The Eyes Have It

Up until recently, I had perfect vision.

The family joke was always that my mom was near sighted, my dad far sighted and both my brother and myself have perfect vision.

I could see anything, read anything, thread a tiny embroidery needle with translucent thread...first try...at dusk.

About 8 years ago I was having trouble with the close-up stuff, so I broke down and bought the cheaters at the Dollar Store. Just the weakest ones, doncha know.

Every year or so, I'd have to upgrade to the higher power till almost 2 years ago, when I ran out of higher powers.

I went to the eye doctor for the first time since...the nurse came around and did a cursory eye check in 5th grade.

That's not exactly true- they test your eyes at the DMV.

In fact, I went into the eye doctor's office pretty smug and secure- I'd just renewed my driver's license and passed the exam with flying colors.

"Are you having trouble reading?" Why yes- yes I was.

"How about distance?" Certainly not- I have perfect vision (except for that reading thing).

"Please read the letters on the wall". Ummm....what letters?

So I got my first pair of prescription eyeglasses- bifocals.

Put 'em on, made my way to the car (cleverly overstepping all the rifts in the surface of the earth that weren't there when I went in there), turned the key in the ignition and looked up.

SWEET JEEBUS LOOKIT THE LEAVES ON THE TREES! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE, BILLIONS OF 'EM ALL SHARP AND POINTY LOOKING!

There was a definite learning curve for the ol' lady specs- the earth really wasn't shattered into tiny earthquake ravines, that was the difference betwixt the far-looking and near-looking parts of the lenses. And I've had to trade my regular chair in for a barstool to sit on at my computer desk so I can look down through the reading part of the lenses instead of craning my neck backwards and glaring down my beak like an offended duck.

And I got used to not being able to even go to the bathroom at night without my glasses on.

But all in all, I was cool with it.

Until...

...a few months ago I started having dizzy spells and headaches.

The boys being the boys, they wanted to cart me right in for CAT scans. Good luck with that, I say. Granted they panicked out of love and devotion and the fact that our family health history is frankly horrifyingly terrifying.

Then they decided that it was probably migraine related- that even though you don't break with a full-blown head-splitter, dizziness can in fact be the symptom of a migraine.

Then I started thinking the right lens of my glasses was always mucked up- everything looked fuzzy on that side even though my glasses were planted firmly on my face.

Hmmm...no muck. My glasses weren't fuzzy. My right eye was.

So today I went to the eye doctor who confirmed that my aging eyes are even older than they were less than 2 years ago, and my right eye is aging faster than the left one.

The boys were happy to hear there is no sign of glaucoma or cataracts or anything else icky inside my eyeballs (other than that oozy stuff that keeps 'em from pruning up like giant all-seeing raisins).

I have a new prescription. And new glasses on the way. And that should take care of the dizziness and whatnot.

Alec got his eyes tested at the same time. 20/20 all the way.

That's my boy.

Ward's going on Friday- he hasn't had an eye exam since they found the cancer recurrence in the muscle behind his right eye five years ago, so he's WAY overdue.

We need to take care of our eyes- on accounta we're all so damn cute, and on accounta not being able to look into each other's eyes, each other's souls, to see the history and joy and pain and love reflected there would be a terrible loss.

And we've had enough of those.

"All Stand for the Pledge"

And we did- every single day at the beginning of school. Put our little hands over our hearts and faced the flag that hung in every room and recited the Pledge.

Even as a tiny child, I had a hunch the phrase "Under God" didn't quite fit- by using linear thought I couldn't help but wonder if we say "Under God" in the Pledge at school, why don't we say "In America as it is in Heaven" at church instead of "On Earth as it is in Heaven"?

Yep, complete Trouble from the very beginning.

And lo and behold, I was right. The original pledge as written in 1892 by Frances Bellamy- a man of God-

"I pledge allegiance to my Flag and the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

It's great. Short, to the point, very very powerful. So why the hell did they have to go and muck it up by adding 2 words about God?

Well, it was during the Commie Scare of the '50's, see? We needed to differentiate ourselves as much as possible from those Reds across the Pond- the Godless Reds.

So there ya go. Insert God into a Pledge to our (as specified in the 1st Amendment)Higher-power-neutral nation. And we're instantly weaker.

If I remember my history even half correctly, our Founding Fathers were trying to base a country on freedom from all sorts of oppression, and the stickiest wicket always seems to be religion.

Starting in 1865, "In God We Trust" was ALLOWED to be printed on coins, but not required. The same Commie scare prompted the requirement on all our money in 1956.

I like the idea of the "Disclaimer stamp"- I'd get one and use it if enough money actually passed through my hands to make a difference...



"Well, then, little Miss Separation of Church and State- howz about the 10 Commandments being posted in our government offices? They're carved in marble and everything so it MUST be legal".

Ummm...not really.

According to the Supreme Court (and alot of smaller courts as well)"the posting of isolated religious texts and symbols in any public buildings is unconstitutional".

Period. No comma, no asterisk, no parentheses. Period.

If an individual student or politician or any American citizen wants to carry the Ten Commandments with them, paint them on their own personal vehicle, shit- have them tattooed on their forehead- go for it.

Pray in school or at work- bow your head and utter a quiet respectful heart-felt prayer of thanks or forgiveness or plea for help with the test you didn't study for.

Our country's in trouble, folks. We need to rally ourselves and not fight against each other- rally around what our Founding Fathers REALLY wanted for their brand new country, and not all the bullshit that's come since and still being spewed as (pun intended) Gospel Truth.

Every religion and faith and spiritual teaching- shoot, the basis of every civilized society has at its base the Golden Rule- "Do unto others"- empathy, respect, knowledge, balance.

Because letters like the one below? make my eyes bleed, my brain hurt and my heart sink.



Take us Home, Bill-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8Q1fDf0GeY

I Take You, Ward...

...to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.

We've run the Vow Gauntlet and come out the other side still strong, still together, and still very much in love.

You are, and always have been my strength, my safety, the calming force that keeps my head from exploding on a daily basis.

My knight in shining armor.

I did.

I do.

I always will.

For always and forever.

Happy Anniversary tomorrow, Gomez-

"NOW can we go to the zoo?" *wink*

Something I Get A Little Worked Up About...

Back in high school everyone had Weed. It was the '70's yanno.

Now I've told my children that I never ever smoked any pot, and I'm standing by that statement with a clear conscience and an open heart. I never ever smoked any pot.

Smoking is bad for you.

Brownies, however, are God's gift to mankind.

And I may or may not have been part of the group of school newspaper students who crawled through the window of the newspaper office, into the (supposedly locked from outside) greenhouse and planted a small crop there- hidden in plain view so to speak.

(My mom's finding out all sorts of stuff about me this week, what the hell.)

Once I got to be a grownup, I really never gave pot another thought- liquor was legal and accessible, and I even outgrew that once I gave birth the first time. Nothing dries you out quicker than a poopy diaper on a hangover morning.

Then along came Ward and his cancer.

Last year's ride on the Cancer Complications Train nearly cost him his life and he came out of it much much much worse for wear- 50 pounds underweight, in a huge amount of pain, and with a whopping dose of depression from, yanno- almost dying and whatnot.

He's limited as to what he can take for pain, but they've got him dosed as high as they can on what (sort of) works. He's already on medication for depression. I'm feeding him up like a fatted calf for cripes sake.

The medically-allowed lab created THC pills are not recommended- they're very harsh and have more side effects than the other drugs. It's the entire plant, and its unique mix of organic materials and chemical properties that do what it does. The doctors flat-out stated that they wouldn't consider the pills- said it would hurt more than help and generally be a waste of money.

One doctor looked at us in perfect seriousness and asked "Have you ever considered marijuana?" He then told us that he's got a fair number of elderly patients who take it for pain or cancer or glaucoma. They get it from their grandkids.

We have no grandkids.

I asked about CPS- we have an eleven year old son. Well, CPS in Texas has a pretty strict policy about removing from a home where there are drugs so there went that. I lost my older 2 children in a dirty custody battle and that almost truly absolutely killed me. Ward watched me go through that and is adamant that nothing will happen to cause that again. Even something that would ease his pain.

His constant, gnawing, soul-eating pain.

So here we are- a year later and he STILL has trouble keeping weight on, STILL has bouts of depression, and is in pain EVERY SINGLE MINUTE OF EVERY SINGLE DAY despite the pain killers, anti-depressants and MY COOKING.

Alcohol kills more people and families and brain cells than pot ever has. Cigarettes kill more non-smokers and pets and lungs than pot ever has. Hell, Big Macs and Whoppers kill more middle-aged people and diets and childhoods than pot ever has.

Shut up. Legalize it. For everyone. I don't give a shit.

Here's what I want.

I want every single pot-related convicted "criminal" in jail released because 99.999% of them are absofuckinglutely HARMLESS to society.

I want all the sanctimonious "Oooooh- it's a Gateway Drug" bullshit-spewing holier-than-thous who have their Just Say No To Drugs event planning meetings with a glass of wine and a cigarette to kiss my ass.

I want my husband- my Knight in Shining Armor- to have ready access to something that everyone KNOWS will help- that medical testing has SHOWN will help. Because anything else is ridiculous and inhumane.

And I want every person who looks down their nose from up on their high horse and says "Well, it's an illegal substance, wrong is wrong" to have to look into the suffering eyes of a loved one and KNOW you could help but not be able to because your CHILD would be in danger of being taken away if you did.

Make. That. Choice. Assholes. Then tell me what's right...

Sure Is Quiet All of a Sudden

Yesterday morning at 7:30 the axis shifted a bit at our house.

Joe and his friend Karen pulled out of the yard for a month + trip to Wyoming and Montana, Molly happily slobbering out the back window.

As of tonight, they've landed in Wyoming, where they'll spend the next week or so before heading to Montana for the duration and the wedding of Joe's friends Bruce and Maryann before turning the truck south again.

It's always mildly alarming when Joe leaves. Like the silence you notice because some sort of background noise has stopped. Not that Joe lives in the background- he's very much a part of our family, of our home.

So much has changed since his last summer migration.

Last year we had just returned from our nightmare in Houston. He had single-handedly run the farm by himself, not a small feat and one he wasn't prepared for- we were supposed to be gone a mere week, not almost six. Ward was very weak and very thin and very fragile and even though Joe really really wanted (no- more like he needed) to escape for just a bit he stayed till he was sure we were going to be OK.

When he left, Ward was slowly mending, Alec and I were still shell shocked, we were foreseeably forever in our old beloved but hopelessly large and cluttered farmhouse and the new place was just a dream and a drawing on graph paper for all of us.

In the fall, he came home to a house being built and his cabin already delivered and set in place- waiting for him to finish out as he wanted to. Ward was stronger and gaining weight, Alec happier and I was focused with a fierceness on getting our log home up and us moved in...as though afraid it would all disappear if I didn't keep things in forward motion. Truth be known, I was afraid of that.

So he kept telling me this year he really didn't want to go- his heart's not in it anymore, this migration he's taken every summer and had planned on taking...forever.

I know a lot has to do with his little cabin- his place designed by him and for him- his Home. Where before Montana held his memories and his friends and all the trappings of Home for him almost 40 years deep, now that's shifted, with every wall erected and every picture hung just a little farther south with each vestige of a nest until now he visits up yonder, but he lives...here.

The last few days have seen some "issues" arise with our blood relations- issues that have made us sad but resigned, mourning with a veneer of acceptance.

I made the comment at the dinner table last night (one chair obviously empty) that "Sometimes families just suck" to Alec, who doesn't understand why we're estranged from people who share our blood- like most children he takes it inside and assumes guilt, which he knows is irrational, but that's humans for ya.

Without missing a beat, he piped up defensively, "Not Joe- Joe doesn't suck and HE'S family". I started to explain that like other people we love and have taken to our hearts as Family, Joe's not "really" our relation, but he knows that. He remembers that Joe shares no family tree with us, that he literally pulled into the yard one day out of the interwebs- no stork brought him to us.

We have family.

We have friends.

We have friends who are truly considered Family.

And we have just two who ARE Family- Jordan and Joe.

Jordan is overseas working for at least a year, and Alec skypes and emails and chats and holds onto his brother as best he can.

Joe is in the frozen northlands (really- he said there's snow on the mountains yet) till early July- not September or October as in the past. I'm thinking he's coming home sooner mainly because considering all the changes made LAST year while he was gone, he's askeerd of what may happen this time.

Hurry Home, Joey- Your Family misses you. And I promise not to make any changes to your place while you're gone...trust me.

Some Like It Hot

Like me. I love summertime. Not that pseudo-summertime north of the Mason-Dixon line- summers of tank top afternoons and jacketed nights and mornings- that's Sissy Summer, Faux Summer, Summer-Lite.

It's June 1st and 100 degrees out on the porch. In the shade. Inside it's a very comfortable 85- we have no central air conditioning. The box fans hum in the windows, drawing in shaded air from the porches. The ceiling fans whirr and move the air along its path rising up, across and out the gable windows at either end of the house.

Our habits change with the weather, like the tiny particles of Nature that we are. Working in the cool of the morning and evening, quiet chores in the shade during the hottest part of the day.

Even our digestive tracts crave something different- lighter, fresher, quicker meals- more snacks than formal dinners- replace the quilt-heavy comfort foods of winter.

The cement floor is cool on my bare feet, the breeze warm but not stifling. Everything inside me slows- breathing, heartbeat, thoughts.

The air is not the cold, clammy, mold-ridden air from a machine. It flows through our home carrying the song of the birds, the insectal whine of a billion busy bugs, the scent of melting pines.

As I type, a hummingbird zooms in and out, now drinking from the feeder outside my window, now suspended in mid-air right in front of me. Looking through the glass and into the sun it was difficult to identify him the first few days. He hovers now less than a yard from my be-speckled bi-focaled eyes and glares at me from under feathered brows- "See??? Ruby throat- do I have to write it down for you?"

Hummingbirds are such assholes.

The dogs are deflated on the floor, spreading themselves paper-thin so every cell comes into contact with the cement.

A single blossom from our gardenia bush floats in a ceramic egg cup that was Ward's mom's, spicy, floral, I close my eyes and am back at my grandparent's house in Miami- Old Miami where the houses were cool stucco outside and louvered windows on the inside. Palm trees arched over the canal, lizards scurried frantically everywhere, then froze for no apparent reason, red throat flaps flagging real or imagined danger..

I planted that bush years ago at the old house- the 3rd attempt at getting a gardenia to grow. The first 2 I planted with great care and fertilized religiously. By the third one my heart had mostly given up- I stuck it in a mixture of road gravel and red clay next to the swing set. It flourished.

When we bought this land I transplanted it- stuck it in a mixture of rocks and red clay behind where I envisioned the house going...one day. It's tripled in size.

Right this minute I'm comfortable- gauze skirt and tank top, bare feet from April through November- I'm in my Comfort Zone, literally.

The sun has dropped below the huge cedars on the west side of the house, and I can feel it cooling, tiny bit by tiny bit- one sweated drop on the side of an iced tea glass at a time.

We'll go to bed on top of the sheets, next to each other but not touching. We'll talk some, and laugh some, and doze off warm and companionable, our hearts intertwined always, whether or not we physically meet.

Tonight the box fans will pull the cool air from the spring fed creek into the windows along with the chorus of the frogs, crickets and our ever-present lone whippoorwill, and by morning we'll be under light covers, instinctively turning towards each other for warmth, and comfort, and love.

We'll rise to an almost chilly-feeling 72 degrees, and begin again the rhythm of another day- kiss, coffee, family, work, Home.

Summertime in East Texas- my favorite season.

Until Autumn. And Winter. And Spring.

Book Review- "Weapons of Mass Instruction"

"Weapons of Mass Instruction", by John Taylor Gatto isn't a new release, nor a bargain bin book find. I'd been wanting to read it since before we decided to home school Alec (and he's finishing up 6th grade now) but never got the chance.

I love this book. I love it because it validates every reason we're home schooling our son.

Both Ward and I suspected even during our own sentence in school systems (12 years for me, 16 years for Ward) that school wasn't so much about learning, about education, about donning actual thinking caps and expanding our intellectual horizons.

It seemed to both of us that we were being molded, formed, spindled and mutilated into what was CALLED "good upstanding contributing members of society" but felt a whole lot like the end result was intended to be "future Employees of the Month".

It was horrifying.

Ward is a far better person than I am. He went to school, got good grades, went to college and graduated with a shiny degree in Biology.

Me? Ummm...yeah.

When I was in junior high school, our town's schools were overcrowded and they hadn't built a new school yet so we had "split shift" schedules. 7th graders went to school from noon till 5pm and 8th and 9th graders from 7am-noon.

Our high school was a social experiment in "modular scheduling"- instead of Monday-Friday schedules, we had days 1-6. Instead of set class times, each class was 2 mods (40 minutes) or 3 mods (60 minutes). Most classes were on days 1/3/5 or 2/4/6. Before the school year started, they gave us the classes we were REQUIRED to take that year and a list of electives. We had to take X many credits to graduate. Then they let us do our own scheduling.

College-bound friends crammed themselves non-stop (except for the required 1 mod minimum for lunch) in a frenzy of grade point and credit attainment. I saw the scheduling as a different sort of challenge. My crowning achievement was senior year, day 4- I had class from 8:20-9am. And then I was free.

High school was pretty much a social event for me. Not that stupid useless crap like cheerleading and sports- I was on the school paper and a theater geek. When I was actually in the building anyway. Modular scheduling coupled with this being the '70's- before schools were on lockdown with metal detectors the exterior doors were ALL unlocked and people came and went unquestioned. There WERE school cops. We loved the school cops. They had the best weed. Or so I heard...

So it was pretty easy to come and go. I spent alot of time in the "go" mode. I'd walk to the city park down on the river- not a manicured/fountained sort of park, this was a "too swampy to build on so lets donate it to the city" sort of park. It was wild and isolated and I loved it. I'd walk to the art museum that had the glorious old fashioned gardens around it- the same beloved old historic home-turned-into-museum my mom had taken me to since I was 2 years old. During school hours.

I actually worked for the head of the English department who owned a small farm- during harvest season he'd have his teachers ask their students each day "When are you finished today? Wanna make some cash?" and off we'd go- like migrant workers in the back of his pickup to pick watermelons, or tomatoes, or pluck/process chickens. During school hours.

A few times my friends and I hopped the commuter train to Chicago in the early morning and be back home before dinner. We toured the museums, ate great (and cheap) food and generally hung around. Parental permission? Nah- they'd just worry, or worse- want to come with us. (Guess I'll find out if my mom reads my blog now...)

My POINT is that I learned more about nature study by spending quiet hours at the river's edge, more about hard physical labor at the truck farm, and more about getting around a big city sans wheels and more than pocket change than I ever learned sitting at a desk.

Here's something I've always wondered- I've always wondered how many of my classmates who went through the split shift/modular scheduling years ended up in the normal 9-2-5, because I never did. Our block of graduates hadn't graced a conventional classrooom since we were 13 years old, and I felt acutely the lack of training for "show up for 8 hours a day 5 days a week and obey someone you don't really like doing something that's probably a complete sham".

Oh, I worked. I worked full time from the time I was 16. I bussed tables. I worked at the school (teacher's aide- not tethered to a desk and alot of errand running), I worked any number of part time, half time, graveyard shifts to cobble enough money together to pay bills and stay fed. I worked at a Christmas tree lot, at an ice company, the city paper and a bank. I worked at a finance company and as a camp director. I had no pre-conceived notion of what I was "supposed" to do- other than get out and earn a living if I wanted to eat and have somewhere to live other than a cardboard box under the bridge.

In "Weapons of Mass Instruction" John Taylor Gatto takes us through the evolution of the American school system and explains beautifully what I instinctively felt- school has very little to do with education and everything to do with training a workforce to think spending 40+ hours a week at mind-numbing soul-crushing endeavors is how you're supposed to go through life.

According to the author, one huge tool in pigeonholing people at an early age and keeping them there and focused on learning answers and facts without delving into questions and reasons is standardized testing, which tell exactly nothing about intelligence, or life skills, or anything that makes a damn bit of sense in real life. Standardized tests are Big Business for the testers, an excellent way to keep students stressed and feeling unworthy, and the perfect excuse for not letting teachers...teach. Because such a huge chunk of the school year is spent "teaching to the test".

Somehow I knew that, too. When I was a senior in high school, I went to my parents and said "You know, I don't really know what I want to do for a career yet and I don't want to waste money on college till I'm sure- can I have some of my college money to maybe travel for a while?" This (seemingly sensible to me) request was met with unmitigated gales of laughter. "College money? COLLEGE MONEY?? COLLEGE MONEY??? What do you think we've been feeding and clothing you with for 18 years?"

Nevertheless, these same parents told me I HAD to take the SAT's with my friends just in case I decided I wanted to go to college. So they paid for me to sit my SAT and the morning of the test I showed up with my 2 college-bound friends. My friends went into the maws of the testing room. I hesitated at the door. I asked the woman at the door "Do you work here at the college?" She did. "If I decide I want to go to college in 5 years or 10 years or 20 years will it matter if I take the test today?"

She looked nervous.

"No. It won't matter", she said barely under her breath.

Not aware I was 40 years ahead of my time for John Taylor Gatto's Bartleby Project at the end of the book, I thanked her and turned away from the artificially lit arena of false importance and spent the day reading in the sunshine.

Spend all of a beautiful day sweating over which little dots to blacken in response to questions that have no real significance to Life, the Universe and Everything?

"I prefer not to".