesn't care - it want's them washed now.

More than any other season, I am aware of Autumn.  It is my favourite time of year.  Too bad it never lasts very long around here - I'd happily shave some weeks off of the Summer and append them to cooler months of vivid colors, leaf piles, harvest, and the inevitable turning of the year.

And Now? Kittehs!

Sprout has discovered the Youtubes.  She is constantly asking to watch "bideos".  Here's one of her favourites - she laughs like a maniac every time she sees it.

I love the way she laughs at these things.  Makes me smile every time.