Happy New Year 2011

In with the old
Out with the new
This year's plumb wore out
And I am too

From great to horrific
And all things between
This was the most noteworthy year
We've ever seen

Perhaps "noteworthy" isn't
The word I am seeking...
But my goal is to write this
Sans cursing or shrieking

To all of our family both chosen and born
I wish you peace and joy starting off New Year's morn
May your troubles be few and be easily conquered
Now I'm rhyme-stymied cornered so I guess I'll just

One Week and Counting

In theory, one week from right now, thanks to the efforts of a burly moving crew employed to be here at 8am Tuesday next, we'll be sitting in our new house with our furniture surrounding us.

In theory, we will also have bathroom facilities, running water, lights, and heat even though none of that is a reality as of this writing.

Oh, the animals will still be here at the old house till the fences are complete, and 99% of our clothing, dishes, knick knacks and books will move room by room, box by box, absolute favorites first and working our way down till the new house looks finished- then that's it. No more may pass.

We probably won't have TV or internet hookups yet and we're leaving Joe here to guard all our debris.

I have high hopes of going through it all and dividing the chosen from the left-behinds, holding some sort of True Rummage sale (no sorting or pricing- just root through the mess and ask me "Hey- what do you want for THIS?"), donating/dumpstering the remains and doing a general hose-down of the place well before our turnover date of February 1st.

And that'll be that.

This grand old house will pass from our care to someone elses'- and we won't be coming Home to Here anymore- Home will be There.

After 15 years, the road Home will be different. Familiar, similar, but different.

For 15 years, these walls, this roof, embraced first me as a single woman, then myself and Ward as a new couple, saw the birth of Alec right here, was our refuge in sickness and health, in good times and bad.

Built in 1890, our occupancy only amounts to 13% of its age so far- so much history before us, so much more to come.

I'm not whining, and I'm not complaining. This move, this new place, this transition, is something we've worked very hard for and waited a long time for, and we're all excited about it- the new Home will be a perfect fit for us...forever.

I just hope our old house knows how much we love it and how very grateful we are for its shelter and protection, for its lessons on how a structure should be built for climate control using natural ventilation, taking advantage of natural lighting via window placement, but most of all for its very real sense of Home.

Caffeine + Christmas Cookies = Breakfast of Champions

People love my Christmas Cookies. Not because they're beautiful, because they're not- they're round (using a juice glass for a cutter) and frosted with uncolored frosting and all the sprinkles a young boy can fit on them.

They're loved because they are absolutely the best melt in yer mouth sugar cookies ever devised and baked by the human hand.

The recipe came from my friend Lynn, who I've unfortunately lost track of over the years.

Lynn and I were Jaycettes way back in the dark ages when being a Jaycette meant you had to be married to a Jaycee. Jaycees/Jaycettes were basically community service organizations that raised money for good causes. That those fundraisers took on the cloak of being big ol' excuses to drink beer, eat good food and play cards didn't matter- we did honest good while having a riotously good time. (Back then, the organizations were also limited to folks between the ages of 18-35, ensuring that no party got sullied by some old farts trying to run things).

The Jaycettes in Racine Wisconsin circa 1980- 1990 were a tight group. We bowled two mornings a week- leaving the kids in the nursery and noshing on sweet rolls and coffee while making a half-assed attempt at keeping track of who was "up". We were a disgrace to the "serious bowlers". The only time we gave a damn was if our trophy for last place was endangered- then we just tried harder...errr...less...whatever.

We lived for the KaffeeKlatch- most of us were stay at home moms, or had part time employment, and we took to heart the importance of socializing our youngsters. (At least I think they were socializing, we sort of lost track after we tossed snacks and toys into a bedroom, waited till they all scurried in there, then shut and blockaded the door so they wouldn't interrupt our conversations- in the summertime we did the same thing, except in the backyard).

The afternoon Lynn had us all over for strawberry daiquiris went down in Jaycette history as an epic example of "Wow. Those taste great and go down SO easy. Why is the floor spinning?" It was the only time the husbands had to be called to drive all the wives/kids home, but it was totally worth it.

Eventually, of course, "progress" reared its ugly head, and some idiots took the Jaycee/Jaycette organizations to court as being unconstitutional- some unmarried chicks wanted in but didn't want to go to the trouble of marrying to gain admittance.

Like there weren't other, non-marital-status related community and/or beer drinking organizations to join? Puh-leeze.

The day we were told "There will be no more segregation- everyone is now just Jaycees" was the day we all quit.

I mean, what the hell? It was supposed to be a "leadership training" organization for young adults. When they opened it up to both sexes, guess what happened? All the hard, onerous jobs? Yep. The men immediately backed off and 'let' the women do them.

Besides, our Jaycette meetings were OUR night AWAY from the guys- seriously. If you've ever spent 30 minutes with a man under the age of 35 (especially with a beer or four in 'em)you know it's like having one more kid around to watch. "Don't lick that". "Stop making that noise". "Dude. Basic hygiene and personal space".

We were together through thick and thin- literally as we all grew tummies and gave birth to children, celebrated good times and bad with our families.

So every time I make these cookies, I think of Lynn- who besides blending up Killer Strawberry Daiquiris, was an excellent baker. And all my other Jaycette Sisters-

Lynn and her husband went bankrupt and moved to Chicago, Cheryl's little boy survived cancer, Karen's husband hung himself in their basement, hopefully Donna got some help for her wild dark mood swings, Barb, Sandy and Jill just sort of drifted out of my radar after I moved to Texas, and Cathy and Chris remain in my very best friend circle- even after 30+ years.

Hope your Christmas was Merry- but just because it's the 26th of December doesn't mean you can't make more Christmas cookies.

And stop licking that.

Lynn's Sugar Cookies and Vanilla Butter Frosting

Cookies-
1 1/2c powdered sugar
1c butter
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla
1/2 tsp almond extract
2 1/2c baking mix

Cream sugar and butter. Add egg and vanilla/almond extract. Stir in baking mix and refrigerate for about 2 hours.
Divide dough in half and roll out. Cut into shapes, place on a lightly greased cookie sheet and bake for about 10 minutes at 350. Cool and frost with

Vanilla Butter Frosting

1/3c soft butter
3c powdered sugar
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
about 2 tbsp milk

Cream butter and sugar. Stir in vanilla and enough milk to make frosting.
Color frosting if you like, decorate with sprinkles as desired

Christmas in the Twilight Zone

So we're building this house. What a happy day it will be for everyone around me when I can say "So we BUILT this house"- I know ya'll are getting plumb wore out from hearing about it.

But lets talk about ME.

More specifically, lets talk about the mess our current house is in, the lack of amenities in our new house, and how that all relates to and affects the Christmas Spirit in our family this year.

Because we're supposed to be moving (first promised "in by Thanksgiving" then "in by Christmas" then "probably in by the housewarming we've already sent invitations out for")I was loathe to haul out the boxes and decorate this house. Why do that when we'd have to take it all down right in the middle of the season?

Of course, there's nothing to hang a decoration on over yonder yet.

The one thing Alec requested that we retrieve from the holiday boxes was Christmouse.

Christmouse is a little stuffed rodent who hops (with the help of Alec, and his brother and sister before him) from one numbered pouch to the next from December first through the 24th.

So we lugged the boxes out of the attic and scrounged around till we found Christmouse, then pushed aside samples of stain and sealer, made a weak attempt at eliminating cobwebs from his spot on the wall, and- thanks to a loose nail- hung him crookedly in place.

Ta Daa. Oooooooh. Festive.

The tree is up- it's always up. It is also, however, somewhere behind a gabazillion boxes awaiting packing and still decorated with September's decorations, which are fall leaves and sunflowers.

Fa la la la la
La la.
La.
La.

How to describe our house?

In the best of times, I'm a very casual housekeeper. If there is a game trail from one room to the next, and the bathroom fixtures aren't actually talking back to us, we're good.

Oh, I've got my 'pet things' that have to be done for me to feel like we're living in a house and not any ol' landfill- the dishes must be done, the bed must be made, and the laundry clean if not folded and put away.

With all the time spent at the new place, and the lack of energy and basic give-a-shit-ness after working all day at the new place, the house is...startling. And not in a good way.

Pack rats all, our stuff has taken on new configurations and astoundingly, the more we haul out, go through and throw away, the less neat the house is. It's even spreading from the bedrooms (main repositories of clutter) to the hallway to the living room to yea verily the kitchen counters that have somehow shrunk from 2 ft wide to about an inch and a half wide.

I took a deep breath and with a dramatic sweeping gesture I made enough room on the kitchen counter to bake a single solitary batch of sugar cookies, which we will frost and sprinkle tonight.

My family is terrific.

They're right there beside me, behind me, doing all things asked and unasked in an amazing constant never ending show of love and devotion that humbles me and makes me want to do more for them.

More Christmas.

More decorations.

More cookies.

More patience.

More time.

More.

We'll be working at the new house tomorrow- Christmas Eve.

After waking and opening presents Christmas morning, we'll be back out there.

Working.

Making our home a reality.

Together.

And I realize that we don't need More.

Because what we're doing together is enough.

After a hellishly difficult year, we're together.

And that's enough.

Book Excerpt- "A Reincarnationist's Guide to Graceful Living- Over and Over and Over Again"

I've really had nothing but good experiences with www.blurb.com as a self-publishing venue- the books are very high quality, there is no huge up front fee or million-book minimum order, and they are delivered extremely quickly.

So it was only natural that after three text-only books, I'd want to play with the photo features of Blurb- because that's what it's mainly used for- commemorating weddings, family reunions, graduations, all that jazz.

I didn't want to just have page after page of photos, and had always wanted something to have "in hand" that sums up what I've grown to believe over the years since no one religion or faith seemed to line up for me.

The result is this little book.

Inside is a short story- a dream memory- that is still as clear to me today as the morning after I dreamt it- almost a decade ago. So that's what I'm ending my book excerpts with.

Today is the shortest day of the year, and the day Mother Nature says "It's time to start over- the last year is behind us now and every day will be longer and brighter".

As we wind down the human calendar year and wind up over the human Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa holidays, take a minute to give a little nod of thanks to Mom Earth- if she ever gets tired of our abuse and kicks us out of the house, we'll be in deep shit.

Merry Solstice.


Cricket Song


I found myself in a place I'd never been surrounded by people I'd never met. The little town was isolated and perched atop an emerald hilltop; picture perfect and quaint, yet comfortable and real.

Weary from travel, I was welcomed by the locals and quickly found a tiny house to rent, furnished with worn but lovely furnishings and nestled in the heart of a cluster of similar homes. Each house had a small neat front yard overseen by a large front porch and a huge back yard with big old trees and tidy vegetable gardens.

The townspeople all worked locally at trades thought of as extinct in more urban areas- shopkeepers, butchers, farmers, and a contingent of displaced artists like myself who were considered an oddity to be coddled and humored.

This artistic sub-community consisted of a young girl from California with frothy blond angel hair who painted watercolors so ethereal viewers instinctively held their breath lest the subjects blow away, a Mexican matron with permanent smile lines and dancing crinkly eyes whose pottery was so beautiful any food served in it was automatically delicious, a dark handsome gentleman who hailed from South Africa and surrounded himself with woodcarvings vibrating and humming with inner fire, and one storyteller - the woman who gazed back at me in my mirror.

The four of us had been drawn to this place all around the same time and had settled into a easy routine. We tended to take our meals together and took turns cooking for each other, coming together in our strangeness.

As a group we were welcomed by the people who made up the community, and we participated in the events therein- the dinners, the church programs, the concerts in the park and the fairs and festivals. We knew them as individuals and as families, friends and teachers- every one of them tied to this place by history and blood.

As peaceful as we all were here, and as everlasting a feeling there was about the place, there was an aura of anticipation permeating the town, a palpable waiting. It seemed odd to us newcomers, but not in an unsettling way; and it seemed built into the very character of all the townspeople.

Waiting.

But such a lovely place, with the lovely views and the feeling that you could reach right up and pluck yourself a handful of starlight on a clear night. Standing on the peak of the hill, wrapped in a comforter of darkness, the only sound was the singing of the crickets and like the stars, their song was clearer and more enveloping than any I'd heard before.

In this place, we passed days, weeks, months; each of us finding renewed energy and inspiration among these quiet accepting folk.

Then, almost imperceptibly, there was a change.

The waiting turned to subdued excitement.

Everyone in the town seemed lit from within with the knowledge that the waiting was almost over yet it was never verbalized and never questioned. We four newcomers were the only ones troubled by this.

One day our woodcarver was poking around in the attic of his little rented house and he found a book.

A very old book.

That evening at dinner he brought it out and we blew the dust off of it and opened it up. We took turns reading the fantasy within. For although it was written in journal form, most assuredly it was fantasy.

The journal told of a world that had gone mad. Not mad in a noisy violent way, but a more insidious madness; the madness of waste. The human population of this world had spent it's resources almost to extinction and showed no sign of wanting to conserve anything for their descendants. Eventually, the world had had enough. A mist settled over the earth and while they slumbered, every human was transformed into a cricket. It was decreed that the humans and the crickets would walk in each others place for 1,000 years. There the journal ended.

Nervously and feeling a little silly, we checked the date of the last entry.

The end of the 1,000 years was upon us.

Silently we stared at the book left open on the table before us, our coffee cold and forgotten, the sound of the crickets growing louder till it filled our minds. As if from a great distance, we heard the townspeople gathering at the town hall for a community dinner, and we remembered that we had been invited.

It was a community dinner identical to many we'd attended, yet something had shifted and we were not participants, but an audience. As we made small talk and ate of the good simple foods, we each one of us looked a little harder at these people, our friends. They WERE our friends and we were conscious of burning the essence of them into our hearts- how they looked, talked, smelled, felt.

Just in case.

We lingered till the last person left for home, then we returned to our little houses, OUR homes. Although we gave each other the same goodnight embrace that we had shared every night of our stay, this time the embraces were just a little tighter, just a little longer.

Nothing was said.

Except 'Goodnight'.

I was awakened shortly after midnight not because I heard something untoward, but because of the absence of sound.

No crickets. The night world was silent for the first time since I had arrived. Filled with sadness, I fell back into a fitful slumber.

Dawn was grey and the four of us gathered in the square of an abandoned town, our grief stark in our eyes, flashing from one face to the others. Although there were many questions none of the answers seemed to matter much.

Where did they go, our friends? No matter- they were gone.

Why were we still here? No matter- we were, and we were alone.

We four were artists and our sadness would come alive in our art. To report. And record. And remember.

We shared one last embrace, then silently headed down the emerald hill, traveling in the four directions from whence we had come.

Weeks passed, then months, then years.

As if by appointment, a road-weary aged quartet found ourselves once again standing at the peak of the emerald hill, for nowhere else had ever been home for us. None of us was surprised to see the others, and we quietly traveled a familiar road into the unknown.

Our little houses were empty, but clean, and apparently awaiting our return.

The journal was nowhere to be found.

We were dreading the absence of our friends in familiar places, and of course they were not there.

And yet they were.

From every shop and every yard the people of the town smiled at us with calm friendly faces that were ever so dear, ever so missed.

We were greeted by name, as if we'd never left.

The peace in the town was enhanced by a new aura- that of Care.

Care for the earth, care for all that grew, all those who inhabited it, large or small. Nothing was wasted, nothing and no one taken for granted.

Filled with relief and overwhelmed with happiness, the four of us knew that our travels were over. We were truly home, and would leave no more.

The song of the crickets swelled to a fever pitch and my eyes flew open. I was lying in a tent in the woods, my family snuggled next to me sleeping, oblivious to the noise outside and the turmoil inside me.

A dream.

It had all been a dream.

And yet every detail of this tale has stayed with me, in my heart, for a long time now, as fresh as when I first dreamt it.

And I wonder.

Book Excerpt- "Almost Invisible- a different kind of survival story"

This short little book popped up in my head and niggled me till I wrote it down- from how it's arranged to how it unfolded, I had no idea how it was going to end till it did.

Mainly written to counter all the current End of the World survivalist books that have everything happening violently, suddenly, very dramatically, this is the story of Now, of Here, of the reality that we're all of us in the middle of our own end every single day.

And the real truth that while things could certainly get worse, they could just as easily get better if we all stop looking for and fearing the Big Monsters, and start caring for our own neighbors (human and otherwise), and our own neighborhoods (with or without human habitation).

Chapter Three- Shelter

During mealtimes at the senior citizens' home, a perky young activities director would announce the many social opportunities for the residents to enjoy.

Mostly her voice was background noise,so much buzzing mulling around and under the real conversation, but one day the buzzing became words and the words piqued her interest.

"The Childrens' Hospital is looking for volunteers to read stories to the patients- if you're interested, please see me after lunch".

The children loved her.

She had a way of making the fairy tales come to life, the characters all having different voices and expressions- all framed by the purple hat, which became her identity.

"Where's Purple Hat Granny?" the children would wonder to each other if she was even 10 minutes late.

While their parents brought them stuffed animals and the candy stripers brought them treats and the medical staff brought them things that were "good for you- and it'll only hurt for a minute", she brought them treasures from the park- acorns, feathers, pebbles and leaves.

She reported on the magical images in the clouds, the sunshiny warmth of the air, the call of the common creatures most grownups couldn't hear anymore- squirrels, frogs, cicadas, sparrows.

All the things they missed by being in the hospital.

She brought the gift of playing outside inside.

And after her reports, she listened to theirs.

Not just the fears and frustrations of being who they were and where they were, but of things remembered- snowflakes turned liquid on a tastebud, baking cookies with their mom, beloved and comical pets at home waiting for them, what they were going to be when they grew up.

Eventually they'd get around to the story.

She picked the stories with care from the library- only those with wild free colors and fabulously delicious words were acceptable. The colors had to leap off the pages and wrap around the childrens' imaginations while the text burst rolling, roiling,boiling and churning along- carrying them all away triumphantly for just a sliver of time.

Out of the hospital. Away from their hurt, their germs, their helplessness.

While most volunteers came and read their story, passed around a treat, patted heads and cheeks and were gone in an hour, she spent all afternoon in the company of her children- none of them had anywhere else to be.

She left the hospital each day along with the rush of day staff, relatives and office workers- all with thoughts of the evening ahead of them, while her heart stayed firmly behind.

One evening, returning to the shelter, she noticed not for the first time, the people outside.

Between the floods and the drought, the downturn of the economy and the swelling of unemployment, more and more people were jobless, homeless, hopeless, families stressed and stretched till they broke- and the shards fell sharp and fresh on the doorstep of the shelter.

She had status as 'permanently homeless'- her mental capacity not feeble enough for hospitalization, but not orderly enough for employment, plus she never caused anyone a moment of bother, so her spot in the shelter was secure.

She smiled kindly at the children, who tried valiantly to smile in return. The adults' eyes were fixed inward- unable to look beyond their own troubled thoughts.

Except for one.

She'd smiled at the boy- a young man of about 12- not a little kid anymore yet not quite a teenager, he had his arm around the shoulder of his mother- a gesture both protective and needy.

The corners of the boy's mouth turned up but his eyes were defiant, troubled, ashamed.

Puzzled, she glanced at his mother. The evening shadows were reflected in her tired eyes, her faded hair, and the bruise on her cheek. The shadowed eyes questioned, begged, and pierced straight into her soul with an attack of recognition.

And she knew for sure and for true that this boy, right at the threshold of becoming a man, had had to deny any likeness there was between himself and his father- for one thing the boy would not allow himself to become was like him- the man who was supposed to be his role model.

And she knew for sure and for true that this woman was herself.

Gently, she touched the boy's arm. "Come with me- it's going to be alright".

Entering the office, she told the secretary "I won't be needing my place here anymore- my son has come to take me home".

Surprised, but in a hurry to close up the office, the secretary asked, "I thought they said you don't have a family. Where does your son live?"

"He's from Neshkoro. He's a missionary and has just returned form doing good deeds in Africa. He'll be here in just a little bit to pick me up. I want you to give my spot to these people, please".

And she gathered her few things and left the shelter for the last time.

Although she was tired from her afternoon at the hospital, she appeared fresh and happy when she reported to the evening shift.

"I'm here to be the overnight volunteer".

The charge nurse looked confused. "I wasn't aware that we were starting an overnight program", she sighed. "They don't tell the night crew ANYTHING, but we surely are glad for your help".

And from that moment on, any child who woke alone and hurting and afraid in the dark had Purple Hat Granny to firmly hold their hand, whisper stories of hope and light and tuck them in with promises of a better tomorrow.

Book Excerpt - "Easterchicks Gone Bad"

And now for something completely different.

Easterchicks Gone Bad was the first of (a bunch) of articles I've written for Neil at
www.homestead.org , the venue that first gave me an appreciative audience for my writing that wasn't related to me by blood or loyalty. My assignment there is to produce short articles suitable for publication that both educate and entertain. Compiling them all together was done at the request of the readers over there.

I'm always surprised and genuinely flattered by the cyber-fan letters I receive regarding my articles, but would like to remind people that all articles published over there need permission to reprint from Neil Shelton- I googled "Easterchicks Gone Bad" once and found it copied/pasted in a quilting forum. To their credit, the poster did not TAKE credit, but none was given to me or homestead.org.

Once we get this little house project out of the way, I'll be back to my sort-of-monthly schedule there- I promise, Boss.

Drawing a Circle in the Sand- Teaching Awareness to A Consumer Society

The following is a true story. Names have not been changed to protect the innocent.

On a picnic one fine day several years ago, my son Alec and I were lunching with my friend MaryHelen and her twin boys James and Noah, also my son’s age. Approximate age of these boys at the time is right around four years old.

My son was busy munching his Happy Meal and took a moment out from ingestion of grease and preservatives to inquire if the liquid in the wax carton was cowsmilk or goatsmilk. I told him it was cowsmilk and he accepted that without comment.

My friend’s boys however, were suddenly very quiet and eyeing their wax cartons with grave suspicion.

“What do you mean, what KIND of milk???” they asked Alec.

Alec cheerfully explained. “The milk at OUR house is goatsmilk. Every morning my mom goes out and feeds the goats. Then she gets down on the ground next to them and milks them like this (insert visual of young boy doing realistic rendering of milking a goat). She brings it into the house, strains it and puts it in the fridge for us to drink.”

After a stony silence, James announced, “Well, OUR milk comes from the STORE”.

Alec allowed that most people do not have goats in their yard and that for the unfortunate masses; store-bought cowsmilk is the only sad alternative for a calcium-laden drink. James and Noah were STILL not happy, saying that THEIR milk does NOT come from COWS, it comes from the STORE.

In the manner of most pre-school and congressional discussions, this rapidly escalated to fisticuff status.

Now, MaryHelen is a veterinarian and these boys are exposed to many animals both in and out of ‘nature’ all the time. The Circle of Life is not a stranger to them. Or so she thought…

At James’s pronouncement, followed by the zealous statement of belief, and the impending physical assault, MaryHelen was alarmed, and rose to the occasion with alacrity.

“WAIT- you are ALL right!” she hollered, the scruff of one boy in each hand, while I held my combatant at bay also. She then detailed how the cowsmilk that is usually in THEIR sippycups goes from the cow, to the automatic milking machine, into a truck with a lot of other cows’ milk from a lot of other farms, to the factory to be cleaned up, sterilized and cartoned ready to be delivered to their local store. That’s the point where they become personally involved with said milk. From cows. And that Alec spoke truth when he told them where HIS milk comes from.

Once the light of righteous indignation left the eyes of the three boys, they were loosed to resume their meal in silence. James and Noah would have nothing more to do with their milk.

I whispered to MaryHelen “Just wait till they learn that eggs come out of chickens’ butts- they’ll never eat another egg”.

She blanched and looked alittle faint.

Americans have always been farmers. Most of our founding fathers had huge farms and spent at least as much time in the fields and barns as thinking up Important Documents to sign. Then something happened.

We moved off of the farms in droves- driven by emancipation, drought, depression, disillusionment, the siren call of the cities who were hungry for manpower to run the ever-larger factories and accompanying businesses. Obviously this factory-workin’ thing was not a cushy gig by any stretch of the imagination, but the promise of weekly wages that relied on your ability to get to work and do your job instead of your life resting on whether Mother Nature rained on your crops or not was a welcome relief to many.

A fundamental drive of the human soul is the wish that your children have a better life than you do. In the urban world, the way to a better life lay NOT in going back to the land, but to college for an advanced education. When the children of these factory workers reached their teens they did NOT swing BACK, they swung forward.

Teachers, lawyers, doctors, dentists, art history majors, mechanical and aerospace engineers began rolling off of the collegiate assembly lines like the Buicks and Frigidares that their fathers made.

This puts the average American at least two generations off of the land.

So what the heck does all that have to do with James, Noah and Alec dukin’ it out over the source of their moo juice?

Somewhere in all this mess we call ‘advancement’, we not only abandoned the rural ways, we learned to shun them as well.

Clone-like orbs of vegefection that taste as interesting as they look have replaced fresh veggies from the garden, still warm from the sun and as individually scarred and lopsided as we are. Small details like vitamin content and flavor have been cast aside for uniformity, toughness under shipping stress, and shelf life. The veggies we buy at the supermarket have been genetically altered, chemically fertilized, drowned in pesticide, power-washed and dunked in wax, but thank GOD they aren’t DIRTY.

Meats (actually chickens, pigs and cows- who KNEW?) are grown in horrendous conditions and fed enough steroids to make them grow fast and enough antibiotics to keep them alive till we kill them. Of course ‘we’ does not technically refer to ‘us’, because ‘we’ don’t really want to see them till they are killed, gutted, soaked in anti-bacterial preservatives, hosed mostly off and wrapped in shrink wrap. They aren’t really animals anymore then, they are tenders, chops and steaks. Cuz eating dead animals would be gross.

“We get milk from cows and eggs from chickens” is our standard line to children. Are we even aware that when they put a picture to this statement they most likely get a mental image of various barnyard animals in white coats, manning the assembly lines in the milk and egg factories?

And let’s look for a moment at the other end of things.

There’s a most magical vehicle that comes into your neighborhood on a regular basis. You can hear it from blocks away by the sound it makes. People run out of their houses to meet it. People look forward to it’s coming. People are very sad when they miss it, and some have actually been known to chase it down in their cars. By your smile I know you know what I am talking about.

Ice cream? Who said anything about ice cream?

I’m talking about the garbage truck, silly.

That phantasmal chariot that swallows our trash like a giant metal pelican and carries it off. Poof. It’s gone. If a child is precocious enough to ask, “Mommy, where is the garbage truck taking our stinky putrefied wastes?” the answer will be “to the dump, honey”, and that will be the end of it.

Our food comes from the store and our wastes go to the dump.

The Circle of Life has been replaced with the Tunnel Vision of Consumerism.

We need to take our precious children and challenge them. If they stop asking ‘why?’ we are lost. “Why?” must be answered, and then “Before that?” and “Then what?” need to be addressed as well.

“We get our food from the store” must be followed with “But BEFORE that- it comes from the factory and BEFORE that it was grown and harvested on the farm using compost in the soil to help it grow”. If any link in that chain includes anything that we are ashamed of or don’t want our children knowing (or ingesting) we must change it, either by demanding that changes are made, or by growing our own.

“Our trash go to the dump” must be followed with “And AFTER that, it goes into landfill which takes up huge amounts of land area and pollute the earth, air and water. We must make sure that our additions to the landfill are minimum by recycling what we can, composting what we can, reusing what we can, and then and only then, throwing the rest away in biodegradable bags, not those quilted plastic nightmares that are advertised to be able to stop a runaway train.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, compost to compost, everything goes around and around in a circle as old as the earth itself.

Traveling in a straight line is exciting in a brash, blazing a trail kind of way. Taming of the wilderness (natural or corporate) and all that. The future is unknown, and there is no past before your tiny self appearing on the scene. If you are a proper consumer, you are also teaching your children to grow up blazing their own trail.

Taking what you need where you find it and discarding after use is unsustainable, irresponsible and ultimately discouraging. Because no matter how hard we try to hide it behind and underneath chemically processed hair, botoxed faces, designer-clad bodies that have been liposuctioned into submission, encased in our autos thundering down the highway with our cell phones attached to our ears there is still a core of organic matter right in the center of our souls, that little core needs roots, and roots need compost, dangit.

The Circle of Life requires a lot more thought and care to travel than a straight line, because it’s a CIRCLE and you will be back around this way again. Judicious pruning and mulching must replace slash and burn. Attention is required to preserve the knowledge and cornerstones of the past both for use today, and for our children’s’ use in the future.
The child who finds an egg, sees that egg hatch into a chick, feeds that chick till it grows and lays eggs of it’s own has learned a valuable lesson.

Planting seeds together, watering, weeding, playing in the dirt in general, harvesting and eating something you planted together will make an impression that will last long after the last cucumber is pickled.

Helping at milking time early in the morning has its payoff later in the day with homemade chocolate ice cream.

It’s our duty as homesteaders to not only keep our own family and farm in order, but to teach others how to do the same, because our ‘family’ is everyone and our ‘farm’ is this whole planet.

Quietly, gently, patiently, one perfect free-range egg, soft juicy taste bud tingling tomato and fresh cranked bowl of ice cream at a time, we can and will ease this generation out of the long dark Tunnel of Consumerism and back into the grandmotherly hug that is the Circle of Life.

Book Excerpt- "Cancerdance- a love story"

Hey kids- it's less than 2 weeks from Christmas- do you have your shopping done?

This week I'll be posting excerpts from my books in an effort to bump up sales enough to help defray our moving costs...errr...spark ya'lls interest and as a reminder that the gift of a BOOK (especially one signed by the author) is ALWAYS a good idea.

Remember- to be signed by me, the books must be ordered through my website, not the Blurb website. All books will go out within 24 hours via US Postal Service expedited delivery.

"Cancerdance- a love story" is told mostly in journal form, typed out as the events of our first 7 years living as a Cancer Family unfolded.

*small but important spoiler- I don't read (or write) books without happy endings*

So without further ado-

31 October 2007 at 6:28pm

We have to be at the hospital at 5:15 tomorrow morning.

Alec has just informed me that he has a sore throat.

How the heck will I be two places at once???

I can't 'fudge' and say Alec's fine if he's not, and bring a germy kid into an environment of all immune suppressed people.

And I can't just dump Ward off a the curb.

Shit.

31 October 2007 at 10:01pm

No fever yet- we've had dinner and Alec's had his shower, so I'm drugging him up good with Childrens' Advil Cold and Flu, and trying to get Mr. Night Owl to go to sleep early.

LAST surgery I did have my friend here-

this time, no one.

...Figures.

01 November 2007 at 6:27pm

Alec so far is holding tough, so that's positive.

We got to the hospital at 5:15am and they took Ward back at 7am. He was in recovery, sitting up watching TV at 11am and in a room by noon. No swelling at all. Looking great. We were happy and optimistic about going home over the weekend.

*Fools*

Then the doctor came in.
-He wants to keep Ward till at least early next week so they can get him back on blood thinners for his clotting issues, and keep the stitches AND the drain in for 'a long time' so his thinned blood does not do what he thinks happened last time (see below).
-From what he saw during surgery, what he thought was tissue swelling after the first surgery was more likely the socket filling with his nice thin blood and pushing the graft forward. That blood then kinda sat there (ick) and finally started oozing out the edges (double ick).
-Of course Ward needs to be on some sort of thinner so his annoying cardiac clots don't come back, so the doctor is not completely convinced that it won't happen again and we'll lose the graft, which can't be re-done since he's already used all the parts needed for one.
-He mentioned the use of therapeutic leeches.
-Oh, and by the way, he's leaving for Japan tomorrow night.

So tomorrow I need to sit outside the cardiologist's office till they can see me and tell me what they are planning to put him on- since the Coumadin was causing him to break out in hives for the last month.

"They" said that was not a side effect, but dang if 12 hours after going off Coumadin he was completely freakin' healed- like not an itch or even a light bruise left, and he had been positively purple all over from scratching.

I think we'll be ordering pizza delivered tonight.

If there is a God, they will also deliver cheesecake.

The Resale Value Bugaboo

So we're building this house.

I may have mentioned that before a time or seventy.

This little house is everything that our little family desires for us to be comfortable. You'd think that would be a good thing, an understandable thing, universally. But we found out differently.

The young man with the computer program who turned my drawing in pencil on graph paper into an actual blueprint kept trying to draw in a dishwasher. I have three dishwashers, and their names are Ward, Alec and Joe. In my entire life I've had one mechanical dishwasher and I hated it. For the most part I used it to hide dirty dishes till I could wash them by hand. It WAS handy for cooking Lake Trout, though...

While doggedly drawing in a dishwasher I didn't want, he also kept leaving out the second stove in the kitchen- in addition to the gas range, we have a wood burning cook stove.

Causing the most consternation was the HVAC closet. When asked where it was going, I said, "We don't have one". Which he couldn't wrap his head around, since how can you have a house without central heat/air???

Like this- the house is site specific- set and arranged to take advantage of every ray of light, every prevailing breeze, every one of the hundreds of trees around it.
Considering our climate is truly temperate, most of the time the windows will be open. When we do need artificial cooling or heating, we have window air conditioners (one for each of the two bedrooms) and heaters- both wood burning and propane.

Why heat and cool rooms you're not using? So I told him we are installing "Zoned Temperature Control" and averted the explosion of his head.

Showing the blueprint to my best friend (lets call her Cathy), she asked where the refrigerator is in the kitchen. I told her it's not IN the kitchen, it's in the pantry, along with the microwave cart. The kitchen is in the actual center of the house with the dining room/kitchen/living room all being one big space, and I didn't want a big stupid fridge sitting in the middle of it, and the pantry is right off of the kitchen. Putting the fridge in the pantry makes it...exactly as far away from the sink, work area and stove as it is now in this house.

Cathy sighed (she's done alot of that in the 30+ years I've known her) and said carefully, "Sher, what about resale value?"

Here's the thing.

We're not going anywhere.

This house is not an investment, not being built to look like the houses around it, not supposed to impress anyone.

It's our Home, and once we move into it, we're not leaving.

And yanno, in years past that's how people built their houses. The old houses were filled with character, color, quirks of all sorts to shelter and nurture the people who were going to live there- not till the market went up, but for generations.

New houses are built in neighborhoods where one house pretty much looks like the next one, except for differences so slight as to be inconsequential. The interiors are stark, neutral, and once stripped of the portable things of life- furniture, things hung on the wall- revert quickly back into what they were built as- gigantic totes to hold stuff temporarily, till the next step, the next job, the next transfer, the next move.

And I can't help but wonder if our Housing Industry is a symptom or a cause of some of our societal ills- our pervasive sense of impermanence- of never setting down roots too deep- because while roots are unsightly on An Investment, they Anchor a Home.

Confessions of the Lesser Parent

My husband is a wonderful father.

Right from the git-go, the second I went into labor and calmly informed him "You are to take my hand and not let go...till it's over" and the man seriously did not so much as pee till 12 hours later when Alec made his entrance into the world.

Oh, there was that one time that he dropped the baby on his head, but not very far, and it WAS onto the carpeted floor.

But other than that, Ward's clearly the better parent.

Take a few nights ago.

Alec is sick- sore throat, fever, headache...and it broke night before last. Poor boy woke up twice in tears, which I know because Ward joggled me and asked "Is that Alec?"

The first time I surfaced to consciousness long enough to listen to the low, mournful, repetitive noise coming from the direction of my son's room. "No- I think that's coyotes" I mumbled, sinking back into slumber. Some time later (not much later, maybe a few minutes) I came fully awake since my nice warm husband wasn't next to me anymore.

I stumbled into the next room where he was already ministering to our son- feeling his head, calming him down, telling him it was going to be OK.

And while part of me searched for something that *I*, as The Mother, should be doing, the other part thought "Cool. It's all under control and I can go back to bed now- my side of the bed is probably still warm".

See?

And that's just one example. I got a million of 'em.

Seriously.

In Lieu of a Post- Take Two

I'll admit it- I check my "traffic stats" sometimes...often...daily...every few hours...OK I'M A STAT WHORE- DON'T JUDGE ME.

*ahem*

And for some reason, my "In Lieu of a Post" post comes up as being seen daily, which is weird, since there's not much to it except the recipe for my world famous Triple Fudge Kickass Brownies.

What alot of people DON'T know is that almost as yumlicious (according to those I feed every day) is my apple cake. In fact, the apple cake is almost universally requested more than the brownies, more than chocolate chip cookie bars, even more than apple pie- and I make a mean apple pie.

So, since I got nuthin' as far as anything funny or brilliant, and I haven't even had time to read the book I bought for my next book review, I can at least provide this-

Mama Dixon's Apple Cake

butter an 8 X 11 cake pan and preheat oven to 350

make topping and set aside-
2 tbsp butter, melted
1/2 c sugar
2 tbsp flour
1 tsp cinnamon
blend together till it's crumbly

in large mixing bowl stir together-
1 egg
1 c sugar
1/2 c butter, softened
1/2 c milk
1 tsp vanilla
1 1/2 c baking mix (I use Pioneer)

add 4 apples, peeled and chopped

spoon into pan, sprinkle with topping and bake for about 30 minutes

Serve warm, with vanilla ice cream if you desire undying gratitude out of your family, heated for 20 seconds in the microwave for breakfast as an extra guarantee of devotion.

100th Post

Really? This started out as a little experiment, a lesson if you will in discipline.
I wanted to know if I could manage to produce something written, that was even remotely interesting, on a timely basis, thrice weekly.

And here we are, nine months later, and I've done it. Well, the volume, anyway, and I've got a few regular readers, some of whom I'm not even related to, so I must be saying something at least as interesting as anything else on the interwebs.

Therefore, since you- my readers- have proven yourselves to be as faithful as Family, your 100th post punishment...err...reward will be the very first appearance of the 2010 Dixon Family Newsletter that will be going in our Christmas Cards.

Sorry...err...enjoy!

It was the best of years, it was the worst of years.

Seriously. 2010 will go down in Dixon Family History as both the happiest and most horrifying year...ever.

By January of this year, it was apparent that Ward's graft of almost 2 years was not going to remain viable, and the doctors were trying to (again) wait till that recurring clot in his heart was gone to do surgery. Which involves the administration of coumadin.

February and March saw us in the emergency room four times for bleeding that wouldn't stop- and they admitted him for 2 nights at one point.

April they did another "routine" graft replacement. Due to some medication errors and other unforeseen mishaps too depressing for a holiday letter, but that included 2 weeks in ICU after an emergency graft repair, heart failure,pneumonia, and several bouts of "We THINK he's going to make it", we ended up staying in Houston for almost 6 weeks instead of one week. Poor Ward left the hospital in a wheelchair a full 45 pounds lighter than when he walked in 6 weeks previously.

That was the worst. Thing. Ever.

Thanks to Ward's tremendous courage and fortitude, and with the help of physical therapy and roughly 53 apple pies ala mode and as much home cookin' as I could ladle into him, he's back to almost 100% on all counts.

Which is the best. Thing. Ever.

Through it all we were supported and loved by many friends- Jordan, April, Christine, Cathy, Uncle Jim...all came physically to care for us, and many many more sent cards, gift boxes and a continual wave of strength.

We are especially thankful for our Joe- who kept the farm running and everyone on it fed while we were gone- thanks to him I never once had to worry about the things I've had to worry about in the past when we've been detained at the hospital- care of the animals, and how to pay for extra hotel nights.

Alec is in 6th grade home school, and Ward is a wonderful patient teacher. Alec continues his study of Tae Kwon Do and is now a 2nd degree level 3 black belt. We attended three tournaments this year, including the National in Mississippi and he brought home medals every time.

Erika has a new career as manager of a running store, which she loves and is much less stressful than her years on The Hill, much as she loved it and as good as she is at it. She continues to run competitively, and the last few races she's been in she's beat her personal bests while finishing way, way WAY at the head of the pack. She also got engaged to a fellow runner, and we hope to meet him in the very near future.

Dave is in Racine and is now working at Merchants, like his dad, but still sending out resumes and going on interviews for something in his chosen field. He and his girlfriend share custody of a guinea pig named Sophie.

Finally, our land at last has A HOUSE on it- we signed the construction loan mid-September and are already doing the finish work- since we had plenty of time (like YEARS) to get everything lined up just right. Once we got the "go ahead", boy howdy, did we ever.

Considering I drew out the house on graph paper, it's moving from 2 dimensional to 3 dimensional reasonably smoothly- with credit for that going to the building crew(s) involved who are not only gifted craftsmen, but have an excellent sense of humor and the patience of saints.

Every time I see it, it actually takes my breath away, not for its size or elegance (it possesses neither), but for its aura of safety and security. Of Home.

The plan is to be moved in by Christmas (give or take a week or so), then clean out our current house for its new family, who will be buying it on land contract.

Along with our considerable accumulation of stuff, we'll be moving 1 horse, 1 sheep, 8 goats, 2 cats, 3 dogs, 5 guinea hens, 9 chickens, 6 ducks and about 70 guinea pigs. Lord help us.

2010 saw the loss of 3 of our very special canine family members- Spooj, Galut and Tiny Ramon- all of considerable age (16, 9 and 20) but all left holes in our hearts which will take a long time to heal. We still have Sugarbearmarshmallowdog and Kate the Wonderdog, as well as Fizzgig- the new lap warmer/comedian/shredder of all things alive or dead.

I'm still at the Tyler Animal Emergency Clinic, still writing for homestead.org, still working on book projects...all while having acquired a renewed and passionate awareness of how very precious my friends, family and life are.

Wishing you the same passion in your lives this holiday season,
and a very happy new year.

I Did Not Move Far Enough South

I say that every year.

Well, every year since 1994, which is the year I moved from Wisconsin to Texas.

I'd been born in Wisconsin, and I hated every single wonderful white winter moment of it. Even as a child- sledding? No thanks. Ice skating? Ummm...only if I can sit in the warming house and drink cocoa. Skiing? You must be joking. Ice FISHING? (one eyebrow raised glare of complete disdain and dis-belief).

That as an adult in Wisconsin I also owned and ran a small family farm only made it worse. When the water tank heater managed to merely keep an inch of open water on the tank surface, the wheelbarrow had to be replaced with a sled to haul feed on, and I needed to carry a sledge hammer to knock the gate free with eyeballs aching from the frigid air and my nostrils shredded with every breath through the snotcicles, THAT decided me that I needed to move South.

Routinely finding tiny dead sparrows under the pine trees on picture-perfect magic ice castle mornings only sealed the deal.

I moved South in December, and marveled at the mild breeze wafting across the lake- the completely UNfrozen lake.

The area of Texas I moved to is the pretty part of Texas- trees, water, hills, flowers- an area that looks for all the world like the pine forests of central Wisconsin where I spent my summers. Only the cactus plants nestled up under the pine trees gives our actual location away.

So winters are mild, springs are a fantabulous riot of wildflowers, summers are...kind of toasty, and autumn is a wonderment of fall colors that can be enjoyed in bare feet.

And then it happens.

The first day each year the mercury drops below freezing, my body and mind go into survival mode and actually physically recoil from the assault of the icy blast. And I say it

"I did not move far enough south".

But here's the thing.

Any farther straight south and we'd be at the mercy of hurricanes- by the time they get up here they're mere shells, empty blusters of rain and wind with perhaps a little tornado thrown in for tantrum effect, but mostly spent.

Southeast is muggy (and east of the Mighty Miss- somewhere I no longer wish to be), and Southwest is...freakin' dessert.

So I'll look at the internet real estate listings in exotic places like Costa Rica, and Ecuador, and Hawaii, mug of cocoa in front of me, wrapped in a blanket, fuzzy slippers firmly on my socked feet.

But here is Home. And Family. And Friends.

And while in Wisconsin, once the mercury dips below freezing, it's a full 6 months before you need to dust off any numbers higher than "32" on your thermometer, here in Texas right now it's a chilly 37 and it won't be warm and 70 again till...

...tomorrow.

*Here is Better*

Down To Earth

Yanno what I hate?

I hate heights.

We spent part of our summer vacation in '09 in Glacier International Park and it's outstandingly beautiful. We stopped at the ranger station and inquired about which roads to drive since we only had a day there and were told "You must travel the Going to the Sun Road". I asked if it was really scary, because I Do Not Do Scary and was told with a kindly smile "You'll be fine".

It. Was. Horrifying.

On the last leg of the route we stopped and Alec said "Look, Mom- some of those rare ground squirrels" and I said "I hope they all die of rabies- lets go IT'S GETTING DARK OUT".

By the time we were back at the hotel I was delirious. I was talking to Joe, recovering from knee replacement surgery in Helena (and the reason for our trip to Montana) and told him how beautiful-yet-ghastly the drive had been and he said "Well, Sugar- this land makes for tough men".

I told him they weren't tough- they were all brain-damaged from high altitude, lack of oxygen and the freakin' frigid temperatures.

I remained traumatized for weeks.

We visited a friend several days later and there's a ditch about a foot deep along her road and I hollered "Look out- you're too close to the edge".

But I'm not talking about Montana today.

Today I had to do a little work on the roof.

All I needed to do was climb up there and apply stain to the trim up there.

Easy Peasy.

I climbed up. I looked down. I couldn't stand up.

Crab-crawling to the gable, I managed to get most of the stain applied. My knees hurt from crawling on the shingles, my arms hurt from the death grip on the trim and the stain can, and I needed to pee. I could not imagine standing up to do the tippy top trim.

Ward- my hero- helped me down onto the ladder and I ran for the porta potty.

But it rankled that I hadn't finished the job, so after a few minutes to gather my shattered wits, up I went again.

I stood up and applied the tippy top stain.

I laid down and applied the bottom-most stain- an especially daunting task since I wear bifocals.

And Ward- my hero- helped me down onto the ladder and I ran for the porta potty.

There's one more gable to do and then I'm off the roof. The next time it'll have to be stained is in 5 years. Alec will be 15 then.

*Perfect*.

Thanks By Number

1. My Family- first, foremost and always- the people who I get out of bed for, go to work for, cook for, do for, worry about, stress over, fuss at. The people I couldn't do without, and who give me strength, direction, and a daily dose of awe at just how incredible they are.

2. My Friends- the people who don't even have to like me, put up with me, or be around me, but who choose to do so, sometimes for entire decades. The people who hold my family as dear to themselves as I do, and who are there to catch us if life smacks us down.

3. Our current home- this graceful old Victorian we (mostly) renovated has been shelter in good times and bad, gave me my first lessons in gardening and livestock keeping in Texas, has been the backdrop for every "sickness and health, better or worse" Ward and I have been through, and is where Alec came into the world (actually about 3 ft from where I'm typing). It became magically and affordably available exactly when I needed it, gave me wonderful neighbors and although leaving is so very hard, I'm confident that its new family will love it as much as we do- I wouldn't be selling it to them if I didn't think so.

4. Our future home- only 3 miles from our current home, it still took us years to find it, months to acquire it, and more years to finally build on it. Every inch of it has always taken my breath away, and I don't expect that to ever change. That the house is our own design makes it all the more special and precious.

5. Work- yes, work. I'm fortunate enough to have a job that's (mostly) rewarding and fulfilling and to be in the employ of people who have always taken my opinions seriously and make me feel that I work WITH them, and not FOR them. I strive every day to foster the same atmosphere with those who answer to ME. To have been given the freedom to tele-commute when we need to be out of town for health reasons has been a gift I'll always be appreciative of.

6. The animals in my care- pets or livestock, matters not. They've all taught me and continue to teach me daily lessons in patience, loyalty, pragmatism, hope, community, adaptability, grace. I can gauge my success (or not) in being fully and compassionately human by recognizing that it's reflected back at me in their eyes- and acting accordingly when I so often fall short.

7. The wonders of technology- the computer that's given us so many opportunities to expand the scope of the word "family", medical science that's kept us all alive at one time or another, my bread machine. If TS ever really hits TF, we'll need to learn to like tortillas, because I couldn't raise a loaf of bread with a pulley.

8. The bad bits in my life- times I've been treated unfairly, even cruelly both emotionally and physically. The times I've been truly poor and afraid, truly lost and lacking options. Those are the times that sparked an anger in me- a bullheadedness to keep putting one foot in front of the other no matter what- sometimes in hope of a better day coming up, more often just to show the bastards I wouldn't stay down. Without the bad bits, I wouldn't have been right where I needed to be to find the best of all the others, and I wouldn't be the person I am now who fully appreciates it all.

***Happy Thanksgiving***

Lousy Douser

So this morning our "adopted" son and his sister came over to check out the new house and do some shooting. Not at the house, we've got a big bank o' clay we shoot into for target practice.

Unbeknownst to me, they also brought dousing rods. Now most folks have heard that dousing rods can find water, and that's true. But they can also find pretty much what you concentrate on them to find for you.

Concentration. Focus. Steady mind and heart.

I was doomed from the start.

"Here- which set speaks to you?" Jordan asked me, setting 2 sets of metal rods in my hands. They were all completely silent.

"Ummm...this one?"

I was shown how to ground them, hold them, walk slowly and follow them.

Jordan asked his to find water and they pointed solidly and immediately towards the creek.

Crystal asked hers to find the Alligator Man- a spirit Alec's seen on our place and I've caught just a glimpse of- and hers directed her to where we're building the house (it's ok- he likes us).

I asked mine to find a good meditation spot for me- I've got my special spot down on the creek bank, but it never hurts to ask the Universe for an opinion on such things.

I walked slowly east and the rods instantly (and creepily)crossed over my neck and rested on my shoulders, stopping my progress.

I walked slowly west...same thing.

North? Ditto.

South? *Dang*

Either the best spot for me to meditate is in the middle of our driveway

or the Universe doesn't think much of me.

'Course, why should it? I'm pretty teeny and mostly harmless...

"I'm Sorry- They Don't Make Replacement Parts For That Model Anymore"

I'm 51 years old.

I've got streaks of gray hair, smile lines around my eyes and mouth, frown lines between my eyebrows, and some sort of weird turkey neck thing going on between my chin and collarbone.

I've been fighting the last 10 pounds of babyfat since having my last baby...almost 11 years ago.

Nothing on my person could be described as "perky" anymore, and somewhere along the line my upper arm muscles sank and are now mere jelly swaying in a dismaying arm-skin-hammock.

Eight years ago I had surgery to tuck up or remove everything and anything that could drop out of me, because gravity is NOT my friend and it all had.

Not. A pretty. Sight.

In the morning, I used to just "get up" all of a piece and now every individual limb needs to think about it first, then acts grudgingly after careful consideration.

One part at a time.

Things like stamina, endurance, and the ability to get worked up over anything less than an absolute and verifiable catastrophe have become fading memories and for the most part it's alright- Life is All About Change.

I've taken everything with as much grace as an ol' pear-shaped hippiechick can muster and actually was very comfortable with the obvious aging of the body I was dealt this time around

Until

One evening three summers ago we came home from work and running errands, did the chores, made supper and sat down to an easy but mouth-watering dinner of tacos.

I was hungry.

I took the first bite.

Delicious- tender beef, mixed lettuces, grated cheese, sour cream, onions, taco shells still warm and crunchy without being tough...

Hmmm.

What's this?

*Ptooie*

And I was looking at my own tooth in my hand.

Nothing so far in my entire life made me as aware of the aging (also known as "deterioration") of my mortal corpse as looking at a piece of it in my hand.

Staring at my tooth, all I could think was "This is it- the beginning of the end. One by one my parts will fall off and/or out and soon I'll just be a pile of random debris swept into a corner".

That was over three years ago.

I have a crown where that tooth was and my tongue is ALMOST used to its being there.

Even though I've come to terms with the loss of my tooth, I now take a few moments each morning before rising to do a quick inventory as each limb grumbles into motion.

Just to be sure everything's still, yanno, attached.

Job Satisfaction

So we're building a house.

This has been years in the planning, since we're not building a house like most people do- pick a plan out of a book, hand it to a builder and tell 'em to call when you can pick out paint and whatnot.

I drew the house on graph paper. Refined it roughly 143,570 times in the last 10 years, and now that we're at the construction point, we're there every. Single. Day. Several times a day most of the time.

We're also not building a typical stick-built type home- we're building a log home, which means the "constructed shell" is being done by the log home company*'s crew, and our contractor and myself will go in and finish it out.

And that's who I want to talk about- this crew.

I could say they're professional, punctual, and very hard-working and all would be true.

But here's the thing.

While I (and most people I know) have a job where we go to work and do our tasks and if we're very lucky we
a) are doing something tangibly worthwhile and
b) we like what we're doing
the men on our house-building crew get to go to work every day and not just do a job,

but make peoples' dreams come true.

How magical to show up to a job site and see a slab of cement, and within just a few weeks leave out again and leave a HOUSE behind.

Oh, I know this is what they do, and they get paid for doing it, but to show just a tiny bit of appreciation to our crew- Mike, Jeremy, Darryl and DeWayne- I started cooking last night and continued this morning and we brought them lunch today- ribs, corn bread, potato salad, baked beans, and chocolate chip bars.

I don't cook from a box and I don't cook from cans- I start from scratch and set good food in front of my family- like these men started from scratch and have set our house, our home, firmly and finally on our land.

The crew is set to be finished with their part tomorrow, which means I'll be even more frazzled than I am now- because the finish work is where I'll be getting my own hands dirtier than they've been thus far on this project.

Just in case I let this writing thing slide till the house stuff is done, lemme leave you with my recipe for chocolate chip bars- a winner with my family for over 30 years.

And a little Stevie Ray to bake by. Peace.

Mama Dixon's Kickass Chocolate Chip Cookie Bars

2 sticks butter, softened
1c brown sugar
1/2c white sugar
2 eggs
1tsp vanilla

Cream the above, then add

2 1/4c baking mix (I use Pioneer)
1 package milk chocolate chips

Spread into a buttered 13 X 9 baking dish
Bake at 350 for about 30 minutes, or till set

*Satterwhite Log Homes in Longview TX- ask for Dusty.

A Very Sad Brunch

Well, not the entire brunch.

We had bacon, which is always a winner. Not too crispy, but not all limp and fatty either.

There was pecan banana bread made with the one over ripe banana we had left and last year's pecans still in the freezer.

No. The sad part was the eggs.

Don't get me wrong- they were lovely- beautiful whites framing perky deep golden yolks- obviously from our healthy free range chickens who spend all day every day eating bugs and plants and only pecking at the scratch I toss at them out of politeness.

There were 7 eggs in the carton. 7 eggs in the pan gently fried up in real butter.

And that's the end of them.

That's the sad part.

Our chickens free range- not that "put 'em in a big cage with a wire bottom and haul them from spot to spot" bogus free ranging which is really what every single free range egg you buy at the store really is.

Our chickens never see the inside of a coop. They're out scrounging up their own grub (literally) from dawn till dusk and then fly (yes. chickens fly.) up into the trees right outside our bedroom window for the night.

Which is good because the eggs are outstandingly delicious and so orangey yellow people have called me to ask what's wrong with them- the egg yolks from the store are that 'normal' tinted mucous color and they ooze down to be almost even with the whites.

I assume out of embarrassment.

The only negative in this whole arrangement is that true free range chickens are not Human Property, they are part of the Food Chain. So there's a fair amount of...attrition by coyote and hawk.

So several times a year I either hatch out a new batch of chicks (if the hens are not setting on their own) or purchase a box of pullets from the hatchery to keep us always in between 1 and 2 dozen laying hens at all times.

And while the lives of the individual chickens is generally wildly shorter on our little farm, I can't help thinking while watching them break off into natural flocks and working their territories- with hardly a cockfight or mutilated hen on the place, things that are all too common when they're kept penned in close (but safe) quarters- that the life they have here is more satisfying and rewarding for them.

Yes. Whether or not a chicken lives a happy life is important.

We're getting ready to move in a few months (hopefully sooner) and that entails catching and moving all our critters- horse, goats, chickens, ducks, guinea hens and cats. Some will be easy to move, some will be a challenge, and the poultry will be tricky at best, maddeningly frustrating at worst. With that in mind, I've not replenished the flock and we've now got 5 roosters and 6 hens. Three of those hens are over 2 years old, so not laying reliably anymore, but considering they've probably given us over 750 eggs EACH, letting them live out their retirement years seems a fairer deal than making 'em into soup.

With the days getting shorter, even the young hens stop laying reliably, so we're down to frozen eggs from the month plus we were in Houston and poor Joe was drowning in eggs- when we came home we froze almost 20 dozen, which are great to cook and bake with, but freezing changes the consistency so for breakfast they come up lacking.

So we ate the last of the fresh eggs today till probably late spring- I'll buy more chicks as soon as we move, and they'll start laying by May or June.

I'm afraid what it boils down to is that my family is spoiled when it comes to food.

Oh, I don't buy name brand anything, and very very little processed food at all- I cook and bake from scratch not just because I enjoy it, but because that way I KNOW what we're eating because I put the ingredients in my own self and didn't just trust the picture on the front of the box.

We ate the last of the eggs talking of other things, the sunshine yellow yolks smiling up at us from between the warm banana bread and the bacon and then they were gone.

It's a long way to May, but I'm trying to look at it the same way I look at fruits and vegetables- I never buy sweet corn or tomatoes or other short-season stuff out of their natural times because the imposters shipped in during the rest of the year are so much more than a disappointment, they're a disgrace to the produce section.

That a great majority of our populace thinks eggs with the consistency of snot, corn that's more starch than sugar and tomatoes that taste like...nothing... are normal, and healthy, and...food, makes me simultaneously very sad and explains not only the acceptance but the embrace of McAnything served up in a styrofoam box.

What Reality Looks Like

It's one of those questions better not thought about.

Like "What part of the chicken IS the 'nugget'?" or "Didja ever become consciously aware of your tongue?"

How does the world look through the eyes of someone else?

How does the world look through the eyes of someTHING else?

And how do we know which vision of the world around us is the correct one?

Seriously- how do we know that the colors animals see aren't the true colors of things and it's our human vision that's whacked out?

Bugs have those crazy-quilt refractor kaleidoscope eyes, but maybe there ARE a gazillion of whatever they're looking at and we have completely rudimentary tunnel vision.

When I first started working around horses, I learned that not only do they have one eye on each side of their head, but the messages from one eye don't jive up with what the other eye is sending to the brain- making you an entirely different person to that animal when you walk from one side to the other. And that small area where you're right in front of their nosey? You're INVISIBLE!

And what the hell do cross-eyed cats see?

Even if we all agree that colors, shapes and things visually look the same to all people (except color-blind people), there's still the matter of perception.

What you've been raised around and taught as "normal" affects your perception of everything you see. As will a person's basic makeup and temperament.

Say the word "vacation" and some people see a beach, some the mountains, and some a huge metropolis. They're all correct, depending on whose brain you're looking out of.

Say the words "social drinking" and some people see a fun night on the town or at home with friends bathed in the warm glow of camaraderie, and some people (like me- having had very bad experiences with alcoholics who claimed to be "social drinkers") are slammed with an immediate and violent panic attack. Same scenario, very different response.

Say the word "music" and the possibilities are endless.

Say the words "family dinner" and the snapshot in your mind's eye will depend on your family's cultural background and the culinary talents of your mom (or dad, or whoever is the main cook in your house).

Say the word "home"- Apartment? Subdivision house? Gracious old Victorian? Farmhouse? Condominium? YURT???

So what people are taught as they're growing up, what they see in the world around them, how things add up in their own head forms and gives shape to their own version of the Truth. Which is True for them and those whose raising and life lessons match theirs.

Training + Experience + Conviction = Reality

Here's where it gets weird.

Your Truth may not necessarily be Universal. Because every other culture, group and family thinks and believes just as strongly in their own Truths.

That doesn't cancel out your Truth. They're just different. Not worse. Not better.

Different.

Say the word "god"...

Off the Wall Book Discovery- "Your Religion Is False"

"Your Religion Is False", by Joel Grus, doesn't fit in the Bargain Book category, since I didn't get it from a book store, and I paid full price ($14.95) for it. I can't even remember how I stumbled onto the website, but once I saw it, I had to have it.

This is not a book for the easily offended, but the beauty of it is that it's not trashing Christianity...or Islam...or Pastafarianism...or even Atheism.

"Your Religion Is False" is an across-the-board dissection of every single type of faith, belief or non-belief and while it's not snarky or cruel, it makes no excuses or justifications either.

The interesting thing is that we've all been raised up in some sort of belief system, making what we know seem sensible and right. So 99% of this book consists of head-nodding, smug chuckling "Wow- those folks are messed up to believe THAT" agreement.

Then there's that shining moment when the page is turned and there it is- YOUR belief system.

And in the critical, analytical light of day and typed there next to other beliefs, what seemed so normal as we grew up, so comforting whenever we were troubled, so obviously indisputable up to that very minute, looks as skewed and unbelievable as the rest of the book.

Far from being a tedious and boring read, Joel manages to cut most beliefs off at the knees in just a few pages- sometimes one is enough.

I understand that his intent was to be an equal opportunity wet blanket, in a humorous and uncomfortable way (the first clue to that is the cover- where "The Deposition" by Raphael is cleverly photoshopped into "Weekend at Jesus's") but here's what I took away from this book-

Just because what you grew up with seems right to YOU, does not automatically make what anyone else believes wrong. Or dangerous. Or threatening.

Of course Mr. Grus also thinks Religious Tolerance is false, so maybe he is just trying to be an asshole and I'm reading too much into it...

A Brand New Day

Remember two years ago, when we got a new president and a matching House and Senate and all the conservatives howled and wailed and vowed that they'd "take back the country" in the next election...if those damn liberals didn't send it to hell in a handbasket first with their socialist communist fascist nazi-ist plans?

And from that day till last night we heard the planning, tea partying, praying, complaining, bitching, moaning as this administration tried to dig us out of the mess the previous one got us into. Nothing they did was right (pun intended) and everything they did was, unaccountably, too much AND too little.

Anything done that had any effect was "Too much intrusion and stealing our freedoms" and anything un-addressed yet was "doing nothing to help the people".

From Faux News fear-mongering to Rush Limbaugh's pompous bullshit to Glenn Beck's tears of a freedom-loving clown to that whack-job from Alaska screeching "HOWZ THAT HOPEY CHANGEY THING WORKIN' FOR YA?" the entire country was pummelled with sure-fire signs of our imminent demise as the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.

But that wasn't the half of it.

Then the campaigning started.

I'm over half a century old and can't remember the last time it was proper campaign etiquette to threaten your opponent, AND your opponent's entire party AND population of constituents with actual bodily harm.

In between the vitriol were many promises and vows to "take back the country" and "undo the damage that's been done on the road to socialism".

Two years ago, the people voted against the road we had been on- one that had plunged our nation into third world status regarding accessible health care for all and worse regarding our economy and quality of life.

All the bad things were cumulative and took many years to build up, and a sensible person would see that it would take at LEAST as many years to fix it.

But people who are jobless, hungry, homeless, sick and scared, don't have any sense to spare and want so desperately to believe that someone, somewhere, somehow can fix it NOW that they laid our fragile nation back into the giant paws of the wolves.

For safe-keeping.

And the wolves licked their chops and said "Don't worry the hair of your chinny chin chin- I'll take good care of this...just like I promised".

So...what're they planning on cutting out of the national budget to FIX it? From their campaign 'promises' looks like Social Security, VA benefits, Medicare, Medicaid...if the tea party has their way "government" will be OUT of our lives to leave us the hell alone- without schools, or roads, or any sort of unified infrastructure or protection- we'll be 50 happy little autonomous islands, free to frolic to the will of whatever corporations buy the state governments.

Here's the one thing that keeps me from going batshit insane at this point-

They can't.

They can't FIX it (even their dubious version of fixing it) in 2 years any more than the democrats could.

Because of the checks and balances inherent in our government (designed by some very wise men- the same men who fought against a national religion- even the Christians among them) change comes slowly and carefully and cumbersomely to us.

So today is a brand new day. Not a substantially different day. Not, as the republicans were crowing, the day after the democratic bloodbath when they would swoop into Washington like so many marauders and "take back America".Yes, we now have a Republican majority in the House, but the Senate and Oval office are still Democratic.

I suspect that in two years, the poor American people will still be poor, still be frustrated, still be confused and be very very angry that all those pretty campaign promises were just that- enticements of flowers and candy, dinner and a movie so the country would take THEM back.

And I'll try really hard to refrain from screeching "SO- HOWZ THAT CHANGEY BACKEY THING WORKIN' FOR YA?"

If You Do Nothing Else Tuesday...

...go vote.

I've got my voter card in my purse and ready to go- proudly red ink stamped "democrat".

This is handy since not only do I actually vote democrat, but in elections where you must choose a straight party line, there IS no line in small-town East Texas for democrats. I AM the line and breeze right by all those republicans lined up out the door.

I remember going to the voting booth with my parents and getting to pull the levers on the big gray machine- the final red one opening the curtain and clearing out the votes with a metallic "swish".

I remember taking my kids to stand in line to vote, up to and including our youngest, who is handy at helping me remember how to work the newfangled faux computer voting machine.

I remember to vote. Every single election.

Because just one vote does make a difference.

Everyone gets one vote and each vote counts and matters. When we cease to believe that or become too busy or too lazy or too apathetic to haul our butts to the polling place and take five freakin' minutes out of our day to vote is when we lose more than elections, or majorities in Washington DC, we lose by abdication our right to any bitching whatsoever about the government in office.

I get so tired of people not just complaining, but getting downright aggressive about what they hate about the current administration, yet when asked if they voted, they say "No- I don't vote- it's depressing and one vote doesn't matter".

Really.

The way it's SUPPOSED to work is
-everyone over the age of 18 votes. In every election.
-the winners make the laws and whatnot for the next few years
-winners are elected by majority vote, so once elected everyone gets behind the winners because we're a "majority rule" kinda nation
-if this time's winners clearly suck at leadership and/or listening to their constituents, they get voted out the next election

The way it SEEMS to work is
-only really old or really fanatical people vote because they're the ones who make the time to do it
-the winners kiss as much lobbyist ass as they can while in office
-if your candidate doesn't win, it's assumed that there was corruption and cheating at the polling place, so "that other guy" didn't really win at all
-all the people from the losing side (including the candidates) whine and scream about the country being brought to quick and burning ruin by the winning parties with no chance of survival

Shut up.

Tomorrow is Tuesday- I'm voting democrat because I believe that's the right thing to do for my family and my country. If moderate republicans regain the majority I'll try to get behind them and hope they do the right and just things not just for themselves, but for their (and our) country.

If the Tea Party candidates are elected into office, we're all in deep shit.

Including, and perhaps mostly, the tea partiers, who, for some reason, fail to see that if they succeed in stripping the government bare of all 'socialist intrusive programs', none of their social security or VA checks will be in the mail next month.

The Tea Party thinks they're a powerful grassroots movement, blazing a path back to how America was founded. I hope the rest of us see that they're funded by the very people they claim to hate, and those very people will happily and gleefully chew up the tea partiers and spit them out...first.

So if you do nothing else Tuesday- go vote.

Vote thoughtfully.
Vote passionately.

Vote against insanity and ignorance.
Vote against the Tea Party.

Migraines and Millionaires

I hate migraines.

In years past I lived with an almost constant low-grade headache including a few full-blown migraines a month and they are now few and far between since I had all my 'parts' either removed or shifted and have gotten, yanno- old.

My last one was back in April- after running myself literally ragged with Ward in the hospital and Alec to care for and a whole lot of worry and stress. Generally when I feel a headache coming on I take Advil Migraine (the only over the counter med that works for me) and it's gone in 30 minutes. Occasionally I'll need to lie down in the dark and if it's really bad a cold washcloth to my head is my best friend.

Back in April, I pushed beyond the tipping point and by the time I stopped to care for myself it was not because I finally wised up to the wisdom of being sensible and acknowledging my humanity, but because my body took matters into its own hands and just flat stopped working- with some intestinal trouble added in for extra emphasis. I spent several days in a dark room, unable to rise from the bed, Alec luckily old enough to fend for both himself and me.

So it didn't really surprise anyone that it happened again this week. I'd been pushing, bullheading, prodding our lives forward at warp speed to get this house project underway and yea verily finished in record time- before Ward's next appointments in Houston in December.

And of course that means trying to sort through piles and mountains of fifteen years of living in THIS house.

And planning to go to and actually going to Missouri for our Homestead Family Preunion.

And I think that all would've been OK if not for the horrors of

*the Missouri backroads*

Don't get me wrong- it's absolutely beautiful in the Ozarks. Outstandingly, breathtakingly dizzyingly beautiful.

Therein lies the rub.

I get motion sick.

I can't ride a merry go round, have to steel myself for the rising and falling of an elevator, and must ride in the front seat of a car.

Now, we live in East Texas- the lovely rolling hills forested babbling brooks area of this great state of Texas, so winding narrow roads are no strangers to me.

The Ozark 2 lane road is a whole different creature.

They not only weave back and forth left and right hither and yon but simultaneously nod up and down high and low pass me the barf bag please.

Complicating matters, we drove into Neil's after dark, so all I could see were the yellow lines like so many erratic sparkler trails on a hot July 4th night.

Anyhoo, by the time we got to Neil's I was fully green around the gills. I rallied quickly however, surrounded by good friends and good food and the weekend was spent thoroughly enjoying ourselves, and when we left I thought, "Hey- it's daytime now and I'll be driving instead of Ward driving while I try to read directions and it'll be FINE". (mental thumbs up to myself)

Well, it helped just a smidge that I drove, and by the time we got to Little Rock we were in that lovely string of storms that passed through a large portion of the nation last weekend so we were all a little white-knuckled by the time we got home at almost midnight Sunday night.

I then made the dubious decision to upload, edit, slideshow, caption and post all the photos from the weekend, putting me in bed about 3:30AM Monday morning.

Wonder of wonders (look of shock and amazement) I woke up with the Mother of All Migraines.

I spent all Monday and most of Tuesday in bed, drugged heavily, in the dark, attempting to press the cold washrag straight THROUGH my head.

But that's not what I'm writing about today.

While in bed, I had the TV on. I rarely pay attention to the TV, except for Rachel and Keith, I don't want to see TV because from the little bits that seep into my head while the boys are watching it seems...mostly stupid.

I had no idea.

Both Monday and Tuesday I was kept in rapt attention by one show. And not in a good way- not in an intellectually stimulating or interestingly historical way. More like a can't turn away from a car wreck even though you know you should sort of way.

The show is "The Real Housewives of Atlanta".

Really?

Are there really women whose soul purpose in life is to live in the right neighborhoods, wear the right clothes, know the right people and will their lives really end if they need to worry about budgets and caring for their own children and cooking their own meals?

I just can't fathom living such an appallingly wasteful and meaningless life.

Although I suspect that's not the purpose of the show.

I suspect the purpose of the show (at least in the eyes of the characters) is to show all the rest of us what we're missing, what we should aspire to, what we should be envious of.

I lay in my darkened room, in my century old drafty farmhouse, watching a 19" TV screen from Walmart, covered in quilts from Goodwill and listened to my son in the room next to me playing with his humane society puppy and I thankfully accepted a new cold washrag from my ever-attentive ever-loving husband.

Outside the wind blew quietly- gently through the open window with the box fan in it came the sounds of my world- dogs barking on the porch, chickens in the yard, birds singing, every so often the train going through downtown Brownsboro a quarter mile away.

And I felt the stresses of my life shrink and float away with the solid knowledge and thankfulness at how very very rich I am.

Five Pounds of Pure Heart

Ten years and ten months ago, almost to the day, I was driving to work on a Saturday morning. I was very proud of myself, since I was on time- a rarity- and had on makeup and shoes and everything. As I rounded a curve in the 2 lane road that runs alongside Lake Palestine on the right and forests of pine on the left (I loved my commute), I saw up ahead...something running back and forth across the road.

Rabbit? No- not hopping.

Cat? No- not slinkyish enough.

Dog? Crap. A tiny little dog.

Loose dogs are common in the country, but most of them have that "I know where I'm going" look about them. This one was frantic. Terrified. Abandoned. Every car that passed he'd run straight AT as though he was SURE "they" had come back for him- throwing him out of a moving vehicle had surely been a horrible mistake and they'dve realized by now he wasn't in the car with them.

Sighing with resignation I pulled over.

Brownish, matted, skinny, the little dog ran to within 5ft of me- just out of reach before realizing "YOU'RE NOT MY MOTHER" and circled the car, not knowing what to do. Each time he circled (at a dead run), he came just a few inches nearer, and I knew what I had to do.

I waited, kneeling.

This doesn't seem like such a big deal, but at the time I was roughly 27 months pregnant, so it wasn't nearly as comfortable as may seem.

Finally he came close enough to briefly put his tiny paws on my knee and I swooped him up- expecting to be shredded to bits by nasty little teeth.

But he didn't.

I got back into the car and he crawled up over my enormous belly,cuddled in under my chin and was asleep in seconds- happy to have had his fate decided for him.

Sounds like a real Hallmark moment, doesn't it? Except he was covered in mats and ticks and fleas and had been rolling in something long-dead on the lakefront.

I arrived at work...late (as usual)...and stinky (luckily a rare occurrence).

After applying clippers and alot of flea spray and soap, we found an old poodle- the Vets guessed him at about 10 years old. He was thin, and had "poodle teeth", but no heartworms.

So he came home with me. I called all the area Vets and placed an ad in the paper- clearly he'd been used to being in someone's lap all the time. Nothing.

All I can think is that his owner had to go to a home, or died, and whoever inherited him dumped him, threw him, tossed him out of a moving vehicle.

He told me his name was Tiny Ramon the Magnificent, Ramon for short- he abhorred "Tiny".

He became my lap-warmer, and although he loved all people and never offered to bite anyone at anytime for any reason, woe to the dog or cat- no matter the size- that tried to come near me while he was in his spot on my lap. In the over ten years we had together, only one dog was allowed to share my lap with him- Oliva the mini dachshund who was another rescue even older than he was.

He would play fetch for hours.

I've never had a manicure and haven't been to a beauty shop for a professional haircut in almost 20 years. Ramon had a standing appointment every 6 weeks at Aunt Weegi's Poodle Salon- "For the poodle who really cares".

He was so cold-sensitive he'd seek out a sunny spot to lay in in the middle of July- in the winters he would crawl under the covers and curl up on my feet.

Several years ago he was diagnosed in heart failure and had to be on lasix periodically to keep his lungs clear.

About a month ago, Ramon had a stroke. I thought "This is IT".

But he rallied.

Blind in one eye, walking with a wobble, he still did the Happydance at breakfast and dinner times. So I lifted him up onto and off of the bed, and sat with him while he ate.

Last night he woke me up coughing, so I gave him some lasix.

This morning he could barely walk, and didn't want breakfast. I'm not entirely certain he could see me at all anymore.

It seemed that all his internal switches were turning off, one by one.

He spent the morning in my lap while I did my computer stuff, as usual.

He watched me fold laundry curled up on his pillow, and I promised him I'd spend the afternoon holding him.

I went to take a shower, and ten minutes later when I came out, the last switch had quietly turned off and he was gone.

Guessed at ten when I found him, he warmed my lap and my heart for almost eleven years, which made Ramon...older than dirt.

For years it was a family joke that at the End of Times all that would be left would be cockroaches, and Tiny Ramon- their King.

Right now I do feel as though it's the End of Times- my heart breaks and I wonder how I can sit without him in my lap, come home without him dancing at the door, sleep without him firmly snuggled against me.

Right now, I don't know.