Do you know what I wish? If you do then there's no point in me going on. However, since there is no way for you to let me know at this moment in time I will assume you don't know what I wish and actually go forward with this post. But if you do know, then you need not read any further as you already know what this is about. Which is more than I know. I'm winging it.
Actually, I've been observing my teeter totter brain with all of its emotional influences. One moment I'm thinking about shutting down all of my blogs and quietly fading away into the oblivion from which I came. The next I have about a dozen ideas for new blogs. Left to itself I am not sure the brain can be trusted.
Do you know that I have ten blogs and five blogger accounts?
One of the blogger accounts doesn't actually have any blogs, and another has a blog, but I never post on it. A third account exists, but I seldom sign in, and the fourth is of a like kind.
Generally, when I blog, it is with this account: the Bevie account.
Which brings me to what I wish.
What I wish was that I could be logged into more than one account at the same time in Firefox, instead of having to open a session of Explorer (which often causes my computer to crash). I suppose I could achieve my goal by simply having multiple computers. Yeah, right. I don't even get that lucky in my dreams.
All of these blogs I have. So much to say. But nothing really worthwhile. Still, isn't that what blogs are for? They're a kind of public diary.
There are those who claim writers in particular should be careful about what they post. Writers are supposed to create an image through their blog which will inspire people to not only read their blog, but greatly desire to read their work. This will help them get published.
I don't do that. I don't try to cultivate any particular image for myself. Too neurotic for that. But I have to confess that, after reading about five or six of these articles and posts, I find myself thinking I mucked up in creating all of my blogs and posting as I have. But I can't be anything other than what I am, and if that means self-destruction then so be it. I don't necessarily like that, but I will accept it.
Some have told me that is one of my 'big' problems. I accept too much. Particularly the negative. Maybe so. Maybe so. But I have to say this in all honesty: When I see people behaving the way I am told I should behave I am not very impressed. There is a price to pay for what these people have, and it's more than I care to spend. There are things that matter to me, and I don't want to give them up just so other people can look at me and be impressed. The truth is, that's not going to happen anyway.
So, I return to my wish. Wouldn't it be great if I could log in to all five accounts at the same time, on the same computer? Probably not a good idea. God knows how many accounts and blogs I would have then. And none of them would be saying anything.
Showing posts with label Blogging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blogging. Show all posts
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
What Can One Expect
This is my third go at writing a post, so clearly I have nothing to say. Well, not true. What is true is that I have too much to say, but nothing of interest.
That's the problem with maintaining a blog in which one offers nothing to readers. It gets dull in a hurry. My son had a blog, but he quit posting to it three months ago. What's depressing is that I have six blogs and if I add up the visits for all six they fall short of my son's blog - and he isn't even posting anymore.
This blog was started as a place for me to write what I was thinking and feeling. That worked great while I had no followers. Then people began to follow and I suppose that put some kind of pressure on what I would post about. But I don't follow routine very well and I can be all over the place in what I write. But through it all I seldom write anything meaningful. That's just not my style.
In many ways this has been a rough year. No big deal. The past seven have been quite bad. But financially this has been the worst. We lost the house and we only made the rent for November because Son gave us some of his saxophone money. We have no money for food or medicine, which is a shame because I will need to replace my blood pressure medicine in about two or three weeks. It probably isn't going to happen. Had to cancel my echogram for my heart, too. I may even cancel my appointment with the heart doctor. Already canceled the dentist appointment. The missing filling will have to wait.
So, it's been rough. But I know of others who have had it worse and are having it worse. Not that I feel any better about that, but I don't want to give the impression I am unaware that there is plenty of misery to go around.
At the same time this has been the most prolific twelve months of my writing life. I did some investigation and found I have written more than a million words in the past 12 months. If you're interested in the details visit The Great Sea (see sidebar for link).
So with the bad comes the good. But just as I think I'm as tired as I can be, I find that that just isn't true. As low as we fall it still isn't the bottom. Perhaps that should be encouraging, but I must confess that it is not.
Oh, well.
That's the problem with maintaining a blog in which one offers nothing to readers. It gets dull in a hurry. My son had a blog, but he quit posting to it three months ago. What's depressing is that I have six blogs and if I add up the visits for all six they fall short of my son's blog - and he isn't even posting anymore.
This blog was started as a place for me to write what I was thinking and feeling. That worked great while I had no followers. Then people began to follow and I suppose that put some kind of pressure on what I would post about. But I don't follow routine very well and I can be all over the place in what I write. But through it all I seldom write anything meaningful. That's just not my style.
In many ways this has been a rough year. No big deal. The past seven have been quite bad. But financially this has been the worst. We lost the house and we only made the rent for November because Son gave us some of his saxophone money. We have no money for food or medicine, which is a shame because I will need to replace my blood pressure medicine in about two or three weeks. It probably isn't going to happen. Had to cancel my echogram for my heart, too. I may even cancel my appointment with the heart doctor. Already canceled the dentist appointment. The missing filling will have to wait.
So, it's been rough. But I know of others who have had it worse and are having it worse. Not that I feel any better about that, but I don't want to give the impression I am unaware that there is plenty of misery to go around.
At the same time this has been the most prolific twelve months of my writing life. I did some investigation and found I have written more than a million words in the past 12 months. If you're interested in the details visit The Great Sea (see sidebar for link).
So with the bad comes the good. But just as I think I'm as tired as I can be, I find that that just isn't true. As low as we fall it still isn't the bottom. Perhaps that should be encouraging, but I must confess that it is not.
Oh, well.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Six Days With the Sun and a Root Beer Float
Have you ever, or do you now, keep a diary? I've lost count over the years how many times I've tried to maintain one. I guess it's my love of history - true history - that inspires me to keep trying.
One of the things that made Ken Burns' The Cival War so wonderful for me to watch was all of the first-hand documentation from the people who had lived it. At the time what they wrote may not have seemed like much to them, but more than one hundred years later it becomes fascinating reading.
And so I have tried to keep diaries and record things that don't seem like much to me. Unfortunately, they seem like so little I easily forget to write them. And I'm such a perfectionist about those things that if I miss a few days in a row I just give it up.
The exception to this rule is my son's diary, which I have maintained for him every day since the day he was born. There are 4,376 entries now. I'll let you do the math to figure out his age.
I have missed a few days, but with the exception of three days seven years ago, I have always been able to make them up. I suppose it comes down to what is interesting and what is important. Generally, filling in his journal is one of the first things I do every day. You would think I could take that opportunity to write about myself, in my own diary. Tried that. It didn't make my life any more interesting to me.
In a way the blogs I keep kind of serve this purpose. They just aren't daily and they don't always reflect what's actually going on.
Which reminds me. I'm working on creating a new blog. This one will force me to draw upon my programming skills - long dormant. About twenty-five or thirty-years ago I had written a software program for myself. I lost it when the tape it was stored on became corrupted. Almost every year since I have tried to rewrite the thing. Never managed it. Came close the one year when I created a version in Excel. That worked nicely. Until a virus struck my computer and I lost everything. But I'm giving it another go, and I've made it further along than I have since that Excel success of a few years ago. If I ever finish it I will have a new blog. How many will that make?
I guess I just like to write.
One of the things that made Ken Burns' The Cival War so wonderful for me to watch was all of the first-hand documentation from the people who had lived it. At the time what they wrote may not have seemed like much to them, but more than one hundred years later it becomes fascinating reading.
And so I have tried to keep diaries and record things that don't seem like much to me. Unfortunately, they seem like so little I easily forget to write them. And I'm such a perfectionist about those things that if I miss a few days in a row I just give it up.
The exception to this rule is my son's diary, which I have maintained for him every day since the day he was born. There are 4,376 entries now. I'll let you do the math to figure out his age.
I have missed a few days, but with the exception of three days seven years ago, I have always been able to make them up. I suppose it comes down to what is interesting and what is important. Generally, filling in his journal is one of the first things I do every day. You would think I could take that opportunity to write about myself, in my own diary. Tried that. It didn't make my life any more interesting to me.
In a way the blogs I keep kind of serve this purpose. They just aren't daily and they don't always reflect what's actually going on.
Which reminds me. I'm working on creating a new blog. This one will force me to draw upon my programming skills - long dormant. About twenty-five or thirty-years ago I had written a software program for myself. I lost it when the tape it was stored on became corrupted. Almost every year since I have tried to rewrite the thing. Never managed it. Came close the one year when I created a version in Excel. That worked nicely. Until a virus struck my computer and I lost everything. But I'm giving it another go, and I've made it further along than I have since that Excel success of a few years ago. If I ever finish it I will have a new blog. How many will that make?
I guess I just like to write.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Electric Meals
So, my mother purchased an electric skillet for us, and then sent money so we could buy meat to cook in it. All because I happened to mention I cannot cook worth a damn on an electric stove. I need flames. Flames of inspiration for my writing. Flames of passion for my love life. And flames of fire for cooking. But Mother assured me that electric skillets aren't far from a gas stove in that they distribute the heat evenly.
I gave it a go. Cooked two meals of chicken quarters. Bought a package of six quarters (that doesn't make sense, does it) and cooked three at a shot. The skillet does have a nice temperature setting and I had no alternative but to trust it. But the meat did cook all the way through. Covered the quarters with spices and cooked, turning them every couple of minutes because Spouse kept telling me the way I was doing it was wrong and that the meat was going to stick. (I didn't use oil. We didn't have any. Don't like cooking in it anyway.) The meat didn't stick, and I added two cans of cream of mushroom soup. (Minnesota's #1 spice.) Then Spouse peeled some potatoes, cut them into small pieces and dumped them in, too.
Came out well. I liked it anyway. So I made it again last night. Went to the meat market today and spent the rest of the money Mother sent on a good-sized sirloin steak. Going to make steak pizzaiola. I like it and so does Son. Spouse thinks it's okay. Basically, the meat is cut into pieces, about a quarter pound each. They are hammered kind of flat and then covered with a flour and spice mixture. Cook them in the skillet until they are brown through and through and then add tomato sauce with garlic, oregeno and few other things. Serve over choice of pasta. I didn't buy pasta, but we have one small box left, so I win. We can get one, maybe two meals out of that box yet.
I like cooking. I'd do it all the time if we could afford it. And if I wouldn't be the only one eating what I made most of the time. Spouse only tolerates my cooking. I use too much garlic, marjoram, and fennel to suit her. Son is only now beginning to tolerate meat. He eats chicken nuggets, steak on the grill (we won't be having that for a while), and now steak pizzaiola. He doesn't like mushrooms, though.
So while I make a fantastic lasagne (people have raved to me about it, seeking second and third helpings - and even asking the recipe), great roast, pasta fajioli, shrimp florentine (Spouse likes this one, but shrimp doesn't come cheap), chicken wild rice soup, chili, goulash (tomato or mushroom soup variety), and even pizza, I don't do a lot of cooking. Virtually none since I lost my gas stove. If it can't heat up in a microwave, stuff it.
Well, I have this electric skillet now. Used it twice now and I've been happy. But I'm missing my kitchen with the center island and all the counter space and cupboards. And one of my favorite pans was ruined by that blasted electric stove. Burned a grid mark right into the bottom. That's happening to my pasta boiler, too. Yeah, I know. If we could afford real pots and pans that wouldn't happen. But one real pot or pan cost more than my entire cookware. With the exception of my lasagne pan. Got that a long time ago. It's great. It's huge. I never use it anymore. But I refused to let Spouse sell it at the garage sale. It costs enough that we'll never get another one if we sell it.
Anyway, it's probably going to be a bit before I post again. I just - don't anymore. I haven't the emotional energy to keep up anymore. If you are feeling especially incoherent, you can check out The Great Sea. Whenever I post here I've also posted there. I would like to post to the other four: Cat in the Buff, Legion of On-Line Super Heroes, Tales From The Great Sea, Faith in Forgiveness. The problem is, whenever I think about it for more than a minute or two I start to break down and cry. Just not ready yet. It takes enough out of me just to post one a week on two.
Don't know when I'll post again.
I gave it a go. Cooked two meals of chicken quarters. Bought a package of six quarters (that doesn't make sense, does it) and cooked three at a shot. The skillet does have a nice temperature setting and I had no alternative but to trust it. But the meat did cook all the way through. Covered the quarters with spices and cooked, turning them every couple of minutes because Spouse kept telling me the way I was doing it was wrong and that the meat was going to stick. (I didn't use oil. We didn't have any. Don't like cooking in it anyway.) The meat didn't stick, and I added two cans of cream of mushroom soup. (Minnesota's #1 spice.) Then Spouse peeled some potatoes, cut them into small pieces and dumped them in, too.
Came out well. I liked it anyway. So I made it again last night. Went to the meat market today and spent the rest of the money Mother sent on a good-sized sirloin steak. Going to make steak pizzaiola. I like it and so does Son. Spouse thinks it's okay. Basically, the meat is cut into pieces, about a quarter pound each. They are hammered kind of flat and then covered with a flour and spice mixture. Cook them in the skillet until they are brown through and through and then add tomato sauce with garlic, oregeno and few other things. Serve over choice of pasta. I didn't buy pasta, but we have one small box left, so I win. We can get one, maybe two meals out of that box yet.
I like cooking. I'd do it all the time if we could afford it. And if I wouldn't be the only one eating what I made most of the time. Spouse only tolerates my cooking. I use too much garlic, marjoram, and fennel to suit her. Son is only now beginning to tolerate meat. He eats chicken nuggets, steak on the grill (we won't be having that for a while), and now steak pizzaiola. He doesn't like mushrooms, though.
So while I make a fantastic lasagne (people have raved to me about it, seeking second and third helpings - and even asking the recipe), great roast, pasta fajioli, shrimp florentine (Spouse likes this one, but shrimp doesn't come cheap), chicken wild rice soup, chili, goulash (tomato or mushroom soup variety), and even pizza, I don't do a lot of cooking. Virtually none since I lost my gas stove. If it can't heat up in a microwave, stuff it.
Well, I have this electric skillet now. Used it twice now and I've been happy. But I'm missing my kitchen with the center island and all the counter space and cupboards. And one of my favorite pans was ruined by that blasted electric stove. Burned a grid mark right into the bottom. That's happening to my pasta boiler, too. Yeah, I know. If we could afford real pots and pans that wouldn't happen. But one real pot or pan cost more than my entire cookware. With the exception of my lasagne pan. Got that a long time ago. It's great. It's huge. I never use it anymore. But I refused to let Spouse sell it at the garage sale. It costs enough that we'll never get another one if we sell it.
Anyway, it's probably going to be a bit before I post again. I just - don't anymore. I haven't the emotional energy to keep up anymore. If you are feeling especially incoherent, you can check out The Great Sea. Whenever I post here I've also posted there. I would like to post to the other four: Cat in the Buff, Legion of On-Line Super Heroes, Tales From The Great Sea, Faith in Forgiveness. The problem is, whenever I think about it for more than a minute or two I start to break down and cry. Just not ready yet. It takes enough out of me just to post one a week on two.
Don't know when I'll post again.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
The Elastic is Gone From My Waistband
Posted on The Great Sea so I thought I should post here, too.
I've nothing to say, actually. Except, perhaps, that I never should have let myself expect anything. That was my mistake. I knew better. After all these years of living and feeling and experiencing, I knew better than to have expectations. But I did it anyway. And once again, my own expectations have cheated me.
It gets to be tiring. Not just reading more of my self-pitying crap, but never getting what I expect - unless it is crap. And as intelligent as I'm supposed to be, why is it I always fall back and believe that things are going to improve - when they never do. Never. Not ever. Not really.
I remember Betty telling me something way back in the 1970s. That's more than thirty years ago now. We (the cooks and waitresses at a then popular Italian restaurant) were trying to come up with one-word descriptions of each staff member. For most it was fairly easy - and comical. We were pretty much friends, and friends can pretty much say anything about and to each other. Real friends can, anyway. What I've seen of late is that people are no longer allowed this freedom and right. Say anything unflattering and you're blasted.
Anyway, no one could come up with a word for me. My suspicion - then and now - is that the words which came to mine were so unflattering they feared to speak them. Even then. But Betty told me she would give it serious thought, and by the end of the night she had a word she felt happy with: Perseverance. Even at the time I didn't feel especially flattered by it. I had been hoping for something like, Funny, Comical, Friendly. Instead, I got, Perseverance.
Well, maybe she was right. I mean, I'm still here, aren't I? Nobody's laughing, but I'm still here.
It's become a weary burden, though. There must be a reason to go on to the next thing, else why go? Why drive to the next town if there's nothing there? If one has no route, then who cares? If you don't know where you're going then why go anywhere? Here's as good as anyplace.
Only the decision isn't all mine. I'm being dragged to places I don't want to go and being forced to stay in places I don't want to be. I know there are others in and heading to worse places. Unfortunately, it doesn't make my life any happier. And that's the simple truth.
Told you I didn't have anything to say.
I've nothing to say, actually. Except, perhaps, that I never should have let myself expect anything. That was my mistake. I knew better. After all these years of living and feeling and experiencing, I knew better than to have expectations. But I did it anyway. And once again, my own expectations have cheated me.
It gets to be tiring. Not just reading more of my self-pitying crap, but never getting what I expect - unless it is crap. And as intelligent as I'm supposed to be, why is it I always fall back and believe that things are going to improve - when they never do. Never. Not ever. Not really.
I remember Betty telling me something way back in the 1970s. That's more than thirty years ago now. We (the cooks and waitresses at a then popular Italian restaurant) were trying to come up with one-word descriptions of each staff member. For most it was fairly easy - and comical. We were pretty much friends, and friends can pretty much say anything about and to each other. Real friends can, anyway. What I've seen of late is that people are no longer allowed this freedom and right. Say anything unflattering and you're blasted.
Anyway, no one could come up with a word for me. My suspicion - then and now - is that the words which came to mine were so unflattering they feared to speak them. Even then. But Betty told me she would give it serious thought, and by the end of the night she had a word she felt happy with: Perseverance. Even at the time I didn't feel especially flattered by it. I had been hoping for something like, Funny, Comical, Friendly. Instead, I got, Perseverance.
Well, maybe she was right. I mean, I'm still here, aren't I? Nobody's laughing, but I'm still here.
It's become a weary burden, though. There must be a reason to go on to the next thing, else why go? Why drive to the next town if there's nothing there? If one has no route, then who cares? If you don't know where you're going then why go anywhere? Here's as good as anyplace.
Only the decision isn't all mine. I'm being dragged to places I don't want to go and being forced to stay in places I don't want to be. I know there are others in and heading to worse places. Unfortunately, it doesn't make my life any happier. And that's the simple truth.
Told you I didn't have anything to say.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Is the Loch Ness Monster for Real
Not sure why I'm posting because I haven't anything I feel like writing here.
I guess I just hate to post some place else and leave this blog untouched. It was my first, you know. So if I'm going to write poetry I must also find something to post here. I'll make it up. No matter, right?
Six hundred years ago I used to post more often. A thousand years ago I posted every day. Now I'm just ancient, and can think of nothing to say.
There is a story in the works. I will not say more here. Just to let you know I'm not dead as some might fear.
I seldom visit other blogs anymore, although I do check my reading list often. Interesting how I'm not the only one not posting much. I guess it's contagious.
Hope you all are well.
I guess I just hate to post some place else and leave this blog untouched. It was my first, you know. So if I'm going to write poetry I must also find something to post here. I'll make it up. No matter, right?
Six hundred years ago I used to post more often. A thousand years ago I posted every day. Now I'm just ancient, and can think of nothing to say.
There is a story in the works. I will not say more here. Just to let you know I'm not dead as some might fear.
I seldom visit other blogs anymore, although I do check my reading list often. Interesting how I'm not the only one not posting much. I guess it's contagious.
Hope you all are well.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Sheltered and Homeless
So I have internet access again.
Actually, I was only without it for less than a day. I just stayed away because - because.
I just deleted what I originally intended to post. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I may very likely remain away. Because - because.
Actually, I was only without it for less than a day. I just stayed away because - because.
I just deleted what I originally intended to post. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I may very likely remain away. Because - because.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Shut Down
So, it has come to what may be the final post for this blog. If you've been trying to keep track, officially this is the 282nd post since 10-21-2008. Didn't make it that long, did I? Only been online just over a year, and only been blogging just under a year. Not that this is my first time being online. I've tried the internet, off and on, for around twenty years or so. I remember being on Compuserve. I don't even know if that exists anymore. That was in the days of Prodigy, which I never used.
Yesterday I was offline because my current service provider crashed. Don't know if it was the storms which passed through or if they got hit with some cyber attack. When I called their technical support line I got a recorded message which simply stated that "High speed internet users in Minnesota may not have access to the internet today. We apologize for the inconvenience and our technicians are doing all they can to correct the problem."
High speed? I didn't know. Wow! How disappointing. I was hoping I could get high speed if/when I reconnect. Now it turns out I've been using it. I guess that's good. Else this round of internet access would have gone the way of the others: I get p*ssed off because everything takes so frikkin' long and I cancel the service.
When I started this blog last October I didn't know why. There were things I wanted to say, but not only was I not sure what they were, but I didn't even know to whom I wanted to say them. I guess I hinted at it in my fourth post, titled, "A Wound That Will Not Heal". That post was about Daddy, and how I had deliberately hurt him.
I have talked about Daddy a lot in this blog. It's been twenty-five years since he went away and I still miss him. How would my life be different had he stayed? He would not be happy with me, I think. I've lived life longer than he did when he was here, but I have achieved nothing and have nothing to show for it. What a waste.
Another of my favorite topics is Stephen. Dear Stephen. Taken even earlier than Daddy. Daddy made it to fifty. Stephen barely passed forty. It has been fun recapturing some of the good times (and bad) I shared with both Daddy and Stephen. On a couple of occasions we shared them together, but mostly Stephen and Daddy didn't meet up.
The third topic which dominated this blog was The Old House, and what it was like growing up there. As miserable as living there was, I find myself wistfully returning to it time and again in thought and heart. I guess that is where I want to be after all. I know I'm not all that keen on the present.
Daddy was a hurting and lonely man. Born a b*stard child in a time when such people were not viewed as people, he lived a tortured life. He married when he didn't want to marry because my mother was pregnant with Ranlen and Daddy felt an obligation about that. He had wanted to travel. Be an airplane pilot. He had a license for a time, but was forced to let it lapse due to money constraints. He eventually got his traveling in by virtue of his job, which was regional truck driving in the midwest.
Stephen was an artist who had trouble dealing with many of life's unpleasant realities. His hero was Vincent Van Gough, who he said killed himself. Stephen had a frightful interest in suicide, and I have more than once wondered about the accident which killed him. How accidental was it? Daddy once recorded a musical story in which he very strongly intimated that his drinking and smoking were deliberate efforts to leave this life early. His words, "There are many ways to kill oneself", still haunt me.
But Stephen was especially close to his mother, and when he learned the reason his family had moved to the country (where he met me) was because his mother had been having an affair it hit him hard. I suppose there are things children just don't need to know about their parents.
The Old House kind of suffered, too. By the time we moved in it was quite delapidated, both in structure and in other ways. Once it had been the proud center of a huge farm. Now it stood in the corner of a five-acre lot with two outbuildings. Everything else had been sectioned off and sold as part of other property. It's walls were buckling and it's roof was leaking. Perhaps the fire which brought it down was self-induced? It seems a shame that it's gone. What a waste.
Will that be my legacy, too? "What a waste?" Sometimes I think so.
I have called this blog "A Voice in the Wind" because I tend to ramble. It's hard for me to keep focus because so many different ideas capture my attention. But I liked to tell myself I had important things to say. Turns out I was wrong. What a pity.
There have been several times when I thought about just shutting down the blogs. Now that it will happen I feel sad about it. Yes, if I want to spend the money I am sure I can be blogging again in no time. But there isn't a lot of money to spend. We are scheduled to reconnect to the internet some time this week, but as I wrote at the top of this post, the service provider is having their own set of problems.
We'll see. So, on the chance that I am unable or unwilling to come back, I will leave you with one of my favorite songs. I've posted it before. It's a friendship song. In fact, it's called "Friends". Do play it. And when you do, think of me.
Have a good one.
I hope the day will be a lighter highway
For friends are found on every road
Can you ever think of any better way
For the lost and weary travellers to go
Making friends for the world to see
Let the people know you got what you need
With a friend at hand you will see the light
If your friends are there then everything's all right
It seems to me a crime that we should age
These fragile times should never slip us by
A time you never can or shall erase
As friends together watch their childhood fly
Making friends for the world to see
Let the people know you got what you need
With a friend at hand you will see the light
If your friends are there then everything's all right
Yesterday I was offline because my current service provider crashed. Don't know if it was the storms which passed through or if they got hit with some cyber attack. When I called their technical support line I got a recorded message which simply stated that "High speed internet users in Minnesota may not have access to the internet today. We apologize for the inconvenience and our technicians are doing all they can to correct the problem."
High speed? I didn't know. Wow! How disappointing. I was hoping I could get high speed if/when I reconnect. Now it turns out I've been using it. I guess that's good. Else this round of internet access would have gone the way of the others: I get p*ssed off because everything takes so frikkin' long and I cancel the service.
When I started this blog last October I didn't know why. There were things I wanted to say, but not only was I not sure what they were, but I didn't even know to whom I wanted to say them. I guess I hinted at it in my fourth post, titled, "A Wound That Will Not Heal". That post was about Daddy, and how I had deliberately hurt him.
I have talked about Daddy a lot in this blog. It's been twenty-five years since he went away and I still miss him. How would my life be different had he stayed? He would not be happy with me, I think. I've lived life longer than he did when he was here, but I have achieved nothing and have nothing to show for it. What a waste.
Another of my favorite topics is Stephen. Dear Stephen. Taken even earlier than Daddy. Daddy made it to fifty. Stephen barely passed forty. It has been fun recapturing some of the good times (and bad) I shared with both Daddy and Stephen. On a couple of occasions we shared them together, but mostly Stephen and Daddy didn't meet up.
The third topic which dominated this blog was The Old House, and what it was like growing up there. As miserable as living there was, I find myself wistfully returning to it time and again in thought and heart. I guess that is where I want to be after all. I know I'm not all that keen on the present.
Daddy was a hurting and lonely man. Born a b*stard child in a time when such people were not viewed as people, he lived a tortured life. He married when he didn't want to marry because my mother was pregnant with Ranlen and Daddy felt an obligation about that. He had wanted to travel. Be an airplane pilot. He had a license for a time, but was forced to let it lapse due to money constraints. He eventually got his traveling in by virtue of his job, which was regional truck driving in the midwest.
Stephen was an artist who had trouble dealing with many of life's unpleasant realities. His hero was Vincent Van Gough, who he said killed himself. Stephen had a frightful interest in suicide, and I have more than once wondered about the accident which killed him. How accidental was it? Daddy once recorded a musical story in which he very strongly intimated that his drinking and smoking were deliberate efforts to leave this life early. His words, "There are many ways to kill oneself", still haunt me.
But Stephen was especially close to his mother, and when he learned the reason his family had moved to the country (where he met me) was because his mother had been having an affair it hit him hard. I suppose there are things children just don't need to know about their parents.
The Old House kind of suffered, too. By the time we moved in it was quite delapidated, both in structure and in other ways. Once it had been the proud center of a huge farm. Now it stood in the corner of a five-acre lot with two outbuildings. Everything else had been sectioned off and sold as part of other property. It's walls were buckling and it's roof was leaking. Perhaps the fire which brought it down was self-induced? It seems a shame that it's gone. What a waste.
Will that be my legacy, too? "What a waste?" Sometimes I think so.
I have called this blog "A Voice in the Wind" because I tend to ramble. It's hard for me to keep focus because so many different ideas capture my attention. But I liked to tell myself I had important things to say. Turns out I was wrong. What a pity.
There have been several times when I thought about just shutting down the blogs. Now that it will happen I feel sad about it. Yes, if I want to spend the money I am sure I can be blogging again in no time. But there isn't a lot of money to spend. We are scheduled to reconnect to the internet some time this week, but as I wrote at the top of this post, the service provider is having their own set of problems.
We'll see. So, on the chance that I am unable or unwilling to come back, I will leave you with one of my favorite songs. I've posted it before. It's a friendship song. In fact, it's called "Friends". Do play it. And when you do, think of me.
Have a good one.
I hope the day will be a lighter highway
For friends are found on every road
Can you ever think of any better way
For the lost and weary travellers to go
Making friends for the world to see
Let the people know you got what you need
With a friend at hand you will see the light
If your friends are there then everything's all right
It seems to me a crime that we should age
These fragile times should never slip us by
A time you never can or shall erase
As friends together watch their childhood fly
Making friends for the world to see
Let the people know you got what you need
With a friend at hand you will see the light
If your friends are there then everything's all right
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Making and Recalling History
Today's topic is writing assignments. I came up with it because I used to write for the Evil Editor blog a lot more than I do now. There are weekly writing assignments, generally in the 200-300 word length category. These are good exercises for learning to say something in few words. I don't submit so often anymore because there's so much going on right now I don't have time to catch the inspiration and write . How I miss the days of youth when I seemingly had time for everything I enjoyed. They days were longer or something.
I remember we would occasionally get writing assignments in school. When the assignment was like a research paper I tended to wait until the last moment and toss together something to get a grade. When the assignments were creative in scope I would get all excited and rush to begin writing at every moment.
Mrs. SJ would announce to the class after story time: Okay. Now I want each of you to write a story about a little dog who gets separated from his family. Print. Use a whole sheet of paper. Turn it in tomorrow morning.
Most of the class would react with, "Oh, cr*p!" I would be excited.
The following morning papers would be handed forward to the front of the room. Some students wrote in extra large letters. Some didn't even try. They only used a half sheet. A few would continue to a second page. Mine were always five to ten pages.
I love to tell stories. I love make-believe. I love relating historical events. J.R.R.Tolkien wrote that he "much prefers history, true or feigned" over allegory. At my age I find I much agree with him. Allegory is a hammer beating upon a nail. It forces an idea into the thoughts of its readers. History is a park. There are paths leading to ponds, shrubs, wildlife, and a host of other things. Visitors are free to walk these paths and spend as much time admiring the beauty as they will. Nothing is forced. It is just there.
It's why, I suppose, I spend so much time relating my past on this blog. That is real history. Those things really did happen. And the people who were with me really existed. It seems a shame and even a waste to let those memories fade away without being shared. Those people who shared those experiences with me were important people. Many are no longer here. They shouldn't be forgotten. And often, I am the only one remaining who remembers what happened. And so I tell the stories. I try to keep them alive. Stephen. Daddy. Grandmother. These were people worth knowing.
The problem, of course, with my method of relating these stories is I follow no pattern. The timeline is not set. One day I may relate something from my early twenties, and the next I'm five years old again. Then it's back to junior high. The result - over time - of this wild and undisciplined approach is that I'm not always sure what I have, or have not, written about. And the history of this blog is now large enough that I don't always have the energy to search back to see. Between that and just being older I find myself repeating things. I expect in time I'll be some blabbering old fool who continues to relate stories despite not even having an audience. Saw a few of them at the place where Daddy's mother wound up. Old people sitting in wheelchairs mumbling to themselves.
Still recall the time I left work in the middle of the day and drove to see Grandma. It was on a whim. I had never been close to Daddy's mother. She was so prim and proper about her house. She wasn't a children's grandmother. She was an adult's grandmother, so I was only really getting to know her when she died.
I entered the place not even sure where I would find her. By chance she was sitting in a wheelchair in the main hall. Her head was down and her arms were folded across her lap. When I got her attention she perked her 6'0" frame up and was all animated. She made sure to tell every person who came by that her grandson had come to visit. This was after Daddy had died. Daddy had been her only child.
I didn't stay long. The place was so awful I felt uncomfortable. So we talked and then I left. Mother visited Grandma the next day. Grandma complained that no one had been to visit her in more than a week. She didn't remember that I had been there.
For a long time that bothered me. Then I realized something. When one is in a prison the days tend to meld together into one. Monday might just as well be Thursday. Spring is summer and fall is winter. Morning or evening. What does it matter? The food sucks. The atmosphere sucks. No place to go. Nothing to do. This wasn't a place to live. It was a place to die. No wonder she remembered it wrong. She probably remembered I had been there, but had since taken so many naps it felt like days had passed. Time had no meaning for that poor old lady in a nursing home prison. Except that it went on forever.
Was that my future I saw? Or, as I dearly hope, will I just go to sleep on my birthday one year - and wake up to see Daddy and Stephen waiting to usher me home?
What a tale that will be! Except I won't be able to tell it to you. You'll have to wait to get to heaven to hear it. Kind of worth living for. Don't you think? [smiles]
I remember we would occasionally get writing assignments in school. When the assignment was like a research paper I tended to wait until the last moment and toss together something to get a grade. When the assignments were creative in scope I would get all excited and rush to begin writing at every moment.
Mrs. SJ would announce to the class after story time: Okay. Now I want each of you to write a story about a little dog who gets separated from his family. Print. Use a whole sheet of paper. Turn it in tomorrow morning.
Most of the class would react with, "Oh, cr*p!" I would be excited.
The following morning papers would be handed forward to the front of the room. Some students wrote in extra large letters. Some didn't even try. They only used a half sheet. A few would continue to a second page. Mine were always five to ten pages.
I love to tell stories. I love make-believe. I love relating historical events. J.R.R.Tolkien wrote that he "much prefers history, true or feigned" over allegory. At my age I find I much agree with him. Allegory is a hammer beating upon a nail. It forces an idea into the thoughts of its readers. History is a park. There are paths leading to ponds, shrubs, wildlife, and a host of other things. Visitors are free to walk these paths and spend as much time admiring the beauty as they will. Nothing is forced. It is just there.
It's why, I suppose, I spend so much time relating my past on this blog. That is real history. Those things really did happen. And the people who were with me really existed. It seems a shame and even a waste to let those memories fade away without being shared. Those people who shared those experiences with me were important people. Many are no longer here. They shouldn't be forgotten. And often, I am the only one remaining who remembers what happened. And so I tell the stories. I try to keep them alive. Stephen. Daddy. Grandmother. These were people worth knowing.
The problem, of course, with my method of relating these stories is I follow no pattern. The timeline is not set. One day I may relate something from my early twenties, and the next I'm five years old again. Then it's back to junior high. The result - over time - of this wild and undisciplined approach is that I'm not always sure what I have, or have not, written about. And the history of this blog is now large enough that I don't always have the energy to search back to see. Between that and just being older I find myself repeating things. I expect in time I'll be some blabbering old fool who continues to relate stories despite not even having an audience. Saw a few of them at the place where Daddy's mother wound up. Old people sitting in wheelchairs mumbling to themselves.
Still recall the time I left work in the middle of the day and drove to see Grandma. It was on a whim. I had never been close to Daddy's mother. She was so prim and proper about her house. She wasn't a children's grandmother. She was an adult's grandmother, so I was only really getting to know her when she died.
I entered the place not even sure where I would find her. By chance she was sitting in a wheelchair in the main hall. Her head was down and her arms were folded across her lap. When I got her attention she perked her 6'0" frame up and was all animated. She made sure to tell every person who came by that her grandson had come to visit. This was after Daddy had died. Daddy had been her only child.
I didn't stay long. The place was so awful I felt uncomfortable. So we talked and then I left. Mother visited Grandma the next day. Grandma complained that no one had been to visit her in more than a week. She didn't remember that I had been there.
For a long time that bothered me. Then I realized something. When one is in a prison the days tend to meld together into one. Monday might just as well be Thursday. Spring is summer and fall is winter. Morning or evening. What does it matter? The food sucks. The atmosphere sucks. No place to go. Nothing to do. This wasn't a place to live. It was a place to die. No wonder she remembered it wrong. She probably remembered I had been there, but had since taken so many naps it felt like days had passed. Time had no meaning for that poor old lady in a nursing home prison. Except that it went on forever.
Was that my future I saw? Or, as I dearly hope, will I just go to sleep on my birthday one year - and wake up to see Daddy and Stephen waiting to usher me home?
What a tale that will be! Except I won't be able to tell it to you. You'll have to wait to get to heaven to hear it. Kind of worth living for. Don't you think? [smiles]
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
I'm Not Where I Was - Is That Good
Today is Writing Assignments Day. It dates back to last fall when I only had two blogs: this one and The Great Sea. By the end of the year I would have a third blog, SOF-The People, which has now been renamed, Tales From The Great Sea. In January I would create Cat in the Buff, and at the end of March, Legion of On-Line Super Heroes. And April would see me creating Faith in Forgiveness.
Six blogs. And I've ideas for a couple more. As the saying goes, "Good Lord willing and the creeks don't rise," I might have seven or eight, or even more, in a year's time.
What amazes me about this is not that I have six blogs, or that I can come up with ideas for six more. What amazes me is that I have even one blog. Had you told me a year ago I would be blogging to the world I would have thought you out of your frikkin' mind. I didn't blog. I didn't chat. I hardly used the internet at all. It was "dangerous".
Not exactly sure what it was I was afraid of, but I was afraid of it. Got into it quite by accident. You see, last year I believed I had a great story waiting to be published. I sent a query letter to a New York agent. Who promptly ignored me. After waiting two weeks past the agent's self-appointed deadline for responding I wrote him again. This time I got a response in two days. In short, it read: Get the h*ll away from me! And don't come back!
Daunted, I still tried again. This time not in New York. My new agent find was different. She had a much happier website, showing off her Authors. The problem: she only accepted electronic submissions. Email. I wasn't keen on email any more than I was on the internet itself. But I wanted to be published, so I sent the email query.
She responded within less than a day, and although it was a form letter rejection, I didn't get the "leave me the h*ll alone" feeling. For this reason, I decided to write her back and thank her for her time and prompt attention to my query. Having done that, I told her she could then delete the email without reading the rest because I was going to vent some of my disappointment.
She may, or may not, have deleted the email. However, not before she read it in its entirety. Proving my suspicions of her were on the mark, she wrote me back. What she did was direct me to the Evil Editor blog, where she said I would get the opportunity to learn a LOT. So I did. And I did.
My visit and experience there led me to create this blog and The Great Sea. Part of what I learned was that if I was twice the writer I was, I wouldn't be half as good as I believed. That is, in fact, what I consider to be the most beautiful thing about Evil Editor's blog: one gets the truth. It isn't for everybody. I was in tears after my first shredding, and sorely tempted to give up writing entirely. But something told me that this was how the big boys and girls played, and that if I wanted to join in the "fun" I was going to have to tough it out. So I do. But I know some people cannot take criticism not couched in salve. It's too much like running outside to get the mail wearing only sweatpants and a t-shirt and discovering it's about twenty degrees colder than you thought - and the ground is frosty wet.
What I have found in my blogging are precious stones of incredible worth. The people I have met, here, on my other blogs, and on other peoples' blogs, are amazing. Most are incredibly caring people, doing their best to help everyone they can. I have not personally had to interact with anyone unpleasant, although I have seen those people show up on other blogs. Someone I care about was driven away from their blog because of such treatment.
I have been fortunate. All has gone well for me. I do not get hundreds of visitors each day, nor even dozens, for that matter. But those who do come are wonderful people, and I am glad for the visits whether I get comments or not.
What a shame I can't get paid for this. It's what satisfies my soul. Writing. Talking. Blabbing. Being silly. Being stupid. Being inane. Occasionally having something of worth to say, but not very often. (Speaking of that, if you want to read something really demented, visit Tales From The Great Sea. But I warn you, it's kind of sick.)
And you know what? After seven+ months of blogging, I still don't know what I was afraid of.
Six blogs. And I've ideas for a couple more. As the saying goes, "Good Lord willing and the creeks don't rise," I might have seven or eight, or even more, in a year's time.
What amazes me about this is not that I have six blogs, or that I can come up with ideas for six more. What amazes me is that I have even one blog. Had you told me a year ago I would be blogging to the world I would have thought you out of your frikkin' mind. I didn't blog. I didn't chat. I hardly used the internet at all. It was "dangerous".
Not exactly sure what it was I was afraid of, but I was afraid of it. Got into it quite by accident. You see, last year I believed I had a great story waiting to be published. I sent a query letter to a New York agent. Who promptly ignored me. After waiting two weeks past the agent's self-appointed deadline for responding I wrote him again. This time I got a response in two days. In short, it read: Get the h*ll away from me! And don't come back!
Daunted, I still tried again. This time not in New York. My new agent find was different. She had a much happier website, showing off her Authors. The problem: she only accepted electronic submissions. Email. I wasn't keen on email any more than I was on the internet itself. But I wanted to be published, so I sent the email query.
She responded within less than a day, and although it was a form letter rejection, I didn't get the "leave me the h*ll alone" feeling. For this reason, I decided to write her back and thank her for her time and prompt attention to my query. Having done that, I told her she could then delete the email without reading the rest because I was going to vent some of my disappointment.
She may, or may not, have deleted the email. However, not before she read it in its entirety. Proving my suspicions of her were on the mark, she wrote me back. What she did was direct me to the Evil Editor blog, where she said I would get the opportunity to learn a LOT. So I did. And I did.
My visit and experience there led me to create this blog and The Great Sea. Part of what I learned was that if I was twice the writer I was, I wouldn't be half as good as I believed. That is, in fact, what I consider to be the most beautiful thing about Evil Editor's blog: one gets the truth. It isn't for everybody. I was in tears after my first shredding, and sorely tempted to give up writing entirely. But something told me that this was how the big boys and girls played, and that if I wanted to join in the "fun" I was going to have to tough it out. So I do. But I know some people cannot take criticism not couched in salve. It's too much like running outside to get the mail wearing only sweatpants and a t-shirt and discovering it's about twenty degrees colder than you thought - and the ground is frosty wet.
What I have found in my blogging are precious stones of incredible worth. The people I have met, here, on my other blogs, and on other peoples' blogs, are amazing. Most are incredibly caring people, doing their best to help everyone they can. I have not personally had to interact with anyone unpleasant, although I have seen those people show up on other blogs. Someone I care about was driven away from their blog because of such treatment.
I have been fortunate. All has gone well for me. I do not get hundreds of visitors each day, nor even dozens, for that matter. But those who do come are wonderful people, and I am glad for the visits whether I get comments or not.
What a shame I can't get paid for this. It's what satisfies my soul. Writing. Talking. Blabbing. Being silly. Being stupid. Being inane. Occasionally having something of worth to say, but not very often. (Speaking of that, if you want to read something really demented, visit Tales From The Great Sea. But I warn you, it's kind of sick.)
And you know what? After seven+ months of blogging, I still don't know what I was afraid of.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
An Expression From the Past
Stephen receives a lot of exposure on this blog. He gets honorable mentions on a couple of other blogs, too. Daddy is another. It is entirely right and proper that I should do so, I think. They are both gone and I love them both dearly.
I have referenced my new friends more than once here, too, confessing my love for them.
Today, despite it being Animals and Nature Day on A Voice in the Wind, I will confess my love for Spouse. Included with that is Son, for he came from us, at least in part. His spirit comes from God, but the shell it lives in came from us, as well as a few personality quirks, good and bad.
Spouse isn't too keen on frequent mentions on-line. Not keen about Son being mentioned, either. Anything to hide their identity. But I can hardly post without referencing one and/or the other at least sometimes. And because this blogging thing has turned from a selfish display of words to myself into a selfish interactive with others, things slip, and I find myself compelled to reveal more to friends than I did to an empty and impersonal cyberspace. (Hence the addition of gender on my profile.) Spouse is mostly fine with this. I have friends again. It's been a few years.
Anyway, I have been listening to this particular song several times a day for the past five days. It's one of about a dozen I'm replaying over and over again. All take me back at least two decades in time. Some as far back as 1969. Some make me cry. Some make me feel hopeful. Others remind me of Stephen, being young, foolish, and without any cares. This song, also linked at the bottom of the blog, brings me back to the early 1980s. We (Spouse and I) were still in our twenties. We were both thin then (now it's just Spouse). And healthy. And hopeful. And poor. We both worked at the same place (which is how we met). As I drove us to and from work we would listen to radio stations (I'm a station turner). When this song would come on I would sing it. It's been more than twenty years since I remember hearing it last. Stumbled across it the other day. I can still sing it. Just not as well.
The song is important to me because I have watched what has happened to many other families - just in this neighborhood - in which the husband has lost work and can't get/keep another job to replace the one lost. In nearly every other case the wife has taken the children and left. Spouse did not do that. Not even when we lost the house.
It's no fun being undeserving. But it is comforting to be loved. And so my friends, not to take anything away from the love I bear for you, and you know I love you, this expression of love is for Spouse, though she will not read it. If you wish to listen to it, I have a YouTube link at the bottom of the blog. (Today, anyway. That will change at some point in the future.)
Longer, by Dan Fogelberg
Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
I've been in love with you.
Stronger than any mountain cathedral
Truer than any tree ever grew
Deeper than any forest primeval
I am in love with you.
I'll bring fires in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings.
Through the years as the fire starts to mellow
Burning lines in the book of our lives
Though the binding cracks and the pages start to yellow
I'll be in love with you.
I'll be in love with you.
Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
Ive been in love with you
I am in love with you..
For better and for worse. In sickness and in health. Wasn't sure I believed it at the time. Now, coming up on 30 years later, time has shown the truth.
I have referenced my new friends more than once here, too, confessing my love for them.
Today, despite it being Animals and Nature Day on A Voice in the Wind, I will confess my love for Spouse. Included with that is Son, for he came from us, at least in part. His spirit comes from God, but the shell it lives in came from us, as well as a few personality quirks, good and bad.
Spouse isn't too keen on frequent mentions on-line. Not keen about Son being mentioned, either. Anything to hide their identity. But I can hardly post without referencing one and/or the other at least sometimes. And because this blogging thing has turned from a selfish display of words to myself into a selfish interactive with others, things slip, and I find myself compelled to reveal more to friends than I did to an empty and impersonal cyberspace. (Hence the addition of gender on my profile.) Spouse is mostly fine with this. I have friends again. It's been a few years.
Anyway, I have been listening to this particular song several times a day for the past five days. It's one of about a dozen I'm replaying over and over again. All take me back at least two decades in time. Some as far back as 1969. Some make me cry. Some make me feel hopeful. Others remind me of Stephen, being young, foolish, and without any cares. This song, also linked at the bottom of the blog, brings me back to the early 1980s. We (Spouse and I) were still in our twenties. We were both thin then (now it's just Spouse). And healthy. And hopeful. And poor. We both worked at the same place (which is how we met). As I drove us to and from work we would listen to radio stations (I'm a station turner). When this song would come on I would sing it. It's been more than twenty years since I remember hearing it last. Stumbled across it the other day. I can still sing it. Just not as well.
The song is important to me because I have watched what has happened to many other families - just in this neighborhood - in which the husband has lost work and can't get/keep another job to replace the one lost. In nearly every other case the wife has taken the children and left. Spouse did not do that. Not even when we lost the house.
It's no fun being undeserving. But it is comforting to be loved. And so my friends, not to take anything away from the love I bear for you, and you know I love you, this expression of love is for Spouse, though she will not read it. If you wish to listen to it, I have a YouTube link at the bottom of the blog. (Today, anyway. That will change at some point in the future.)
Longer, by Dan Fogelberg
Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
I've been in love with you.
Stronger than any mountain cathedral
Truer than any tree ever grew
Deeper than any forest primeval
I am in love with you.
I'll bring fires in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings.
Through the years as the fire starts to mellow
Burning lines in the book of our lives
Though the binding cracks and the pages start to yellow
I'll be in love with you.
I'll be in love with you.
Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
Ive been in love with you
I am in love with you..
For better and for worse. In sickness and in health. Wasn't sure I believed it at the time. Now, coming up on 30 years later, time has shown the truth.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Stories, Heroes, Writing, Critiques
Supposed to talk about writing assignments today. Nothing new to say about them save that Quest is moving along nicely. Too nicely, in a way. I tried writing with Spouse and Son offering up one interruption after another. It's hard to keep focus when one is being inundated with a host of questions. I wound up skipping a mess of idea and not thinking others through.
The stories are posting on Legions of On-Line Super Heroes. If you haven't visited the blog, or haven't in a couple of days, I highly recommend it for good light reading. Fun reading. There are five stories up now, with others scheduled for Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Monday. There's some very good writing there. And my stuff is there, too.
What a pity there's no money in blogging. I'd be doing just fine. But then, we all blog. How does that phrase of W.S.Gilbert go?
When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody.
Been invited to bring something to read to tonight's Writers' Group. There was only a single submission to be critiqued. I gave it my best, but the writer happens to write a lot better than I, and it's Chapter Eight of a story which I haven't read before. I thought about bringing what I have of Quest, but as Quest is a sequel to Apprentice, and this group has already reviewed Apprentice, I thought to bring something new. So, I'm bringing my opening to The Animal Kingdom. It's only six pages.
The Animal Kingdom is one of my unfinished works. The premise is this:
There is an alternative reality where animals from this world can go to get away from humans and the struggles there are to survive here. How the journey is made is unknown to humans, but animals can make the journey easily.
The Animal Kingdom is a kingdom of peace. No animal preys on another for food. Those which feel the need must return to our world in order to get their meals. And therein is the story. A hog is found slaughtered near the border of the cats. Eschae, the Kingdom Mare, calls upon Sparks, her German Shepherd inspector, to solve the crime before the kingdom is undone and all predators must be banned.
I like the idea. I even remember a lot of what I wanted to do with it. Just never finished it. If there's time at the meeting tonight I'll present it and see what everyone thinks of it. Maybe I will finish it after all.
Other than that, not much going on. Mostly recovered from my cold. Slight headache today with slight congestion. But only a few coughs.
Take care.
The stories are posting on Legions of On-Line Super Heroes. If you haven't visited the blog, or haven't in a couple of days, I highly recommend it for good light reading. Fun reading. There are five stories up now, with others scheduled for Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Monday. There's some very good writing there. And my stuff is there, too.
What a pity there's no money in blogging. I'd be doing just fine. But then, we all blog. How does that phrase of W.S.Gilbert go?
When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody.
Been invited to bring something to read to tonight's Writers' Group. There was only a single submission to be critiqued. I gave it my best, but the writer happens to write a lot better than I, and it's Chapter Eight of a story which I haven't read before. I thought about bringing what I have of Quest, but as Quest is a sequel to Apprentice, and this group has already reviewed Apprentice, I thought to bring something new. So, I'm bringing my opening to The Animal Kingdom. It's only six pages.
The Animal Kingdom is one of my unfinished works. The premise is this:
There is an alternative reality where animals from this world can go to get away from humans and the struggles there are to survive here. How the journey is made is unknown to humans, but animals can make the journey easily.
The Animal Kingdom is a kingdom of peace. No animal preys on another for food. Those which feel the need must return to our world in order to get their meals. And therein is the story. A hog is found slaughtered near the border of the cats. Eschae, the Kingdom Mare, calls upon Sparks, her German Shepherd inspector, to solve the crime before the kingdom is undone and all predators must be banned.
I like the idea. I even remember a lot of what I wanted to do with it. Just never finished it. If there's time at the meeting tonight I'll present it and see what everyone thinks of it. Maybe I will finish it after all.
Other than that, not much going on. Mostly recovered from my cold. Slight headache today with slight congestion. But only a few coughs.
Take care.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Hi J.
I'm trying to do something of importance, but I'm going to need some help and direction - at least sometimes. If you can comment and help me stay on track, thanks.
Oh. It's at Faith in Forgiveness.
Oh. It's at Faith in Forgiveness.
Thank You Lisa and Freddie
Awards have passed through this area of cyberspace and, thanks to Lisa and Freddie, A Voice in the Wind has two.
Lisa gave me the "I Love Your Blog Award".
I like what she wrote - about this blog, and about me.
"Bevie IS a voice in the wind, a voice says "I'm listening" and I care about my fellow bloggers."
That is SO sweet. I guess if I can be remembered no other way, I will be happy.
Freddie gave me the "Proximidade" Award.
There's an entire paragraph which goes with this:
This blog invests and believes in the PROXIMITY - nearness in space, time and relationships. These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement! Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers! Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this clever-written text into the body of their award.
Awards are nice ways to tell someone we like them. We like what they write. Something about someone else has touched something inside ourselves. It's amazing, really. Of all the people I have written to or read posts and comments from, I have only met one face-to-face, and that took place before any on-line communication. So, of the people I have met on-line I have seen none. Some have posted pictures of themselves, which is nice. Some I am not even sure what gender they are. (See this post from fairyhedgehog.)
I began blogging with great trepidation just before Halloween last year. New things frighten me, as do people in general. So I was scared about posting anything. What if no one ever visited my blog? What if someone did? Finding something to say was never a problem. I can blab about just about anything - whether I know anything about it or not.
That reminds me of a know-it-all I used to work with. A group from my department went to lunch one day, and every time anyone talked about anything "V" knew all about it, and he would "correct" our misconceptions straight-away. As we were returning he was doing it again, and another co-worker had finally had enough. He gave "V" a look and said, "And I suppose if I told you I was going polar bear hunting you would know all about it?" Hope I'm not that bad.
But I'm glad to get awards.
As to passing them on. Well, I did pass on the "I Love Your Blog" award from The Great Sea, which also got the award from Writtenwyrdd. It was horrible choosing between all of the blogs I visit, for in my heart they ALL should get the award. But how did that go in the song? "If everybody's somebody - Then no one's anybody."
I guess I don't mind that.
Lisa gave me the "I Love Your Blog Award".I like what she wrote - about this blog, and about me.
"Bevie IS a voice in the wind, a voice says "I'm listening" and I care about my fellow bloggers."
That is SO sweet. I guess if I can be remembered no other way, I will be happy.
Freddie gave me the "Proximidade" Award.There's an entire paragraph which goes with this:
This blog invests and believes in the PROXIMITY - nearness in space, time and relationships. These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement! Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers! Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this clever-written text into the body of their award.
Awards are nice ways to tell someone we like them. We like what they write. Something about someone else has touched something inside ourselves. It's amazing, really. Of all the people I have written to or read posts and comments from, I have only met one face-to-face, and that took place before any on-line communication. So, of the people I have met on-line I have seen none. Some have posted pictures of themselves, which is nice. Some I am not even sure what gender they are. (See this post from fairyhedgehog.)
I began blogging with great trepidation just before Halloween last year. New things frighten me, as do people in general. So I was scared about posting anything. What if no one ever visited my blog? What if someone did? Finding something to say was never a problem. I can blab about just about anything - whether I know anything about it or not.
That reminds me of a know-it-all I used to work with. A group from my department went to lunch one day, and every time anyone talked about anything "V" knew all about it, and he would "correct" our misconceptions straight-away. As we were returning he was doing it again, and another co-worker had finally had enough. He gave "V" a look and said, "And I suppose if I told you I was going polar bear hunting you would know all about it?" Hope I'm not that bad.
But I'm glad to get awards.
As to passing them on. Well, I did pass on the "I Love Your Blog" award from The Great Sea, which also got the award from Writtenwyrdd. It was horrible choosing between all of the blogs I visit, for in my heart they ALL should get the award. But how did that go in the song? "If everybody's somebody - Then no one's anybody."
I guess I don't mind that.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Works in Progress
Today is "Writing Assignments" day. Originally, it mean Evil Editor exercises. That was when I didn't really have any other writing projects on my active burners. In fact, last fall my active burners were suffering from a noticeable loss of fuel supply.
Since the end of last October, when I began blogging with a single blog, A Voice in the Wind, things have changed, and changed again. The presence of new friends to fill the void which had become far larger than I realized has thawed the flow of fuel to my heart and mind and stories are once again jumping about like the sunfish on Little Wabanna Lake at dusk.
Only I am not so foolish as to try writing them all right away. There were a couple of ideas I got and talked about writing too soon. One was The Power of Music, but I jumped the gun on that one. It needed to "cook" a bit more before taking it out. So right now I've only got two active writing assignments - self-assigned. One is the write the query for Traitor. I've got a rough copy right now. I'll rework it after I finish my final reading. The other is Quest, which is my sequel to Apprentice. That was begun yesterday, but I got nothing done on it today. Too many interruptions. (Spouse was home. Sump pump burned out and the basement began to flood. I've been sick for three days. Put together three boxes of books.)
Got some potentially good news today, too. Not ready to post about it, though. One may turn out to be nothing and the other could turn out to be a hundred times worse than good if things go bad. Isn't that just the way life is right now? All new endeavors have become high risk.
Cest La Vie.
Since the end of last October, when I began blogging with a single blog, A Voice in the Wind, things have changed, and changed again. The presence of new friends to fill the void which had become far larger than I realized has thawed the flow of fuel to my heart and mind and stories are once again jumping about like the sunfish on Little Wabanna Lake at dusk.
Only I am not so foolish as to try writing them all right away. There were a couple of ideas I got and talked about writing too soon. One was The Power of Music, but I jumped the gun on that one. It needed to "cook" a bit more before taking it out. So right now I've only got two active writing assignments - self-assigned. One is the write the query for Traitor. I've got a rough copy right now. I'll rework it after I finish my final reading. The other is Quest, which is my sequel to Apprentice. That was begun yesterday, but I got nothing done on it today. Too many interruptions. (Spouse was home. Sump pump burned out and the basement began to flood. I've been sick for three days. Put together three boxes of books.)
Got some potentially good news today, too. Not ready to post about it, though. One may turn out to be nothing and the other could turn out to be a hundred times worse than good if things go bad. Isn't that just the way life is right now? All new endeavors have become high risk.
Cest La Vie.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Oh, The Insanity of it All
So of course the very first day my weight goes up from the day before. And that was with only having a bowl of cereal and some raspberries for supper. But I had chicken wings and drummies for lunch. I guess those go off the menu, too.
Bought a bag of lentils. Those were hard to find. Had to ask three people at the grocery store until we found someone who knew anything about them. They in with Mexican food. Go figure.
So, now I have a bag of lentils. Have to start looking and find recipes which use them.
Got a pedometer yesterday, but not until late. Managed about 400-steps before shutting down for the night. Today I'll wear it all day and see what I get. (I've a feeling I'm not going to be exactly close to 10,000-steps.) Woke with a horrible, painful cough in my chest. Lovely spring cold. Well, if I'm hurting so bad I probably won't eat much. Then I'll lose weight!
Except I remember seeing a dietician back in the '90s. I would see her once a week. I still remember showing up the week after my first visit all proud because I had lost nine pounds. She got angry and chided me about being stupid. You never want to lose more then three or four pounds in a week. If you do, you're starving yourself and not developing a life-long habit. The idea is to create a way of living you can live with.
I lost a lot of weight going to see her, but I also went broke. All of those fresh fruits and vegetables cost a bit of money. Back then what I was confronted with was the reality that for $3.00 I could buy three or four apples, or one box of macaroni. The three or four apples satisified three or four snack requirements. The box of macaroni would supply six to eight meals for my spouse and myself. But it worked while we had the money.
A few years ago I purchased the treadmill. I was heavier then than I am now. When I began I wasnt able to go faster then 2.5-m.p.h. or longer than five minutes. That was right when Spouse and I were starting up the gift business, so I was home a lot. I would walk six times a day. At the start of each week I increased my time by one minute. Eventually, I was walking six miles every day, and I was losing about four pounds each week. I actually got down to 340 pounds, well on my way to the goal. And then I got carried away. I started playing with increasing the treadmill's angle and, worst of all, began speeding up my walks. What I did was create a scenario in which I had to walk abnormally in order to keep up. The result was I woke one morning unable to get out of bed. Had to crawl around the house for three days before I could walk. It was a week before I was walking normal again.
And I've never been able to return to the treadmill and keep a routine since. That psychological block which has nothing to do with the treadmill and everything to do with my silliness. I gained back sixty of the eighty pounds I lost and have been sitting there for years now.
When I was young I was thin. Skinny even. I could eat like a horse and hardly gain a pound. But I was so into sports and being physically active. Then, in my late-twenties that changed. That was about the time Stephen and I separated, too. By the time I was in my mid-thirties I was quite the blimp. When Stephen found me again I was fat.
I started losing weight again, but then people started to die all around me. Including Stephen. I kind of didn't care anymore. Then I got to thinking about Son being embarrassed to be seen with me and I got the treadmill. Well. I'm going to give it another go, okay?
You know, I thought I did really well yesterday. True, I didn't use the treadmill, but I was out and walking. And I didn't snack! D*mned hot wings. Why do they have to taste so good! With bar-b-que sauce? Umm. Ah, sorry. Fully expected to have dropped almost a pound. Instead, I'm up. Well, at least I was still below the trend weight. The trend weight is the real key. As long as my daily weights are below my trend weight I'm technically losing weight.
Maybe I should have just put all of this onto its own blog. Then I could moderate seven blogs! I must be out of my mind.
Bought a bag of lentils. Those were hard to find. Had to ask three people at the grocery store until we found someone who knew anything about them. They in with Mexican food. Go figure.
So, now I have a bag of lentils. Have to start looking and find recipes which use them.
Got a pedometer yesterday, but not until late. Managed about 400-steps before shutting down for the night. Today I'll wear it all day and see what I get. (I've a feeling I'm not going to be exactly close to 10,000-steps.) Woke with a horrible, painful cough in my chest. Lovely spring cold. Well, if I'm hurting so bad I probably won't eat much. Then I'll lose weight!
Except I remember seeing a dietician back in the '90s. I would see her once a week. I still remember showing up the week after my first visit all proud because I had lost nine pounds. She got angry and chided me about being stupid. You never want to lose more then three or four pounds in a week. If you do, you're starving yourself and not developing a life-long habit. The idea is to create a way of living you can live with.
I lost a lot of weight going to see her, but I also went broke. All of those fresh fruits and vegetables cost a bit of money. Back then what I was confronted with was the reality that for $3.00 I could buy three or four apples, or one box of macaroni. The three or four apples satisified three or four snack requirements. The box of macaroni would supply six to eight meals for my spouse and myself. But it worked while we had the money.
A few years ago I purchased the treadmill. I was heavier then than I am now. When I began I wasnt able to go faster then 2.5-m.p.h. or longer than five minutes. That was right when Spouse and I were starting up the gift business, so I was home a lot. I would walk six times a day. At the start of each week I increased my time by one minute. Eventually, I was walking six miles every day, and I was losing about four pounds each week. I actually got down to 340 pounds, well on my way to the goal. And then I got carried away. I started playing with increasing the treadmill's angle and, worst of all, began speeding up my walks. What I did was create a scenario in which I had to walk abnormally in order to keep up. The result was I woke one morning unable to get out of bed. Had to crawl around the house for three days before I could walk. It was a week before I was walking normal again.
And I've never been able to return to the treadmill and keep a routine since. That psychological block which has nothing to do with the treadmill and everything to do with my silliness. I gained back sixty of the eighty pounds I lost and have been sitting there for years now.
When I was young I was thin. Skinny even. I could eat like a horse and hardly gain a pound. But I was so into sports and being physically active. Then, in my late-twenties that changed. That was about the time Stephen and I separated, too. By the time I was in my mid-thirties I was quite the blimp. When Stephen found me again I was fat.
I started losing weight again, but then people started to die all around me. Including Stephen. I kind of didn't care anymore. Then I got to thinking about Son being embarrassed to be seen with me and I got the treadmill. Well. I'm going to give it another go, okay?
You know, I thought I did really well yesterday. True, I didn't use the treadmill, but I was out and walking. And I didn't snack! D*mned hot wings. Why do they have to taste so good! With bar-b-que sauce? Umm. Ah, sorry. Fully expected to have dropped almost a pound. Instead, I'm up. Well, at least I was still below the trend weight. The trend weight is the real key. As long as my daily weights are below my trend weight I'm technically losing weight.
Maybe I should have just put all of this onto its own blog. Then I could moderate seven blogs! I must be out of my mind.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Legion of On-Line Heroes is Organizing
So, I've done some more thinking about the Legion of On-Line Super Heroes. Posted some ideas (as well as some character creations) over on The Great Sea.
Basically, I created a new blog especially for Legion stories. My thinking (right now) is that those of you who want to contribute stories can create a character, post it on your blog, let me know, and I'll issue an INVITE to you which will allow you to post directly to the blog. If you would prefer, we can have it set up where you submit your stories as comments, and I post them one at a time. However you want to proceed.
I thought it would be nice to keep the stories in one place. This would make it easier for readers to read all submissions.
Of course, there is the matter of advertising your own blog. So there is no reason you can't post the story on your own blog. Also, Invitees will have links to their blogs on the sidebar.
With multiple authors, the pressure to produce should be minimized. In fact, the more authors we have the less often any single author needs to post. Just having this lack of pressure is great for some authors, who will then become prolific in their creativity. Others need a more structured approach, and they can certain impose that on themselves. Perhaps they write once a month. If we have more than one who likes this approach perhaps they could coordinate their schedules so that every week there is a new story.
I like the idea of posting on Saturdays. It reminds me of being young and watching the Saturday morning cartoons. However, there is no reason we can't post Sunday through Friday. What I do NOT want to do is stifle creativity. Too many "rules" and people lose interest. So I want to keep the "Parameter Box" as large as possible in order to accomodate as many authors as possible.
The new blog is called Legion of On-Line Super Heroes. I gave it the Adult Content warning because some writers like to get carried away. Perhaps I am being premature and should remove the warning until such time that we get a story containing explicit dialogue or behavior. Let me know.
Also, right now only Registered Users are allowed to comment. Do we wish to change that?
I very much would like any/all input you may have on this. I want to include everyone who would like to participate. So, if you would care to give it a go, even just once every few months, do let me know. Not every hero need be active every week. Some only take a mission once or twice a year. They're specialists. Maybe that's the kind of hero you wish to write about. Others are into everything, and there is a new story almost weekly. Whatever suits your fancy.
You will need a Hero Character to begin. Right now, I know of two (2) sites which will help in that regard: : The Hero Factory (comic book appearance); Hero Machine (let's you choose your name). If you know of another, or if you are artistic and can draw your own, by all means do so. You just need to have an image to present to the readership.
So, give me feedback. What are your thoughts and feelings on how to procede from here? I know Lisa and Fairy have expressed interest. If you like the idea of posting to the blog yourself let me know and I'll issue invites.
Let me know.
NOTE: Got a bit carried away with the color emphasis, didn't I?
Basically, I created a new blog especially for Legion stories. My thinking (right now) is that those of you who want to contribute stories can create a character, post it on your blog, let me know, and I'll issue an INVITE to you which will allow you to post directly to the blog. If you would prefer, we can have it set up where you submit your stories as comments, and I post them one at a time. However you want to proceed.
I thought it would be nice to keep the stories in one place. This would make it easier for readers to read all submissions.
Of course, there is the matter of advertising your own blog. So there is no reason you can't post the story on your own blog. Also, Invitees will have links to their blogs on the sidebar.
With multiple authors, the pressure to produce should be minimized. In fact, the more authors we have the less often any single author needs to post. Just having this lack of pressure is great for some authors, who will then become prolific in their creativity. Others need a more structured approach, and they can certain impose that on themselves. Perhaps they write once a month. If we have more than one who likes this approach perhaps they could coordinate their schedules so that every week there is a new story.
I like the idea of posting on Saturdays. It reminds me of being young and watching the Saturday morning cartoons. However, there is no reason we can't post Sunday through Friday. What I do NOT want to do is stifle creativity. Too many "rules" and people lose interest. So I want to keep the "Parameter Box" as large as possible in order to accomodate as many authors as possible.
The new blog is called Legion of On-Line Super Heroes. I gave it the Adult Content warning because some writers like to get carried away. Perhaps I am being premature and should remove the warning until such time that we get a story containing explicit dialogue or behavior. Let me know.
Also, right now only Registered Users are allowed to comment. Do we wish to change that?
I very much would like any/all input you may have on this. I want to include everyone who would like to participate. So, if you would care to give it a go, even just once every few months, do let me know. Not every hero need be active every week. Some only take a mission once or twice a year. They're specialists. Maybe that's the kind of hero you wish to write about. Others are into everything, and there is a new story almost weekly. Whatever suits your fancy.
You will need a Hero Character to begin. Right now, I know of two (2) sites which will help in that regard: : The Hero Factory (comic book appearance); Hero Machine (let's you choose your name). If you know of another, or if you are artistic and can draw your own, by all means do so. You just need to have an image to present to the readership.
So, give me feedback. What are your thoughts and feelings on how to procede from here? I know Lisa and Fairy have expressed interest. If you like the idea of posting to the blog yourself let me know and I'll issue invites.
Let me know.
NOTE: Got a bit carried away with the color emphasis, didn't I?
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
So, I've Got This Idea
Well, I get to brag myself up a bit. No, I mean it! I won something. Came in second place in a writing contest, and it means cookies for my belly. (If I can get to the mail before Son and Spouse do.)
Kiersten had a contest honoring her one year anniversary of blogging. The task was either to write why I visited her blog, or the first paragraph of her biography. I chose the latter and posted it on The Great Sea.
The contest reminded me of stories I used to write, beginning when I was in junior high and continuing to the 1990s. I also posted about that. See A New Hero Has Arisen.
What I'm thinking of doing is to create a weekly exercise - for myself and for any writers interested in participating. The idea is to create a SuperHero persona for ourselves (in my post, I suggested those with Avatar names like FairyHedgeHog and LaughingWolf already have these), and then write scenes in which our SuperHero is in action.
What I'm curious about is reader interest? How much is there? I've been writing these kinds of things off and on for more than thirty years and I get kick out of them. What do you think?
Oh, here is the site to get your SuperHero picture.
NOTE: Since everyone has assumed I am female, I decided to go with a female superhero. Here is mine:
Kiersten had a contest honoring her one year anniversary of blogging. The task was either to write why I visited her blog, or the first paragraph of her biography. I chose the latter and posted it on The Great Sea.
The contest reminded me of stories I used to write, beginning when I was in junior high and continuing to the 1990s. I also posted about that. See A New Hero Has Arisen.
What I'm thinking of doing is to create a weekly exercise - for myself and for any writers interested in participating. The idea is to create a SuperHero persona for ourselves (in my post, I suggested those with Avatar names like FairyHedgeHog and LaughingWolf already have these), and then write scenes in which our SuperHero is in action.
What I'm curious about is reader interest? How much is there? I've been writing these kinds of things off and on for more than thirty years and I get kick out of them. What do you think?
Oh, here is the site to get your SuperHero picture.
NOTE: Since everyone has assumed I am female, I decided to go with a female superhero. Here is mine:
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Remembering My Sister
So, I took a day off in order to let everyone catch up. I'll try to keep myself in check and avoid multiple post days in the future. Can't promise anything. Sometimes I just get carried away.
It's Saturday, which means I'm scheduled to writer either about Daddy or Stephen. But I found something I want to post instead. It's something I wrote shortly after Lynahr passed away. My siblings asked me to write something about her to be read at the service. I had thought to read it myself, but instead we had the pastor read it. That worked out best. He wasn't crying.
Lynahr
My first recollections of my sister begin when I was around five and she thirteen. Being younger I missed a lot of her life.
Helvie and I were the youngest, and often we were looked after by our older siblings, Mickey, Lynahr, and Judayl. Each did a fine job in their own right.
But there was one thing in particular about Lynahr’s approach which I have never forgotten: it was her instinctive knowledge of how to talk and deal with toddler age children. I saw this again when she lived with Spouse, Son, and me for several months when Son was two. Lynahr knows how to make toddlers feel happy again when things go wrong.
When I was a young toddler, I fell at least as often as anyone. Some say more. None say less. I don’t recall. Too many landings on my head, I guess.
But when I fell and was hurt and came looking for comfort and care, Lynahr was quick to help. And she had a special way of doing it. Lynahr had the “magic button.”
Actually, I wore the “magic button” on my little polo shirt. But I remember crying, and then watching in wondrous awe as Lynahr informed me that the “magic button” would make me feel better.
“And there it is!” she cried. “On your shirt!”
She reached out with her finger and rubbed the button on my shirt. And as I watched, she very carefully touched the elbow, or knee, or whatever had been bumped, and gently rubbed the magic in to make it feel better.
And amazing as it may sound, it worked! Nearly every time.
She told me the magic was with me always in that button. But I knew better. I knew it was the combination of Lynahr and that button which brought healing. No one else could do it. I remember trying it. I remember others trying it. But only when Lynahr was there could it work.
I have another recollection of Lynahr. This time the years have passed and I am now the thirteen-year-old. Lynahr is twenty-one and going through some tough times of her own. Tough times seemed to hunt Lynahr. But they can’t get her now. She’s safe.
But this was the summer when our house burned down. We lost virtually everything. The Red Cross helped us (added later: No, they didn’t. They gave us two boxes of chips and some water. I didn't realize this at the time and only found out at the funeral service when my family jumped all over my case for complimenting them for doing nothing. My family has never had good luck with "offiicial" organizations. It was the neighbors who gave us all the food and things.) And local residents made a collection and gave us some money to help buy clothing and things. And dad’s work made a collection of over a thousand dollars. I remember he was so proud of that.
Well, we went shopping. All of us. Even dad. We got new clothes. We got blankets and sheets for the bed. We got other things. We even got a few groceries to make supper. Then we went to the house which our builder rented to us while we rebuilt.
We were just settling in when a knock came at the door. I was coming up from the basement and saw it was Lynahr. She was carrying a box of groceries. She said she had more in the car. You see, Lynahr had the gift of helps. It was a treasure God gave her and she used it to bless the rest of us.
As Helvie went out and I took the box from Lynahr, Daddy reached into the box and pulled out some toilet paper and cried out, “Lynahr! Lynahr! Lynahr! You are a lifesaver. We completely forgot to buy toilet paper.”
I have no doubt we would have thought about that in time, but Lynahr took care of the need before it was too late.
These are things which I shall never forget about Lynahr. I think they speak volumes about who she is, and why when we think of her we think of a wonderful and caring woman.
But Lynahr wants us to remember her for her faith. I know this because she and I talked several times about what kind of “legacy” we would wish to leave. Lynahr’s was, and is, Christ. And I think that those of us who knew her even slightly would agree that her faith is very much something we think of when we think of Lynahr – before, and now, and later.
At the hospital, after she had left, we stood about her bed with a hospital chaplain. He asked if Lynahr had a favorite passage and we really weren’t sure what it would be. But there was a passage I wanted read for her, and I gave him this:
“For I am already on the point of being sacrificed; the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved his appearing.” 2 Timothy 4:6-8
I know it isn't always nice to push my faith on this blog - especially now that I created one expressly to do just that. (Faith in Forgiveness, if you're interested.) But it was part of what I wrote back in 2001, and it was what Lynahr wanted most to be rememberd for. Even people who had no regard for God remarked with appreciation how she held her faith to the last. I'll try to be better about this, too.
Lynahr died on September 11, 2001, from complications of a necrotized pancreas, two hours after the first tower fell in New York City. I comforted myself by saying all of those people needed a "Magic Button", and only Lynahr could make it work. She suffered for nine months before going home at last.
It's Saturday, which means I'm scheduled to writer either about Daddy or Stephen. But I found something I want to post instead. It's something I wrote shortly after Lynahr passed away. My siblings asked me to write something about her to be read at the service. I had thought to read it myself, but instead we had the pastor read it. That worked out best. He wasn't crying.
Lynahr
My first recollections of my sister begin when I was around five and she thirteen. Being younger I missed a lot of her life.
Helvie and I were the youngest, and often we were looked after by our older siblings, Mickey, Lynahr, and Judayl. Each did a fine job in their own right.
But there was one thing in particular about Lynahr’s approach which I have never forgotten: it was her instinctive knowledge of how to talk and deal with toddler age children. I saw this again when she lived with Spouse, Son, and me for several months when Son was two. Lynahr knows how to make toddlers feel happy again when things go wrong.
When I was a young toddler, I fell at least as often as anyone. Some say more. None say less. I don’t recall. Too many landings on my head, I guess.
But when I fell and was hurt and came looking for comfort and care, Lynahr was quick to help. And she had a special way of doing it. Lynahr had the “magic button.”
Actually, I wore the “magic button” on my little polo shirt. But I remember crying, and then watching in wondrous awe as Lynahr informed me that the “magic button” would make me feel better.
“And there it is!” she cried. “On your shirt!”
She reached out with her finger and rubbed the button on my shirt. And as I watched, she very carefully touched the elbow, or knee, or whatever had been bumped, and gently rubbed the magic in to make it feel better.
And amazing as it may sound, it worked! Nearly every time.
She told me the magic was with me always in that button. But I knew better. I knew it was the combination of Lynahr and that button which brought healing. No one else could do it. I remember trying it. I remember others trying it. But only when Lynahr was there could it work.
I have another recollection of Lynahr. This time the years have passed and I am now the thirteen-year-old. Lynahr is twenty-one and going through some tough times of her own. Tough times seemed to hunt Lynahr. But they can’t get her now. She’s safe.
But this was the summer when our house burned down. We lost virtually everything. The Red Cross helped us (added later: No, they didn’t. They gave us two boxes of chips and some water. I didn't realize this at the time and only found out at the funeral service when my family jumped all over my case for complimenting them for doing nothing. My family has never had good luck with "offiicial" organizations. It was the neighbors who gave us all the food and things.) And local residents made a collection and gave us some money to help buy clothing and things. And dad’s work made a collection of over a thousand dollars. I remember he was so proud of that.
Well, we went shopping. All of us. Even dad. We got new clothes. We got blankets and sheets for the bed. We got other things. We even got a few groceries to make supper. Then we went to the house which our builder rented to us while we rebuilt.
We were just settling in when a knock came at the door. I was coming up from the basement and saw it was Lynahr. She was carrying a box of groceries. She said she had more in the car. You see, Lynahr had the gift of helps. It was a treasure God gave her and she used it to bless the rest of us.
As Helvie went out and I took the box from Lynahr, Daddy reached into the box and pulled out some toilet paper and cried out, “Lynahr! Lynahr! Lynahr! You are a lifesaver. We completely forgot to buy toilet paper.”
I have no doubt we would have thought about that in time, but Lynahr took care of the need before it was too late.
These are things which I shall never forget about Lynahr. I think they speak volumes about who she is, and why when we think of her we think of a wonderful and caring woman.
But Lynahr wants us to remember her for her faith. I know this because she and I talked several times about what kind of “legacy” we would wish to leave. Lynahr’s was, and is, Christ. And I think that those of us who knew her even slightly would agree that her faith is very much something we think of when we think of Lynahr – before, and now, and later.
At the hospital, after she had left, we stood about her bed with a hospital chaplain. He asked if Lynahr had a favorite passage and we really weren’t sure what it would be. But there was a passage I wanted read for her, and I gave him this:
“For I am already on the point of being sacrificed; the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved his appearing.” 2 Timothy 4:6-8
I know it isn't always nice to push my faith on this blog - especially now that I created one expressly to do just that. (Faith in Forgiveness, if you're interested.) But it was part of what I wrote back in 2001, and it was what Lynahr wanted most to be rememberd for. Even people who had no regard for God remarked with appreciation how she held her faith to the last. I'll try to be better about this, too.
Lynahr died on September 11, 2001, from complications of a necrotized pancreas, two hours after the first tower fell in New York City. I comforted myself by saying all of those people needed a "Magic Button", and only Lynahr could make it work. She suffered for nine months before going home at last.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Food From the "Olden Days"
I was going to post about a birthday invitation I made up for Son back in '99. He was turning three. I had several pictures of him (at two) and I used them to kind of tell the story of the invitation. It's quite darling (to me). I opted not to. Paranoia 1 Cute 0.
So instead I will post about a restaurant which no longer exists. Talk about shifting gears, huh?
So instead I will post about a restaurant which no longer exists. Talk about shifting gears, huh?
The place was called The Ediner, and it was a cafe and malt shop of the 1950s variety. The restaurant itself looked like the inside of a trolley car. A co-worker and I found it while searching for good places to eat near work and we frequented it for a couple of years. Then, we saw the announcment the restaurant was closing. People just didn't want to sit down and be waited on anymore. They wanted to get in, get out, and eat quickly. What a waste. That's what ruined pizza, too. There are hardly any cafes around anymore. Not real ones. It's all fast food and national or regional chains.
I remember feeling very bad when I saw the restaurant was closing. This was in the 1990s, when so much that was important to me was going away. I asked the waitress if I could keep a menu. She shrugged and said, "Why not? We won't need it anymore." So I took one.
Found it in The Archives yesterday.
It's a nice menu, in a plastic binder to keep the paper clean and free from tears. Looking at the prices I am left to wonder what the charges would be today. My favorite menu item was the Hot Beef Sandwich for $5.95. Tender slices of beef piled high served Ediner style with homemade mashed potatoes and scratch gravey. Not sure what "homemade mashed potatoes" meant. I very much doubt they were made "at home". Of course, I should have ordered Salad. Only I so love a good hot roast beef sandwich, and The Ediner had one of the best. I often had a Strawberry Malt to go with my meal. And an Old Fashioned Root Beer. This was IBC brand, which is all right. Beverages was where The Ediner let me down. They served Coke products. I much prefer Pepsi. (Although I will say I prefer Powerade to Gatorade.)
I used The Ediner Menu as a template for creating one for the restaurant Spouse and I considered opening. But with the departure from sit down restaurants to fast food we decided it wasn't worth it. My brother kept telling us we could make a lot of money in fast food. He didn't understand. Few people do, it seems. It's not about the money. It's never about the money. I want to enjoy what I'm doing. Fast food s*cks.
Still think about owning a restaurant - but in the "olden days", when a restaurant really was a restaurant, as opposed to a place where they cooked food. Cripes! You can get that at the deli department at most grocery stores. We sometimes buy rotisserie chicken in a box, kept hot under heat lamps. I miss the "olden days". I guess that makes me old.
Pity.
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