Somewhere, hiding in my bones,
My blood vessels.
My heart, my guts
Is the real me.
Am I a beast struggling to escape?
A gentle giant yearning for peace?
An artist creating her own world?
Or a minuscule creature, hiding?
I hear a prayer
When the wind blows,
The birds sing
Children laugh
He answers in a touch of wind
A brush against my arm
The kiss of my husband
And the joys of friendship
Deep within lies my secrets
My hopes and dreams,
For even as I grow old,
I live for another day.
all of life is a series of
nonstories
the might-have-beens
the almost becames
the things we dreamt of
doing
but never did
the wishes unfulfilled
presents never delivered
or received
places never visited
near-misses
chance occurrences
that developed into nothing
the left-behinds
and
soon-to-be forgottens
all stories untold
mysteries locked
romances closeted
things never experienced
foods never tasted
but secretly yearned for
nonstories frozen in place
and time
with no characters to lament
plots stagnant
themes dragging behind
do we obsess
over the lost stories
and live life in a
vacuum?
NO
we constantly create
our personal life stories
our dreams springing to
a life lived luxuriously
laughing joyously
over the endless
possibilities
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.
The sun arose and filled my eyes
With heavenly glory personified
Tears down my face did solemnly pour
I stood transfixed, and begged for more
Golden rays lit up the new morn sky
With brilliant spectacle for the eye
With mouth agape I did profoundly stare
And wonder what God’s doing up there
To me He gave such wondrous gift
That my poor spirit felt tremendous lift
To my knees I should have promptly fallen
But I could not move despite hearing Him callin’
Frozen in place with feet on the soil
I praised the Lord’s amazing toil
For humankind: to free our souls
From worries: to give us lofty goals
Reaching deeply into my empty purse
I feared God’s wrath, or maybe worse
Instead my heart did nearly burst
With joy: I knew I was not cursed
The sun arose and filled my eyes
With heavenly glory personified
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.
Ten thousand wishes float into the air
Brightly lit rainbow dots drift without care
Air-filled hopes slowly rise into the sky
Waiting for the moment to multiply
Realistic fantasies within reach
Specifically crafted for us each
Inside, a single dream lurks unfulfilled
Waits for perfect heart in which to be spilled
Dandified dreams as mystic butterflies
Burst in multicolored hues ‘ere our eyes
Windswept images of forgotten faces
Mist-enshrouded thought of faraway places
Everyday troubles weathered away
Lucky lazy bubbles brighten the way
Worlds of wonder wrapped in shiny white
Drawn down to earth by fragile string of kite
Electric energy for those who dare
Ten thousand wishes rise into the air.
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.
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.
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.
To know God,
to truly know God.
That’s what I want more
than anything.
He’ll come to me as a friend
and sit by my side.
He’ll sing to me of love, joy,
and inner tranquility.
He’ll tell me what a good girl
I’ve been all my life,
and how pleased He is with
the paths that I have chosen.
When tears run down my cheeks,
He’ll wrap His arms around me
and hold me tight, not letting go
until the shuddering subsides.
We’ll share cool water from my fridge,
some homemade bread, and a bowl
of fresh fruit, picked off the trees in
my backyard. Before we begin, we’ll
bow our heads and offer thanks for
all the good and kind people in the
world, for peace, for love, and for
self-acceptance. I won’t like that last one.
When He bites into the apple and juice
runs down His chin, I’ll snap a photo,
and then we’ll laugh.
He’ll take a picture of me smiling, so that
I may treasure it forever.
After our meal, I’ll invite Him to spend
the night. We’ll have a slumber party
with popcorn and a G-rated movie.
He’ll sleep in the front bedroom, and
when I close my eyes that night,
I’ll sleep soundly until late the next day,
for the first time in a long, long while.
In the morning, He’ll wake me with the
warmth of His smile. I’ll feel tingly all
over, and when I get up, that feeling will
cling like plastic wrap.
Before He leaves later that afternoon,
He’ll pull me aside and whisper in my ear.
Like a gentle breeze, I’ll hear Him say
that He will be my one best friend.
Forever.
Words and Thoughts 