Fallout from BOB

First of all, I want to thank all the people who responded to my essay on the great god BOB. Thank You. Next, I want to clear up some misconceptions, some people might have had about God/Bob. Bob Vila is not god - if he was then Sears would not have merged with K-mart. He is merely an image of god, which gives him incredible powers none-the-less. How else could anyone explain why people would like to fix-up their homes and make a TV show about that popular? In my dad's day, home improvement meant fixing what was broken, squeaking, or meeting disapproval of my mother, i.e. How many times have I told you to fix that roof ? (Editor's note: the word roof could be replaced by a number of other words such as table, chair, light, hole in wall, washing machine, TV, stair, railing, and kid.) Somehow, my mother expected that my father, being a man, knew something about fixing whatever needed fixing. My father, God/Bob have mercy on his soul, was the worst fixit person I have ever seen. He once tried to 'even' out the kitchen door by shaving a little off the bottom. After, seven tries and a quarter of the door removed, he decided that the kitchen didn't need a door. After that my family learned to hide their precious items whenever my dad had a saw in hand. My dad once decided to fix the TV as it seems the picture was shrinking. For a period of a week, the picture moved steadily towards the middle, compressing the picture from the top and bottom. Each day my dad would cheer us up, claiming it was still watchable. Finally, we were looking at a single horizontal line in the middle of the tube. Thus, it was that we marched over to Walgreens with every removalable tube from the set. We used the tube-tester for about an hour and found several bad tubes. We got new ones and then my dad found out that he did not know where these tubes went. The It-fits-so-it-must-go-there theory was invented that day. We then turned on the set and it worked !!! For about five minutes or so and then someone said: hey, what is that smell and someone else said hey, isn't that fire coming from the back of the TV set, and sure enough it was. At that point, the unthinkable happened - we turned off the TV set - in the middle of the Jackie Gleason show, no less. Somehow the fire was stopped, no damage to anything else except the pressed wood back of the set which was slightly charred. I think that God/Bob was smiling down on us that day because the TV set worked after that (for another month or two).
After that we always took our failing sets to my uncle who fixed TV sets for a living. And that is how I found out about my uncle's vast record collection (via the Columbia record club gods).
But getting back to my original point, Bob Vila is God, Norm is Jesus (carpenter connection there), the guys who now do "This Old House" are the apostles, Paige (Trading Spaces) is the virgin Mary, and Frank (the designer from Trading Spaces) is gay. The guys from Orange County Choppers are angels (Hell's Angels) and Nascar is organized Demolition Derby. The four Horsemen are Bob O'Reilly, Sean Hannity, Pat Robertson, and the Rev. Al Sharpton.
Moses is wandering still and Ty Pennington is Judas.
Well that is all for now. I do have one question for Diane though. If I make a religion out of Bob Vila worship, can I get tax exempt status ?
Frank

In BOB we trust

This and other wonderful essays are on my journal blog - come visit.

The tuesday spiritual group was waiting for what I would say - perhaps, I should not have said anything but it was my turn so I felt as if I should. The group is not very diverse in nature but they are open-minded. I stick out in two ways:
1) I am the youngest member and
2) I am the only MAN.
Thus, I felt it my duty and honor to represent the man's point of view to these spiritual seekers.
The question posed to us was : How do we see God ? Is God an old man in a white robe that has not shaved in years ? Or so you visualize God in a different way ?
Several ladies stated their views and provided the group what I would call 'enlightened' views of God. One lady stated that to define God is to limit God. I agree. But sometimes we need to define God in order to have a focal point for our prayers. The problem is most people don't have a good visual idea of God other than that old guy in a white robe. People need a useful image of God. An image that shows God doing something for you - ie. helping you in your hour (or in my case, years) of need. With that in mind, my mind came up with an image of God in the form of
BOB VILA
Now when I said that to the group, the ladies collectively stated in no uncertain terms that they were not certain who Bob Vila was. I knew that my task was formitable. Most guys, even gay guys, know who Bob Vila is. He is the patron saint of home remodeling; he is the original host of "THIS OLD HOUSE" and he single handedly (editor's note: he did use two hands) created the home fix-it craze that still sweeps america. Bob Vila was immortalized in the sitcom HOME IMPROVEMENT (which starred Tim Allen). Bob Vila is the image of the wise not too old guy who helps you fix up your life for free - and that I thought is what makes a good image (for me) of GOD, someone who'll help you fix up the mess you call your life. For free.
I still think that is a good image for me but the ladies where having none of it, especially Bev who fell asleep when I was talking. Somehow, the discussion changed directions and we began to talk about burial plans. My plan there did not go over too well either. I said I wanted to be left somewhere out in the woods where the wildlife could feed off of me. Bev told me that she would have no part of it and that if I felt like dying I should take myself out into the woods. So this weekend I am heading to the woods hoping that BOB will save my ass.
Frank

Invasion of the Body

Invasion of the Body

I am feeding a stranger multiple times a day, every day. It's true that I feel guilty about it, but I do it anyway. The stranger doesn't care and wants only to be fed. His pleas seem to surface at various times of weakness, especially prompted by boredom, uncertainty of what to do next, lack of purpose and anger. It's not a logical hunger, not a need for nutrition. Instead, the call comes from a void, an emptiness, a hole that demands to be filled with cheese, crackers, sour cream, cookies, trail mix, mayonnaise, peanuts, but especially cheese--cheddar, Swiss, Havarti, Monteray Jack, Colby, Munster, cheese, cheese, and more cheese. I see it as a work in progress, filling up the hole. The job never ends.
The stranger is building a monument to its unfulfilled need in the middle of my body. It's a soft mound that can best be viewed from the side, in profile, like a criminal's mug shot. The consequences are frustrating. Jackets won't button, last year's clothes don't fit, shoes are a struggle to tie, unkind observers ask "When is the baby due?", heartburn wells up. I've asked the uninvited guest to vacate the premises but he refuses, saying he knows an available piece of property when he sees it. Why leave?
Because of the monument, I've decided not to attend my high school class reunion and I probably won't put on a bathing suit to swim this summer. As I see it, the only cure is a full-time job that takes me away from the kitchen and my best friend, the refrigerator. Or a passion greater than that of the stranger's. What could that be? Acting in Hollywood? Painting a great work of art? Playing Rachmaninoff's Third Concerto? Writing? Whatever it is, it will have to be very powerful, very demanding, a Superman to defeat the stranger that lives within. He will not concede easily without a fight. He desires his snack, every day, lots of calories, cheese, cheese, and more cheese. Pass the olives, please.

Memorial Day is Memorable

Memorial Day is Memorable

Who doesn't love their grandchildren? Ava is eight and Chloe is two. One is very blond and the other is a red head. I spend all morning buying groceries, making potato salad, getting a wading pool for the backyard, cleaning house, putting out play dough, marbles, pick-up sticks, puzzles and Old Maid cards. Ava says "Can I watch T.V.?" Chloe says "Ice cream, Grandma?" They look for Marty, my cat, who runs away. They pour chocolate sauce on my new rug, roll marbles down the stairs, dump guacamole into the cold air return, dirty every glass, spoon, towel and plate that I own. Ava pinches her finger on the swing and cries for what seems like hours; Chloe cries because Ava is crying. When they leave, I do two dishwasher-fulls, one load of laundry, turn the chocolate stain to a sickly beige, slip on a marble, and find a wet bathing suit in the waste basket. Marty is still hiding. And the Fourth of July isn't far away!

Class Assignment

I am dreaming of my summer vacation. What will happen in the days to come ? Should the group do anything ? If so what? I have some ideas I will present in class.
You can too! Bring your ideas on what we should do (if anything) for the summer. All ideas are welcome (except the anti-teacher ones). I will publish the best ideas on the blog!!!!!

Frank

pretending

Pretending

8:00--perfect. He was in position to get through the doors at precisely the right time. The latch clicked and the doors moved slowly apart. "Hello, Mr. Price," the young voice greeted, and he walked into the room with his briefcase dangling from his hand. Ah, this is great. His seat was not taken yet. He pushed passed the bodies near him and walked quickly over to the oak table with the glowing green lamp. He laid his briefcase down and eased a thick black book out beneath the flap. This is the one, he thought. Now to find my place again. He checked the clock overhead. 8:13. He decided to take off his overcoat. Slowly unbuttoning the top button, he watched the clock hands move to 8:l4. The coat fell off his shoulders and he laid it in a bundle on the chair beside him. No time to waste. He was anxious to get started with the work.
The book opened up at the piece of pink paper he had laid into the center crease of pages 54 and 55. His eyes scanned the page until he saw the familiar passage where he had stopped reading yesterday. "Roughly, he took her into his strong arms and held her there..." His eyes darted around the room. Was anyone watching him from the other tables? That elderly lady who kept her green felt hat on seemed to be smirking, her pinched lips twisting slightly to the side. Could she possibly read the book title from that far away? He lifted the spine ever so slightly to check the size of the lettering. "Love's Burning Desire" curled across the cover. He decided it couldn't be done from that distance and cleared his throat to settle down to read again.
After a time, he checked his watch: 9:33. His wife would be back from taking the kids to school now. Would she be turning on the T.V.? He didn't even know if she liked any particular programs--maybe 'Opra'. Irma was always talking about how everyone should try to improve themselves. She especially wanted him to start working out, develop his body more, strengthen his muscles, flatten his stomach. He looked down at the soft bulge above his belt and sighed. Wasn't the walk to the library enough? He had parked his car in the town lot around the corner in the hope that no one would recognize it.
Now he felt in his pocket for his pencils. As part of his self-improvement program, he had decided to make notes on all the words he didn't know the meanings of--like
ludicrous, elliptical, and maybe homophobic. He had come across them before, but now he wasn't exactly sure how they fit into the story. This was a major regret in his life: he had never gone to college. His grades in high school had been only average, if not a little below, and his father had repaired watches before people just threw them away when they stopped working. There was no money available for further schooling and barely enough for food and rent. Bad luck, that's what it was. He was the victim of bad luck.
Now he stood, embarrassed by the sound of the chair scraping, and walked to the pencil sharpener. The green hat lady narrowed her eyes as he eased past her chair and avoided stepping on the frayed hem of her purple coat. What was she reading, he wondered? He craned his neck to look at her book but couldn't make out the words at the top. Probably something about birds, or gardening. Suddenly, she clapped the pages shut. 'Perfect Love' was the title. He made a mental note to look that up in the stacks later. Grinding his pencil made more noise, so he paused to see if anyone looked up. Miss Green Hat jerked her head around and stared. She had green eyes that matched her hat and he could just make out a tuft of hair on her chin. Too much rouge, he thought, and her lipstick was way too bright for her age. It only emphasized the lines surrounding her mouth. He hated the way women made up their faces, especially when they got older. Avoiding her stare, he brushed past her to his chair and eased into it as silently as possible.
10:03. Too early to have lunch so he fished a stick of gum out of his pocket. It was missing its wrapper. The remaining foil was cracked with fuzz sticking to the exposed gum. He debated about putting it into his mouth, then carefully picked off the pocket lint, eased back the foil covering, and lifted the pink stick to his nose. Nice. Still pepperminty. Good enough. The last thing he wanted to spend money on was a new pack of gum, so he quickly popped it into his mouth, trying not to make any noise as he rolled the foil into a ball and stuck it back into his pocket. He started to read again.
Finally, the clock said 11:42. Close enough to lunch time to quit and have something to eat. It was the highlight of his day. Irma had always packed the nicest sandwich for him, but today he had told her he had a business meeting in town and not to bother. All of the sudden, the phone in his pocket played the familiar tune.
He grimaced and grabbed for it. Who would be calling him here? He ran for the exit. Ah, Irma, from home. He pressed the call button and waited. Then "Charles, I'm sorry. I really hate to call you at work, but I have to talk to you."
"Yes?" He was irritated.
"The bank called today."
"The bank? What did they want?" He bit his lip.
"Well, for some reason they say your payroll check hasn't been deposited for several months and we're close to the minimum balance. I told them there has to be some mistake. Would you call them, Charles, and try to straighten it out?"
He sighed. "Yes, yes. I'll take care of it, Irma. Don't you worry. But I have to go now. Big pow-wow in Mr. Lane's office. You know how he hates us to be late!"
"Well, I thought you said you had a luncheon meeting in town, Charles?"
Her question and good memory aggravated him. Now he remembered; he had said that this morning before leaving the house. He cleared his throat. "Yes, that's right. We go from his meeting to the next meeting. I'll see you tonight, Irma." He tried to sound authoritative with her to end the call quickly.
"OK, Charles, but don't forget to call the bank, will you?"
"I'll call, Irma. Good-bye."
Maybe it was time to tell her. But he didn't know how to face her with the truth of the situation. She would cry, or possibly leave him, or take the kids and go to her mother's. He felt terrible. Remembering his last talk with Mr. Lane brought tears to his eyes. "You're a good worker, Charles, but you know how things are these days.
You've always been so punctual and responsible. You won't have trouble finding another job, I'm sure. Say hello to the wife." Mr. Lane had rushed him out of the office so fast that he didn't have time to ask any questions. What about severance pay, or references, or his pension? His pink slip still poked out of his book. Pink! The color of wimps! That's how he felt now. Hopeless. His shoulders shook.
Pull yourself together, Charles. You've got ten dollars in your pocket for a decent meal in town. You deserve something good for a change. He walked down the steps and turned past the maple trees lining the street. Wind rustled the leaves. He shivered and pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck. Let's see. Where should he eat--maybe a bowl of soup would be enough. He'd try Murray's Deli. He liked the liver and dumpling special. Nice and hot. Then maybe half a sandwich. His walk quickened as he rounded the square.
"Charles? Is that you, Charles?"
Now who could that be? He was afraid to look up but did anyway out of curiosity.
"Charles Price! As I live and breathe! I haven't seen you since we graduated high school! Whoa, not so fast. Come here! I wanna talk to you. Don't cha remember me? Wanda Pruit. We sat next to each other in study hall. Old man Brown, remember? What a riot. But you were the quiet one, right? Never a peep outta ya. Always with your nose in a book!"
Wanda Pruit. Yes, he remembered her. She wore those short mini-skirts and liked to tease Mr. Brown by crossing her legs to hike her skirt even higher. He stepped closer. Perfume. Rouge. Big dangling earrings. A gust of wind seemed to make them clink. At first he thought her blouse was torn, but then he saw that it was unbuttoned to below her bra. A slip of black lace showed and he thought he saw the outline of her breast above it. She actually recognized him from across the street! He was flattered. Smiling, he extended his hand, but she put her arm around his waist and pulled him through the doorway. He looked up. The words 'Bud Light' flashed off and on above him. "Come on! Let's have a drink. It's too cold outside. We have to catch up and talk about old times!"
He thought about his plans for Murray's. He shivered. He was cold and it was warm in here. He'd just stay long enough to take the chill off. A plate of French fries sat on the counter. The comforting smell made him dizzy with pleasure. Wanda was stroking his arm and asking him to sit next to her. "Wally, this one's on me." She leaned in until her head was only inches away. The perfume smell seemed to wrap around his brain and pull him toward her. "Wuddle ya have, Chuck?" she whispered. He couldn't remember the last time he had drunk any liquor. Maybe last New Years Eve? When he couldn't think of anything to ask for, Wanda yelled, "Make it a Scotch for me and my friend here! OK, Chuck?" she smiled in his face. A nervous twitch hit his cheek. Scotch? That was pretty strong. Oh, well. He didn't want to be a wuss. A pink wuss. Just this once. He nodded and the drinks appeared on the counter. Suddenly Wanda tilted her head back and swallowed her drink down in one gulp. Amazed, he stared at her.
"Come on, Chuck. What are you waitin' for? " He took a deep breath and swallowed the jigger, then sputtered, coughed twice, and, shaking his head, set the little glass down on the counter.
"Wanda, I can't do this."
"Honey, you can do better than that! Here, let's see what we've got in our pockets." She put her hand in his trousers, pulled out the ten dollar bill and held it high up in the air. "Oh,Chuck, this will buy a lot of drinks. Wally, start pouring!" His cheek twitched again. He reached up to grab the money back from Wanda, pushing her off the stool. "Chuck, now don't get so physical!" She stood up and, still holding the money in her hand, slapped Charles hard across the cheek with the other hand.
He was stunned. What had happened? All the warmth in the room faded. Wanda had a big grin on her face as if she were waiting to see what he would do next. He grabbed his stomach and knew he was going to vomit. Where was the door? His eyes frantically searched the dark room. He saw a stream of light come from the side and he ran toward it. He clutched the door jam, leaned over and tasted something like vinegar in his mouth. The cold air hit his face. Shaking, he headed for the alley next to the building. This was awful. He could hear Wanda laughing in the distance, louder and louder. "What a worm!" she yelled. He put his hands over his ears until he couldn't hear her anymore and let go of the contents of his stomach which spewed out on to the concrete alleyway.
He remained crouched over until the nausea passed. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stood up. He tried to think. His brief case--where was his brief case!?
"Looking for this?" He turned around toward the voice. It was the last person he wanted to see--the lady in the green felt hat. "I just saw this come flying out of the doorway," she said. "Almost knocked me over! You were in the library, right? You're a mess and you look sick, too. I think what you need is a nice cup of hot tea at Molly's Cafe. It's down the street. How about it? Can you make it that far? Just lean on my shoulder and tell me what happened to you. My name's Grace, by the way. What's yours? And how's "Love's Burning Desire" coming along?"
He didn't feel like talking but took the briefcase from her anyway. Now what should he do? Her face seemed much softer than before in the library and he thought he detected a slight smile. Maybe he had misjudged her. He just nodded and followed her directions. He felt silly using an old lady like this for support. Maybe the tea would make him feel better, though. They entered the cafe and he slumped into the chair she had pulled out for him. "Charles," he said weakly. "My name is Charles." It was the first time since noon he had thought to check his watch. "1:34." he mumbled.

A random picture from the files of frank

This is Bob's dog, Muttsie. Some say this is not Bob's dog but the dog Bob's wife made Bob get. Well, maybe not some but me. I say this is the dog Bob's wife made him get. Of all the wonderful dogs in the world, Bob had to get this one. And do you know why? Because that is the type of dog, she grew up with. So who do you think has to take Muttsie out for walks ?

sorry I let class go on long

I want to thank our impromptu guest speaker. She gave us as a group several pieces of good advice. Here is a brief summary of some of the point she made.

1) Write what you know

2) Write what you love to write about

3) Start small - don't write "War and Peace" as your first piece to be published

4) Get known before you seek an agent

5) Hold out for a reputable publisher

6) don't get stopped by rejections

7) don't let your ego stop you from doing something you love (that is writing of course)

8) there is a need for pen names

Frank

P.S. Thank you Nora for coming and sharing your essay on heaven - I liked it.

The forest calling

  It was heaven. At least I thought so, since I was where I wanted to be, sitting on this bench which happened to be in the middle of the woods. All around me, life was blossoming as can only happen in springtime. Birds flying, squirrels scampering, and best of all no biting insects could be found. Most importantly, there was no trace of humanity.

Don't get me wrong, I do like people, it is just every now and then I feel a need to be be alone away from anything human. This is one of those times, so I am happy even though I am alone.

I love doing this, sitting and vegetating. Breathe in, breathe out, release. I was mellow when I came here and I am mellow now. Sitting here, I can forget about the ego-me. I am the watcher and nature is  my entertainment. The more I look, the more I see, sense and feel. The very air seems charged with energy. Flora and fauna moving, seeking, growing. That mysterious energy somehow seeps into me - I feel the need to explore. There is something calling me, something I need to find.

Past fallen trees and random stones, moving mindlessly, I go deeper and deeper into the woods. I am like a little kid on a treasure hunt, stalking the unknown, wildly pursuing my prey.

Up a small hill and then through a clump of bushes and there it is - a clearing. A part of me is disappointed, after all it is just a clearing but another part of me is excited. I creep forward for no good reason, staying slightly behind the last clump of bushes. There is someone there.

In the middle of the clearing, a big tree - fifty or so feet high - was that there before ? My confusion is escalated by the person standing next to the tree - she is looking right at me. Her eyes are green - make that hazelish green. I know that somehow even though she is a good hundred feet away. What the hell is going on ?

I hear her call me and yet I don't. She wants me to enter this circle, to come and be with her. I feel schizophrenic - I am hearing her voice in my head and there is a crazy part of me that wants to go ahead and yet I hear my own mind's voice too, telling me to be careful.

 She waits for me to decide. Her eyes hold the key. Her hand is extended outward and the rest is up to me. I know to go with her is madness but my heart feels differently. I close my eyes and then I know what I must do.

There will be more of this story later - 
Frank

House for Rent

It is roomy by today’s standards, but then again, this house wasn’t built for those who inhabit it. The bluebird box was made as a craft project on vacation, and we were brainwashed into thinking that “if you build it, they will come”. They never did, so I guess we’re out of luck on the Save the Bluebird bandwagon. We crafted it to the exact standards of what bluebirds like and require to nest, and hung it the recommended height on the telephone pole in the corner of the yard. We even made sure it had the correct exposure to the wind and elements. There is a plethora of food and water for the ungrateful bluebird, as there are numerous feeders, birdbaths, and the waterfall in the pond for fresh water drinking and bathing. Our yard qualifies for the National Wildlife Foundation Certified Wildlife Habitat, but I’m too cheap to pay the twenty bucks it takes to have it recognized officially. What else could these birds ask for?!

The rustic one-bedroom sat empty for nearly four years, until now. Mom and Pop Sparrow moved in a few weeks ago. Oh, there was lots of consideration before acceptance. Those two couldn’t decide if this was truly the place to raise their family. For a week, they were flying little sorties in and out of the opening, sitting on the roof cheeping like an old married couple arguing, and then landing on the fence nearby, acting as if nobody was noticing all of this fuss. They were so secretive about moving into this “love-nest” that the only sign that they actually live there is a couple of strands of grass sticking out of the bottom.

A few weeks later, there is lots of posturing and performing before Pop will fly into the place. I’m surmising that there is a nest full of babies, as he is very careful before he enters--although, I don’t think all this hopping about and peeping is actually considered “stealth”. It’s really silly, as he makes such noise before he goes in—but now I’m thinking maybe he’s just warning the little woman of his impending entrance so she doesn’t peck his eyes out.

I’m excited that finally someone moved into the birdhouse, but I’m also full of dread too. I hate baby bird season. As my optimistic self is excited for the promise of new life and cute poof-balls of fluff, my pessimistic and realistic self is not looking ahead. There is a reason birds have so many offspring—it’s because so many don’t make it in the cruel world. Eggs fall out of the rickety nests of mourning doves. Pink featherless baby sparrows drop out of the nest, forgotten, and left to die by helpless parents. Robin babies learning to fly on their own are scooped up off the lawn by well-meaning humans, not knowing that their parents are actually nearby watching out for them from a distance. Baby bird season to me is death season. What a happy thought.

I watch the house more carefully now. I watch for signs of emerging offspring—parents bringing in food like bugs and worms, droppings on the ground under the house, and more peeping by the babies. I’ll have to vanquish the kitties to the indoors as the little house is directly above Henry’s secret hosta lair in the garden. I’m thinking he would have an interest in those babies, but for different reasons. I’ll have to be extra watchful with the babies near the pond, because although my bird-eating frog has been relocated, I’ve found that birds don’t swim so well. It is constant vigilance for about a week once they leave their safe little house, and it’s the mom in me that wants to protect them. I’m just relieved that nobody likes the multi-family dwelling on the other side of the yard.

class assignment (optional of course)

     8:00--perfect.  He was in position to get through the doors at precisely the right time.  The latch clicked and the doors moved slowly aprt.  "Hello, Mr. 

This is how Mutti started a post but left it

 Can you write a story using this as your start ?

Frank

Mother's Day Feelings

I think we write stories and share them with our audience to get our feelings out and then the reader/listener can take those feelings in and assimulate them with their own, perhaps connecting in a small or big way with the reader. I think it’s a therapeutic thing, sometiimes impacting us on a subtle level. Certain holidays come into my live as well, and bring with them memories, pain, so although the holiday does not speak to me, in hidden ways it moves into the recesses of my soul and shakes it around.
I was going to write about Mother’s Day and how I always feel the pangs of emotions, usually deeper than normal, for my mother, who passed on 10 years ago. That ten-year anniversary seemed to add to my anguish. At first, I felt a sense of relief, okay it’s time to let go, not hold on to your pain now, move on with your own life. But after this initial cheerleading to my soul, I moved even deeper into agony and loss and surrended to it, wallowing in its familiarity. I always dread this holiday, for what it does to me and how it renders me helpless and immobile. Yet, I cheerily say “Happy Mothers Day” to my friends, because it seems the thing to do. And after all, I’ve always admired mothers and my friends are some of the best mothers I know, besides of course, being great comrades as well. As an aside, I am not a mother myself, but I love to watch their joy when they talk about their children, their eyes light up and their energy is magical.
So, it’s a few days later and now a friend of mine is grappling with the perhaps inevitable death of her kitty, Violet. I’m sure my friend feels those motherly, nurturing instincts coming up in regard to her cat. I mean, attachments to pets can have deeper bonds then those of our own flesh and blood. So instead of feeling relief that Mother’s Day is over and with it my painful brooding, now more raw emotions well up inside of me, memories of my own cat come to the surface and I am once more overcome, rendered into grief. Well, let me call these latest emotions having already been stirred up a few weeks ago and now being fueled by a second cat incident. A writer friend of mine was talking about her cat Marty and how ill he had become. He did not want do his regular routine things, wanted to hide, would eat only if his bowl was set before him. My heart sank. Suddenly I was taken back eight years ago to a similar event with my cat named Princess or Miracle or just Kitty, whichever I felt like calling her at that time. I was awash with personal feelings and memories and almost lost focus with my friend telling her story. I didn’t know whether to reveal my own story, with its own terrifying anguishing incidents or just tell her reassuringly that Miracle had lived a year beyond the vet’s own medical diagnosis. I revealed to my friend bits and pieces of my cat’s illness, but sugarcoated it a bit. Now, I feel I need to get my own story out about Miracle because feelings have been bottled up. And this is what I mean about people coming into our life telling their stories and helping us process through our own denial. At least, this seems to be an effective tool for me.
You see, Miracle was much more than a companion to me for a number of years. She was a petite beauty, inky black in color, with a white bib of fur adorning her upper chest, and had piercing gold/green eyes that seemed to look through you into your very soul. You know they talk about old souls, I felt she was an old soul, having lived for many centuries, many lifetimes. She reminded me of one of those egyptian cat statues you see in artbooks . And when she sat there, immobile, staring at me, unblinking, I could visualize her as having been one of those sculptures. I hadn’t raised her from kitten status, no, she had been given to me, unfortunately under rather sad circumstances. She was found hiding in the hall closet the day we went to pay my mom a visit. How was Miracle to understand that her Mistress, my mom, was laying dead on the floor and was not responding to cat instincts to get up, to feed her. So, I lost my mom that day but gained a cat very quickly. And I always felt, due to these circumstances, that my mom’s soul had been transferred into Miracle and so this cat became so much more special to me.
I’d cry into her fur for many days afterward, petting her, asking her why Mom had died so suddenly and why I couldn’t have said goodby and I love you first. I suppose only Miracle
really understood what happened that day. And so be it. But she became a reassurance to me that Mom was still there in spirit, and helped to somewhat alleviate the loneliness I felt for so long afterwards. Sometimes I’d be lying on the bed and Miracle would lay her body on me. Even if I was laying on my side, she’d sprawl on me, and her warmth felt so healing to me. I’d talk to her sometimes when I sat in the chair and she’d stare at me, listening, taking it all in, not disputing me, with no judgment. I suppose I could have gone to therapy during this time to talk about my grief, and actually I did, but that was only an hour once a week. Miracle was there to hear me for the rest of the time and I owe her for her unconditional, unwavering love.
The grief for mom lessened but the belief that her soul resided in the cat was always a source of comfort to me. TIme went by and Miracle became mellower and mellower, even venturing outside for treks around the yard, an unheard act in the days when she lived with Mom and Dad. I think she realized we were letting her be more independent and she seemed to revel in this undiscovered territory of herself, wandering to the back of the yard and then into the neighbor’s yard. She seemed happier now, not as reserved and haughty as her Princess name had labeled her. I was reading about Hospice dogs who mourn the death of those patients in Hospice, laying on their empty beds when they are gone. Miracle didn’t have a chance to do that, I don’t think so anyway and I often wondered how much she did miss my Mom. She seemed to accept me as her new mom, though, and I showered her with love, hoping she'd do well in her new home.
She adjusted remarkably. Her appetite never wavered and she gained weight and her coat shone. I think her walking in the yard kept her trim too. In fact, the vet was always amazed, saying she had the physical attributes of a cat who was 8 years old, not 16. I was proud that we were raising her in such a good way. And glad we never had to tell her she was adopted.
But all good things come to an end. One day she wouldn’t eat, and other behaviors that seemed a bit bizarre soon surfaced thereafter. She was peeing everywhere but in her litter box, she’d hide in various nooks and crannies and we’d desperately spend hours looking for her. Finally we would find her, pull her out and she’d be breathing raggedly. We hoped she’d snap out of this behavior but as it went on for days, we finally took her to the vet. After various tests, he said she had kidney problems and we’d have to attend to her needs to get her back on track. Armed with syringes, a bag of fluids, special cat food and several bottles of medication, we brought Miracle home, determined to get her back on her feet. Easier said than done. During those times when we grappled with Miracle’s ill health, I’d think about those people who do not want to live anymore, who do not want extra measures to keep them alive, who know their time on earth is done. Our cat fought us tooth and nail, nipping us when we’d insert a needle into her furry neck to give her much needed fluids or clamping her mouth shut when we tried to forcefeed her special cat food. Miracle often emerged victorious and we’d sit there emotionally drained wondering if it was really worth it to keep her alive or did she really want to leave this earth. We never gave up though and finally got bits of food into her mouth. As she regained some strength, she was able to soon eat on her own from her bowl and it was a wondrous sight to see. We gave up, though, on giving her fluids because she seemed so miserable and it broke our hearts anyway. We took her to the vet for a checkup and the vet said, “Are you giving her fluids?” Yes, we said and the vet was satisfied. Besides the tests were coming out good, so a little white lie from us and the subsequent happiness of kitty without more needle incidents was uplifting and a relief. She lived a whole year after that, exceeding the vet’s expectations of maybe another month or so. We gave her love, lots of love and I think that helped in her healing. I for sure was not ready to let her go. There had been too much death in my family already, I didn't want more sadness, and Princess seemed a last living link to my parent’s legacy.
In that last week or so before she left us and went to Kitty Heaven, her health really deteriorated. She became disoriented, would lose her balance, would eat the cat litter and lay in puddles of water in the basement. I think one of her final resting places was the bathtub laying by the drain. I don’t know how she got the strength to get into the tub, but sometimes I think that last spark of energy before one passes on can do amazing things.
Speaking of one last mighty moment, she walked up a long flight of stairs to our bedroom, which she hadn’t done in ages and hopped up on our bed. She walked around by our heads as if saying good-bye to us, licking our faces, giving us wet kisses, thanking us and in her own cat behavior saying it was time for her to go. That seemed to be a sign to us, this final farewell, which helped somewhat appease our heavy hearts as we took her back to the vet. We had already known some days back that this inevitable day would come. She just wasn’t the Miracle we knew anymore, who filled our hearts with such joy and we sensed she was pleading with us to let her go, she was so tired. We put her in her cat carrier for one last trip, and this time she didn't fight us, as she had always in the past. She seemed ready. Once at the vets, the doctor asked us if we wanted to be in the room when he put her to sleep. We said no, I did not want to see her lifeless, but wanted to remember as alive, breathing. We did share a few last minutes with her, caressing her fur and telling her we loved her over and over again. She licked us slowly with her still papery tongue, saying goodby in her own loving manner.
Soon, the doc came in and gathered her in his arms. We said goodbye to the love of our life, our only child as I felt she was, and left quickly. I suppose we could have buried her somewhere, maybe in the backyard where the garden used to be, but my grief was so acute and my mind numb that I left it up to the vet to do with her what they would do. We got home, pulled into the driveway and I said “, Wait, let’s go back, I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want to have her put to sleep". But I knew it was probably over by now, that life-ending process and so I walked into the house. To face the memories of Miracle everywhere. All her little cat toys were laying strewn about, her litter box in the kitchen, her cat bowl with food still in it, now dried and cakey. I immediately began gathering everything up and putting them in a bag. I couldn’t stand to see the memories of her anymore. It just hurt too much.
And little by little, life returned to somewhat normal. We pondered getting another cat, but how could we ever replace someone like Miracle. The vet wrote me a really poignant letter, talking about how much he had grown to love our cat. I was amazed, I had thought doctors were rather compassionate, but this vet really had a heart. I should have known, he'd call her "his majesty" when he'd see her come into his office. I used to laugh at that, grateful of his connection to her. With Miracle’s passing, I seemed to accept the death of my mom as well. Miracle had become, to me, a living reminder of my mom. As I said earlier, I had believed the cat had my mom's soul within her and always felt the two of them were by my side. Letting go of Miracle meant a letting go of my mom. The healing process was now officially beginning.
And now I am back grieving as I listen to stories told by cat owners of ill cats and see photographs of healthy cats well loved by their masters. And Marty, my writer friend has now told me, is doing well, back to his normal activities. In fact, she has renamed him Lazarus. I am happy for her, happy for her good ending. I know my grief has slowly eased up as I finish writing this story. Yes, its therapeutic to hear others talk about similar situations and realize we are not alone in our feelings and emotions. But I am glad I went to a deeper level within myself and wrote about my own personal experience. Thank you to all who write and share of themselves for it helps me to have the courage to explore my own self, to look into the dark recesses for stories that still need to be told. The pain comes out but then a curious sense of lightening up follows, peacefulness, perhaps even joy. I would never have thought that writing about Mother's Day would lead to a story about a wonderful little cat named Miracle. But then, it's all really connected, it's all about love.

Angelina started by Bev Bronson

I am jealous of Angelina. She has beautiful lips, a drop-dead gorgeous body and she could look beautiful wearing a potato sack. But it is not really her looks, her live-in boyfriend Brad or all her varieties of children. It is how she connected to the world, her being a goodwill ambassador for the USA, cleaning up the tarnished image of our country. I like how she walks barefoot in other countries, wears no makeup and seems to be a free  spirit. I guess I envy her.

But if I am not careful, I find myself trying to be her. Now, I am okay but a few months ago, before I got my medication, I was trying to get my hands on hr stuff. Anything she threw out was my treasure because it once was hers. Her old pants, her old t-shirts, even her old sox. I still have several pairs in my closet.

If she knew what I was doing or if she could glimpse my thoughts, she'd be mortified.In my family home up in Union Pier, MI, I hid the things that once belonged to her. No one ever goes top this old dilapidated house anymore, so I'm sure they'll never discover the treasures that are mine alone. The hardest task is extracting and keeping her scent. I've found that if I smell an item too often I loose her smell and that's the last thing I want to do. SO I've come up with a way to savor her pheromones. I'm really amazed with the smell of the woman.

I spend my my days sitting amongst her things, smelling the armpits of her worn t-shirts because that's where the smells linger most. Sometimes, I can smell her perfume - if I am lucky. God, I hope nobody sees me like this.

The summer months pass and it is time that I head home. Something brought me back to reality and I realize that I've lost it. I'm sitting in a bizarre collection of Angelina's things and I have no friends, no connection to the real world. Maybe it was the bank account getting lower. Maybe it was the empty refrigerator. Maybe it was the dried baby formula on a t-shirt that reeked me into reality.

THIS WAS A CLASS PROJECT -5/14/08 black = Lin, blue = Nora, red = Frank, purple = Bev

pretending

The Only Flame In Town

Long before Joe, I had another love. He was older than I, more experienced in the ways of the world, politics, and deep thought. He opened my eyes to things going on in the world that I didn’t know existed. He was good looking, had a sweet voice, and I would go starry-eyed whenever I saw him. He didn’t love me, though, and that was okay-- I still loved him anyway.

Years went by and he fell by the wayside. I knew that I would never be his love, and so the accessible college boyfriends came and went. I finally found true love when I met Joe, and we went through the usual friendship, courtship and then got married. I had kept up, somewhat, with the old love and what he was doing, but it wasn’t like we corresponded or anything. He just seemed to fade into the past-- a young girl’s crush. Now I had more important things to do, like diapering babies and doing laundry 100 times a week.

The old love was coming to town, or so all my friends said. My cousin in Atlanta sent an email informing of his impending visit to Chicago. The phone kept ringing with reports and friends kept insisting I needed to see him. They all knew I was obsessed with him so very long ago, and I needed to have one last moment with him. How did all of these people know he was coming, and I didn’t? How out of touch have I become? Who knows when he would be back this way again? It was now or never. The problem was his visit coincided with the very weekend of Joe’s and my twentieth wedding anniversary. How do I explain that one to Poor Joe?! He is usually so patient and understanding, but could he possibly forgo the weekend downtown in some swanky hotel to go see my old love? Is that fair to ask of him? I asked anyway.

He caved, God bless him. Joe made all of the necessary arrangements--scheduled the kids’ activities around the evening, delayed the hotel reservation, and planned for an evening that was all about his wife and her old love. The weekend came; I dressed up, eager to see the old love again. Joe dressed down—he was pretty much just playing along.

My heart raced with excitement as we approached the place. The lights were dimmed and he walked in--suave, confident, and extremely built for a man of 55 years old. His beard was scruffy though, and I have to admit, it disappointed me that he couldn’t shave for me after all of these years. He began to sing and I forgave it all--those years of absence, the no shaving, and the marrying of someone else. My heart smiled and it was like I was 20 years old all over again.

It was an odd anniversary present to say the least, Joe escorting me to see Sting in concert for our twentieth wedding anniversary. It's then when I realized how much I loved him and I think he even winked at me once—Joe, I mean.

connie says hello

Hi,

My name is Connie. I am an old author who is coming home to roost.

vacation story

I have written a vacation story. It is rather long so I have posted it on my depressing blog. Click on it if you would like to read it. I will not read this in class.

Vacation Story

Frank

Center Story

This is a picture of the moon near the north pole (via Marge Boyd). It has nothing to do with the following story.
It wednesday afternoon about 1:45 pm. We have been have the usual good time in creative writing class. Several people have shared their stories and they are wonderful. But I have, as is my habit, just drank my second cup of coffee and now the urges of nature (you only rent coffee it seems) are calling forth. I excuse myself knowing that the class will get ample time to talk about me when I am gone. I enter the main lodge and head briskly toward the gentlemen's relief station.
Suddenly, I am halted by a no nonsense woman who asks me bluntly 'who are you ?' I tell her that there is nothing to worry about and that I am 'teaching' creative writing right now in Cabin A.
She tells me some horrible news - the men's room is off limits. Because they are doing something with the plumbing for the new cabin. About 25 minutes to go before they can be used
.' 25 MINUTES', I think, 'can I last ?' Luckily, I do not have to go that bad. I return to the class, tell them the news about the plumbing and quickly regret doing so.
'Just use a tree' 'DO you hear the water flowing ? drip, trickle' HA HA
I am tough, I can handle this. Judy gets up to read. It is a wonderful piece of writing, the best she has done, full of emotional tugs and heart-wrenching situations. I love it. But something is distracting me. I fight it. I start standing, then walking back and forth, then pacing back in forth.
Time is my enemy. 20 minutes has passed. I am trying not to walk so much but everytime I stop, I realize I have to keep moving. 22 minutes pass. My hands are twitching. I can no longer look at anyone's cup, or my thermos. I begin standing in the doorway and glancing at the exit. I can do this ! 24 minutes pass and Judy stops overcome by the emotional impact of her powerful story. I want to comfort her and say great story but I have something that stops me - the signal - warning from internal plumbing central - something must be done ! or override signals will be enacted - I don't think - I leave and go to the lodge declaring nothing will stop me, not even a no nonsense woman!
Happy ending : there is nobody there and I reach the men's depository in time without incident.
Back in the cabin and all is well that ends well.