Keeping Up With The Jones

Utah Savage advises me to write, write, write and to begin with early memories. As soon as I read her advice, I came upon a memory that had been carefully tucked away, waiting for this moment. My first assult offense. No deadly weapon.
I must have been about six or seven. There was a family that lived up on the corner, The Jones....no shit. They had five kids and Dad was an FBI agent. He seemed a very normal dad to me, but I knew he was secretly Elliot Ness. Our Moms were very good pals and so we kids often played together on some swing set or another.
And so, one day I was playing with the daughter, a few years younger than me. She was up high on the ladder leading to the slide in one of those frilly dresses we all had to wear, and was insulting my mother because she was so fat. "Na na na, your mom is fat". Mom was pregnant at the time (thus explaining "fat") and I felt this protective anger arise in me as I never had before. I asked this little shit to stop insulting my mother as she was with child, but apparently she had no idea what that meant and kept up her bullshit.
As my anger rose, I climbed a few steps up the ladder and punched her squarely in the face. WOW! I had never punched anyone before and it felt so good! She fell of the ladder and ran home, squeaking all the way. I was toast. Her Dad was an FBI dude after all. I was sure it was the slammer for me and went home to hide in my room, the closet to be specific.
Alas, my memory comes to a screeching full stop with the closet and I dont recall ever being punished. Perhaps because it was my first offense, I was let off with a warning. Or perhaps as in the movie, "A Christmas Story", my mom covered for me and my pop never found out. It is interesting to note that I still feel anger at this little girl whose name escapes me at the moment and I thank Utah Savage for bringing this memory back to me. I wonder, Utah Savage, is this a cause for more therapy???

Widows

It's been exaclty twenty years since I moved into this house. Three kids, twelve dogs, and all our stuff just a day before Thanksgiving 1988. I remember the make-up of the neighborhood then. Most of the houses were inhabited by mormon widows, their husbands gone off to the Celestial Kingdom ahead of them.
I used to see them sitting on their porches of going off in small groups to church or shop. I felt sorry for them, wondering how they spent their lonely days, and always made a point of stopping to chat.
The neighborhood has changed with young families, children, and I seem to be filling the role those old widows filled. The lonley old lady, living alone. Its interesting to compare myself to them. I dont feel lonely much and wonder if maybe they didnt either. Maybe they were glad to have raised their families and seen them off to their own lives, and maybe they were very glad to be rid of their husbands. I wonder if they spent as much time as I do trying to decide what to do next, how to fill the rest of their lives.
I feel in a way, discarded, a mother who has fulfilled her purpose, a woman whose partner doesnt need her anymore........well, hes dead so how could he? To have had a purpose, several actually, for so many years without having to think for a second what that purpose might be was nice. It became an unconscious habit. And now, with my youngest just moved out, I'm feeling a bit lost, no one to cook for or get off to school, no one to dress up for, no one to listen to.
Parts of this new lost are great. I dont mean to sound all sad, searching for someone to feel sorry for me. Its just that I look forward to the next twenty years and wonder what I am supposed to do with them that will give me that lost sense of purpose again. I have too many choices. Am I supposed to get selfish and just do whatever I want with my time? Many would say, "You've earned it".
I remember Dad playing in his garden and pouring over his stamp collection, reading and watching TV. He seemed satisfied. I remember Mom who seemed totally lost, filling her days with shopping and travel, piling up stuff in her house until there were only small trails from doors to beds. Sad. My two role models for retirement.
There is something in me that doesnt seem satisfied with either model. I still want to save the world or do something of note that will impact lives. I still want to get someone off to school. And yet I dont do any of those or have the motivation to begin a new way. I think this is probably because the last ten years were so dramatic/traumatic that my body and mind want to rest, want to isolate and be quiet. And so, I will let that happen for awhile, being one of those widows that sits on her porch and waits for some young mother to come by and chat.

I'm not in Kansas anymore!

I am new to blogging, but not new to journaling. Journaling does not require titles and so I was pondering a title for this post. Sometimes we like to journal about what issues we are thinking about. (I purposely waited to begin this blog until after the election of Obama, not wanting to post politically.) Other times the universe gives us titles in the form of miraculous events. This morning is such a time. And so the title of this post should be "WIND" or "Auntie Em, Auntie Em!!"
The sunrise this morning was very Maxfield Parish. Corals and pinks with that sailor's warning chanting in my brain. Sounds not heard for months make themselves obvious to my ears. Roaring and whistling, crashing about of the ubiquitous plastic lawn chairs. I head out to the internet to ask NOAA what is going on. NOAA says nothing is going on. Light winds out of the west at 7 to 11 mph. Hmmmmmm! How about 15mph out of the east gusting to who knows, dangerous enough to make sure the dogs stay in the house. I can watch the way the wind wants to rake the leaves. Oddly, it is rather the same way I like to rake i.e tossing leaves from near and far trees into tidy eddied piles in corners to be later bagged. I can watch certain leaves up high in the air fly over my house and the next and on to unknown destinations. No birds fly about in this wind. Not true for light man-made objects such as plastic covers, dog water dishes,etc which flop about with ease. To me this morning weather is a miraculous event. Why?
Someone wrote once that a miracle is "something that only happens once". This morning with this wind and these colors shall only happen once and so I am filled with awe and also gratitude that I can see these ordinary events as wonderous.
Sometime soon I shall introduce you to my new project which is still taking form in my brain and I shall ask you for your help. I am curious as to what constitutes a miracle for you. Be thinking about it will you?

Why Do Blog Entires Need Titles?

When I woke this morning, it didnt seem morning at all. More like late evening. Instead of getting up to brush teeth and hair and throw some clothes on that artists wear during the day to work, I found an old movie on TCM and snuggled in to bed as I would at night when all days chores were done. Very odd. I tried to let morning and morning things invade my self, but the only task I could pull off was letting the dogs out. What could account for this? Dreams! Must be dreams which always leave us with an emotional base of some kind when we wake and yet rarely let us remember details.
I remember birds,large colorful birds with beaks that spoke words and who were more intelligent than most of the people I had conjured for this particular dream. Somehow the birds and I were involved in a project together, a secretive project. The exact project is one of those details I can no longer remember.
Still, two hours later, I do not feel morningish. I am of the mind these days to go with my moods. I have the luxury of doing this as well. Going off to an office to be an underling of some sort would make this difficult, but I am "retired" from that world and can allow these headspaces to play themselves out. We shall see!