Stick Horse Cowgirls

For ten years now my cellular phone service has been with one of the giants of the industry. I won't mention the name, but its initials are: A T & T, and its logo is: I am not technologically savvy—don’t want to be. I’m not up to snuff on all the doo-hickeys that are on my fancy phone. I mainly just want the blamed thing to work as a phone, give me my email and just let me go about my business. I don’t shop around for the best plans, although I am vaguely aware that I am “under contract,” which I don’t think is quite as beneficial to me as when the term was applied to, say, Elizabeth Taylor. Still, I’ve been pretty satisfied with my service. Until the first crack in my relationship with AT&T about six months ago. I'm writing now because it happened again...let me share... My cell account is a “small business” account. I have had two numbers on it, one of which is used by my eighty-one-year-old mother. Ten years ago, she would not have had a cell phone (to use her phra...

July 25 brought to my mind my late father. That's him and me, above. July 25 was his birthday, so it made me think back over his life as I knew it, and recall how much his passing has left a hole in my life. This last statement would not make sense to the casual observer of my childhood. My father was, in many ways, broken. He was an alcoholic, although he never admitted it. He was the type of drinker who would go quite a while (months) and then we’d have a long spell of alcohol-induced craziness. It was never expected by us—always blindsided us—even though, over the course of time, you’d think we’d come to expect it always. I was firstborn—the “fixer” of the family. I remember when I was twelve we were gearing up for our annual trek to the beach, and excitement was high. The plan was to leave during the morning, driving until we were tired, staying overnight on the road and finally the next day reaching the beach. About 9ish my father got the bright idea that we needed an...

Some of you may recall that I took my first-ever cruise the beginning of this year, compliments of my mother-in-law. (See that post on February 1--I can't do the link thing for some reason). As I have been thinking lately about the connectivity of blogging, I remembered a “connection” incident I had on my flight toward that wonderful sailing vacation. As I boarded the second plane of my journey, I sat on the aisle by a couple, W and his wife Y, who occupied the middle and window seats. W looked at me as I sat down and with the most serious voice and the most serious face said to me, " Excuse me, but you aren't going to be slow in getting out of here when we get to Florida are you ?" " Oh ," I replied, " Do you have a close connection to make ?" " No, no, but...well, I mean I was just wondering if you were going to be slow or if you will quickly get out when the plane pulls up so that we can get out ?" Oh, dear! I recognized this fidget, a...

I'm pretty sick this morning thinking about our soldier, Bowe Bergdahl, 23 years old, in the hands of some scary people--because he is in service to us . I just can't resist writing this to say to whomever reads it:. " Don't forget Bowe. Pray for him as much as possible. We owe him that much, at least ." I can't imagine what he might be going through over there in Afghanistan, but even if he is well-treated, his fear must be enormous. And just think, too, of his family. It is such a desperate situation. C

I sort of ended my last post (see Stick Horse Cowgirls: C:Possum Days ) with a quote from Isak Dinesen (author of "Out of Africa") about the healing effect of telling stories--of just turning your sorrows into a story for others. I'm thinking it may be akin to "confession is good for the soul," and and why talking in therapy can be so effective. I believe that it is simply a function of our innate need for one another and for connection. When my husband ordeal first started--shattering the fairytale life I had lived--I bent my friends' ears unmercifully. It seemed that talking about this disaster gave some sort of relief; like vomiting when you have a sick stomach. (Sorry for that imagery, but it seems so appropriate. You know, getting the poison out of your system). I would say the same things to these friends over and over; asking the same questions over and over. I know now that it was a way for me to try and make sense of a senseless situation. D...

Well, I've been away from writing. Let me just give you the thumbnail sketch of my last week: A week ago Tuesday, I flew to meet my mother-in-law (1100 miles away) to drive her here. We were two nights on the road (more about that in a later post). MIL was here three days with me awaiting furniture, and my sister (who lives near) sold her house and moved in with me, along with her husband, three kids and three dogs (her fourth and eldest child went to my brother's house). So, for nine days now there have been eleven people living in my house (plus five dogs and a cat). There are people everywhere. My mother-in-law and I are bunking together in my bed. My two front rooms look like a storage unit. Just look at our front living room: We've actually been doing great! We get tired of each other, and the kids (youngest is 8) are a bit out of sorts not having all their things and having to sleep on the floor, but it's been a family time. We think my sister will close...

My mother just read and replied concerning my post on 6/27/09 about my grandmother Gertie. She said she recalls the "Christmas of no gifts," and walking home from a friend's house with her older sister. They were speculating on just what they had done to cause Santa to skip their house at Christmas. My mother remembers that the speculation centered on instances of their disobedience of their mother, including skating on the frozen creek!! More to come...thanks for listening! C