You can't write pain, you can't write horror, you can't write stupidity, you can't write evil. At least I can't.
You try any and all coping mechanisms you know, and a few new ones.
WHO KILLS FIRST GRADERS??
AND WHY???
You flame, you scream, you shout, you pull your own hair. Because you CAN'T grasp the totally of the thing. ABC news closed with a reading of the names of the dead. CHILDREN he killed CHILDREN.
You read, you watch the news, you try to ponder. Talk of gun control. It will never be more than talk. By the time any legislation might be drawn up and any action taken, enough time will have passed that the powers that control such things will be back in control. I imagine them now, sitting at their computers, pondering.
"Guns don't kill people, People kill people" Start from there. The problem is not the number and availability of guns in our society. The problem is guns getting into the wrong hands. Too many guns are stolen, too many guns are in homes where someone (who is not the registered owner) can pick them up at any time.
A painful essay/blog posting by the mother of a child who is mentally ill. Yes, better treatment and understanding of mental illness IS part of the problem. But it isn't all.
Please, tell me why automatic weapons are available in our society. Hunting? Once the prey hears one shot, how many more will you be able to squeeze off while it is still visable? Sport? Does the Olympics have accuracy with automatic weapons as a competition? Protection against an armed intruder? If both of you shoot 50 rounds at each other, who wins?
The United States no longer relies on a militia. We have a standing Army. We also have Reservists, and we have a National Guard. By the way, none of those individuals provide their own weapons.
We have evolved since the 18th centurary. EXCEPT in our desire to have bigger and better weapons than our neighbor.
Like everyone else, I have questions, but no answers.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Monday, November 12, 2012
Maybe Less
I haven't posted since my mother's death. I haven't felt the need to. I thought I might, I felt that I had been using my weekly letters to her to channel the ideas that I would otherwise post here. Not so.
I realized, browsing around the web, that I am merely one of millions who blog, who tweet, who share their lives with others they may not even or ever know. So?
I know that I am not a great writer. I am not even a commercially successful writer, nor do I aspire to be so. I only occassionally reach a good quality in my writing. Most of it is mundane, and inane.
And that's fine with me. My writing reflects who I am. Mundane and inane are good descriptions.
But I read other blogs. Someone removing their (almost) adult child from an abusive relationship; a parent whose child was on a school trip to the Korean War memorial when one of the soldiers pictured there rolled up in his wheelchair; big things, important things.
My life is not important.
I said, before my mother died that I did not know when I would be ready to write about my mother. I believe that the answer is never. My personal relationships are just that - personal. I have neither the need nor the inclination to place my personal feelings on display.
I had thought that I moght start positng more after my mother's death. Now, I believe I am likely to be posting less.
I will still find the occasion to discuss food and cooking. THAT is important. But my life, my actions, my thoughts, my feelings. They are MINE, and I will only share them whith whom I wish, when I wish.
I realized, browsing around the web, that I am merely one of millions who blog, who tweet, who share their lives with others they may not even or ever know. So?
I know that I am not a great writer. I am not even a commercially successful writer, nor do I aspire to be so. I only occassionally reach a good quality in my writing. Most of it is mundane, and inane.
And that's fine with me. My writing reflects who I am. Mundane and inane are good descriptions.
But I read other blogs. Someone removing their (almost) adult child from an abusive relationship; a parent whose child was on a school trip to the Korean War memorial when one of the soldiers pictured there rolled up in his wheelchair; big things, important things.
My life is not important.
I said, before my mother died that I did not know when I would be ready to write about my mother. I believe that the answer is never. My personal relationships are just that - personal. I have neither the need nor the inclination to place my personal feelings on display.
I had thought that I moght start positng more after my mother's death. Now, I believe I am likely to be posting less.
I will still find the occasion to discuss food and cooking. THAT is important. But my life, my actions, my thoughts, my feelings. They are MINE, and I will only share them whith whom I wish, when I wish.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Now that mother's gone....
In late December of 2010 or January of 2011, I visited my mother. She had been moved into an assisted living unit, out of independent living due to several falls she had taken. We (her children) also got an agent to handle her mail.
Mother was extremely generous with worthy causes, or causes she believed were worthy. This generated an incredible volume of mail. Every day, she would receive ten to fifteen "gimmee" letters. She sponsered a child in Ecuador through "Children International" She sent money to buy craft kits for hospitalized veterans. The list was extremely long. But mother was getting overwhelmed by the mail.
Many of the charitable causes would send small amounts of cash (usually a nickle or so) She felt guilty about keeping the money. We had solved that by having her put it in a particular holder, then annually, donating that amount to the Salvation Army or the Goodwill.
While Father was failing, Mother took to shopping by catalogue. This is extremely convenient, except that every catalogue company sells their mailing lists to every other catalogue company. She did have sense to toss out about half of the five to ten catalogues she received every week.
Then there were the political solicitations. I truely believe that some levels of solicitation are so venal that they pull down the image of what ever cause they are soliciting for. Even as she was slipping, Mother felt many of the political solicitations were close to frauds.
Anyway, we got her a mail agent and moved her into assisted living.
She had been there approximately two months when I visited. She went to open her mail box and there was nothing in it. She complained. She felt that it was hardly worth having a mail box if she didn't get any mail. I told her I would write to her.
Flash-back. When I was growing up, my mother's oldest sister lived in North Carolina. Every week, Aunt Margaret would write - single-spaced typed on both sides of a sheet of paper-- a letter telling us what she was doing that week. They weren't deep, or profound, just newsy and close.
I decided to try to do the same. Almost.
On January 10, 2011, I wrote Mother her first letter from me. I used bold print and an enlarged font. I wrote two pages, since I felt the spacing took something away from the content.
I was shortly informed that Mother did NOT need large font or bold print in order to read!
But from there on, I did my best to write to her every week. It was my Sunday ritual. I would keep a note of what I had done during the week, and on Sunday, I would write my "motherletter"
The ones from 2011 are in a file "motherletter11" There is a gap from August 7th to September 18 when I went to Minnesota. During that month, I sent her hand-written cards and notes. I tried to send those twice a week. I remember the exercise of hand-writing and making it legible. It's an amazing exercise. I highly reccomend that you try it.
Once I got back, the weekly routine continued. My brothers and sister started giving me grief. Mother always mentioned that I wrote to her weekly. Mother was always good at the subtle guilt-trip.
Week by week, I continued. The only times I missed were the weeks I was actually out visiting her.
My sister commented "Oh, you have a regular routine. It's easy for you to remember what you've done." I showed her the scrap paper on which I kept notes of my activities for the week. I tried to put something different into each food bank occasion. I tried to make comments not just about the weather, but about things happening socially within the community.
It did mean a lot to Mom. I was told that sometimes she would read my letters aloud to other residents sitting in the front lobby. My letters served as a diversion, when Mother would be about to go out on one of her un-directed jaunts about the property, a letter from me would hold her in place until the next planned activity.
After my last planned trip, I wrote to her as soon as I got back. That was on Wednesday, the 12th. I wrote again on the 16th, and then would have on the 19th. But she had a stroke.
My last two letters to Mother were in her room, un-opened.
Now that Mother's gone, maybe I'll blog more often
Mother was extremely generous with worthy causes, or causes she believed were worthy. This generated an incredible volume of mail. Every day, she would receive ten to fifteen "gimmee" letters. She sponsered a child in Ecuador through "Children International" She sent money to buy craft kits for hospitalized veterans. The list was extremely long. But mother was getting overwhelmed by the mail.
Many of the charitable causes would send small amounts of cash (usually a nickle or so) She felt guilty about keeping the money. We had solved that by having her put it in a particular holder, then annually, donating that amount to the Salvation Army or the Goodwill.
While Father was failing, Mother took to shopping by catalogue. This is extremely convenient, except that every catalogue company sells their mailing lists to every other catalogue company. She did have sense to toss out about half of the five to ten catalogues she received every week.
Then there were the political solicitations. I truely believe that some levels of solicitation are so venal that they pull down the image of what ever cause they are soliciting for. Even as she was slipping, Mother felt many of the political solicitations were close to frauds.
Anyway, we got her a mail agent and moved her into assisted living.
She had been there approximately two months when I visited. She went to open her mail box and there was nothing in it. She complained. She felt that it was hardly worth having a mail box if she didn't get any mail. I told her I would write to her.
Flash-back. When I was growing up, my mother's oldest sister lived in North Carolina. Every week, Aunt Margaret would write - single-spaced typed on both sides of a sheet of paper-- a letter telling us what she was doing that week. They weren't deep, or profound, just newsy and close.
I decided to try to do the same. Almost.
On January 10, 2011, I wrote Mother her first letter from me. I used bold print and an enlarged font. I wrote two pages, since I felt the spacing took something away from the content.
I was shortly informed that Mother did NOT need large font or bold print in order to read!
But from there on, I did my best to write to her every week. It was my Sunday ritual. I would keep a note of what I had done during the week, and on Sunday, I would write my "motherletter"
The ones from 2011 are in a file "motherletter11" There is a gap from August 7th to September 18 when I went to Minnesota. During that month, I sent her hand-written cards and notes. I tried to send those twice a week. I remember the exercise of hand-writing and making it legible. It's an amazing exercise. I highly reccomend that you try it.
Once I got back, the weekly routine continued. My brothers and sister started giving me grief. Mother always mentioned that I wrote to her weekly. Mother was always good at the subtle guilt-trip.
Week by week, I continued. The only times I missed were the weeks I was actually out visiting her.
My sister commented "Oh, you have a regular routine. It's easy for you to remember what you've done." I showed her the scrap paper on which I kept notes of my activities for the week. I tried to put something different into each food bank occasion. I tried to make comments not just about the weather, but about things happening socially within the community.
It did mean a lot to Mom. I was told that sometimes she would read my letters aloud to other residents sitting in the front lobby. My letters served as a diversion, when Mother would be about to go out on one of her un-directed jaunts about the property, a letter from me would hold her in place until the next planned activity.
After my last planned trip, I wrote to her as soon as I got back. That was on Wednesday, the 12th. I wrote again on the 16th, and then would have on the 19th. But she had a stroke.
My last two letters to Mother were in her room, un-opened.
Now that Mother's gone, maybe I'll blog more often
Saturday, September 22, 2012
A Camus Muse
My mother is dying.
For some reason, writing that makes me feel like the opening line of "The Stranger" "Mother died today." There's a certain stark reality. An acknowledgement and acceptance of the inevitabilies of life.
My mother is dying, and I am going about my normal routine.
I am also preparing to go to where she is (some 900 miles away) and dispose of or take or sort out for other family members many of her possessions that remain.
Mother has been in assisted living for the last two years.
That means she has been living in a room the size of most motel rooms. The closet is perhaps larger. She has her own furniture. Her own knick-knacks, her own things around her.
But not now.
Mother has had a stroke. She is now in a "skilled nursing facility" They check on her every two hours, making certain she is still alive. All of her medications have been discontinued, except for those which will keep her relaxed, make her feel comfortable, ease her passing.
Hospice services have been called in. She will not be alone.
Life reduced to plus or minus. Meaning reduced to items and the memories attached thereto.
It is inevitable. Death always is. Mother had 95 years, most of them good. I joke that her warrenty has expired and there are no more replacement parts. That may seem slightly sick, but it's quite, quite true. How many people live 95 years?
When she turned 90, I called her "A chronological over-achiever." She was pleased. She said she had not been considered an over-achiever before. Mother was/is modest. She never bragged of her own accomplishments. She was quiet, a follower, not a leader.
I'm not ready to write about her yet. I do not know if I will ever be ready.
Until tomorrow, since somewhere around Spring of last year, I have written her a letter every Sunday. I don't know when my last letter reached her, or if she ever knew. She talkded about my letters the last time I saw her (two weeks ago)She didn't know who I was, in person, but she told me her daughter, Robin wrote to her every week.
No more relplacement parts. It's time for her to go.
For some reason, writing that makes me feel like the opening line of "The Stranger" "Mother died today." There's a certain stark reality. An acknowledgement and acceptance of the inevitabilies of life.
My mother is dying, and I am going about my normal routine.
I am also preparing to go to where she is (some 900 miles away) and dispose of or take or sort out for other family members many of her possessions that remain.
Mother has been in assisted living for the last two years.
That means she has been living in a room the size of most motel rooms. The closet is perhaps larger. She has her own furniture. Her own knick-knacks, her own things around her.
But not now.
Mother has had a stroke. She is now in a "skilled nursing facility" They check on her every two hours, making certain she is still alive. All of her medications have been discontinued, except for those which will keep her relaxed, make her feel comfortable, ease her passing.
Hospice services have been called in. She will not be alone.
Life reduced to plus or minus. Meaning reduced to items and the memories attached thereto.
It is inevitable. Death always is. Mother had 95 years, most of them good. I joke that her warrenty has expired and there are no more replacement parts. That may seem slightly sick, but it's quite, quite true. How many people live 95 years?
When she turned 90, I called her "A chronological over-achiever." She was pleased. She said she had not been considered an over-achiever before. Mother was/is modest. She never bragged of her own accomplishments. She was quiet, a follower, not a leader.
I'm not ready to write about her yet. I do not know if I will ever be ready.
Until tomorrow, since somewhere around Spring of last year, I have written her a letter every Sunday. I don't know when my last letter reached her, or if she ever knew. She talkded about my letters the last time I saw her (two weeks ago)She didn't know who I was, in person, but she told me her daughter, Robin wrote to her every week.
No more relplacement parts. It's time for her to go.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Brains?...What brains?...Who needs brains??
Story on-line today. An NFL official who was supposed to be the side-judge in today's Saints game has been removed after his Facebook postings reveal that he is a big Saint's fan.
I am astounded that people are constantly shocked and suprised that things they post of Facebook are found, read and acted upon by employers, friends, former friends, former spouses, etc.
This past week, the story was that a woman got a "potential friend" link form Facebook that showed he husband in a pose as the new groom with another woman. Facebook thought she might like to be friends with the woman since they were both friends with her husband. He has plead guilty to bigamy, the second wife's marriage has been annulled, and the first wife is filing for divorce.
It's not merely teenagers who post without thinking of consequences.
We just might have to re-institute the old, 50's creed of "If you don't want your mother to see/know/comment on it..."
I believe we tend to think of Facebook as ephemeral, a posting being something of a moment's occurance, a brief, fleeting thought or feeling. It's NOT. Even though you and your friends and family may have made a hundred or more posts since that ONE, it's not gone, and if it could hurt or embarrass you, it won't ever, ever be forgotten.
It should make biographers in 20 or so years very, very happy that everyone posted their innermost drivel on Facebook. No more wondering if the writer invented the anecdote to show the person's development. No, the subject will have created and memorialized the anecdote himself.
No antidote for the anecdote. My brain is already spinning with malicious thoughts.
And I have posted this, to remain forever.
My excuse?
I'm old, I'm boring, I've never accomplished anything of significance (nor will I) and no one is ever going to care what I did or said on the Internet. But if you have dreams, if you have desire, if you have ambitions, (basically, if you're under 40) BEWARE!
I am astounded that people are constantly shocked and suprised that things they post of Facebook are found, read and acted upon by employers, friends, former friends, former spouses, etc.
This past week, the story was that a woman got a "potential friend" link form Facebook that showed he husband in a pose as the new groom with another woman. Facebook thought she might like to be friends with the woman since they were both friends with her husband. He has plead guilty to bigamy, the second wife's marriage has been annulled, and the first wife is filing for divorce.
It's not merely teenagers who post without thinking of consequences.
We just might have to re-institute the old, 50's creed of "If you don't want your mother to see/know/comment on it..."
I believe we tend to think of Facebook as ephemeral, a posting being something of a moment's occurance, a brief, fleeting thought or feeling. It's NOT. Even though you and your friends and family may have made a hundred or more posts since that ONE, it's not gone, and if it could hurt or embarrass you, it won't ever, ever be forgotten.
It should make biographers in 20 or so years very, very happy that everyone posted their innermost drivel on Facebook. No more wondering if the writer invented the anecdote to show the person's development. No, the subject will have created and memorialized the anecdote himself.
No antidote for the anecdote. My brain is already spinning with malicious thoughts.
And I have posted this, to remain forever.
My excuse?
I'm old, I'm boring, I've never accomplished anything of significance (nor will I) and no one is ever going to care what I did or said on the Internet. But if you have dreams, if you have desire, if you have ambitions, (basically, if you're under 40) BEWARE!
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
NEW! IMPROVED!! UNUSEABLE!!!
NEW! IMPROVED!! UNUSEABLE!!
Some idiot decided to "improve" our blogging and posting. I went in to review a prior blog post I had made. I came to a new format that so far I have been unable to fathom. WHERE ARE MY PRIOR POSTS!? (and why doesen's my keyboard have and intero-bang?)
I DON'T LIKE IT! However, there is NO place to post feed-back to the blog-masters.
Our masters are all-powerful. We are merely here to provide worship to their idols.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Celebrating Sara
My friend Sara called me yeaterday afternoon to come over for a drink. She had gotten back from her annual appointment with her onocologist. Good news!
She's STILL cancer-free.
Twenty years ago, she had breast cancer. Ten years ago, she had ovarian cancer. Two cancers, both caught early, both treated agressively, and she's STILL cancer-free!!
Believe me, THAT is something to celebrate.
What does it mean to me?
I only met Sara seven years ago. It means that if she haden't been smart enough to know there was something going on, if she hadn't been smart enough to go in, get diagnosed, and follow the doctors' orders regarding treatment, I wouldn't have a best friend to cook with, to drink with, to laugh with.
Sara and I celebrated last night. I'm still a bit queasy this morning, but it is well worth it!
Late March, early April next year, I want to get drunk and celebrate Sara again!
She's STILL cancer-free.
Twenty years ago, she had breast cancer. Ten years ago, she had ovarian cancer. Two cancers, both caught early, both treated agressively, and she's STILL cancer-free!!
Believe me, THAT is something to celebrate.
What does it mean to me?
I only met Sara seven years ago. It means that if she haden't been smart enough to know there was something going on, if she hadn't been smart enough to go in, get diagnosed, and follow the doctors' orders regarding treatment, I wouldn't have a best friend to cook with, to drink with, to laugh with.
Sara and I celebrated last night. I'm still a bit queasy this morning, but it is well worth it!
Late March, early April next year, I want to get drunk and celebrate Sara again!
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