meanwhile, up on gh&i

i admit it.  i have goofed off for the past two days, but can explain it - i haven't been sleeping a lot, so of course, i'm MUCH too tired to put any effort into my job.  instead, i hung out at the nurses station and the smoking areas.  here's a glimpse of prison life for you.

In the nursing station:

Officer:  Hey, this guy on H-5 is suitcasing (means carrying something in his...ick..rectum)  a tattoo gun.  can y'all give him a fleet enema to help get it out?

Me (totally incredulous):  He's suitcasing a what..???

Nurse:  WHAT, ARE YOU NUTS?!  a fleet enema would only push it up farther!

In the smoking area:

Unit Manager to sullen inmate:  What the he*l are you looking at me like that for, man?  You're the one that messed up and got caught and you're trying to blame ME for it.  You can't do wrong and get away with it, especially in prison.  Now you have a violation against you, and believe me, brother, it's your own fault.

Different Inmate, different day:  My mom tried to be there for me.  She supported me, but she couldn't control me.  When I started doing wrong, that was it - I had to go. She made sure I had food if I was hungry and medicine if I was sick, but she wasn't puttin up with my mess.  When I get out of here, I'm not gonna do it again.

My Janitor, Ervin:  <unprintable material - use your imagination> *&%#  gonna get the *@#) out of this (#$*@! place, if they don't green me up (promote to minimum custody), i'm buckin and this place can go to &$#!

I don't think Ervin's anger management classes are working yet.

On My Phone:

Inmates sister:  my brother says he isn't getting the proper medical care.

Me:  i'm sorry, ma'am, we can't give out medical information over the telephone.

Sister:  I don't want medical information, i want to know why my brother isn't getting proper medical care.  He says he has a tumor and y'all won't get him an mri

(which he had the week prior, and has no dx of a tumor whatsoever)

Me, after brief pause:  I'll let you talk to the charge nurse, ma'am..

At my desk, two flowers cut from the "park" area.  Left by an inmate.  Geeze!

Me:  I swear, I ain't done nothin to encourage NObody to bring me no flowers!

Unit Manager:  I believe you, Ms. B.  Don't worry about it.

In Operations:

Captain:  Oh lord, what did you bring us to do this time?

Me:  appointments for everybody!

Sgt (playing) :  Is that what you do all day?  Sit upstairs and make more work for us?

In Dr. H's Office:

Me:  I never thanked you for that...the sanctuary you offer...so, thank you, Dr. H

Dr. H:  Anytime, Ms Broadaway

Me: Ditto, Dr. H.

:-)

 

 

 

The Tale of the Magnolia and the Mimosa

Let me tell you a tale
of a wish to be free;
the tale of a magnolia
and a wild weed tree...

Once upon a magic time
a mimosa seed tumbled along the wind
and came to rest by a magnolia twig
and he cried, "this is it! my tumbling's end!"
he rooted beside the gangling magnolia;
sprouted beside his new found friend.
Side by side, stronger, they grew,
and friendship flourished
in the sandy soil, too.

They murmured their dreams on the southern breeze,
drank dew drops and morning light
when day had awakened from darkness of night.
"I want to be supple", Mimosa said,
"to lean in the tempest's driving power,
to feel my boughs come near to break,
but for my bending strength to save the hour.
I'll rally after the punishing winds,
and victorious, face the sun again!"

Magnolia rustled a whispered reply
to Mimosa's dreams of enduring strength.
"I have no great aspirations", she sighed.
My wants and dreams are precious few;
I know if my limbs should ever break
'twould be the the weight of love for you."

Time flew past and their roots intertwined,
Magnolia was wreathed with fragrant cream
while Mimosa's flowers were silken, refined.
Yet in the budding, was something amiss;
Delicate fronds showed signs of wilt
and shrank from Magnolia's feathery kiss.
"Our interlocked roots are strangling me,"
he grieved aloud his static fate,
"but only their wrenching would make me free.."
She stilled the sway of whispering branches
and murmured a quiet "I see."

The skies grew dark one summer's eve,
Thunder exploded from heavens, high
gusts grew harsh with wrathful might
Lightning split an angry sky
Nocturnal creatures shivered and quivered
and hid from the tempest’s assault on the night.

Mimosa reveled in the fray,
swayed and bent low in the tempest gales
but Magnolia stiffened to meet the fight,
went rigid in the storm wind's wails


and broke...
with a splintering, thunderous crash.

Lightning receded to occasional flash,
thunder ebbed to a distant sky
and the only sound filling the rain washed air
was Mimosa’s mournful, sighing “Whyyyy?”
..in a final whisper Magnolia replied
“My wants and dreams I gave no voice,
for they were never grand, but precious few.
I don’t regret I made this choice
to fall with the weight of loving you.
Just know, sometimes it isn’t in bending
withlove we give, or a stand we take,
but often our might lies in making the choice.
Sometimes, it takes more strength to break.”

potpourri

My free aol trial is nearing its end, and I haven't decided whether or not I'll go back to netzero yet, but have been preparing, just in case.

My firewall subscription expired, so I downloaded Zone Alarm.  What the heck - it's free, and my cash is running short.  As usual.  Also downloaded Mozilla because it's a neat browser.  The only problem with Mozilla is, some sites are IE compatible only.

But, back to Zone Alarm.  The protection is great, but it is the BIGGEST tattletale I've met since Martha Shaw Clark in the third grade.  After installing, I started up the internet.  It said - AOL is trying to connect to the internet!  So of course, I had to set permissions for it.  I use my old aol name, Ihavetea, for chatting, because frankly, I'm ashamed to tell my friends that I have yet another screen name.  So I started up AIM.  It said...AIM is trying to access the internet.  And then it said, AIM is trying to act as a server!  Suddenly, another popup, and it said quite proudly - Zone Alarm has blocked incoming information request from contacting Port 80!  I swear, if it had been human, it's little chest would have been poked out.

I could turn off the alerts, sure...but where's the fun in that?

*

Today

I put in a request for vacation today - August first is out there, dangling like a carrot at the finish line, and all I have to do is make it through July.  There won't be a trip to the beach, but I'll lounge at the pool.  My bag is already packed with all the things a girl needs - books, sunblock, a composition book and a hundred ink pens JUST in case the urge to write poetry should stir from wherever it has been hiding.

I also visited with Dr. Hubble today.  He is my port in a storm at work, the head of the mental health department.  How fitting...He's a sweet old fella, and we hit it off right away when we met, and had it not been for him, I wouldn't have lasted six months in Real Prison.  Anyway...this time I remembered to thank him for sanctuary.  In his usual courtly way, he said, You came to the right place, Ms. B.  You're welcome anytime.

What a great guy. 

He would be a wonderful poem, don't you think?

 

 

a girl's gotta rant

It has been hotter than 40 hells this week.  Have you ever noticed that when people discuss the weather in any given season, someone ultimately says...well, it's ________(fill in your season).  I reckon it's time. 

If you've been following the news, you'll know that California has had three earthquakes this week.  Being from Carolina, I'm not sure if any of those were aftershocks, or whatever they call them, but it looks like it's going to be another weird weather year for the world. 

Wait a minute, this was supposed to be a rant blog.  Let me wake up my drowsy brain and get down to business.

Yesterday, the sick call nurse (who comes to the unit three times a week) popped her squeaky voiced self over to the institution.  The woman might do eleven sick calls - that's a high number. Trust me, her workload isn't much on Central Unit, because we have an RN and an LPN on duty at all times.  But this particular sick call nurse comes over from the hospital and proceeds to try to change the way things are done.

I was working South Unit when the phone rang.

Ms. Broadaway, inmate so and so has an optometry appointment for July 22.  Where is that appointment to take place?

Keep in mind, I schedule all the appointments for the entire institution, population 545, and the appointment book for Central was over on Central...and I have about 50 scheduled for optometry.  Further, there are only two institutions in our region that have an optometrist.  WHY would she need to know where?  And how was I supposed to remember who inmate so and so is?

A few minutes later, the phone rang.  Ms. Broadaway, this inmate transferred in with labwork pending for a PSA, and I don't know if it was done. 

A few minutes later, she called again.  Do you order the toenail solution?  We don't have any of that here.  Could you order some?

Well, no I couldn't.  It's not a floor stock supply - it requires nursing protocol, and I'm not a nurse.

This may not sound like much to you, but when you work two nursing stations as ward clerk and also as admin secretary to the supervisor, and you've got six inches of filing that came in the morning bus mail and a zillion medical encounters to enter and charts to audit or ship to other units, meetings to attend, bills to pay, mail to prepare for outgoing, numbers to dial because someone else's fingers must surely be broken, janitors to supervise in office cleaning because we don't have enough custody staff to handle that, calls to field, procedures to schedule and forms to fill out for both sides, and supplies to order - both office and floor stock meds and medical supplies...?  The fuse gets kind of short.

NO, I cannot order the toenail solution, and no I don't know if this guy had a PSA, and PLEASE, Nurse Sick Call, DO NOT tell the inmate when and where his appointment is so that he can plot his escape - and if you need a spoon, look in the filing cabinet under 'S', and I will not open the charts for the doctor to the orders that have to be signed after I've pulled all 150 of them out of the filing cabinet and hauled them to his office - they're tagged, and if he can't flip them open, then I pity him.  And further, for the med techs - if you got yourself kicked out of the state network by entering the wrong password repeatedly, YOU call the site security administrator and get yourself put back in, and please, nurse on duty - it's not my job to keep up with the ailment of every inmate that passes through receiving - if you have a question, OPEN THE CHART and READ IT. 

I have done the inventory and placed all the orders for supplies.  I have gotten in my private vehicle, driven to where they're stored, loaded them myself and hauled them up the stairs to you.  I have done all the filing, entered your encounters, made all the requests for outside medical treatment and made the appointments when they're approved. I have marked off all the labwork when it comes in over the machine.  I have made sure the janitors do their job and if they haven't, then when I can cram in a little extra, I do the dusting, myself.  I have run across the institution 50 times today, climbed four flights of stairs numerous times to take care of this or that, and that doesn't include trips to operations to notify them of whatever they need to be notified about - on paper.  I have gathered all the information for the monthly report, filled it out and handed it to the supervisor.  I've pulled all the charts, prepared them and the book for sick call, have given the PA clinical information that you should have given her and done all the emails that needed sending.  have answered all your questions about inmate so and so and have shredded a million pieces of paper.  I have retrieved the mail and dessiminated it, I have purged the cabinets of medical jackets of inmates who are no longer in the system, audited them and mailed them to health services, combined the records of those who are in for the twelfth time and have multiple ones, and I am TIRED.

Y'all are killing me.

JusJournaling

About a month and a half ago, a golden retriever pup, no more than six months old, I'd say, took up residence in the prison parking lot.  He was a sad little fella.  It wasn't long before he became the institution pet.  When it became obvious the dog wasn't going anywhere, the officers brought food for him, talked to him - plotted to find him a home.

The ladies in programs named him Henry.  I guess it fit ok, but frankly, he just didn't say Henry to me.  Everybody wanted him to have a home, but nobody was willing to take him to theirs.  They already had dogs, you see.

On Friday, Lynn the Psychologist and I were having our smoke break at the lobby entrance. 

"I thought Officer Love was gonna take Henry home with him."

He had promised he would, but his wife wouldn't let him.

"He's gonna get run over out here.  Take him home with you, just for the weekend."

I promised I would, but that evening when I left, Henry was nowhere in sight.  Saturday morning, I showed up at tower 1, looking for the dog.  Matthews said..."Yesterday evening, he was sleeping under one of the nurse's vehicles.."

I knew where he was going with this and said - No, don't tell me!

But he did.  The nurse had backed over Henry.  Twice.  Twice!  I'm still trying to figure out HOW she managed that.

But she didn't kill him - he went running off toward the ballfield, so I went there to look for him.  I called him.  I combed the underbrush.  Nothing.

And then Sunday, while driving past, my friend spotted him at Tower Two.  We whipped in, lured him into the car and took him to my house.  And we promptly changed his name to Opus, naming him after the State Network.

He loved it at my house, but my father had asked me to bring him to his house, so I did....Opus didn't like that, but he stayed, and I visit him in the evenings.

My father is a cancer patient.  I'm hoping Opus will be good for him, and vice versa.  They've both been through a lot.

In Case You're Wondering...

I'm collecting a few of my short stories or whatever they are from the net, and just posting them here...

i had forgotten they existed until Keith reminded me.  He's always making me remember things I'd forgotten.  Now that's a friend :-)

Adagio

Adagio

I watch her from across the room. She is reading by the glow of soft lamp light, music a bare whisper in the air. The music would distract me, but she says it complements the poetry she must make tangible by holding the book.

"It fills me," she says, and doesn't expect me to understand what she finds in her private world. It's enough that she feels it.

She doesn't know I'm watching. She is finding romance in words written by strangers. If I could write a poem, I would do it for her, but I can't. I tried once, and was so appalled by my own ineptness I wadded it and tossed it away, ashamed for her to read something so inadequate.

I wonder if she knows how much I love her. God knows I'm not the romantic she is, and can't remember the last time I told her I love her, but I do. This soft creature has brought a sweetness to my life I never would have known. She gives without knowing.

Pangs of contrition strike somewhere below my heart. Do I give in return? Is it enough? I wonder what she sees in me besides a man who can't verbalize what she inspires within him. Surely, she feels it in my touch, sees it in telling glances.

I hope she does.

Right now, she seems so far away. The need to close useless distance between us overwhelms me, and I cross the room to kneel by her chair.

"Dance with me."

"To classical music?" is her surprised response. She smiles as she releases the book and we rise together, warm bodies close and heedless of any tempo but our own.

I will say the words she'll want to hear before we drift into sleep. For now, speech is swallowed by the depth of my own feeling. It grows in adagio, a slow spiral of all the words of all the poets she has ever read, a rising crescendo of all the music ever felt.

It fills me.

Vegetable Seeds and Hope

I keep the jar on the mantel in my living room, and it remains there from fall to a week before spring. It isn't particularly decorative; it's quite old, in fact, and the same lid used to seal it each year is showing signs of rust. Inside of it are seeds, carefully preserved from the previous spring's planting. It serves as a reminder of a man whose face was leathered from hard work and the sun, and the caring and lessons he taught a confused young girl.

It was early March; I was fourteen. I remember it like it was yesterday, in this, my 42nd year. Mama's Uncle R. W. needed help planting his vegetable garden,and she had volunteered my services, partly because she needed the time alone, and partly to get rid of a sullen teen. At least, that's how I saw it.

She didn’t know what to do with me. She and Daddy had separated during the winter, and my world had shattered. There was no longer a safe haven; all I had ever known was changed forever. I hadn’t known how to deal with it, had retreated into myself – and when I did come out to face my parents, I hid the fear and hurt behind hostility and anger. Why had they done this? Why couldn't they have tried harder -- was it something I had done? The thought was so twistingly painful, I shied away from asking, and neither offered an explanation. It was better that I remained locked inside of me, away from futile confrontation. I welcomed the chance to help plant the garden. It would give me time inside my own thoughts. I went to Uncle R.W.’s willingly.

The skies were overcast that day. The best time to plant, Uncle R.W. said, was right before the rains came. They are a rare occurrence in the warm seasons. The sandy soil of the area in which we lived would drink the moisture greedily, and we worked quickly, racing the coming of the rain. Uncle R.W. walked in front of me, hitting the rows with his hoe, and in each hole he created, I dropped three seeds -- one for the birds, one to sprout, and one in case the birds came back for seconds. Conversation was sparse, and for the most part, we worked in silence while our feet sank in the freshly turned soil. We wore clay stains, and smelled of earth. We had been working for the best part of an hour on rows as long as a country mile. Uncle paused in the middle of the second row, leaned on the hoe handle and turned to me.

"Girlie," he said (he always called me girlie), "You’re mighty quiet. You want to tell me what's on yourmind?"

I shrugged . "Wouldn't do any good," I mumbled.

"Now how do you know that? It's better to let it out than carry it around and let it weight you down."

"No, it's just hopeless." I was determined to wallow in my misery. It was where I belonged.

"Aww girlie..." he reached out a rough hand and tousled my hair. "Nothing is hopeless. Sometimes we just have to take another road to get to where we're goin', that's all. And sometimes that hurts other people..."

I knew where this was heading. Don't start, don't say it.

But he was the first person to acknowledge that I was hurting, and tears burned behind my eyes. I looked away and blinked hard to keep him from seeing.

"No sir," I told him, "there ain't no hope."

"Sure there is. It just comes in different kinds of packages. Look there, you're holding one in your hand, now."

I looked dubiously at the brown paper sack in my hand, then back at Uncle.

"It's bean seeds," I pointed out.


He paused, searching for the right words.


"Oh sure, that's what you see now, but these are more than just seeds," he began. "They will grow into vines that bear the vegetables. You know, half the plants won't make it...the leaves will be eaten by deer and other animals. It's why I plant so many. If you take something from the earth, then you give back part of that to nature. Then we harvest our crops, preserve them, save some for next year's planting, and they serve to nourish us, too. "


I almost interrupted to tell him I didn't even like beans, but the thoughtful look on his face silenced me.


"Then after the harvest," he continued, "the vines will be turned under to feed the earth. Always give back twice what you've been given, Girlie." He reached for my clenched palm. "What you hold in your hand is tomorrow. Hope! Don't lose sight of that."

His eyes were kind as they met and held mine. "It's a little different with people. We hope that what we have begun will work out, but that doesn't mean it will. Marriages don't always have a tomorrow, but our children will always be a part of us. They are our continuity." Then he repeated, "Sometimes people have to take different roads to get to where they're supposed to be. It doesn't mean they don't both love you. They do. We all do, and we'll always be here for you."

That's when I broke. Someone understood. Someone knew the words I needed to hear. All those pent up tears poured, and I leaned against his chest, his arm around my shoulders. We stood there in the furrow for I don't know how long, an old man and a young, broken hearted girl, until the first promise of rain tapped our faces. I took a deep breath and wiped a hand over mine.

"Uh-oh, girlie! We'd best hurry!"

He smiled at me, and I offered him a genuine, watery one in return. His speech hadn't solved all my problems, but it was the beginning of something that would sprout and flourish. He picked up the hoe, began hitting the furrow. I followed behind, dropping three beans into each hole, and we raced the rain, planting vegetable seeds and hope.

Name That Tune

What music was playing the first time you were kissed? The day you were with someone special, when you received news, good or bad?

You might not remember what clothes you were wearing, or whether it was raining, but if a song was playing on the radio or tape player (CD player, for the younger generation), you will always remember the event by the music. You will remember people the same way.

When I eloped with my first no-good-sorry-as-they-come husband, it was Werewolves of London. As long as I live, I'll never hear that song again without seeing his newly-married, shining face as he drove us toward Myrtle Beach. Oddly enough, when he left me five months later, Nantucket was singing Heartbreaker. If Elton John had waited a little longer with The Bitch is Back, that would have been perfect for heralding his contrite return, twelve weeks later but..no.

Fats Domino and Blueberry Hill bring back memories of my Dad's Saturday nights with Jack and the boys around the kitchen table. That was his unwind time after a 72-hour work week. If it wasn't Fats, it was Marty Robbins or Boots Randolph. I will always see him, leaning back in his chair, one leg propped up on the table because his knee hurt, and I'll always hear him singing along in that beautiful baritone voice.

Amazing Grace and Just As I Am make me somber, for they are both the choice funeral song, and hymn sung in Baptist churches during what I call the drive for souls. If you've never been to a Southern Baptist revival, after the preacher scares the hell out of you (literally), he calls for those who want to be washed in the blood to come forward. Amidst shouts of "Amen!" and people leaving their seats in droves lest they burn for eternity, the choir sings Amazing Grace, sotto voce, to add to the effect.

The list goes on, as do the memories, and there are songs I'll never listen to again because some memories are not good ones, and are either too raw or too fresh to replay them without striking too deep a chord.

Name your tune.What music was playing the first time you were kissed? The day you were with someone special, when you received news, good or bad?

You might not remember what clothes you were wearing, or whether it was raining, but if a song was playing on the radio or tape player (CD player, for the younger generation), you will always remember the event by the music. You will remember people the same way.

When I eloped with my first no-good-sorry-as-they-come husband, it was Werewolves of London. As long as I live, I'll never hear that song again without seeing his newly-married, shining face as he drove us toward Myrtle Beach. Oddly enough, when he left me five months later, Nantucket was singing Heartbreaker. If Elton John had waited a little longer with The Bitch is Back, that would have been perfect for heralding his contrite return, twelve weeks later but..no.

Fats Domino and Blueberry Hill bring back memories of my Dad's Saturday nights with Jack and the boys around the kitchen table. That was his unwind time after a 72-hour work week. If it wasn't Fats, it was Marty Robbins or Boots Randolph. I will always see him, leaning back in his chair, one leg propped up on the table because his knee hurt, and I'll always hear him singing along in that beautiful baritone voice.

Amazing Grace and Just As I Am make me somber, for they are both the choice funeral song, and hymn sung in Baptist churches during what I call the drive for souls. If you've never been to a Southern Baptist revival, after the preacher scares the hell out of you (literally), he calls for those who want to be washed in the blood to come forward. Amidst shouts of "Amen!" and people leaving their seats in droves lest they burn for eternity, the choir sings Amazing Grace, sotto voce, to add to the effect.

The list goes on, as do the memories, and there are songs I'll never listen to again because some memories are not good ones, and are either too raw or too fresh to replay them without striking too deep a chord.

Name your tune.

Rite of Passage

Thirty years ago, a daughter stood by her mother's hospital bed and listened intently to the ramblings of a woman whose heart was giving out. In a seeming lucid moment, the mother looked into her daughter's eyes and told her - "You don't have this much oil in your lamp", and she pinched her fingers together, less than an inch, to show her daughter how low her fuel was. The daughter almost smiled at her mother's words, attributed them to her delirium, but they remained with her all these years past, as they have with me, since the telling.

Now it is my turn to sit by my mother's bed in this damnable rite of passage I do not want.

The only sounds are the intermittent beep of the IV pole, the periodic hissing of the blood pressure cuff, and occasionally the muted padding sound of the nurses' shoes as they walk past the door of the room.

She is pale, even against white sheets, and hair streaked silver falls against her brow. She is finally sleeping, now that I have shooed away the "munchkins" whose chattering kept her awake. She could see them, hear them, even though I could not. At last she is resting; hopefully, a healing sleep will make her mind clearer tomorrow, and she will know me.

I won't sleep tonight. I will watch her, hold her hand, listen to her breathe. I will stand guard against The Thief, prepare to fight him with all my might if he should come. And I will think. I'm still trying to trace down the moment when she became so frail and how I missed it happening. One day, she was my vibrant mother; the next, she was a silver haired little old lady whose health was failing. It is a strange thing that we miss the most obvious changes because they come so gradually. And when we do notice, we are surprised by their suddenness. It's an abrupt awakening that shocks us into today.

For the fourth time in my life, I wish I were the one to be taken, because I know the pain that will follow in the wake of her passing, and I'm not sure I'm strong enough to bear it. I'm so scared, but she needs me, and I must be strong for her now.

I brush the  hair from her forehead and smooth it back. She smiles in her sleep, as though welcoming the comfort of a simple human touch; the touch of a mother soothing a child. I smile back, even though she can't see. Is it a sign that, on some level, she is aware?

Mommy, Mother, mentor, friend are the evolving faces you wore throughout my life, andnow I add tired child to the faces of you. You are the one constant in my life. Don't go; it's too soon, too soon. Can you feel me with you? Can you hear my thoughts? Can you feel me willing you to come back for a while longer? Oh, just a little while longer.

Your lamp is filling even as I watch you, and it will brim to spilling and mix with the tears and oil in my own. I damn this bitter fulfillment.

Damn this final rite of passage I do not want.

experimenting with pictures

Spike!  and my You.  :-)

For Gem. I hope you smile :-)

Last night, the walls of my house were bursting at the seams. I had company – Steve, Brandon, Aaron (who has appointed himself head kid), Sylvia, and Brandi, in addition to Dale, me, Spike and You. That may not seem like many, but my house is small.

It was hot and noisy, much like a traffic jam in summer. Poor Spike and You didn’t like it. They’ve grown accustomed to their peace and quiet. You abandoned us when the front door opened for the umpteenth time, but Spike wasn’t quick enough.

At one point, I escaped to the kitchen for coffee. I felt something at my leg, and looked down to find Spike had glided in behind me. How he made his escape, I’ll never know; when I left the living room, he was draped with children – the object of much attention and affection. But there he was, waiting for his coffee and looking up at me with soulful eyes that said…They ARE leaving soon, aren’t they?

I patted his head. “One lump or two, fella?”

Apparently, that wasn’t a satisfactory response. He slumped into a miserable blonde heap at my feet and buried his nose between his paws.

He’s a one woman dog, has been since he was a puppy. When Dale would roll him around on the floor like he was a spinning top, he’d come hide behind me while I scolded the son. After that, Spike’s expression would be that of – Haha! Now do it again, big boy! But Mama wasn’t saving him tonight. At least, not at that point.

I went back into the living room where the kids were clamoring for more puppy love.

“Where’s Spike?”
“Can we put a leash on him?”
“Let’s dress him up in a shirt and sunshades!”
“He’s so big, i bet i could ride him like a horse!”

Ah, there was the opening I needed to save poor Spike.

“Speaking of horses…did you guys happen to notice Spike has terribly bad breath?

One of the kids fanned his hand in front of his nose.

“Yeah, he sure does!”

“Do y’all want to know why Spike’s tongue is so black?”

All the little heads nodded yes, and they sat rapt, waiting for the story.

“Well, a few weeks ago, Spike was playing outside. When he decided it was time to come back in, he scratched at the door instead of whining like he usually does. I opened the door, and noticed something was wrong with his mouth. He looked like Grandpa does when he has a plug of tobacco in his jaw.”

“Did a snake bite him, Aunt Mara?”

“That’s exactly what I thought had happened! I’ve seen dogs with snake bites before, and that’s what it looked like, but no…he had something in his mouth. I thought it was a bird or God forbid, a kitten.”

“ewwwwwwwwwww! Spike eats kittens?”

“Anyway, I tried to get him to open his mouth. ‘Whatcha got there fella? C’mon, show me.’ But he gave me that Not on your life look, and wouldn’t let me pry his jaws open. I wrestled with him for a while, got tired and gave up.”

“Didn’t you ever find out what it was?”

“Not at first. He walked away from me and gave me another look that said, don’t follow me. He laid down in the pinestraw and just sat there, watching me to make sure I wasn’t coming. Well, all that wrestling must have tired him out, too, because he opened his mouth, and….”

“What? What was it?”

:..out dropped the biggest pile of horse poop I’ve ever seen!”

The horrified split second of silence was priceless and then came,

“EEEEEWWWWWWW!!!”

“HE LICKED MY FACE!”

“Omigod, Spike eats do-do!”

“Yep! and that, children, is why Spike’s tongue is so black.”

About that time, Spike came gliding back from the kitchen and slumped at my feet again. All three kids scrambled into one corner of the sofa, squealing.

“Oh come on – he only eats thoroughbred horsie-do, and you know their poop don’t stink. Come play with him!”

“No way!”

“Ah well, it’s his snack time anyway. I should let him go visit the pasture now.”

I opened the front door and Spike oozed his graceful self out, and as he passed by me, he paused, gave me a stoic, unreadable look. Maybe he meant – It’s about time! But he paused again when he reached the porch, looked back over his shoulder, and I swear, he winked at me.

i almost feel guilty

about being this happy.  i'm getting ready for a blurt, here...

a month ago (i think, lost track of time), i was the most miserable human being on the face of this earth.  i was terribly hurt over the end of a relationship that should have ended years ago, anyway.  but no...i had to hang on to it.  the funny thing is, i don't know why anymore...

he dumped me.  plain and simple, he dumped me, then acted like seven years meant nothing.

oh, the world was black and rain drizzled from every opening in the sky and it was a dark and dreary life and if you hear violins playing in the background, it's my special effects to enhance my weak visuals here. heheh.

but babies, i am living proof that God watches out for fools and little children.  no sooner than my dreams crashed did i notice other things coming into focus.  old friends started showing up out of the blue.  newer friends...well.  i just feel so blessed.

i know our happiness is not determined by other people, but they certainly do brighten up the day, don't they?  life is great :-)

Meanwhile, up on GH&I

I work as a medical record assistant/secretary/handmaid on GH&I,  cell blocks in a medium custody prison facility.  I've been there since January 04; some days I want to go over fence, and other days, it's the most interesting job I have ever had.  There's never a dull moment.  Ever.

My favorite co-worker is Dr. H, the institution's mental health department head.  We hit it off when we first met - I believe it was that sparkle in his eyes that belies his bland expression and calm demeanor.  His sense of humor is pure dust, it's so dry. Ah, would that he could be my boss...life would be Magnificent.

My boss, on the other hand, hated my guts for the first year I was there.  I swear that to you on a stack of bibles because I saw it in her eyes, and especially heard it in her voice.  She doesn't hide much.  She went out for surgery last december, and when she came back in february, I started putting in job applications for other positions.  Walmart would have been  ideal.  But something happened during her time off and when she came back...she SMILED at me.  I danged near fainted.  She has been smiling since.  It's a frightening relief.

My janitor's name is Ervin.  He's a lifer - a little volatile, but very likeable if you know how to talk to him.  He tells me every day, "Ms. B, your office floor is gonna shine like glass when I get through with it.  This is the best office on this floor, and it's gonna look the part, just you wait and see, and Ms. B, I think them officers have been taking chairs from your office because didn't you have a red one and now it's not here anymore?  Them officers ain't go no business bein that comfortable - I'm goin to the unit manager and they's gonna give you back your chairs or my name ain't Ervin."  But then, there was the day his parole was turned down and he passed me in the hall cussing up a blue streak, looked right through me, and for the first time, I was a bit afraid of Ervin.

I have decided to pick up where i left off on my old journal, and write my strange, wonderful days with all the strange, wonderful people I encounter. 

And no journal would be complete without an entry about Spike and Hey You.

I'm beginning to feel at home here.

 

 

one more thing...

my old friend terri - she's coming down this summer.  it will be the first time we've seen each other in 20 years.

man, i'm just beaming.

A Blast from the Past :-)

She was the best bad influence on me that I ever had.

We met when he father moved to North Carolina from Ohio, opened a business, bought a home and settled three miles from mine.  We were both sophomores in high school - neither of us had a license and so we signed up for driver's ed together.

She taught me what "pop" was - it's what we call co-colas, in the south.  She taught me what cracking on another person meant.  We got our licenses at the same time and skipped school together, got in a ton of trouble for doing that.  We decided we wanted to see what Hay Street was all about, so off we went, past Rockfish Park, on to town.  Now, Hay Street was where all the hookers and unsavory people hung out.  We courageously got out of her car, and were immediately approached by a scraggly man who asked for a light.  It was enough to scare us back home.

One evening, she said - Look mature.  We're going to a bar.  And we did.  But the reason we were there was soon apparent.  Her dad was sitting at a table with a woman who was not her mother.  She grabbed my arm, pulled me along and stood in front of him.  Whatcha doin?
He said he was just having a drink, introduced the woman, and Terri giggled that nervous giggle of hers, clenched my arm tight and pulled us both out of there at warp speed.  She cried the rest of the evening.

Her parents divorced.  She stayed with her dad to finish out the school year; he married the bar lady, and three years later, I married Terri's stepmom's brother.   Terri and I had kept in touch faithfully.  You don't just forget someone who forced you to take driver's ed and didn't laugh at your steering (cringed, maybe, but she never laughed).  We were bound together through all our misdeeds and adventures, and then, by family.

Well..her father passed away...I went to the funeral and was there for my friend.  We kept in touch for another ten years; i visited her in Ohio and she brought her husband down to meet me.

And then suddenly she wasn't there anymore.  I wrote to her over and over, never got a response.. I scoured the internet white pages, hoping to find her phone number again, and thought I had found her in Xenia, Ohio, called the number but it wasn't her. I tried to remember her mother's last name, but couldn't. 

I thought all was lost.

Until tonight.

Terricalled my brother, looking for me.  My address had changed, and though she tried to write to me, the letters kept going back to her.  My phone number had changed.  But the miraculous thing about this is...the same night she called my brother, I was once again scouring the white pages, and had even considered paying for information on all the Terri's in Ohio.

It must be true that when you feel someone strongly, that they're thinking of you, too.

It's a GREAT day in Carolina :-)

just musing

When is the first official day of summer?  I'm not sure, but I've thought it was June 21.  Our summers can start as early as late April, but the weather has been iffy for the last year.

It has been as hot and humid as a Carolina July.  We've had storms every evening this week.  And a few days ago, I visited the backyard and discovered the apple tree is loaded.  The english walnut tree, which has never had so much as an empty shell on it, is loaded.  The plum tree is beautifully dotted with little red fruits. 

The mimosa tree I planted two years ago has grown by five feet, and this year, it will flower.  And while riding down the drive, I had to stop because there, in the woodline, were yellow blooms.  I thought someone had tossed out an artificial bouquet, but it's a cactus I didn't know was there.

The world is full of wonder, each season carrying its own surprises and delights.  I had thought this coming summer would be nothing more than an oppressive heat bearing down on everything I'd ever wanted.  But you know...life is good. 

Not one complaint from this side of the monitor.  I'm gonna go plant flowers.

 

It's all coming back to me now

Ah, I've been listening to music again...it's amazing what deep chord a song touches, and how something happens to bring it to mind again.  Today, it was Celine Dion.  I hope against hope that I don't live this song months from now..

 

There were nights when the wind was so cold
That my body froze in bed
If I just listened to it
Right outside the window

There were days when the sun was so cruel
That all the tears turned to dust
And I just knew my eyes were
Drying up forever

I finished crying in the instant that you left
And I can't remember where or when or how
And I banished every memory you and I had ever made

But when you touch me like this
And you hold me like that
I just have to admit
That it's all coming back to me
When I touch you like this
And I hold you like that
It's so hard to believe but
It's all coming back to me
(It's all coming back, it's all coming back to me now)

There were moments of gold
And there were flashes of light
There were things I'd never do again
But then they'd always seemed right
There were nights of endless pleasure
It was more than any laws allow
Baby Baby

If I kiss you like this
And if you whisper like that
It was lost long ago
But it's all coming back to me
If you want me like this
And if you need me like that
It was dead long ago
But it's all coming back to me
It's so hard to resist
And it's all coming back to me
I can barely recall
But it's all coming back to me now
But it's all coming back

There were those empty threats and hollow lies
And whenever you tried to hurt me
I just hurt you even worse
And so much deeper

There were hours that just went on for days
When alone at last we'd count up all the chances
That were lost to us forever

But you were history with the slamming of the door
And I made myself so strong again somehow
And I never wasted any of my time on you since then

But if I touch you like this
And if you kiss me like that
It was so long ago
But it's all coming back to me
If you touch me like this
And if I kiss you like that
It was gone with the wind
But it's all coming back to me
(It's all coming back, it's all coming back to me now)

There were moments of gold
And there were flashes of light
There were things we'd never do again
But then they'd always seemed right
There were nights of endless pleasure
It was more than all your laws allow
Baby, Baby, Baby

When you touch me like this
And when you hold me like that
It was gone with the wind
But it's all coming back to me
When you see me like this
And when I see you like that
Then we see what we want to see
All coming back to me
The flesh and the fantasies
All coming back to me
I can barely recall
But it's all coming back to me now

If you forgive me all this
If I forgive you all that
We forgive and forget
And it's all coming back to me
When you see me like this
And when I see you like that
We see just what we want to see
Al coming back to me
The flesh and the fantasies
All coming back to me
I can barely recall but it's all coming back to me now

(It's all coming back to me now)
And when you kiss me like this
(It's all coming back to me now)
And when I touch you like that
(It's all coming back to me now)
If you do it like this
(It's all coming back to me now)
And if we...

shoes and other fascinating things

One of my friends told me I was forever sixteen.  Wasn't sure what she meant by that...and i wasn't sure whether to be offended or flattered, but decided to turn it into a compliment, anyway.

There are people to whom everything is always new.  Is that me?  Not sure, but I've met those people and they are delightfully always sixteen.  Everything is an adventure to them - everything is always new, and that is not a bad thing...their lives are never dull.  They find joy in living and little things.  And they discover the obvious, in an innocent way.

For instance, shoes.  Now how do shoes tie into this?  Follow me - I'll show you.

The other night, I went shopping for new shoes.  I walk 10,000 miles of concrete a month, and have worn out two pairs of shoes this year.  Being on a limited budget, Walmart was my best bet.

And so there I was in the shoe department of Walmart - my cart loaded with groceries that included melting ice cream.  I wanted - no, NEEDED - a classy looking, comfortable, durable pair of shoes that would match everything in my wardrobe.  The first ones were pretty, but had a thin sole.  Everything else either had a 10 inch heel or was a tennis shoe.  It is strictly forbidden by policy for a DOC office employee to wear tennis shoes without a physician's order, so that was out.  I tried on countless pairs of flimsy footwear, modeled them to see how great they would look for two weeks and decided...oh, no! None of them would do.  I was resigned to wearing my cracked soles for another few days (and also resigned that my ice cream would leave a trail of gooey, flavored coffee creamer all the way to the checkout) when I saw them:  the butt ugliest pair of shoes ever made.  They reminded me of devil's food cookies, if that helps you visualize them at all.  And they were just my size...8W.

They had a thick sole and a built-up arch.  There were gel cushions in the heels.  And I knew...I KNEW before sliding my feet into them that they would feel like heaven with a zipper on the side, and they did.

But...they were SO ugly...

I remembered my soon to be neopolitan coffee creamer and made a quick decision. Yes, I would buy them.  I hauled the box off the shelf, threw it in the cart and ran to the checkout counter.

What does this have to do with forever sixteen?  In retrospect - nothing. But it occurs to me that, when shopping for footwear is high adventure, it's no wonder everything else is big.

Next week, I'm checking out designer toilet paper.