21
Jun
I once made a mistake that will haunt me for the rest of my life. Instead of having an abortion, I gave my son up for adoption. But wait, you say, that was a good decision not a mistake. But you would be wrong.
That boy came back into my life eighteen years later and has caused me nothing but heartache ever since. He will never forgive me for that decision, even though it was made with his best interests at heart. The life he lived was so much better than my other children. But he thinks that it would have been better to have starved with me than to have lived in foreign countries and had the best of everything.
In order to make me pay for my indiscretion, he uses my grandchildren as weapons. He dangles them in front of me and then whisks them away whenever I say or do anything that he doesn’t like. He doesn’t consider that perhaps he is hurting them as much or more than he is hurting me.
I didn’t teach him the meaning of family and what people within families do or do not do to each other. He learned his definition somewhere else. It’s not anything he should be proud of.
In fact, he has nothing to be proud of , except a mere event of biology (my grandchildren.) He is not a good man, not a good father, and certainly not a good son. I am ashamed of him, disappointed, and disgusted.
I may have given birth to him, but he is not my son. My children are so far out of his league he can’t come close to them.
7
Feb
Ten Southern Baptists from Pocatello recently were arrested for trafficking children in Haiti. Although the church saw it as a rescue mission, the Haitian government was not amused or appreciative of their attempt to take children across the border with no papers and no legal permissions. A large number of the children were not orphans but were at the orphanage for safe keeping after the earthquake. The ten offenders await their fate in a Haitian jail.
At the library, a couple was voicing their opinion that the United States should pull it’s support if the Haitians couldn’t appreciate our help. I inserted the comment that this wasn’t a fairy tale, we weren’t spinning straw into gold for them and so we weren’t allowed to steal their children in return. It didn’t work for Rumpelstiltskin and it wouldn’t work here either. They were aghast. Since then I have asked several others and a large number agree with the library ghouls. Of course, the people are local and so that generates a certain amount of thoughtless partisan loyalty, I suppose.
In light of the news this morning that there is widespread fear that children are being stolen for slaves and sex workers, the situation is even more volatile. I have no doubt that the Baptists went in with a sense of charity, no matter how misguided. However, that doesn’t excuse the fact that they didn’t do their homework. One thing you have to give the Mormons and their missionaries, they know the laws of the countries they visit and they take great care not to break them.
Since when do we expect a return on charity? I always thought one was supposed to provide help without the thought of what one might get in return. Isn’t it enough that you can deduct your “selfless” gift from your income taxes? I don’t necessarily want these folks to sit in a Haitian prison for ten years. That doesn’t accomplish anything. I might suggest that they have to put in some time working at reconstruction, however. I would want their mouths to be taped so they couldn’t proselytize, though. I have such a problem with people forcing their beliefs on others. Although coercion and religion have always gone hand in hand, that doesn’t make it right.
The last suggestion made by the library couple was that Hillary Clinton should be fired for not “taking care of this situation.” Well, it’s not her job to tell other countries that their laws don’t apply to Americans. It’s not her job to help missionaries or anyone else loot the Haitians in a time of vulnerability. There are lots of good Americans helping the Haitians and I am aware that some of them are actually from Idaho. It’s too bad that once again, a few have to color the world’s perception of the rest of us. Although we have our Frank Churches we are always called upon to explain Larry Craig and now these ten religious zealots. Good Grief!!!
17
Jan
It’s funny how we hang on to things that don’t work anymore, like old flashlights, lighters, and relatives. I recently made a decision to try and revive one of those broken things. My aunts have been telling me for months how lonely my mother is and how much she misses me and how my sister treats her like a slave. Of course, because they are my sweet old aunts, I bought it all and processed it and spit up the decision to try–for the third time–to open a line of communication with my mother.
I should have remembered the other two times that didn’t work but I went forward thinking that it was important to heal relationships with old people. Who wants to regret not speaking to someone after they are dead?
I made her a pair of socks and picked out one of my favorite books, packed them up and sent them for Christmas. I went to my aunts house on Christmas day and made a long distance call to her. So far, so good. I sent her a long letter with family news and expressions of concern.
I got back a nasty note telling me how happy she was without me in her life, how rude and inconsiderate my daughters were, and letting me know she “preferred” it if I called her “Ellie” rather than “Mom.” Ouch! There were other things that cut like razors and before I even got to the end I dropped the letter in the garbage can. Then I sat down on the kitchen floor and cried.
Today I realize that some things are better left undisturbed. Some people are better left alone, and some relationships can’t be salvaged. I’ve read the letters my mother, excuse me, Ellie sends to her sisters. She tells them she is treated like a servant and that my sister takes advantage of her. She cries that she wants to come home and she hates her life. She tells me that she is deliriously happy and is treated like a queen. It doesn’t matter which version is true. The only version that counts is the one she uses to hurt me.
The last time she slapped me in the face I said I was through. This time I mean it. I have no energy left to pursue it. I have no desire to see or hear from this nasty little woman again. She’s right, she’s not my mother. My mother died when she got on a plane for Virginia and neglected to tell me she was going.
They say that the best revenge is being happy. Well, my best revenge is having daughters who adore me and knowing that I am the best mother I can be. Loving my children unconditionally has always seemed the best way to go in my opinion.
20
Sep
This morning, the woman who delivers the Idaho State Journal to the neighbors, pulled up in her car just as I let my cat out the front door. Gir usually just sits on the front porch, soaks in the sun and then turns around and comes back in. Today was different. This woman’s huge dog leaped out of the car and came after my cat. Gir ran towards the back of the house but the dog was right on him. I had gone to the kitchen for coffee when I heard someone yelling for “Blue.” I looked outside and this woman was heading towards my neighbor’s yard screaming for “Blue.” At this point I went to the back door and I could hear a cat hissing and screeching. The woman had grabbed her dog by this time and dragged him back to the car. She drove away. I didn’t think much about it at the time because I assumed that my cat had either run back in the house or had hidden in the tomato plants.
Several hours later, my other cat, Fuzz started acting odd. He would bite my fingers and then run to the door. I finally went to the door and he raced past me to the back door, crying loudly. I followed. When I opened the back door, Fuzz ran out and jumped up on the fence ledge and looked to the neighbor’s yard crying loudly. It was then that my heart fell. When I entered the neighbor’s back yard I could see Gir laying against the fence covered in dirt and leaves. He raised his head and I was so relieved to see he was okay. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t move his hind quarters and there was blood around his mouth. I picked him up as gently as I could and brought him around to the front of the house where I tried to clean him up. There was no blood anywhere else on his body.
After calling the emergency Vet who arranged to meet me in 20 minutes I wrapped him in a baby blanket and cradled him in my lap. Gir doesn’t like the car. It’s why I got him in the first place. He refused to get in Lenore’s car to go back to Moscow one year and he became my cat. In the process of driving to the clinic he scratched my chin. When we arrived the Vet asked me where he was bleeding and I had to tell him it was me who was bleeding not Gir.
The Vet said he had really low blood pressure, his temperature was low, and he had no feeling in his lower extremities. He felt down his back and said he had been mauled severely and it looked pretty bad. Gir seemed to drift in and out but the Vet said that with a broken spine he wasn’t in any pain. I often wonder if that’s true or if it’s simply what we want or need to hear. What I knew was that at some point he would be in pain and that he wasn’t going to survive this attack. So I held him in my arms while they slid the needle in his arm. He gave a little meow and went silent. My heart splintered yet again this year.
Gir used to lay on the arm of my chair and pretend to be an arm rest. He would sit on the back of the same chair and chew off my hair. That’s why I always have this odd short hair on the top of my head. Cat mullet. He shed his long hair everywhere and if I didn’t shut my door at night he assumed that meant he could sleep on my head.
Gir had this marvelous snaggletooth that hung out over his lower lip that made him look like a lopsided Vampire cat. He would leap in the air and do pirouettes if there was a bug of any kind flying by. He was a fly catcher extraordinaire. He was a menace to spiders as well.
I wonder why the woman, who had to see my mangled cat didn’t come to my door to tell me my pet was injured? I wonder why she thought it was a good idea to leave a dying animal in a back yard littered with toys? Fortunately, my neighbors are out of town today or one of their kids would have found him instead of me. I wonder why she thought it was a good idea to be driving around with a vicious dog in a car she was going to be opening and closing every three minutes? A dog with no leash and no way to hold it back.
Gir lay alone for almost three hours. That didn’t need to happen. She could have told me he was hurt. It wouldn’t have saved him because his back was already broken but he wouldn’t have had to lie alone in the dirt for three hours. Tomorrow I will go to the journal so I can find out who this woman is and then I will file a complaint at the animal control office. I don’t know what good it will do but Gir deserves to be spoken for. He just wanted to enjoy the sun for a few minutes when that irresponsible human let her animal out. The dog did what vicious dogs do. Which opens up a whole new door, I suppose.
In the fight, Gir lost a tooth. I hope it is embedded in a particularly painful spot and I hope it gets infected. I don’t want the dog to die any more than I wanted my pet to die but I do want the irresponsible, cold hearted assholes who own the dog to suffer some. I’m counting on you, Karma.
12
Sep
Recently, a friend of mine was left at the altar by her runaway groom. He didn’t actually leave her standing at the altar but instead informed her two hours before the wedding that he wasn’t ready to get married.
Of course one’s first reaction is to say,”Bastard!” But realizing that my first thought when I was told at the door that there would be no wedding that day was to be relieved that the bride hadn’t gone through with a wedding she wasn’t prepared for, I had to rethink my reaction.
Attaching oneself to another person legally is a huge step. One that shouldn’t be taken lightly. It’s true, my friend is devastated and it’s going to take her some time to recover but I have to say I’m still relieved. Better to be left at the altar than to be smack dab in the middle of a loveless marriage or a situation of abuse, emotional or physical.
I don’t know the groom personally. I’ve only met him once and spent a whole five minutes with him. I only know him through the bride and I have to say, everything she told me about him sent up red flags. Not because he sounds like a bad guy but because he sounds a little weak, a little needy, a lot like a lost puppy that needed saving, and nothing like the man I expected this strong woman to marry.
Right now, her heart is broken and it thinks that only he can mend it. That may pass in time. It’s impossible to convince someone that they shouldn’t be in love with another person. It’s something she’ll figure out herself or she won’t. Maybe there is something in him that no one else sees.
I expect that he will come back. He might be too late or he might take her on another heart breaking roller coaster ride. We’ll see. Love is blind, deaf, and dumb, but when it’s real, it’s marvelous, isn’t it?
26
Aug
I was living in Amherst, Massachusetts and Senator Kennedy and his mother came in to my little yarn shop so she could get something for a project she was making. He made me feel like I was the most important person in the state. In truth, I was an unimportant woman who owned a tiny little craft store and he made it seem like my business was boosting up the entire U.S. economy. He was so kind to his mother, even though he was obviously very busy he didn’t rush her. He wandered around the store talking about this and that and asking my opinion on things he knew much more about than I did at the time. He asked what he could do for me as a citizen and a small business owner. He wanted to know about my family and how he could help. He commented on my original designs and he made me feel important. I felt like he really cared about me as a person, not just another voter who would insure his seat in the senate.
I think that was what made him a great man. He saw the smallest person as his equal and he truly cared about everyone. He wasn’t slick, he was genuine. That was in 1977. I have told this story a thousand times but it was never more important than it is today.
I hope that in my lifetime I have made people feel as good about themselves as Senator Kennedy made me feel about myself. I hope that I have looked at people with respect and have never felt that I was better or more deserving because of who or what I was. I think it takes a special kind of person to lift you up to their level rather than stooping to something lower. He did that. He made me feel like a Kennedy for twenty minutes or so. I know he did the same for millions of other people. Even though I only knew him for twenty minutes or so, he colored my life in ways that live with me still. I will miss you, Ted Kennedy.
3
Aug
I am always amused by gun rhetoric. I know that men have this deep seated need to prove something by owning and shooting guns but I’m baffled by women and guns. It’s always interesting to listen to the justifications for owning a dangerous weapon that you don’t know how to use and probably won’t take the time to learn to use.
“I need protection!” From what, exactly? The mailman or the neighbor’s kids? It’s more sinister than that I was told this last weekend. If the grid (power) goes down there will be massive looting and raping and I’ll need to defend my family. I interjected that when the squirrel bit through the power line and took out the grid last time, that didn’t happen but hey, it probably will this time. I was reminded of Y2K. I was working for the Red Cross at the time and we had 15 shelters set up and warehouses full of supplies and generators to help us survive the destruction that would be unleashed by the turning of the computer clocks to 2000. As you know, nothing happened there either.
We spend a great deal of our lives being afraid of some unknown person, thing or calamity that is going to kill, maim, rape, or ravage our lives and our family’s lives. We mistakenly think that owning a gun will bring it all to a screeching halt. Most people who are hurt in home robberies are not the robbers but the people who brandished a weapon and had it taken from them by the person who really knew how to use it–the robber. In my own family there have been two accidental shootings that resulted in death. One was my cousin who shot his best friend after a day of hunting and the second was a seven year old boy who dug out grandpa’s gun to show his friend and shot and killed that friend.
But back to the rhetoric. We seem to have lofty ideas as to what we would do in any given situation. “If someone came to my house and tried to break in, I’d shoot them in the face.” First, people don’t usually knock on your front door and give you time to identify them and then retrieve your weapon, load it and then answer the door. It doesn’t work like that. They sneak in while you sleep or when you are gone. Unless you answer every doorbell with a brandished weapon that scenario seems kind of silly.
“If my husband/boyfriend/date ever hit me I’d kill the sucker.” I’ve heard that one a million times. It’s simply not that easy. Our lives are not one dimensional and the layers that go into building not only relationships but mere friendships are too many to count in most cases. We might like to think that we would be strong enough, or rich enough, or independent enough, or immune to prosecution so that we might be able able to shoot our abuser and get away unscathed. Once again, it’s just not that simple. We do the best we can given our resources and that is often not what other people “believe” they would do in the same circumstances.
Guns don’t shoot themselves, true enough, but having a gun in the mix is a sure fire recipe for disaster. You don’t know what you would do until you are in the middle of a situation and panic has set in. You might do everything you said you would but few people do. Of course the best thing to do in any bad situation is to run. Get away, be safe, think, and then decide what is the best course of action. You don’t have to stand up and act like a reincarnation of a John Wayne movie. In fact, Wayne was a very peaceful man who thought his movie persona was absolutely ridiculous and he hated that people thought it represented who he was.
Being a bad ass isn’t something we should strive for. You don’t have to let people walk all over you but you also don’t have to be mean to get through life. Kindness will take you a lot further than rudeness. Compassion will get you much more than anger and destructiveness.
Sometimes it’s a good idea to sit down and think about who you are in this world. What do other people think of you? I know everyone would like to think they don’t care but we really do care–a lot. If you died tomorrow what would people say about you? Would you be missed? Would someone’s life seem diminished by your passing? I think that’s much more important than knowing that people would sigh a sigh of relief and talk about how abrasive or rude or uncaring you were. I’d much rather know that people would say, “I really loved her,” than to hear them say, “She was a real bad ass.” We actively try to forget the people who were awful to us and we carry the people we love securely tucked in our hearts and minds.
Choose your battles well. Some things are worth fighting for and some things are better left to Karma. Things have a way of finding their balance.
Rather than getting a gun, lock your doors at night, get an alarm system, make friends with your neighbors, get a panic button, or set your speed dial #1 to 911. Get a dog. None of those things have the potential to hurt you like a gun will. Be realistic about yourself and your abilities. Be realistic about how much danger you really face each day. You’ll probably find it’s a lot less than you’ve been worrying about. Be smart and trust that you have put enough good energy into the world to keep you safe.
27
Jul
This morning I have been working in my back yard cleaning up some random branches and pulling a few weeds. I put some soft Celtic flute music on the CD player and it’s a lovely place to be. My yard is small, surrounded by a tall fence and has a patio cover that shields almost half of the area. I have a small swinging bench and lots of plants but hardly any grass. It’s almost always shady back there and although some of the dirt is good there are patches that are as hard as slate. The previous owners didn’t do much with it. Of course it also has flamingos and fairies and tiny creatures hidden here and there. You’ll also find a random crystal or geode hiding amongst the rocks and pots if you look closely enough. Right now I have dahlias blooming and of course the geraniums are still busting loose with blossoms. I have tiny strawberries and a bucket full of cherry tomatoes on the vine. I have a hanging fuchsia with dark red blossoms and a coleus wizards mix that is gorgeous.
It’s a peaceful place and it has helped me heal. Not only being able to get my hands in dirt and talking softly to the Mother but also just enjoying the tranquility of soft patio lights and a gentle breeze in the evenings. I have a wasps nest but they never bother me. We’ll see how they act when I have people over next week. The only distraction is the neighbors. Sometimes they are louder than I wish them to be but for the most part it’s not only a refuge but a place to meditate on what is really important in life. It feeds my soul.
20
Jul
I just can’t hold my tongue any longer, or perhaps it’s my fingers that are the problem. This past weekend we took my grandchildren to the zoo in Salt Lake City. It was hot, there was some tension between a couple of adults and of course Rowan threw a fit in the restaurant. Nothing new there. He ended up sitting in the car last time Willow and I had ice cream. The problem is the parents. I picked the children up at 11 a.m. on Friday. Sunday late afternoon, after we came out of Harry Potter, the kids called their parents to say they were on their way home. These kids have not seen their parents for three days mind you, not a phone call, not a text asking if everything is alright, nothing. When “dad” finally answers he tells them they can’t come home because he isn’t home yet. He won’t reveal where he is or what he’s doing. For the next four hours these kids are asking every 15 minutes if their dad has called back. Finally at almost 7 p.m. he calls but they still can’t come home because he has to go to the store and their “mother” doesn’t want to deal with them. What the fuck??? Now in all fairness, I really do not want to leave them with that woman who may have given birth to them but has no idea what being a mother is really all about. My question is: when did my son who used to be this super dad fall through the cracks and who is this guy who took his place? Their mother is almost 45 years old, dresses in HD leathers 24/7 with neon head rags covering up her dyed black hair. Why would she wear motorcycle leathers all the time? They bought motorcycles and she has embraced the inner slut. I don’t mean to say that all women who ride motorcycles are of questionable repute, on the contrary. Just this one. They no longer go on hikes, geo-cache, go swimming, or to the park because it is way more important for them to go on motorcycle runs with their new found biker companions.
I used to tell my son that when his kids grew up they would have such wonderful memories of all the places he took them and all the things he did with them growing up. Where was mom? Sitting at home chain smoking. But that has changed and his new focus is his motorcycle and finding a babysitter so he and tweedlewhore can go riding into the sunset. How are the kids dealing? Willow is extremely sad. Rowan is very, very angry. I hope he gets through this mid-life crises before his children have no time left for him.
8
Jul
Today is officially my final day as an employee of Women Studies at Idaho State University. I thought I would feel incredibly sad but I don’t. I am still angry and I’m certainly not finished talking about this. However, I am a loyal employee and I will not compromise my ethics by dropping the hammer until after midnight. Ha! Now that certainly promises some inflammatory language doesn’t it? As Bette Davis said, “Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy [ride].” She actually said “bumpy night” but I’ll paraphrase just a little.
I knew from the start that I would never get my job back. For me, that was never in question. What I am angry about is the shoddy treatment my students received. They needed someone to talk to them, to assure them that they were important, to offer up suggestions, or ideas, or just some cold comfort. They got the standard issue from everyone they contacted. “It’s not my fault, I had nothing to do with it. I can’t help you.” They could have done so many things, especially the JCA Center who is supposed to be the advocate for women on campus. They could have offered some grief counseling or a tea and sympathy event or something. They chose to send the same response–not our fault, can’t help. And then, after dropping that huge beach ball, they have the unmitigated gall to ask me to volunteer my time to be on the WHM committee. Uh, well, the answer is NO! Why would I bother to assist you when I still haven’t been able to pull your knife out of my back? Absolutely amazing!