Category Archives: Personal Essay

After I Pass On

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            We attended a family gathering over Thanksgiving to honor the life of a member who recently passed. Over thirty people came, all family or adopted family. The overall tenor was calm, relaxed, gentle, peaceful. A few tempers arose but were quickly settled.

            There was food to share, games to play, a slide show to watch and caroling. My grandkids entertained us playing Christmas songs, not all in tune. It made no difference as they were sharing.

             Mass was held during which the chorister invited two of my grandchildren, one playing the viola, the other the trumpet, to accompany him. I got to sing as well as another of my grandchildren.

            The mood was solemn, respectful as we sat out on the deck in 69 degree temperatures! Much warmer than at home.

            At the conclusion of the service, my SIL invited everyone to share a good memory they had of her husband. The comments ranged from teaching kids to be safe on the water, his enthusiasm for nature, and his love of his wife. I shared that his ability to recall and discuss practically everything he read, was amazing.

            When my turn comes, I might like something similar. A gathering of friends and family who come together to share food, games, music and stories. A Mass would be center. And I’d love it if some of my choir members would sing my favorite church hymns.

            I don’t want anything huge or ornate. A simple ceremony would suffice.

I’m not planning on leaving soon. I wouldn’t have undergone surgery if I expected to die right away. But you never know. A bus could ram into my car on the way to the gym. A sudden stroke could fell me in my sleep (I like the idea of dying in my sleep!)

That doesn’t mean that I can’t think about how I’d like the gathering to be. The one I just attended would be a great beginning.

How would you like to be memorialized?

***Please note that this was inspired by a writing prompt during a workshop zoom meeting. After sharing it with my group, several members thought I should send it to the author.  I found her author page and submitted it. I have not received a response.

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Dear Judy Blume:

            Thanks for all the wonderful stories that you’ve written for young people. You put into words their thoughts and fears, their worries as well as things they celebrate.

            Your characters are fully-formed, making them realistic representations of children that age.

            I’m sorry that some find your topics threatening and so have organized book bans, pulling your work off library shelves.

            I wonder what that feels like? To have poured heart and soul into writing, hoping it reaches your intended audience, receiving accolades for your work, then suddenly finding yourself as a “hared” author. It must be disheartening.

            We can hope that as time passes, saner individuals will restore your stories to their rightful spots on shelves. That once again young people, especially girls, will see themselves reflected in your work, reflected in your characters.

            Thanks for giving the world topics that are timely, meaningful and accessible to a wide variety of readers.

Heart Pain

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Her life with us was short,

Only three years

Her golden years.

She followed us around,

Slept on our laps,

Begged for food and love.

But she hurt.

Day and night she cried

In pain.

So hard to hear,

Knowing there was nothing I could do

Except love her and comfort her.

A time comes to say goodbye.

Unfortunately I wasn’t prepared.

Not after only three years!

She was twelve when we adopted her,

Already a senior cat.

But, oh so sweet!

Kind. Patient. Loving.

Fun to watch when the zoomies

Sent her flying all over the house.

Demanding when she expected food.

Loved her treats!

Noon every day we had to give her something special.

It’s just been minutes,

But already the house feels empty.

My heart will heal.

I will adopt another senior cat.

But until then, I will mourn.

Goodbye, Bingo!

A Halloween Memory

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            The only part of Halloween that I ever liked was the endless pursuit of free candy. From the time my brother and I were in middle school in rural Ohio, we roamed miles from home. We walked on streets whose names I never knew, knocking on the doors of anyone with lights still on. It took us hours, and at times our pillow case sacks were so heavy that we had no option but to go home, empty them out, then head out again.

            I hated wearing costumes. Perhaps because I wore glasses, masks blocked my sight. I detested makeup and most of all, despised trying to come up with something to wear that could become a costume. My fallback was that of a hobo as all I had to do to play the part was put on my well-worn overalls.

            When I was thirteen my middle school decided that for Halloween, all students had to dress in costume. I immediately panicked. It was bad enough to traverse my neighborhood under cover of darkness, but now I would have to parade about campus under the horrific glare of fluorescent lights.

            I stewed over this for days.

I was a painfully shy, the girl who never raised her hand to ask or answer questions. I slithered down in my desk seat, my nose skimming the top of my desk, believing that if I couldn’t see the teacher, she couldn’t see me.

Dressing up at school had the potential to sink me even lower on the social scale, especially if I appeared in an unpopular or outmoded costume.

            When the day arrived, the only thing I could come up with was my mother’s WAC (Women’s Army Corp) uniform from World War II. It fit a bit snug, but I figured I could tolerate anything for the length of the festivities.

            In the morning I squeezed into the uniform, then trudged off to the bus stop. I was used to belittling looks, so the shrugs and smirks had little impact.

However, what seemed like a good idea in the morning, quickly became a terrifying experience at school.

            My teacher, thrilled to see the old uniform, made me stand in front of the class and share my mother’s story. Unfortunately, I knew little about her service.

I did know that she enlisted because her family was poor. She chose the WACs because her older brother was in the Army. Because of the few black-and-white photos she shared, she was stationed in Florida where she learned to work on trucks.

            I figured that when my presentation time was done, I could return to my desk. Not so. My teacher was so excited about the old uniform that she sent me up and down the hall, into every single classroom, upstairs and down.

I was so terrified that I squeaked out only a few words and wouldn’t have even got them out if it weren’t for the prompting of every teacher, in every classroom.

As the day progressed, the uniform got tighter, And the heavy wool brought out as much sweat as a humid summer day. Perspiration pooled under my arms and down my face. It soaked the collar and the waistband of the skirt.

When lunch came, I was allowed to change clothes.

            It was such a horrible experience that I did not go out trick-or-treating that night and for several years after.

Falling in Love

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            Our beloved dog had recently passed. The house felt lonely without four paws running around the dining room. The kids begged for another dog, so when a good friend was in searching for a dog, I rode along.

             We visited many shelters in the local area. She found a rottweiler that interested her. Nothing sparked my interest until we saw a female with three tiny puppies, brown, black and white. She said they were Border Collie mixed with something that gave them curled tails.

            We put in a request for the one brown one. I didn’t really want a male, disliking the way they have to pee on everything, but there was something about this tiny puppy that tore at my heartstrings.

            The pound confirmed that we were first on the list, so most likely we’d get the dog.

            My kids were so excited, that we returned to the pound, day after day, to sit outside the cage. We decided to name him MacTavish.

            Because the puppies had yet to be weaned, we had to wait and wait. We were also told their history. A neighbor had phoned in, complaining about whining coming from the house next door. The officers discovered that the house was empty, but they could see moving shadows inside.

            Police knocked down the door.

            The female (yes, the proper term in bitch, but it sounds offensive to me) was tied to a banister. At her feet were five tiny puppies. The SPCA didn’t know there were puppies as all they saw were moving mounds, collapsed on the floor.

            Yes, they were covered in fleas! So dense that no visible signs of life could be seen.

            One of the pups was dead, the others barely clinging to life since the female was unable to nurse them due to a lack of food and water.

            The Animal Officers fed the mom, gave her water, then relocated them all to the shelter.

            It isn’t recommended to use flea treatment on such young dogs, but there was no other safe way to rid them of the pests.

            Another pup had died before we arrived. Three were walking, but weakly.

            None could be adopted until they were stronger.

            Meanwhile we bought toys and constructed a small fenced-in area in the backyard.

            When we finally brought Mac home, we were excited, but at the same time nervous as neither my husband nor I had ever held such a tiny pup.

            Mac couldn’t walk. His legs gave out, not due to disability, but due to being malnourished. We gave him puppy food, but he couldn’t eat it. Or maybe he refused, but the outcome was the same.

            My friend came to the rescue! She had me buy oatmeal, honey, and other things to construct a watery gruel. She sent me to the dentist to beg for syringes. (They didn’t want to give them to me at first. Once I explained what they were for, they gave me several.)

            Time worked miracles. And prayer. And lots of attention. Mac grew stronger, but not bigger. His body needed to recover before his legs could get longer.

            Mac lived a good, long life. He wasn’t the smartest dog we’d had, but perhaps the most fun. Shouting “squirrel” had him begging to get outside. He’d charge the plum tree, barking all the way. The squirrels would move just out of his reach and chitter at him until Mac gave up.

            My husband built a shed at the far end of the yard. He’d call, “To the shed,” and Mac would bound, like an antelope, to the shed door. He’d wait for my husband to arrive, tail wagging, eyes bright.

            Like many Border Collies, he was quirky. Normally we’d feed our dogs in the kitchen, on a special mat. That wasn’t okay with Mac. Sometimes he’d want to eat by the sliding glass door. Sometimes in front of the stove or the birdcage.

            I’d carry his bowl around the house, setting it down in different places until I found the right one.

            We tried obedience training with him. He got kicked out when he refused to stay until called.

            He didn’t understand how walking on a leash worked until I got a choke chain. I didn’t like using it, but it taught him to stay calm and walk by my side. Eventually I was able to use a soft collar and harness.

            Mac thought he was a tiny dog. Despite growing to over forty pounds, in his mind he was a lapdog. It was hilarious. With Mac in my lap, I couldn’t see the TV.

            We used to let him sleep in the garage, with the side door open. That worked fine during the day when we were at work and at school, but not at night.

            When the moon was full, Mac howled and howled. I’d lock him in the garage. Then he discovered that he could move the fence boards, allowing him to escape. I’d find him sleeping on the front porch in the morning.

            My husband and I nailed boards in place, one after another as Mac found new boards to move. When he had no way to escape, Mac chewed the boards until he’d made holed big enough to pass through.

            I worried about splinters in his mouth. I couldn’t sleep. I’d stay awake, listening for sounds of chewing. In the morning, I couldn’t function, made errors at work, got sleepy teaching my classes.

            We locked him in the garage at night. I kept him safe, allowed me to sleep.

            My husband retired when Mac still had enough energy to bound into the backyard. They became best buddies. Everywhere my husband went, Mac was with him. Until his muzzle turned gray and his joints ached.

            When it hurt so bad that Mac struggled to potty outside, we made the difficult decision to end his life. Neither of us could watch an animal suffer just to please ourselves.

            Saying goodbye was one of the hardest things I’d done. There’d been other dogs, other cats, but none of them bonded with us like Mac had.

            It’s been many year since Mac was alive, but he lives on in our hearts and minds.

Surprise!

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            My best friend wanted to add a dog to her kennel. I rode along, as company, not intending to bring one home. However, as we drove from one rescue shelter to another, the craving inside me grew and grew.

            Not for the big dogs or the ones that barked and growled. Not for the Sherpa who looked dangerous. Not for tiny things that might break if we stepped on it accidentally.

            It was the medium sized dogs that called to me.

            The cocker spaniels and terriers and mixed-somethings that promised to stay relatively small spoke my name. I resisted, over and over.

            Until we entered the shelter in my home town.

            In one cage was a female and three pups; My friend said they were border collies plus something that she couldn’t identify.

            Two of the pups were the traditional black and white that one expects for that breed. It was the brown and white one that stood out. Not because of size, as they were all small. Not because it looked at me with its brown eyes. I couldn’t say why, but I HAD to have that dog.

            There was a waiting list for the black puppies, but none for the one I wished for. However, they were too young to separate from their mama. And, we were told, all suffered from flea infestation.

            The shelter employee shared their sad story. The owners moved, leaving the female tied to a banister inside the house. They left no food or water. It was quite warm. Neighbors heard cries, loud, desperate cries and called.

            Police broke down the door. They found the mom and five puppies. One was already dead. They took the survivors to the pound. They bathed the mom, but the puppies were too young.

            Another died in their care.

            We put in an application for the one we wanted. The kids could hardly wait! We visited the pound almost every day. We sat on the floor outside the bars and talked to the dogs. We got to pet the female. When the puppies were walking, we touched them as well.

            Meanwhile we searched for the right name. When we came upon MacTavish, it felt right. We could call him Mac or Mackie, or when he misbehaved, the whole MacTavish.

            We were so excited when the call came to retrieve our dog.

            Mike had built an enclosure in the backyard out of metal fencing. Shortly after we got home, we took Mackie outside. He took a few steps and fell down. We watched, but he couldn’t seem to be able to walk.

            We fed him puppy food and water, but he refused food.

            The shelter had given us coupons for services, including tow different vets. My mother-in-law used one of them, so I made an appointment. The vet wanted to do a complete blood transfusion. He had treated one of the other puppies, but he couldn’t tell me what was wrong.

            We didn’t have that kind of money. This was a pound-puppy, not a purebred. His treatment would have cost more than taking one of our kids to the pediatrician.

            However, we could leave Mac there for the day and they’d keep an eye on him.

            I don’t remember how many dollars it cost, but since we were going to see the Oakland Athletics play, Mac would be safer there than at home alone.

            We retrieved Mac later that afternoon. He hadn’t eaten anything, but had consumed a little bit of water. No, he still couldn’t walk. They had done little more than nothing.

            My friend knew dogs. She’s been raising and showing dogs for many years. She told me what to buy. Then she arrived. Mixed up a gruel. Using a syringe which I had gotten from our dentist, she forced-fed Mac.

            We fed him that way for days and days. Eventually he was able to walk a few steps before collapsing.

            Around that same time, we went camping. We brought the gruel mixture and syringe. But, we also had summer sausage. Mac’s tiny ears came alert when we sliced into the sausage. We knew it wasn’t proper food for a dog, but we gave him a tiny bite. Then another and another.

            This was the first solid food Mac had eaten on his own!

            We had a small collar and a leash. When we went for a walk, Mac walked. Until we came to a tiny, tiny stream. He refused to cross over. Our oldest son picked up Mackie and carried him the rest of the way.

            That trip solidified that we were doing the right things and mac would live.

            When he grew bigger, Mac began playing catch. His version wasn’t really catch. He got the retrieving part, the bringing it close to the thrower, but not the dropping part. Over and over we tried to teach him, but Mac never learned.

            He developed a love of all sizes and shapes of balls. His favorite, though, were soccer balls. He’d use both front paws to surround the ball, then pick it up in his mouth. With sharp claws and teeth, the ball didn’t stand a chance.

            When he was a freshman in high school, our oldest made it on the JV team. One night when it was time to pick up our son, I decided to take Mac. He loved riding in cars. Oh, my, would he get excited!

            He loved cars so much that sometimes he’d get in the car as we were unloading groceries and wouldn’t get out until he went for a ride.

            I was running late, so I didn’t bring a leash. Mac was pretty obedient, so I wasn’t too concerned.

            Our small car had a hatchback. Our son was still playing when we arrived and it was too warm to stay in the car. I figured I could open the hatch and sit here, my hand gripping Mac’s collar.

            All went well until Mac saw the soccer ball. He got away from me and stormed onto the field, bringing the game to a halt. I ran over (yes, I could run back then), in time to see our son chasing Mac and the ball.

            Thank goodness Mac’s claws didn’t puncture the ball, as high school teams use the expensive models!

            After my son grabbed Mac and returned him to me, I tugged him back to the car, put down the hatch and stayed there until the game ended.

            My son wasn’t angry, but his coach was upset.

            The story of Mackie running onto the soccer field, disrupting a high school game, was one that was retold often.

            Our kids are grown up and out of the house and Mac’s been dead many years, but just thinking about him still makes me smile.

Help from on High

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            The only prayer I knew before first grade was; “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

            Pretty dismal. Imagine being three or four and thinking about dying in bed. I was terrified to close my eyes and drift off, certain that I’d be dead before sunrise. In my mind, God was not a friend and not someone I wanted in my life.

            To enroll my brother in the Catholic elementary in Dayton, Ohio, we had to prove that we attended Mass and gave money to the church. We drove into town, sat through a boring service conducted in Latin, a language I didn’t know, then hurried home to watch football or bowling.

            The next year I enrolled in the same school. Now my days began with prayer, ended with prayer, included instruction in religion, and had prayer time all day long. Lots of praise God and Alleluia. Threats of eternal damnation and black spots on your soul. Displeasing God so badly that he’d turn his back on us.

            At home I had to get on my knees every night and pray next to my brother. I’d learned new prayers: Our Father and Hail Mary. At least now I didn’t go to bed thinking about my death. But I had new things to worry about.

            Did I talk back to my mother? Did I have awful thoughts about my brother or sister? Did I hate my teacher? Classmates? Did I waste food that could feed kids in China?

            God took, terrified me, and shook His finger. He offered nothing positive. No hope. No escape from my dysfunctional family.

            While part of me didn’t believe God cared about me, I prayed to Him anyway. I prayed for relief from the constant torment from my siblings, from the anger directed toward me from both parents, from the overwhelming sense of despair that surrounded me.

            Even as young as eight, I hoped, prayed, that God would lift me out of my living situation and drop me into a happier one. By twelve I was planning on running away. By fourteen, when we moved to California, I studied so as to go to college, another escape. In fact, it was the only way out, other than marriage, something I was opposed to given the poor relationship between my parents.

            Considering years of prayer, with little change, I thought about giving up. Why pray if no one was listening? It seemed like a fruitless activity.

            But when things worsen, when life becomes unbearable, you must do something. I was too young to move out plus I had no means of supporting myself. No relatives lived nearby, so I couldn’t change residences. The one hope; having good enough grades to earn a scholarship.

I prayed constantly. In between classes? A prayer. Eating lunch? Pray. Riding the school bus? Another opportunity to pray.

I refused to give up, to think that God had abandoned me when I hadn’t done anything seriously wrong.

Toward the end my junior year of high school, a letter came addressed to me. I was a recipient of a scholarship from the State of California! It could be applied to any college, whether public or private. I had done my research and knew what colleges were at the top of my list.

San Francisco State University and College of the Redwoods had excellent teacher education programs. SF State was also strong in math, my top subject. My parents wouldn’t let me go to either. They laughed at the idea of me being a teacher. Good, old, shy me. The girl who could sit among others and say nothing.

I prayed.

I applied to the University of Southern California, in the math department. I got accepted! My scholarship would cover the tuition. I borrowed to pay room and board.

It wasn’t at the top of my list, but because my brother has been accepted there, my parents let me go, only after telling him to keep an eye on me.

I thanked God.

While at college, I was walking back to my dorm when I heard this amazing music coming from a one-story white brick building. I stuck my head in, to discover Mass with drums, guitar, tambourine, and folk music that I knew and loved.

That discovery led me back to God. Not the fire and brimstone version in my younger life, but a God who loved me and cared for me. I went on a retreat with the Neumann Center. When I got off the bus somewhere in the mountains, and smelled the pine needles, walked among the debris on the forest floor, touched the bark of a redwood and looked up, up, up so high that it hurt my neck, I knew there was a god.

That experience changed me. Things still went wrong when I had to go home. After all, my parents were the same, my siblings were the same, so why would I expect something new?

I’d like to think I grew a spine, thanks to Divine Intervention. God infused my soul with grit. He empowered me to take risks, to stand up for myself. To create goals that I wanted to accomplish and strive toward them.

That was fifty-four years ago. God is still in my life. I believe He watches over me, helps me make decisions and guides me in many, many ways.

Sometimes we need a little help.

Walking in the Snow

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            I was born in Dayton, Ohio. Our first residence was a tiny house that was once owned by Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Looking back at old photos, I now realize we lived in the “projects.” Every house looked the same. They marched down the street, like soldiers.

            We did have running water and electricity, but the only washing machine was an old-fashioned wringer type. I had to catch the clothes as they emerged, with a caution that I’d lose my hands if I wasn’t careful.

            I was an imaginative child. Every night, I dreamt of a hand being smashed between those rollers.

            Our next house was in a nicer neighborhood. It was two-story, with the upstairs unfinished. At some point my mom let me move upstairs, probably to get away from my younger sister.

            My brother and I often played outside in the snow. We weren’t allowed out of our yard, so our activities were reduced to building snowmen and throwing snowballs.

            Just before my fourth-grade year of school, we moved to Beavercreek, Ohio. It was a large subdivision bordering a forest owned by the Air Force. Nothing could be built there as it was part of the runway.

            The upper part of the subdivision was fairly flat. As the streets headed south and east, hills came into play. Our house sat on one of those hills. The house to our north sat a tad higher than ours, while the one on the south was a bit lower.

            No fences on any of our properties.

            Ohio can be incredibly cold and snowy. One winter it snowed so much that it came up to my ten-year-old knees. Often after a snow, it warms slightly, then chills at night, turning everything to ice.

            My brother got the idea to build an igloo. We thought we knew how to build one as we’d read many stories about indigenous peoples. I wasn’t allowed to use the saw, so he did all the cutting. I was the porter and the builder. He cut a block of ice; I carried it to the site and layered one block on top of another.

            When the wall was too high, he had to finish off the igloo.

            Somehow, we succeeded! There was a hole as a door. The walls curved inward, creating a dome at the top.

            Crawling in was fun, except for when the ice melted. Then our mittens and knees of our pants got soaked. Once inside, though, it was surprisingly warm. We’d pack lunches, crawl through, and no matter the temperature outside, eat in comfort.

            I’d just learned how to read thanks to a children’s librarian who showed me a collection of easy-to-read nonfiction books on Indigenous people. My mom insisted her great-great-great grandmother was “Native.” She claimed her tan skin was evidence, as well as her love of bread and gardening.

            I wanted to know more about that relative, and so read every book the library had. When it wasn’t too cold, I’d take a book into the igloo and spend precious time reading. Alone. Out of the maelstrom of my life.

            The following winter very little snow fell, but thanks to freezing nighttime temperatures, there was plenty of ice.

            My brother and I would pull our sled uphill into the neighbor’s yard. With a good running start, and a timely jump, we’d fly down that hill, sail across our yard, downhill into the next, ending midway into that neighbor’s yard.

            It was great fun. We also never got hurt.

            On our last winter in Beavercreek before moving to California, once again, little snow fell. It was cold, though, so cold that huge icicles hung from our gutters and every powerline. The combined weight of icicles pulled the powerlines down, down, down. We lost electricity several times, the popping and snapping terrifying me. It was not until crews came out and removed the ice that our electricity was returned.

            The wind was fierce. It howled like a banshee, a truly scary sound. We’d huddle inside, not daring to go out in that storm. When morning came, we went outside to discover roof-high piles of snow on the north side of our house.

            Huge icicles hung everywhere. When the sun lit them up, the sparkling light amazed me.

            We broke off the tips from some, licking them as if they were popsicles. They were flavorless, but in our minds, they were as good as the best thing we’d ever had.

            Those were good memories. While I think fondly back on those times, I am grateful to live in the San Francisco Bay Area where it never snows.

Ebb and Flow of Life

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            Just as the sun rises and sets, things in our lives ebb and flow as well.

            When I was young, I had become painfully aware of my mom’s constantly changing emotional state. She might get up happy, but an hour later be yelling and threatening physical punishment. Without provocation on my part.

            I never knew what would set her off. It could be a blouse I’d put on after school or shorts that were too short. I might not be allowed the blouse on a Monday, but it was fine Friday. If I mentioned I needed new shorts, my mom might agree and plan a shopping trip. Or she might chastise me for being indecent.

            When I went away to college and got out from under my mother’s irrational behaviors. For a time. When I returned in the summer, she resumed her on again, off again ranting. I tried to stay away from home. I had daytime jobs that kept me away for much of the day, but at night, I was under here watchful eye.

            It was a huge relief when, after I’d graduated, I was hired by the federal government, making enough money to first buy my own car, then rent a studio apartment. The relief of being able to go wherever and whenever I wanted was immeasurable. Sitting around my apartment listening to MY music filled my soul. When I bought a small television, I could now watch anything that I desired.

            Being wife takes mastery of that ebb and flow. Excitement when we went camping, boring when I had to fix dinner and clean up after. Laundry. Ironing. Driving kids to doctors’ appointments was boring, but coaching the soccer teams was exciting. Keeping score during little league baseball games, exciting. Folding laundry. Boring.

            As an older adult nothing has changed. Book club meetings? Exciting, unless it’s a book I didn’t like. Writer’s club? Exciting when we do our monthly write-ins and when we meet for a meal. The monthly membership meetings are usually boring as the same individuals say the same things every time.

            My writing critique group? Exciting. I learn so much from my friends as they help me improve my writing.

            Writing prompts? Boring. Writing personal essays like this one? In-between.

            After my first bout with COVID I developed long Covid. I had no energy to do anything. Brain Fog stole my ability to process words, making it impossible to write and to read novels.

            I forced myself to maintain my routines, going to the gym when I was too weak to stretch rubber bands. I stopped using the elliptical because it required too much effort.

            I have a fantastic doctor. She listened to my concerns, believed that I was indeed suffering, then put me on the one medication I have since learned offers some relief.

            Last week I was able to focus on my writing for several hours each day. This was exciting! I accomplished so much and felt quite happy with myself.

            I increased activity at the gym, returning to the elliptical. I use more weight machines and have joined a kickbox aerobic class. And I swim one day a week.

            And then the ebb hit. After being so productive for almost a week, my body collapsed. I couldn’t do anything except sit on the couch. Reading was, once again, impossible.

            I can hardly wait for the flow to return!

            Today it dawned on me that all of life is one big ebb and flow. I just have to be patient and wait for this to pass.

My Political Journey

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            Growing up, probably like most kids, I paid little attention to world events. Until in the mid-1960s, when the threat of a war with Cuba, our school held bomb drills in the hallways. We’d be ushered out of our classrooms, then be told to sit on the floor, facing the wall. Cross our legs, bend over so that our foreheads touched our legs and cover our heads with our arms.

            We’d sit there, in fear, until the drill was over.

            With my active imagination, I pictured my annihilation. Over and over. Nightmares occupied my nights. I’d get up in the morning, brain dead and barely functioning. In the middle of the crisis, my family moved to California. My dad rented a home in Sacramento, without air conditioning, a miserable experience.

            I don’t think my dad visited the home long enough to understand that it was below the flight pattern of the air force base. Night and day bombers flew overhead, their distinct roar blotting out all other sound.

            I’d stand in the front yard watching them, imagining the crew going off to war. And the enemy, Russia, sending planes here to destroy America. Scenes of death and destruction haunted me.

            When the crisis ended, my fears eased somewhat, but it took many months before I slept all night long.

            We were involved in Vietnam toward the end of my high school years. The draft had begun. My brother’s number didn’t get called right away, so he was able t begin college.

            I was now watching the news, keeping myself aware of world events. Something about the war bothered me. While I couldn’t identify any facts that supported my misgivings, I continued to believe that America didn’t belong in Vietnam.

            My brother had to enlist or leave the country. He debated both. Escaping to Canada seemed a good choice, except that, like me, he had been given a state scholarship to use toward any college in California. If he ran away, he’d lose the money.

            He was sent to an army base in the Midwest for basic training. When he called home, he told us about how often he was beaten by the drill sergeant. How he was punished by excessive chores or being forced to run in the heat and humidity until he fell ill.

            When he refused to carry a gun or clean a gun or even carry a fake gun in parade, he was beaten so badly that his jaw was broken and placed in the brig. When his time ended, the army sent him home. He never had to go to Vietnam.

            Meanwhile I was fixated on the news. Every night we were bombarded by gruesome stories coming out of Vietnam, reinforcing my belief that America had no business being there.

            After a year at the community college, I transferred to the University of Southern California. I never skipped a class or turned in a late assignment out of fear of losing my scholarship. Without that money, I’d be lost.

            About mid-year, groups began organizing protests against the war. I went to several town hall meetings in which information was presented that made me cringe. I hated seeing the pictures of injured civilians and soldiers, but couldn’t turn away. I helped make signs and write protest speeches for other, braver students to deliver.

            In between classes I’d join marches on campus. We’d chant as we walked past classrooms, causing quite a fuss.

            The activists planned a mass day of protest for a weekend. Like hundreds of other students, I sat in the grass in what was known as the quad. I listened to speaker after speaker, all who said the words that I didn’t have the guts to say.

            About halfway through the morning, men in black suits appeared, standing along the edges of the quad. They looked the same with their military-style haircuts and ridged postures. Without being told, I figured they were feds, there to spy on us.

            I didn’t see cameras pointed our way, but fear overtook me anyway. I snuck off, afraid of being identified, labeled, and arrested.

            Later on, I learned I left just in time, for there were arrests, mass hysteria as students tried to escape, and injuries from falls and being beaten with cops’ bully clubs. I never attended another town hall meeting, but I did still participate in campus marches.

            For another month. Then, the group behind marches declared that they were going to set fire to the on-campus ROTC building. That was the demarcation line for me, a step I refused to cross.

            Because I don’t have a political background and took few classes in government or history, I can’t site instances or details. For this reason, I’d never win a debate or convince someone that their perception is wrong.

            Since then, I have consciously followed the news, but don’t join protests, unless you count sharing information of social media.

            I grouse with friends and family, but that’s it.

            My political experience was short-lived, but something I will never forget.

            I admit to obsessively reading stories and listening to news on public radio and television. To fear being left out, of not witnessing an important event that changes history or our government, and there’s a lot of that happening, every day.