Christmas has always been special in our family, a time for togetherness, unity and love; with noise and laughter and squabbles filling the house. This year, we five sisters celebrated it in the time honored tradition of our parents on Christmas Eve night. Going home for me is hard on any day, but for some reason on holidays it is even more difficult. No Mom in the kitchen, smiling and ordering us all to line up and start dinner and remember the kids get theirs first …….she was always the last to fill her plate and take a seat. No Pops in front of the television, remote control aimed at the box to raise the volume above the noise level of a house overflowing with children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The tree was different, a new tree my little sister bought and put up in a totally different place and room from the one Mom did. All so strange and out of place somehow. I made most of the desserts this year……..I missed her Graham Cracker Cake and Pecan Pies. Traditions die hard, especially the ones that bring a sense of normalcy and peace to us. The loss of them reinforces the fact that they are gone for good and nothing can ever change that. No matter that none of us would wish them back to the pain and suffering they endured before they died, each of us at one point voiced that we missed them and how strange it was to be there without them.
My sisters haven’t been close since our parents died, for whatever reason. It isn’t easy to be close with most working, living separate lives with different stresses and responsibilities. Tonight was the first time I felt they all cared, each and every one of us offered an invisible olive branch to the other, unqualified love and understanding and friendship. It was a wonderful feeling for me. I sincerely hope they all felt that way. Our parents would have been proud of us all……………make that were proud of us all, for I know they were there………..if not in fact, then certainly in our hearts and memories.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Simple Pleasures
What ever happened to the simple pleasures of life…those that cost little if anything and readily supply a plethora of lovely memories in our semi-golden years?? Now days, everyone is in a rush to buy the latest marvel of technology, to be the included in the stream to be one of the first thousand to view the latest Hollywood’s productions, or to own the largest and fanciest car or house money can buy…………….even if it means signing your next lifetime’s worth of hard earned paycheck over to someone else? I simply don’t understand the logic. How can it be pleasurable if you have to suffer to enjoy it?
Pleasure, to me, means something that one enjoys, either the doing of or the feeling it sensations it causes you to feel. It isn’t about money, or how someone else perceives you. It should be about feeling happiness and serenity……..not a constant race to one-up anyone. I remember simple joys from childhood. Things I still enjoy today, that are free for the taking if your imagination is up to the challenge. If you are daring enough to dream …
Growing up, life was simple, we worked when we were told to, we played at every opportunity, and we enjoyed most all of it with an enthusiasm I would give anything to have back. Chores shared became the simplest of tasks. Rarely, if ever, were we given a job without one or both of our parents involved to hasten the undertaking along. And with Mom, we sang together as we worked, be it the current Rock and Roll tunes blaring from the radio, or the golden oldies that Mom heard growing up in the 40’s and 50’s. Even church hymns. We sang them all, loud, off key, and with elation and exuberance in our voices and hearts. The chores were soon done, with little squabbling or fuss. That was a pleasure, because when the jailers are happy, the inmates tend to be as well.
Pleasure was home made ice cream…..rich in flavor, laden with eggs and milk and vanilla. We had an old ice cream churn, the wooden bucket and discolored with age and salt brine. Hot summer afternoons, Mom would whip up a big bowl full of this mixture and we knew what was coming. Layers of crushed ice and large flakes of salt would, after an hour or so, turn into heaven melting in the mouths of us kids. But only if you worked for it….if you didn’t turn the crank, you didn’t get any. That was the law. Every neighbor kid would soon come over to take their turn at the crank for just one small helping of the ice cold cream. I miss it. Oh, not the turning of the crank, but the rich taste of the ice cream.
Pleasure was wading the creek with my Sis. Knee deep, with the cool water rushing past our bare legs, the bottom slick with mud and fish darting about as we violated their sanctuaries. A deep thrill we enjoyed without Mom’s knowledge or consent. Neither of us could swim a lick. And the creek bottom was littered with craggy rocks, both large and small. If we fell, we could drown. ( The voice of doom………errrrr rather Mom). That was contentment, both in the doing and in the secrecy of the adventure.
Pleasure was tromping through the woods, the air icy and laden with snow. Barren grapevines hanging from trees, just begging to be used to propel ourselves across branches. All around was a stillness, the only sounds the rasp of our breaths as we climbed our way to the top of the ravine we had decided to explore. There was a cedar tree, surrounded by honeysuckle vines long stripped of their leaves by winter’s frigid air. And under these vines was a cave…..dark and dank, but just right for 2 girls to curl up in. It was our lair, a clubhouse of sorts. One we told few about.
Today, pleasure costs money or involves travel, possessions or other people. I am still a simple soul, much preferring a beautiful sunset to going shopping. My Grandchildren are going to benefit from my memories, I think. I plan to take them walking as soon as it is cold enough. I want them to hear the silence of the woods and see the beauty of that silence. To know peace and inner happiness comes from within ourselves and can’t be bought at the local Wal-Mart for any amount of money. Our parents taught us that. For that I am thankful.
Pleasure, to me, means something that one enjoys, either the doing of or the feeling it sensations it causes you to feel. It isn’t about money, or how someone else perceives you. It should be about feeling happiness and serenity……..not a constant race to one-up anyone. I remember simple joys from childhood. Things I still enjoy today, that are free for the taking if your imagination is up to the challenge. If you are daring enough to dream …
Growing up, life was simple, we worked when we were told to, we played at every opportunity, and we enjoyed most all of it with an enthusiasm I would give anything to have back. Chores shared became the simplest of tasks. Rarely, if ever, were we given a job without one or both of our parents involved to hasten the undertaking along. And with Mom, we sang together as we worked, be it the current Rock and Roll tunes blaring from the radio, or the golden oldies that Mom heard growing up in the 40’s and 50’s. Even church hymns. We sang them all, loud, off key, and with elation and exuberance in our voices and hearts. The chores were soon done, with little squabbling or fuss. That was a pleasure, because when the jailers are happy, the inmates tend to be as well.
Pleasure was home made ice cream…..rich in flavor, laden with eggs and milk and vanilla. We had an old ice cream churn, the wooden bucket and discolored with age and salt brine. Hot summer afternoons, Mom would whip up a big bowl full of this mixture and we knew what was coming. Layers of crushed ice and large flakes of salt would, after an hour or so, turn into heaven melting in the mouths of us kids. But only if you worked for it….if you didn’t turn the crank, you didn’t get any. That was the law. Every neighbor kid would soon come over to take their turn at the crank for just one small helping of the ice cold cream. I miss it. Oh, not the turning of the crank, but the rich taste of the ice cream.
Pleasure was wading the creek with my Sis. Knee deep, with the cool water rushing past our bare legs, the bottom slick with mud and fish darting about as we violated their sanctuaries. A deep thrill we enjoyed without Mom’s knowledge or consent. Neither of us could swim a lick. And the creek bottom was littered with craggy rocks, both large and small. If we fell, we could drown. ( The voice of doom………errrrr rather Mom). That was contentment, both in the doing and in the secrecy of the adventure.
Pleasure was tromping through the woods, the air icy and laden with snow. Barren grapevines hanging from trees, just begging to be used to propel ourselves across branches. All around was a stillness, the only sounds the rasp of our breaths as we climbed our way to the top of the ravine we had decided to explore. There was a cedar tree, surrounded by honeysuckle vines long stripped of their leaves by winter’s frigid air. And under these vines was a cave…..dark and dank, but just right for 2 girls to curl up in. It was our lair, a clubhouse of sorts. One we told few about.
Today, pleasure costs money or involves travel, possessions or other people. I am still a simple soul, much preferring a beautiful sunset to going shopping. My Grandchildren are going to benefit from my memories, I think. I plan to take them walking as soon as it is cold enough. I want them to hear the silence of the woods and see the beauty of that silence. To know peace and inner happiness comes from within ourselves and can’t be bought at the local Wal-Mart for any amount of money. Our parents taught us that. For that I am thankful.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
The Smell of Freedom...........or Dog
OK, I admit I am not the most knowledgeable person about equines……………………but having been around horses all my life……….I thought I remembered the basics. But apparently I don’t remember all that much. I made a terrible mistake yesterday and turned my back on a jackass who doesn’t like humans. Or dogs! Especially dogs. An error that won’t happen again anytime soon.
Now, having a pet is a wonderful thing. I mean I have fish and turtles, even a few cats outside, both wild and tame. What potential problem could one more little animal possibly cause? When my son asked me about getting these jacks, I was tickled to death at his thoughtfulness and caring for me and my little sister. We would have one apiece, to train, love and care for. Being in the barn and around animals would bring back memories of helping Daddy and be all to the good. Little sister has little time since she works, but I thought, well hey, I do nothing all day. I can feed and water these babies all alone. An added bonus was that I’d have to leave the house and get some exercise for a change. The depression makes it hard for me to get motivated, but I will do what has to be done, be it cooking, laundry or feeding. A noble endeavor with the added benefit that he could possibly be trained to pull a cart for my Grandsons……..
So yesterday, I left the house in the gusting wind, sweats and shoes on with a hoodie zipped up tight to my chin. I tromped uphill and across the lawn of my parent’s house to the barn, unlatched the front gate and went into the shadowy barn. I opened the stall and there they stood……….two beautiful sweet jacks giving me the evil eye. I could tell they had already been fed sweet feed and corn since some was still in the trough. I thought well, gee, I’ll grab em up some of this hay and put in here for them to much on later. After the 2 first armfuls of loose hay I pulled from the bale were in the trough, I turned my back and went back for one more, leaving the door to the stall open just like we have done all week. These animals were so afraid they never ventured to the door much less out of it. I heard a commotion as I grasped the last handful of hay and looked behind me……….and there was Zeke…………my ass, galloping out the stall door with a dead-eye beam on my little sister’s dog! He ran by me full gallop….or as full as a short jackass can get. I was thing oh my God…….what now. He is chasing this little speckled dog all over the lot in front of the barn and the dog runs towards the gate…….when suddenly I realized the gate wasn’t fastened!/ It wasn’t even pulled all the way closed!
I ran forward with my hands full of hay, yelling and waving it around to frighten the ass back away from the gate. The dog escaped under that darn gate and the ass stopped dead still and stared at me like I was an idiot. I was so humiliated! I ran to the gate and fastened it and turned around….and noticed the other ass had smelled freedom as well and joined his partner in crime. I slapped my pocket searching for my phone…which I had of course left at home. The house next to the barn lot is another of my sons and they were gone. My little sister was gone as well and I had no keys with me to get in to use her phone. So I walked around the lot, checked all the gates and stumbled for home.
When I got home, my daughter was on the phone. I said……….come on Windi. My ass got out. I need some help. Now! She yelled Mom’s ass has run off and she would call em back and we ran out the door lickedy split for the barn……well we ran to her car and she drove us there but ..oh well. I called my son Duane, the son who gifted me with this nice, nice pet. I had orders I couldn’t run them up, it would scare them. I was supposed to come down in the morning, put food in their stall, hide, and when they entered to eat….run out and lock the door. I thought NO WAY! After a lot of debate, with my suggestions being shot down quickly, Duane got on the tractor to go to the pasture to get some……….errrrrrr…………hmmmmm….he called them something but I have forgotten. Basically they look like gates but can be used to make a catch pen, chute, etc. anywhere. While he was gone……….I politely placed an old gate across the hallway of the barn, opened their stall door wide and walked them around the barn. She pranced and frolicked as if they didn’t have a care in the world…..and proceeded to walk into their nice warm stall. He was so angry at me for having bested him. Soon as he got back, I turned around and came home, all the while knowing Mom shouldn’t have pushed the envelope. Tonight……….I received a phone call….not irate, just with attitude…….when he went to check them after work today…they tried to kick him. I wasn’t even there and it was MY fault. I give up……
Now, having a pet is a wonderful thing. I mean I have fish and turtles, even a few cats outside, both wild and tame. What potential problem could one more little animal possibly cause? When my son asked me about getting these jacks, I was tickled to death at his thoughtfulness and caring for me and my little sister. We would have one apiece, to train, love and care for. Being in the barn and around animals would bring back memories of helping Daddy and be all to the good. Little sister has little time since she works, but I thought, well hey, I do nothing all day. I can feed and water these babies all alone. An added bonus was that I’d have to leave the house and get some exercise for a change. The depression makes it hard for me to get motivated, but I will do what has to be done, be it cooking, laundry or feeding. A noble endeavor with the added benefit that he could possibly be trained to pull a cart for my Grandsons……..
So yesterday, I left the house in the gusting wind, sweats and shoes on with a hoodie zipped up tight to my chin. I tromped uphill and across the lawn of my parent’s house to the barn, unlatched the front gate and went into the shadowy barn. I opened the stall and there they stood……….two beautiful sweet jacks giving me the evil eye. I could tell they had already been fed sweet feed and corn since some was still in the trough. I thought well, gee, I’ll grab em up some of this hay and put in here for them to much on later. After the 2 first armfuls of loose hay I pulled from the bale were in the trough, I turned my back and went back for one more, leaving the door to the stall open just like we have done all week. These animals were so afraid they never ventured to the door much less out of it. I heard a commotion as I grasped the last handful of hay and looked behind me……….and there was Zeke…………my ass, galloping out the stall door with a dead-eye beam on my little sister’s dog! He ran by me full gallop….or as full as a short jackass can get. I was thing oh my God…….what now. He is chasing this little speckled dog all over the lot in front of the barn and the dog runs towards the gate…….when suddenly I realized the gate wasn’t fastened!/ It wasn’t even pulled all the way closed!
I ran forward with my hands full of hay, yelling and waving it around to frighten the ass back away from the gate. The dog escaped under that darn gate and the ass stopped dead still and stared at me like I was an idiot. I was so humiliated! I ran to the gate and fastened it and turned around….and noticed the other ass had smelled freedom as well and joined his partner in crime. I slapped my pocket searching for my phone…which I had of course left at home. The house next to the barn lot is another of my sons and they were gone. My little sister was gone as well and I had no keys with me to get in to use her phone. So I walked around the lot, checked all the gates and stumbled for home.
When I got home, my daughter was on the phone. I said……….come on Windi. My ass got out. I need some help. Now! She yelled Mom’s ass has run off and she would call em back and we ran out the door lickedy split for the barn……well we ran to her car and she drove us there but ..oh well. I called my son Duane, the son who gifted me with this nice, nice pet. I had orders I couldn’t run them up, it would scare them. I was supposed to come down in the morning, put food in their stall, hide, and when they entered to eat….run out and lock the door. I thought NO WAY! After a lot of debate, with my suggestions being shot down quickly, Duane got on the tractor to go to the pasture to get some……….errrrrrr…………hmmmmm….he called them something but I have forgotten. Basically they look like gates but can be used to make a catch pen, chute, etc. anywhere. While he was gone……….I politely placed an old gate across the hallway of the barn, opened their stall door wide and walked them around the barn. She pranced and frolicked as if they didn’t have a care in the world…..and proceeded to walk into their nice warm stall. He was so angry at me for having bested him. Soon as he got back, I turned around and came home, all the while knowing Mom shouldn’t have pushed the envelope. Tonight……….I received a phone call….not irate, just with attitude…….when he went to check them after work today…they tried to kick him. I wasn’t even there and it was MY fault. I give up……
Sunday, October 23, 2005
The Smell of Ass
As I stated in an earlier entry, I am now the proud owner of an Ass! Not just any run of the mill Ass, but a genuine, full-blooded, beautiful gun-metal gray ass. I have named him Zeke. He is a bit on the short side, but being only 4 months old, I am assuming he will grow some. Not that being short is bad, a short ass will be just the right size considering I am 5 foot nothing. He is so cute, with his big lips and mobile ears that can twist and turn any direction at the drop of the proverbial hat.
Each and every day since I received the ass as an early Christmas present, I have treked up the hill and across a huge yard to play with my ass. But does he appreciate my thoughtfullness? NO!. I have yet to touch the thing more than a glancing blow as he backed away from my outstretched hand. Zeke isn't tame by any means. He and his......errrr.........stablemate are equally distant and scared of all humans. Go figure, me, who by no means is an accomplished brave woman, am now the owner of an ass that doesn't want to be petted.
Being of a noble nature, tho, I am determined that this ass will grow to accept me as his owner. To date, and I have only had him for a week, he is willing to eat sweet feed and corn from a bowl that I am holding out in front of me. But you can raise a hand to pet, and he runs away. Ah well, at least he doesn't turn his back to me anymore when I unlatch the stable gate. That is progress at least.
Yesterday as I entered the barn, dimly lit with the dust from hay and or manure wafting on the breeze, I encountered a horendous smell. I couldn't imagine anything smelling that bad.As I opened the stall door, my delicate nose was assaulted with the smell of manure. I looked at Zeke and Zeb and asked was that smell coming from them? Of course, they rolled there little eyes and stamped their hoofs..............which sent up another cloud of dust right into my eyes.
Why is it when we get older, our sense of smell seems to be enhanced? Sis and I spent countless hours locked into the dim barns of our childhood, constructing numerous mansions amoung the bales of hay. With hidden entrances, we could be assured of hours of time away from our pesky younger sisters. I don't remember it smelling that bad back then. I certainly don't remember the dust and smell stopping my nose up for days on end. It can't be the barn that smells so bad................so it must be the ass.
Each and every day since I received the ass as an early Christmas present, I have treked up the hill and across a huge yard to play with my ass. But does he appreciate my thoughtfullness? NO!. I have yet to touch the thing more than a glancing blow as he backed away from my outstretched hand. Zeke isn't tame by any means. He and his......errrr.........stablemate are equally distant and scared of all humans. Go figure, me, who by no means is an accomplished brave woman, am now the owner of an ass that doesn't want to be petted.
Being of a noble nature, tho, I am determined that this ass will grow to accept me as his owner. To date, and I have only had him for a week, he is willing to eat sweet feed and corn from a bowl that I am holding out in front of me. But you can raise a hand to pet, and he runs away. Ah well, at least he doesn't turn his back to me anymore when I unlatch the stable gate. That is progress at least.
Yesterday as I entered the barn, dimly lit with the dust from hay and or manure wafting on the breeze, I encountered a horendous smell. I couldn't imagine anything smelling that bad.As I opened the stall door, my delicate nose was assaulted with the smell of manure. I looked at Zeke and Zeb and asked was that smell coming from them? Of course, they rolled there little eyes and stamped their hoofs..............which sent up another cloud of dust right into my eyes.
Why is it when we get older, our sense of smell seems to be enhanced? Sis and I spent countless hours locked into the dim barns of our childhood, constructing numerous mansions amoung the bales of hay. With hidden entrances, we could be assured of hours of time away from our pesky younger sisters. I don't remember it smelling that bad back then. I certainly don't remember the dust and smell stopping my nose up for days on end. It can't be the barn that smells so bad................so it must be the ass.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Re - Rooted and Lovin It
I am turnin over a new leaf yall. I am goin back in time to my country roots, dang it! I have decided that the government is takin control of my life and I ain't standin for it no more. Gas prices are outrageous, it costs more for my ole man to drive to work than he makes. You can almost eat out at a fast food place for what it costs you to cook a decent meal every night. Heck, you can't even die without it costing a fortune. I, for one, am fed up to the back teeth with the government bleeding us dry.
I grew up with homemade clothes and hand-me-downs. We lived well in those days. Now it seems if you don't have a certain name brand of jeans or type of tennis shoe you are trash. We grew all our own vegetables and most of the meat we ate, canning and freezing all summer to provide for the winter. Now a can of beans can cost as much as a dollar! And some weeks hot dogs and mac and cheese are gourmet fare. Sheesh!
Next year, I will have a garden and grow my own food. I am determined to become more self-reliant and less dependant on the government to decide if I can afford hamburger or steak this month. I don't have a lot of use for fancy anything, be it clothes or shoes. Barefoot is fine and old sweats work great for what my life is day to day.
My son gave me an early Christmas present.............a baby jackass. So cute....for now. I aim to buy me a few chickens and a couple of goats. Farmer Donna will be back in business this time next year. Maybe even a calf or two. Who knows where I will go.
Feels nice to be back. Sis has been riding me to start this up again so here I am Vicki. Not a funny from long ago, but oh well. I WILL be back with more. This is fun again, for now anyway. Bye yall!
I grew up with homemade clothes and hand-me-downs. We lived well in those days. Now it seems if you don't have a certain name brand of jeans or type of tennis shoe you are trash. We grew all our own vegetables and most of the meat we ate, canning and freezing all summer to provide for the winter. Now a can of beans can cost as much as a dollar! And some weeks hot dogs and mac and cheese are gourmet fare. Sheesh!
Next year, I will have a garden and grow my own food. I am determined to become more self-reliant and less dependant on the government to decide if I can afford hamburger or steak this month. I don't have a lot of use for fancy anything, be it clothes or shoes. Barefoot is fine and old sweats work great for what my life is day to day.
My son gave me an early Christmas present.............a baby jackass. So cute....for now. I aim to buy me a few chickens and a couple of goats. Farmer Donna will be back in business this time next year. Maybe even a calf or two. Who knows where I will go.
Feels nice to be back. Sis has been riding me to start this up again so here I am Vicki. Not a funny from long ago, but oh well. I WILL be back with more. This is fun again, for now anyway. Bye yall!
Friday, October 07, 2005
HIJACKED
Donna, this is your Older but Better Looking (hee hee) and Smarter (etc etc) Sister, and I have temporarily hijacked your blog since you never write anything anymore. I've been playing with TypoGenerator and came up with these. Ain't they neat!! Now write something, dang it.
Love Ya, Vicki
Love Ya, Vicki
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Memories of Daddy
When I think of my childhood, my Dad plays an important part in my memories. While Mom was the fun and games, Daddy was the one who instilled the value of working for what you want and earning what you get. The value of a dollar. Don't ask for a handout if you can acheive it on you own. Respect yourself and others. Or else. Although he had little education, my Dad is one of the smartest and wisest men I have ever known. He taught us the value of a hard days work and the honor of a job well done. His was the hand wielding the big stick whenever we crossed the line. And we often did. He expected us to give 100% to whatever we were attempting, be it in school or hauling hay or just playing in the yard.But, on the other side of the coin, I remember stripping second gear out of Daddy's black Ford truck learning to drive across the pasture because my legs were too short to mash the clutch all the way in and roasting wienies on the big flat rock at the edge of our woods on a hot summer Saturday afternoon. Or nights so dark and quiet as you slipped through the fields rabbit hunting with their eyes glowing red in the glare of a flashlight. Learning to load and shoot a gun and hitting what you aimed at. Slippin down to the pond in the summer with a tote sack in your hand and Daddy leading the way with his spotlight on his head and a frog gig in his hand. He taught all of us girl to check the oil and change a tire before we were allowed to drive. We learned to fix fences and run cows, milk goats and which tools were which and what they were used for. Probably the most important lesson he ever taught us was to believe in what you were and to stand up for what you believed in. We may not have been rich, with flashy clothes, a big fine home, or fancy cars, but we were loved. I think us Waters girls, all five of us, turned out just fine.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Missing Mom
It has been a year today that my Mom died. A year that has been filled with pain and heartache and loss for my entire family. Grief, stubbornness, protectiveness and anger has torn what is left of my family apart.
For two years, we had no choice but to watch our Mom slowly wither away, dieing a bit each day; little by little she slipped farther and farther away from us. No matter how we prayed, what we did to help, she just gradually eased away into God’s hands. And goodness knows, if I had the power to restore her to us, I wouldn’t dream of it. Returning her to the suffering she underwent and the anguish we suffered while she endured it would be more than we could bear. Where she is now, she knows no pain, and for me personally, I know that she is in a far better place.
Dealing with Daddy after Mom died was tough on all of us. We couldn’t give in to our grief, because we had to take care of him. For Mom, he was the center of her universe, and once she could no longer care for him, us girls did. Some more than others, time, money, jobs and distance being what they are, nothing is equal. But, all in all, we did what we could when we could. That is all anyone can ask, and certainly all our parents asked of us.
Then come April, we lost Daddy - he was gone in the blink of an eye. We lost both parents in ten months. My family has been blown apart. Grief is a strange emotion - so much pain; so much anger - total helplessness and a lack of control. Human beings do not deal well with any of these and my family is no different. With the anger, people lash out, causing pain and hard feelings. And god knows me and my sisters are some of the most stubborn people ever to grace this earth. Greed is maybe a big part of it - not that I don’t want something to remember them by. We could lose it all, every piece of property, every possession, and I would still have my memories. No one can take them from me. Those are mine, precious thoughts to brighten my days and warm my heart.
I wish I could fix what is broken in our family. I miss the team effort, the sharing and caring we always had no matter who was mad. We knew we could depend on one another, regardless. What should have brought us closer together has driven us apart. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I should even make the effort. For what it’s worth - Happy Birthday Sis. I love you. I love all of you - no matter what.
For two years, we had no choice but to watch our Mom slowly wither away, dieing a bit each day; little by little she slipped farther and farther away from us. No matter how we prayed, what we did to help, she just gradually eased away into God’s hands. And goodness knows, if I had the power to restore her to us, I wouldn’t dream of it. Returning her to the suffering she underwent and the anguish we suffered while she endured it would be more than we could bear. Where she is now, she knows no pain, and for me personally, I know that she is in a far better place.
Dealing with Daddy after Mom died was tough on all of us. We couldn’t give in to our grief, because we had to take care of him. For Mom, he was the center of her universe, and once she could no longer care for him, us girls did. Some more than others, time, money, jobs and distance being what they are, nothing is equal. But, all in all, we did what we could when we could. That is all anyone can ask, and certainly all our parents asked of us.
Then come April, we lost Daddy - he was gone in the blink of an eye. We lost both parents in ten months. My family has been blown apart. Grief is a strange emotion - so much pain; so much anger - total helplessness and a lack of control. Human beings do not deal well with any of these and my family is no different. With the anger, people lash out, causing pain and hard feelings. And god knows me and my sisters are some of the most stubborn people ever to grace this earth. Greed is maybe a big part of it - not that I don’t want something to remember them by. We could lose it all, every piece of property, every possession, and I would still have my memories. No one can take them from me. Those are mine, precious thoughts to brighten my days and warm my heart.
I wish I could fix what is broken in our family. I miss the team effort, the sharing and caring we always had no matter who was mad. We knew we could depend on one another, regardless. What should have brought us closer together has driven us apart. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I should even make the effort. For what it’s worth - Happy Birthday Sis. I love you. I love all of you - no matter what.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
MEMORY MEME
My dear Sister Vicki has tagged me with this, this MEME thingy. And then did me the kindness to call and inform me that she did it. Ah well, here goes nothin. Been a while since I put any thought into anything more than getting thru each day. We'll see how it goes.
The rules:Remove the #1 item from the following list, bump everyone up one place and add your blog's name in the #5 spot. You need to link to actually link to each of the blogs for the link-whorage aspect of this fiendish meme to kick in.
1. Fistful of Fortnights
2. Feisty Repartee
3. Lollygaggin
4. Junebugg
5. Lifedroppings
MY MEMORIES:
1. I miss wading thru the creek barefoot, dodging sharp rocks and snakes; attempting to catch minnows by hand; cool clear water flowing over and between my toes on a hot summer day.
2. I miss Mama, she was my best friend, my confident, my release valve when life got to be too much. She was there, always.
3. I miss the carefree days of childhood, days when, once chores were done, allowed a freedom from life's stresses and cares that I will never again have.
4. I miss the love of my family, the acceptance and caring that were unconditional. The feeling of belonging and rightness of being part of a group held together by friendship and respect.
5. I miss walking barefoot behind Daddy's plow as he cultivated the garden early in the spring, soft, cool red clay covering my feet as the plow tore the hard crust from the soil. I even miss him yelling at me to not mess up his rows and having to plant tomatoes from only ONE side of the row else the row would be crooked.
I Tag:
1. Compleat Redneck
2. War Liberal
3.Possumblog
4. The Dissident frogman
5. Redneckin
The rules:Remove the #1 item from the following list, bump everyone up one place and add your blog's name in the #5 spot. You need to link to actually link to each of the blogs for the link-whorage aspect of this fiendish meme to kick in.
1. Fistful of Fortnights
2. Feisty Repartee
3. Lollygaggin
4. Junebugg
5. Lifedroppings
MY MEMORIES:
1. I miss wading thru the creek barefoot, dodging sharp rocks and snakes; attempting to catch minnows by hand; cool clear water flowing over and between my toes on a hot summer day.
2. I miss Mama, she was my best friend, my confident, my release valve when life got to be too much. She was there, always.
3. I miss the carefree days of childhood, days when, once chores were done, allowed a freedom from life's stresses and cares that I will never again have.
4. I miss the love of my family, the acceptance and caring that were unconditional. The feeling of belonging and rightness of being part of a group held together by friendship and respect.
5. I miss walking barefoot behind Daddy's plow as he cultivated the garden early in the spring, soft, cool red clay covering my feet as the plow tore the hard crust from the soil. I even miss him yelling at me to not mess up his rows and having to plant tomatoes from only ONE side of the row else the row would be crooked.
I Tag:
1. Compleat Redneck
2. War Liberal
3.Possumblog
4. The Dissident frogman
5. Redneckin
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Southern Rules
Not mine yall.........I 'borrowed' it. I don't have a clue who wrote it either. But I agree with every word. Enjoy!
In an effort to help outsiders understand the rules of the Southerner's mind, the following list will be handed to each person as they enter a Southern State. (These actually should be the rules in all states.)
1. That farm boy you see at the gas station did more work before breakfast than you do all week at the gym.
2. It's called a "gravel road." No matter how slow you drive, you're going to get dust on your Lincoln Navigator. Drive it or get it out of the way!
3. ! The red dirt -- it's called clay. Red clay. If you like the color, don't wash your car for a couple weeks -- it'll be permanent.
4. We all started hunting and fishing when we were seven years old. Yeah, we saw that Bambi movie, too. We got over it
.5. Go ahead and bring your $600 Orvis fly rod. Don't cry to us if a flathead breaks it off at the handle . We have a name for those little 13-inch trout you fish for: bait.
6. Pull your pants up! You look like an idiot.
7. If that cell phone rings while a bunch of mallards are making their final approach, we will shoot it. You might want to ensure it's not up to your ear at the time.
8. No, there's no "Vegetarian Special" on the menu. Order steak. Order it rare. Or, you can order the Chef's Salad and pick off the two pounds of ham and turkey.
9. Tea -- yeah, we have tea. It comes in a glass over ice and it's sweet. You want it hot? Set it in the sun. You want it unsweetened? Add a lot of water.
10. You bring Coke into my house, it better be brown, wet, and served over ice!
11. You have a sixty-thousand-dollar car. We're real impressed. We have a quarter of a million-dollar combine that we only use two weeks a year.
12. Let's get this straight. We have one stoplight in town. We stop when it's red. We may even stop when it's yellow.
13. We eat dinner together with our families. We pray before we eat--yeah, even breakfast. We go to church on Wednesdays and Sundays, and we go to high school football games on Friday nights. We still address our seniors with "yes, sir" and "yes, ma'am," and we sometimes still take Sunday drives around town to see friends and neighbors.
14. We don't do "hurry up" well.
15. Greens -- yeah, we have greens, but you don't putt on them. You boil them with salty fatback, bacon or a smoked hog jowl.
16. Yeah, we eat catfish, bass, bream, and carp. You really want sushi and caviar? It's available down at the bait shop.
17. They are pigs. That's what they smell like. Get over it. Don't like it? Interstate 75 goes two ways. Interstate 40 goes the other two. Pick one.
18. Grits are corn. You put butter, salt, and maybe even some pepper on them. If you want to put milk and sugar on them, then you want cream of wheat -- go to Kansas. That would be I-40 West.
19. The "Opener" refers to the first day of deer season or dove season. Both are holidays. You can get pancakes, cane syrup, and sausage before daylight at the church on either day.
20. So every person in every pickup truck waves? Yeah, it's called being friendly. Understand the concept?
21. Yeah, we have golf courses. Don't hit in the water hazards. It spooks the fish and bothers the gators --and, if you hit it in the rough, we have these things called diamondbacks, and they're not baseball players.
22. That Highway Patrol Officer that just pulled you over for driving like an idiot --his name is "Sir," no matter how young he is.
23. We have lots of pine trees. They have sap. It drips from them . You park your Navigator under them, and they'll leave a souvenir on your hood.
24. You burn an American flag in our state, you get beat up. No questions.The liberal contingent of our state legislature -- all four of them -- enacted a measure to stop this. There is now a $2.50 fine for beating up the flag burner.
American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
To Boob or Not to Boob
Lets pose a question………………….where do big boobs come from??
For as far back as anyone has kept a written record, it seems women have always aspired to have large breasts, often employing ingenious methods of achieving the figure of their dreams. These oft times deceptive and devious contraptions of boob-u-lar enhancement varied with the age of the lady / girl needing to boost both her ego and her miniscule mammary tissue. From the age of puberty, anywhere from the 5th Grade to the 7th in most cases, gym class always a shocking proposition for those not yet caught up in the quest for unnatural chest enhancement. There they were, the same girls who you sat by during Math Class and History, changing into their gym clothes in the Dressing Room, the space above their ribcage either flat as a griddle cake, or already sprouting fledgling breasts, always, always encased in one of those white Training Bras with a tiny bow stuck front and center, the center made of a soft stretchy elastic-like fabric and not even a real cup designed to hold a breast. Considering they HAD no real breasts, I suppose this made some sort of sense. It always made me wonder what the Hell they were supposed to train them to do? I mean, I have to ask here, what tricks can the average Breast perform? It isn’t like they can “Sit Up“, or “Play Dead”.
And then, there was the other class of preteen girl, the ones who wanted breasts desperately but whom God hadn’t seen fit to bless with them. These girls were very imaginative in their methods of achieving their goal, that of appearing to have been turned into a women so as to not be left behind by all their overachieving classmates in the hierarchy of Boob-dom. These girls, in their quest for maturity and ergo, popularity with the males of the species, employed inventive methods of reaching the desired goal. Something as simple as a box of tissues, filched from home, could be and were inserted into a once empty bra, in a clandestine way, of course, giving the appearance of being all grown up. One of the dire consequences of tissue, I was told, was that not only did they rustle when you moved, they also, once mashed flat by something pushing against your chest, refused to plump back into their previous curvaceous form. One of the benefits of the tissue-filled bra had to be that if anyone found out that your budding figure came from a cardboard box rather than nature, you always had something to blow your nose on when you burst into tears of humiliation. Also used were gym socks, clean it has to be hoped, being likewise used as filler. These were difficult to use, being hard to the touch when rolled tightly and shoved into an empty bra and giving a lumpy appearance to the outside of your clothes. Both of these methods left a lot to be desired, I would think, the necessity of having to purchase and wear a bra that you had nothing to put into and then hiding it from your Mother would be enough to daunt even the most stout hearted. Added to that, once you had on the aforementioned bra, where did you conceal yourself to perform the necessary stuffing? It HAD to be finished before you got to school, so ……….on the School Bus? The Girl’s bathroom, after a mad dash into the school from the bus with your books glued to your chest in hopes no one would notice you were less amply endowed than the previous day? To say nothing of the hassle to maintain the overstuffed-bra look once you had completed the goal. This ritual would have to be carried out every day, which meant going through the same trials over and over, for under no circumstances could a girl, once publicly very Boob-a-lis-tic-ly gifted in public, go back to being flat as a tire that had been punctured by a sharp nail.
I have thought maybe there was a “Boob Gene”, an inherited cellular thing that caused generation after generation of massive Boobs to sprout in families, but apparently that isn’t the case. My Mother was “NORMAL” in the bustline, as were her Mother and her sisters. But for some ungodly reason, I and my four sisters were overly blessed by the Tittie Fairy, that fictional nymph of some otherworldly beginnings who flitters around with one broken wing, a bent halo and a crooked wand, bestowing burgeoning mammary glands to innocent female children in the dead of night while they dream of ways to get even with mean little boys. The little witch apparently imbibes heavily, for on occasion she stays too long on her visit (likely passed out from drink! ) and some unsuspecting little girl awakes the next morning with these horrible, embarrassing growths protruding from her once level chest. That is likely what occurred at my house, an explanation that while Mom was average, the 5 sisters of my family went from being the Boob-less wonders to Boob-a-licious in a short fashion. Personally, I remember having……..errrrr….. breasts far before any of my classmates. This not only brought unwanted attention from the males in my class, but also the unwarranted accusations of my females classmates of my own practice of Bra-Tampering in any form. Young ladies, regardless of what one might think, are spiteful and hateful to their peers when they have something they yearn for so anxiously and do not have.
High school brings changes in a girl’s life, for the boys who once wanted to harass and belittle the girls become creatures of Testosterone……..when the manly urge make them take notice of a girls figure and stand at attention, so to speak. Of course, Vicki, being the oldest, kind of blazed a trail for me and my younger sisters. I remember the exact summer when her boobs first got notice. While walking down the gravel road we lived on to a neighbor girl’s house, two of the “older” boys, teenagers who rode the same school bus as us, whistled and called out “Woo-Hoo! Teenie Boppers!”. They also mentioned how Sis had grown up over the summer. I was embarrassed for her, I must say. Bad enough that your very own body was betraying you in this hideous way, but for a guy to actually notice and comment! And it only got worse. Beings as I was only a couple of years younger than Sis, we took to rambling together. Although I couldn’t date, I could and did go on her dates…………as a would-be chaperone…….to parties and movies and such. The problem was, although I was interested in boys, they talked to my breasts instead of me! And being barely 5 feet tall, they had the opportunity to sneak a peek from their loftier height anytime they got close. From the age of 15 or so, both Vicki and I were more than amply endowed. It was a chore to buy bras much less find clothing that fit. And buying a bikini was next to impossible, for it the bra fit, the bottom fell off. If the bottom fit, it was a struggle to cram all the boob into the tiny cup, always leaving excess boob hanging from the sides or the bottom. Disgusting and not at all allowable by a Father who was sure that all the male animals in the world were just waiting to pounce on us the minute we walked into the world and removed our shirts!
With age comes wisdom, and alas, in my case, boobs. As the years have went by, I have learned many things in life are unfair. The disadvantages of being large chested far outweigh the advantages. Running of any sort became virtually impossible, for not only was it painful it was logistically difficult to see past the boobs flying up in your face with every step. Bras to fit me and most of my sisters generally have to be ordered, as stores have so little call for them they don’t stock them. And a discount store carry them ? No Way! The cost alone is anywhere from $25 to $40. Finding a button-up shirt is a aggravation, for if it fits across the shoulders, it will surely gap open across the chest, straining butt holes to the limits. Add the chronic back and shoulder pain and the deep grooves that wide bra straps, burdened with the task of supporting the weight of two large cantaloupes all day, cuts into both your shoulders. Mammograms, which as many know, Vicki discussed recently, are unbearable. While I understand the need to perform the x-rays, I would swear to you that the sex of the inventor had to have been male. No way would a woman force herself and millions of other women to undergo so painful an ordeal. That being said, if the man who invented the machine that tortures women daily worldwide would step forward, I, personally, would like to initiate him into the realm of Womanhood by placing his…….testicular organs into the slabs of glass and squashing the Bejesus out of them while he cringed and tried to pull away, about to scream in pain! I guarantee if men had to suffer that, there would soon be a new, less painful means of testing for Breast Cancer.
As I have gotten older, my breasts, while never perky due to the mass and weight encased inside, have no doubt sagged. Not far, mind you, for it is impossible to sag when a solid mass of tissue stands between them and my belly. Imagine folding over a full sack of dog food…..it won’t go flat as long as it is still full. And being short, I find that they are in very close proximity to my belly regardless. Makes a comfortable resting place at times. The main thing I have noticed as I have aged is sleeping on my back is more difficult. What once lay perfectly on my chest during sleep now has a tendency to fall over into my armpits, making lowering my arms difficult. It would, if I cared, be terribly humiliating for a woman who knows she is on the downward side of forty. Thank God I don’t care! Although going braless has never appealed to me for many reason, now days I look forward to the time when my house clears of teenagers and I can release the gruesome devise of torture I am forced to wear to protect the innocent daily. Although going braless did pay off for Sis once……..she entered a wet t -shirt contest and won a huge trophy. I can remember her bringing it into the parent’s house and them her trying to explain to Dad how she won it without causing a major explosion.
Far be it from me to whine and complain, but when I see these ladies who go to any expense and unnecessary pain in the pursuit of possessing deeper cleavage, it pisses me off! Here I am, overly Boob-u-lated and miserable, desiring nothing more than to wake in the morning to find a miracle, that my huge and monstrous breasts have shrank to a more normal and manageable size, that there are actually women who WANT them!
For as far back as anyone has kept a written record, it seems women have always aspired to have large breasts, often employing ingenious methods of achieving the figure of their dreams. These oft times deceptive and devious contraptions of boob-u-lar enhancement varied with the age of the lady / girl needing to boost both her ego and her miniscule mammary tissue. From the age of puberty, anywhere from the 5th Grade to the 7th in most cases, gym class always a shocking proposition for those not yet caught up in the quest for unnatural chest enhancement. There they were, the same girls who you sat by during Math Class and History, changing into their gym clothes in the Dressing Room, the space above their ribcage either flat as a griddle cake, or already sprouting fledgling breasts, always, always encased in one of those white Training Bras with a tiny bow stuck front and center, the center made of a soft stretchy elastic-like fabric and not even a real cup designed to hold a breast. Considering they HAD no real breasts, I suppose this made some sort of sense. It always made me wonder what the Hell they were supposed to train them to do? I mean, I have to ask here, what tricks can the average Breast perform? It isn’t like they can “Sit Up“, or “Play Dead”.
And then, there was the other class of preteen girl, the ones who wanted breasts desperately but whom God hadn’t seen fit to bless with them. These girls were very imaginative in their methods of achieving their goal, that of appearing to have been turned into a women so as to not be left behind by all their overachieving classmates in the hierarchy of Boob-dom. These girls, in their quest for maturity and ergo, popularity with the males of the species, employed inventive methods of reaching the desired goal. Something as simple as a box of tissues, filched from home, could be and were inserted into a once empty bra, in a clandestine way, of course, giving the appearance of being all grown up. One of the dire consequences of tissue, I was told, was that not only did they rustle when you moved, they also, once mashed flat by something pushing against your chest, refused to plump back into their previous curvaceous form. One of the benefits of the tissue-filled bra had to be that if anyone found out that your budding figure came from a cardboard box rather than nature, you always had something to blow your nose on when you burst into tears of humiliation. Also used were gym socks, clean it has to be hoped, being likewise used as filler. These were difficult to use, being hard to the touch when rolled tightly and shoved into an empty bra and giving a lumpy appearance to the outside of your clothes. Both of these methods left a lot to be desired, I would think, the necessity of having to purchase and wear a bra that you had nothing to put into and then hiding it from your Mother would be enough to daunt even the most stout hearted. Added to that, once you had on the aforementioned bra, where did you conceal yourself to perform the necessary stuffing? It HAD to be finished before you got to school, so ……….on the School Bus? The Girl’s bathroom, after a mad dash into the school from the bus with your books glued to your chest in hopes no one would notice you were less amply endowed than the previous day? To say nothing of the hassle to maintain the overstuffed-bra look once you had completed the goal. This ritual would have to be carried out every day, which meant going through the same trials over and over, for under no circumstances could a girl, once publicly very Boob-a-lis-tic-ly gifted in public, go back to being flat as a tire that had been punctured by a sharp nail.
I have thought maybe there was a “Boob Gene”, an inherited cellular thing that caused generation after generation of massive Boobs to sprout in families, but apparently that isn’t the case. My Mother was “NORMAL” in the bustline, as were her Mother and her sisters. But for some ungodly reason, I and my four sisters were overly blessed by the Tittie Fairy, that fictional nymph of some otherworldly beginnings who flitters around with one broken wing, a bent halo and a crooked wand, bestowing burgeoning mammary glands to innocent female children in the dead of night while they dream of ways to get even with mean little boys. The little witch apparently imbibes heavily, for on occasion she stays too long on her visit (likely passed out from drink! ) and some unsuspecting little girl awakes the next morning with these horrible, embarrassing growths protruding from her once level chest. That is likely what occurred at my house, an explanation that while Mom was average, the 5 sisters of my family went from being the Boob-less wonders to Boob-a-licious in a short fashion. Personally, I remember having……..errrrr….. breasts far before any of my classmates. This not only brought unwanted attention from the males in my class, but also the unwarranted accusations of my females classmates of my own practice of Bra-Tampering in any form. Young ladies, regardless of what one might think, are spiteful and hateful to their peers when they have something they yearn for so anxiously and do not have.
High school brings changes in a girl’s life, for the boys who once wanted to harass and belittle the girls become creatures of Testosterone……..when the manly urge make them take notice of a girls figure and stand at attention, so to speak. Of course, Vicki, being the oldest, kind of blazed a trail for me and my younger sisters. I remember the exact summer when her boobs first got notice. While walking down the gravel road we lived on to a neighbor girl’s house, two of the “older” boys, teenagers who rode the same school bus as us, whistled and called out “Woo-Hoo! Teenie Boppers!”. They also mentioned how Sis had grown up over the summer. I was embarrassed for her, I must say. Bad enough that your very own body was betraying you in this hideous way, but for a guy to actually notice and comment! And it only got worse. Beings as I was only a couple of years younger than Sis, we took to rambling together. Although I couldn’t date, I could and did go on her dates…………as a would-be chaperone…….to parties and movies and such. The problem was, although I was interested in boys, they talked to my breasts instead of me! And being barely 5 feet tall, they had the opportunity to sneak a peek from their loftier height anytime they got close. From the age of 15 or so, both Vicki and I were more than amply endowed. It was a chore to buy bras much less find clothing that fit. And buying a bikini was next to impossible, for it the bra fit, the bottom fell off. If the bottom fit, it was a struggle to cram all the boob into the tiny cup, always leaving excess boob hanging from the sides or the bottom. Disgusting and not at all allowable by a Father who was sure that all the male animals in the world were just waiting to pounce on us the minute we walked into the world and removed our shirts!
With age comes wisdom, and alas, in my case, boobs. As the years have went by, I have learned many things in life are unfair. The disadvantages of being large chested far outweigh the advantages. Running of any sort became virtually impossible, for not only was it painful it was logistically difficult to see past the boobs flying up in your face with every step. Bras to fit me and most of my sisters generally have to be ordered, as stores have so little call for them they don’t stock them. And a discount store carry them ? No Way! The cost alone is anywhere from $25 to $40. Finding a button-up shirt is a aggravation, for if it fits across the shoulders, it will surely gap open across the chest, straining butt holes to the limits. Add the chronic back and shoulder pain and the deep grooves that wide bra straps, burdened with the task of supporting the weight of two large cantaloupes all day, cuts into both your shoulders. Mammograms, which as many know, Vicki discussed recently, are unbearable. While I understand the need to perform the x-rays, I would swear to you that the sex of the inventor had to have been male. No way would a woman force herself and millions of other women to undergo so painful an ordeal. That being said, if the man who invented the machine that tortures women daily worldwide would step forward, I, personally, would like to initiate him into the realm of Womanhood by placing his…….testicular organs into the slabs of glass and squashing the Bejesus out of them while he cringed and tried to pull away, about to scream in pain! I guarantee if men had to suffer that, there would soon be a new, less painful means of testing for Breast Cancer.
As I have gotten older, my breasts, while never perky due to the mass and weight encased inside, have no doubt sagged. Not far, mind you, for it is impossible to sag when a solid mass of tissue stands between them and my belly. Imagine folding over a full sack of dog food…..it won’t go flat as long as it is still full. And being short, I find that they are in very close proximity to my belly regardless. Makes a comfortable resting place at times. The main thing I have noticed as I have aged is sleeping on my back is more difficult. What once lay perfectly on my chest during sleep now has a tendency to fall over into my armpits, making lowering my arms difficult. It would, if I cared, be terribly humiliating for a woman who knows she is on the downward side of forty. Thank God I don’t care! Although going braless has never appealed to me for many reason, now days I look forward to the time when my house clears of teenagers and I can release the gruesome devise of torture I am forced to wear to protect the innocent daily. Although going braless did pay off for Sis once……..she entered a wet t -shirt contest and won a huge trophy. I can remember her bringing it into the parent’s house and them her trying to explain to Dad how she won it without causing a major explosion.
Far be it from me to whine and complain, but when I see these ladies who go to any expense and unnecessary pain in the pursuit of possessing deeper cleavage, it pisses me off! Here I am, overly Boob-u-lated and miserable, desiring nothing more than to wake in the morning to find a miracle, that my huge and monstrous breasts have shrank to a more normal and manageable size, that there are actually women who WANT them!
Monday, February 07, 2005
Thanks
I want to make the effort to thank all of you for your support and kind words of encouragement. I should be used to this by now after dealing with it for a very constant ten years. For some reason, it isn’t like a disease where you can take a pill and find a quick fix. God know I wish it were! Until this recent downward spiral, though, I managed to have more up days than down. And yes, I do know there are many more medications on the market and available. I have such a history of allergic reactions to various drugs, it makes me hesitant to venture into the world of the unknown. Vicki (Sis) has always been a brave soul, leading the pack into danger with no thought to consequences. I, on the other hand, was and am a cautious individual, thinking of the penalty before the action is even completed. I am too housebound, that much I know. And it isn’t fear that makes me stay home, it is apathy. I simply have no desire to step-foot out into the world. There are few places I want to go, even fewer people I care to visit or talk to. I have hardly one friend and, sad to say, my two teenage children and their friends are about the only human contact I have. How did I get this way?? I used to be vivacious and outgoing, with a bubbly sense of the hilarious that turned the world on it’s ear. Somehow, in thirty years of a problematic marriage and raising four children, I have lost myself. I don’t know how to “find” me again, but I am willing to make the effort. More than willing, eager! I have managed to do better the past two days and you can all pat me on the back. I ventured to the new Wal-Mart last night with my daughter and without a specific purchase I simply “HAD” to make. It was refreshingly enjoyable for me and even my very own idea. She was remarkably well behaved ( and she is 18, not a baby, although she has been know to act the part) and we even got along very well. Of Course, it could be that I was spending my carefully hoarded money on make-up for her, but that isn’t the point. I did it, I enjoyed it, and I plan to do it again. And if you really knew me you would know that I hate to shop! Tonight, I cleaned my fish tank, which doesn’t sound too bad. But this is a 59 gallon tank and the 4 fish in it are Paku, a cousin of the Piranha. These fish weigh at least five pounds each and are as wide as a dinner plate. Cleaning their tank is a major undertaking and even though the water they were in was the dark green color of a murky, dank cesspool, I had neglected to clean it for months on end (I am not even sure I have cleaned it since Mom died last June, now I think back). With the help of our least sister, Lana, we accomplished it in a little under two hours. I woke up a full two hours earlier than my norm and even sat up all day; not once have I laid on the couch. That in it’s self is a major accomplishment for me. I am trying to overcome this. And somehow I will. Maybe not tomorrow or even the next day. But at some point, life has to have meaning again. If not, there isn’t a lot of point, is there?
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Donna's Life
This story won’t be the hilarious, tongue-in-cheek parody of country life and the antics of five fun-filled little girls, the sort I have poured into a typewriter and posted with the thought of sharing with the world our wonderful childhood. Instead, it is why I have apparently ceased to function and live a normal life, much less compose anything of a humorous nature in the past days and months.
There is a Demon in my life, looming large and always lurking around every corner with the intent to shatter my everyday world, spreading it’s gloom and doom to me and all who surround me. This monster is Depression. It drains the life out of me, taking away physical as well and mental strength. It saps the emotions from the soul of anyone who has it and effects those whose lives are connected. Nothing matters to me. I try to work up a bit of enthusiasm for ANYTHING and it is impossible. I can’t focus on an occupation for any amount of time. My mind wanders when I try to play a game or read a book. Concentrating long enough to watch a television program is useless. I get so tired sitting on the couch, I have to lie down and rest. I stay up all night because, even with a sleeping aid, I rarely sleep. Even when I do, I wake up exhausted and unable to function. I can barely make myself move, much less lead the active life I have always enjoyed. Most days, I don’t even want to try. The least thing makes me cry.
Suffering from Depression is bad enough, but even worse is no one understands how I feel. I can’t describe it to them, they just don’t get it. I have been told to “Snap out of it!’, or to “Get over it!” more times than I can count. Doesn’t anyone realize that no one would purposely choose to live this way? It is a living Hell, with no end; a succession of days when death looks like a release from the anguish of dealing with this everyday of the rest of my life. There is no cure and treatments have their own drawbacks. I have been on treatment for over 8 years, the pills no longer help that much. The Doctor suggested doubling them, I can’t do that. The medicines used to treat it, over a period of time, kills whatever emotions I have that still work. I feel dead inside, my life is hopelessly spiraling downward and I don’t have a clue how to stop it. I am afraid, the future looks very bleak for me, and I don’t know where to find the strength to get up everyday. I am tired, so deathly tired that doing anything is a chore. Simply putting on my clothes is a major undertaking. I struggle everyday to just make it till bedtime, and God willing, to find the energy to rise once again in the morning.
I haven’t given up, not by a long shot. This ole gal won’t go down easy. I have fought every day for the past eight years and will continue to until my last breath. I will be back, ya’ll, that I promise. I have licked this before and will again. But today, please, for me, just ask God to send some strength to me, cause I truly need it.
There is a Demon in my life, looming large and always lurking around every corner with the intent to shatter my everyday world, spreading it’s gloom and doom to me and all who surround me. This monster is Depression. It drains the life out of me, taking away physical as well and mental strength. It saps the emotions from the soul of anyone who has it and effects those whose lives are connected. Nothing matters to me. I try to work up a bit of enthusiasm for ANYTHING and it is impossible. I can’t focus on an occupation for any amount of time. My mind wanders when I try to play a game or read a book. Concentrating long enough to watch a television program is useless. I get so tired sitting on the couch, I have to lie down and rest. I stay up all night because, even with a sleeping aid, I rarely sleep. Even when I do, I wake up exhausted and unable to function. I can barely make myself move, much less lead the active life I have always enjoyed. Most days, I don’t even want to try. The least thing makes me cry.
Suffering from Depression is bad enough, but even worse is no one understands how I feel. I can’t describe it to them, they just don’t get it. I have been told to “Snap out of it!’, or to “Get over it!” more times than I can count. Doesn’t anyone realize that no one would purposely choose to live this way? It is a living Hell, with no end; a succession of days when death looks like a release from the anguish of dealing with this everyday of the rest of my life. There is no cure and treatments have their own drawbacks. I have been on treatment for over 8 years, the pills no longer help that much. The Doctor suggested doubling them, I can’t do that. The medicines used to treat it, over a period of time, kills whatever emotions I have that still work. I feel dead inside, my life is hopelessly spiraling downward and I don’t have a clue how to stop it. I am afraid, the future looks very bleak for me, and I don’t know where to find the strength to get up everyday. I am tired, so deathly tired that doing anything is a chore. Simply putting on my clothes is a major undertaking. I struggle everyday to just make it till bedtime, and God willing, to find the energy to rise once again in the morning.
I haven’t given up, not by a long shot. This ole gal won’t go down easy. I have fought every day for the past eight years and will continue to until my last breath. I will be back, ya’ll, that I promise. I have licked this before and will again. But today, please, for me, just ask God to send some strength to me, cause I truly need it.
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