I remember an old black cat

I remember
      .. a white wood framed house with a long
         wooden porch by a 2-lane highway.
      .. the railroad tracks that ran along the
         west side of the house and the big freight
         trains that rumbled on the tracks.
      .. running out to wave at the man in the train.
      .. the whistle and the smoke that came
         from the train
      .. the clickity-clack of the big wheels and
         the man in the train waving to me as it
         rumbled by
      .. the big ole black tom cat sitting on top
         of the power pole.
      .. the 22-rifle that my dad was pointing
         at the old black cat.
      .. my father saying "that black son-of-a-bitch
         has killed his last chicken".
      .. the soft crack of the 22 and the ole black
         cat jerking and falling.
I do not remember
     .. a sound from the cat or the thud of its body
        as it hit the ground.
     .. what my dad said or if my mother was there
        or whether I was happy or sad.
I remember
     .. I was only four

Following in Her Footsteps Betty McCallister 11/12/09 I watched my mother gracefully age, become an old lady, not particularly understanding or liking what I saw. Why is this happening? This was a first, as I had never really experience the aging process of anyone before. My father passed in his early 60's and my grandparents were always old, weren’t they? But my Mom was a vessel of energy. A real go getter kind of gal, and now this. Growing up she drove myself and my four siblings totally nuts with her wild antics and bazaar behavior. You just never knew what was coming next. I left home young, cutting the apron strings I thought, to become an independent adult, but she never let go of me. She hung on for dear life, I was her Betsy, and her love for me was often times overwhelming and smothering. She was quite meddlesome to put it mildly in my life, yet I never had the courage to stand up to her. The commandment of honor thy father and mother rang loud and clear inside of me, as well as the boisterous screams that only I could hear. Annoyance and love make for strange bedfellows. By the time I was nearing 50 and she 70 we had grown into a pretty tight twosome. She mellowed and I matured. Funny how that happens. We came together as I overlooked so many of her bothersome habits and perhaps she did the same, though I am sure mine were few. I knew her likes and dislikes, what made her happy or sad. We bonded as two merry souls and for the next ten years I became accustomed to her ways, her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs became second nature to me. With my children heading out on their merry way, and a somewhat understanding husband, I had the time to devote to Mom that she deeply yearned for. She was growing older before my very eyes bringing about different changes nearly weekly, and today I see myself following in her footsteps, and I guess the footsteps of everyone else who has traveled the aging journey, but I especially remember my mothers. Walking slower, stumbling more, frequently annoyed, grocery bags are heavier and the shelves are higher, dropping things and mumbling that the floor is much lower for some reason. The voice is getting scratchy along with the penmanship. Why these were all my mothers traits and somehow are now mine. And oh to reflect on the ordeal of getting her in and out of automobiles brings laughter tears to my eyes. The same now for me. Either the seat is so high I need a shove to hoist myself up to get in, or so low to the ground I practically roll out. Neither is a pretty sight. And to maneuver the back seat of a two door auto, forget it. I am sure you get the picture. I spent my fifties catering to my Moms wants and needs until she left me at age 79. Visiting her often, holding her hand as we walked down steps. Now my daughter is doing the same for me, though I believe I am perfectly capable, she isn’t so sure. This brings me to a better understanding of the statement of ‘what goes around, comes around’. So now each and every day I remember Mama, the 70ish Mama, with her beautiful gray hair and her softer than silk hands and her very trying ways. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

grandpa grunt

One of the God-Awful things about getting older is the dreaded Colonoscopy or as I call it, the "up-your-butt-a-recto my". You guessed it, my time has come and gone but I got another clean bill of health.


However when I go through those exams I always remember my grandpa. Grandma called him "Grandpa Grunt". He came by the nickname naturally enough by spending hours on the pot grunting.

In his later years, his whole life was eating, preparing to poop and then grunting for hours until he did.

In fact he made so much noise that grandma made him build an outhouse in the forest behind their house. Because he was ornery he only built the bench and he put it where grandma could see him from the kitchen window. She could barely hear him but when she looked out the window there he was in all his glory setting on the bench with both hands and both feet pushing down as hard as he could to give him leverage to complete his mission. In those days they did not know about Diverticulitis or as I like to call it "Diver-balloon-i-osis". Little balloons are formed in the intestine walls from pushing extra hard to create a bowel movement. Grandpa had never been told that he could cause this problem so he continued to eat and push. I believe he pushed so hard for so long that he created balloons in his stomach big enough to cause him to levitate. That's right, he would levitate. He would be grunting and pushing there on his bench and all of the sudden he would rise up into the air and then he would settle back down on the bench to complete his mission. I think he was to embarrassed to tell anyone about it but grandma would see him go up and say, “Grandpa has to stand half way up to complete his duty" She thought his feet were still on the ground but they weren't, he was levitating. It was obvious that some combination of the food he was eating created gases. The balloon pockets got big enough to hold enough gas to make him rise or as I said, he would levitate.



On the day after the Thanksgiving of 19 and 26 grandpa was having more trouble than usual and his grunts became actual screams. He was pushing so hard and creating so much gas that he began to levitate but this time he didn't come back down. He just kept going up. A half naked man levitated into the air and disappeared over the horizon. We never saw grandpa again. No one knows where he ended up or what happened to him. Grandma heard his screams and looked out the window just in time to see him disappear over the horizon. She believed the Angels came and took him away. I believe he rose so high that the balloons in his stomach exploded and he became fertilizer for some farmer’s field. However, that is just my theory.

scouting

I have no idea why Mr. Barns chose that time of year to take the trip.  I never questioned it and I guess no else did either.  I know none of the other guys did.  I know my parents didn't.  They were always glad to see me go on a scouting trip.  Later, when it was all over, everyone questioned it.  Bert's dad, Mr. Johnson, was livid.  His pudgy red cheeks were puffed out more than normal and he glared at Mr. Barns with eyes that bulged out of face like and frog.  He shouted, "how could you put these boys in that kind of danger?"  "You should have know better, Bud".  "These boys" were sitting in the back, ready to be called upon to answere questions if necessary.  "These boys" were the local scout troup that I belonged to.  "These boys" were all giggling about Mr. Barns being on the hot seat.  Mr. Barns was our scout master.  It wasn't that didn't like Mr. Barns.  If fact we thatought he was great.  He was more like one of us than an adult.  We called  him Bud on the trips and he made the trips fun.  We were giggling because it was like one of us getting in trouble.
It was strange how the parents were all upset after the trip but no one questioned it before we left.  However  not all of the parents were upset.  Most were just glad we were home safe.  My dad said. "calm down Johnson, the boys are fine and no one was hurt."  "Yes, but they could have all drowned" Mrs. Cox said from the back of the room.

The meeting, the fuss, was about the scouting trip we had just returned from or rather the scouting trip that we had just been rescued from.  "Harrietta's right", Mrs. Reed chirped in.  "They could have drowned".  "We thought you knew better Bud"

But, Mr. Barns said in a voice that was low and nervous, "that storm was a fluke".  "How Could I have known it was coming"

Bobby, Tim and me were sitting together in the back of the meeting.  We giggled amd poked each other.  To us it was just another childhood adventure.  Bobby poked Carl Reed Jr.sitting just in front of us.  "Hey Waddups, Bobby said.  You need a hanky?"  Waddups, Carl Reed Jr., never responded.  He was still embarassed about the trip.  He had been scared and cried and wanted his mother.  No one could cry for their mother on a scouting trip and not get teased about it for a long time.

The lightning flashed and the thunder crashed and boomed after it flashed.  We were in the middle of it.  I mean right in the middle of a cloud burst.  We were high in the Uinta mountains of Utah.  The clouds were right on top of us and the rain was more like a water fall.  The sky would light up, one flash right after the other.  The thunder would explode instantlay right after the flash. You can tell how far away the lightning is by counting.  One second for every mile.  Ther were no seconds.  Flash, Crash, boom all coming at the same instance. The ground would shake and our tents would shudder.  The truth was that we were all scared as hell.  Waddups wasn't the only one that wanted his mother.

The other truth was that Bud, Mr. Barns, was more of a hero than a bad scout master.  He had felt the storm coming.  He had seen the clouds getting darker and lower.  He had felt the air getting colder.  So did we but he knew we were in for a storm.  He also knew what to do.  He made us move our camp from the trees to an open area on a small hill.  He had us pitch our tents just below the top to give us some break from the wind.  He had us bank the tents so water would run around and by the tents not under them.

The cloud burst lasted for thirty minutes but the rain, thunder and lightning went  on for hours.  The cloud burst almost washed out our tents but not quite.  The next morning we packed up and started back down the mountain but were unable to cross a swollen river.  We made camp and stayed there until someone came looking for us.  In those days there were no cell phones.
 Like I said, it was really an adventure for us.

After the whole story came out, Mr Barns was obsolved of doing anything wrong and continued to be our scout master.  However he made us quite teasing Carl about the storm.

Saints and Poets

A few weeks ago I watched the movie Titanic on an airplane coming home from New York. Rather incongruous, this gigantic story on a tiny screen 35,000 feet in the air. Never a big fan of the film, but, too tired to read, I opted for the three hour distraction. The proximity of my seat to the screen brought the epic tragedy into tighter focus. I found myself thinking about the desperation of the poor souls whose lives came to an ironic end that fateful night. I grew up with this story, frequently recounted by my mother, whose distant relative gave up her seat in a lifeboat for her maid in order to remain aboard to die with her husband. But that story was always told in conjunction with the one about the courageous musicians who continued to play until just before the ship sank. I watched the James Cameron film and thought about this act of bravery and love. What else was there to do? With their own watery grave beneath their feet, these musicians performed a transcendent final act of beauty and mercy, serenading the passengers to their death. One witness reported that their final song was "Nearer my God to Thee." In the Catholic church, there is the tradition of canonization - the elevation of an ordinary individual to the level of sainthood. Among the criteria for this recognition is proof that the person being considered for sainthood performed a miraculous act. As I watched the depiction in Cameron's film of these musicians aboard the sinking Titanic, I couldn't help but think that what those musicians did was nothing short of miraculous. Generous with their gifts and talents to their hopeless end, they kept playing. Art and music as a transcendent force in the face of human suffering has always interested me. No story so clearly exemplifies this as the story of Theresenstadt (Terezin) - the town outside of Prague in the Czeck Republic, that was converted by the Nazi's to a Jewish ghetto during the Holocaust. Music and art thrived there in spite of inhumane conditions and near certain death. Children were encouraged by teachers to write poems and draw pictures of their experiences in order that they not be forgotten. They buried the poems and pictures throughout the town only to be discovered by survivors after the liberation. Theresenstadt housed many artists and musicians before their transport to Auschwitz. While hopelessness engulfed the ghetto, music brought a sense of humanity and joy. In the face of death, beauty. Our capacity as human beings to create in the face of the greatest horror and tragic circumstances is one of our greatest gifts. These two extreme examples should provide us with an important lesson. Artistic expression should be nurtured, encouraged and valued. As the German playwright, Bertolt Brecht said, "In the dark times, will there also be singing? Yes, there will be singing. About the dark times." Or, as Emily in Our Town asks, "Do any human beings ever realize life as they live it every, every minute?" "No. Saints and Poets, maybe. They do some." The musicians aboard the Titanic. The teachers in Terezin. The writers. The artists. Saints and Poets all. Their stories live on.

on a lighter note.......................Stan

update on virus
I am still not sure if  I can recover all my writing.  I do have a lot in my note books but will probably never go back and re-type it all.  I bayed at the quarter moon last night and that seemed to help.

In the mean time, we have puppies, lots and lots of puppies.  Chewy, our gray and white Schnauzer had 4 puppies one week ago and Shy-lo, our black Schnauzer had 8 puppies Thursday morning.  They have all been to the vet and are in good health.  Chewy's  puppies are fat little butter balls but Shy-lo's puppies are small.  The father of both litters is Lo-Jack, our gray and white Schnauzer.  He is rather perplexed by the whole thing.  He is curious and wants to check them out but Shy-lo and Chewy will not let him get near them.  Since Chewy only had four we gave her two of Shy-lo's so that each mom would nurse six.  It seems to work out quite well and both mothers treat all the puppies as there own.

Shy-lo is my on personal dog or rather I should say that I belong to her.  She follows me where ever I go (except to class).  Wednesday night I was on puppy watch but around 4 A.M. I fell asleep in my recliner with Shy-lo on my lap.  I was sure she would not have the puppies that night because she didn't seem to be in labor.  I woke up at 5 A.M. with shy-lo cleaning herself and a little wet puppy down in the side of the chair.  She had the puppy while setting on my chest.

Don't ever hire me to guard your house.  Thieves could take what they want while I peacefully dozed away.

do I hate thee...you bet .............by ... Stan Beatty

Let me count the ways.  One, I hate you because you love to cause destruction.  Two, I hate you because you delight in others agonies.  Three, I hate you because I cannot find you to choke you.  Four, I hate you because I will never see you suffer.  Five, I hate you because you are a coward. My hate for you is boundless and unending.  If I could find you I would destroy you in any way that I could.  You are the scourge of modern society.  You thrive on others miseries.  You do not even know me and yet you thrive on the fact that you can harm me and not be harmed your self.  I may have helped you find food.  I may have helped your family.  I may be your neighbor that supported you in a family death.  I may have, I may have.......I may have done a lot of things for you but one thing I do know, I have never done anything against you.  You are the of the DEVIL and my only hope is that somehow you roast in some form of hell.
The you I am talking about is the you that destroys other peoples work and laughs in glee.  The you I am talking about is the you that builds the computer virus that destroys what I and others have created.
The greatest retribution that could ever occur would be for you to die in agony with the Swine Flu.

They say it helps to get it off your chest.  Not so...I'm still pissed off.

In My Next Life by Connie Wolf

In my next life, my brother will be born first. My mother will long for a girl and when I am born, two years after my brother; my parents will weep with joy. In my next life, my brother will gently tease me but protect me fiercely from anyone else who might dare to try it. He will be handsome, intelligent and wildly popular. When I’m old enough to date I’ll have my choice of all his handsome, intelligent wildly popular friends. All of them have a crush on me because I’m graceful and small with a bubbly personality and infectious laugh. In my next life I have green eyes with perfect 20/20 vision and naturally curly hair. I ace all of my classes with very little effort and make friends with everyone I meet because of my charm, beauty, intelligence, talent, humor and unadulterated humility. In my next life my father will be an inventor. He will have invented all things technical, all things digital, and all global communications. We will be insanely wealthy and he will retire at 30 to concentrate on curing cancer and global warming. Except for this difference in the realm of career and personal wealth, he will be still my Dad, the one I had in this life. Only in my next life he will never have an aneurism or brain stem stroke and his memory will remain razor sharp throughout his long and healthy life. In my next life my mother will be my very best friend and as she ages all of her wrinkles will be laugh lines. She will smile every day and be known for her quiet wisdom and loving ways. Her humor will always be self-effacing and her kindness, world renown. In my next life my Mom will hug me every day and we’ll go shopping at least one day each week. We will laugh together and I’ll be able to trust her with all of my secrets. In my next life all of my secrets will be light and silly, all of my tears will be in empathy and I will always cry when it is appropriate. I will cry prettily when other people are present; just one tear from my eye will break the world’s collective heart. Once a month I’ll cry in earnest, these will be private, cleansing tears that clear the sinuses and lighten the heart. This is for medicinal purposes only because in my next life I will have absolutely nothing to be sad about. In my next life I will marry only once, he will be the one and only love of my life. We will meet at just the right time and marry at just the right age. We will actually live “Happily Ever After”. Oh, of course, he will sometimes get exasperated with me. After all, it isn’t easy to live with all this perfection but all I’ll have to do is pout adorably and smile my dimpled smile and he will melt and open His arms to me. No way, he will ever be able to resist my smile. In my next life, we will have two perfect children, first a boy and then a girl. They will fill our lives with joy and laughter. As babies, they will sleep through the night right from birth. They will never be cranky, they will never catch cold, never ever throw up or get diarrhea and they will potty train themselves just to please me. Pleasing me will be their hearts desire and their only goal in life. In my next life I will have a beautiful singing voice and will sing solos in the church choir. I will write best sellers in my spare time and will go on Dancing with the Stars and win by a landslide but only after I have been retired as the number one all time champion of Jeopardy. Alex Trebek is, of course, secretly in love with me. In my next life I will be a gourmet cook and will visit the culinary capitols of the world. I will eat and enjoy rich foods but never gain an ounce. I will be dead center on all height and weight charts and will never exercise unless it is fun because I just don’t have to, not even as I slip with graceful poise into my golden years. In my next life I will never catch cold or get the flu and I’ll never have an allergic reaction to anything. I will never have to take medication, not ever. My blood pressure will be perfection itself and my cholesterol levels with be the ideal that all others are measured by. In this life I’m pretty sure my death will be painful, undignified and terribly inconvenient. I imagine that it will happen in a very public place like the middle of Sunday morning church or in the produce aisle of Trader Joes. My face will probably be contorted in pain, I’ll lie in pools of odorous body fluids and small children will see me in their nightmares for years to come. But in my next life even my death will be pretty. I will lie on my pillow top feather mattress in a lovely new nightie, my silver curls tied up with a matching satin ribbon. My nails will be freshly manicured and no dry skin will be evident on my elbows or heels. I will simply slip away in the night with just the slightest hint of a smile on my lips. In my next life………

Some O' Dem Dry Bones by Mary, but not contrary

SOME O’ DEM DRY BONES Class assignment for Oct 5, 2009 Prompt: Tell the awful truth. This was not what I started to write about, but what came together after all. I will add to this and speak more about the ‘awful truth’ in another piece. If I may borrow Stan’s creative analogy, I would agree that we all have skeletons in our closet. I loved the way he added: “but they don’t have to dance in our living room.” Sometimes it is important to get our skeletons out of the closet. If we don’t they could pose a silent threat that somehow continues to influence us and begins to define us. This necessary process of letting them out, examining them, letting those old bones see the light; then facing the decay, admitting the truth and dealing with it, keeps ‘it’ from defining us. This class has provided a safe environment for that process. Things that happen to us; things we are not proud of; slips of the tongue that show others what we were really thinking; acts of rebellion, selfish unkindness, too swift judgment, and the whole attitudinal morass; needs to be unearthed. Not all of it needs to be shared, but some unspeakable things we thought we could never tell, need to see the light of day. Otherwise, decay begins to rot and the disease of ‘secrets’ cause interior crumbling. Maybe this is how we turn back into dust. There is unspeakable freedom in letting those skeletons dance in the living room. Airing out that closet helps immensely with all the stale odors that we imagine define us. Being able to trust our humanity with the humanity of others, brings a refreshing reality to bare bones. The flesh takes on new skin, and our self-concept begins to fill out. On some level the old dead things become alive. Shame loses its power to condemn, and that is when the dancing begins. Quite a few of my skeletons have been dancing in the living room since I joined this class. My closet no longer stinks. This new freedom comes with somewhat of a responsibility, however. Now that I know where the stench came from and how it got there, it is time for those skeletons to dance right out the front door. My closet can’t dance. It will always be there wondering if any more bones will be stored inside. It will always remind me of all the nooks and crannies where dishonesty could be stored. Dishonesty comes from the desire to save face; from the need to impress; and especially in my case, from the longing for security and acceptance. Once I began to believe that I was unconditionally loved and accepted by Jesus, that pressure began to dissipate. Now that the door has slammed shut behind those dancing bones and locked them out, it is my responsibility to guard that closet door. Knowing the old patterns that caused that closet to fill up, I have the opportunity to offer creative listening without judgment to anyone daring to unlock that door. I can become that safe place for them. I can start the music by caring enough to listen. I can share my life story, helping people with no words to speak. I can use my voice the help them find theirs. Mary, but not contrary October 6, 2009

Anaheim Born and Razed

Small town memories stir each daylight savings. When darkness falls at five, I am again, Anaheim's child waiting anxiously for my turn to walk amidst cheering crowds down Center Street on Halloween. The Kiddie Parade! I remember the year I was a gypsy. I remember the year I was chosen to hold one end of the banner proudly displaying my school's name, St. Boniface. You could taste the holiday spirit in the air. A carnival atmosphere in a city with a down town. Local shopkeeper festively decorated their windows with bright orange pumpkins and spooky goblins. Banks transformed into haunted houses and fully costumed tellers distributed candy to children making the rounds - marching between home grown businesses like Mitchell's Gift Store, Weisser's Sporting Goods, Hurst Jewelers, Jackson Drug's, Leo's Coffee Shop and the SQR Store. I didn't know it at the time, but my childhood may have been among the last whose memories include the Kiddie Parade, the SQR Store and a down town Anaheim. You see, I'm Anaheim - born and raised. I made my debut on February 10th, 1959 in Anaheim Memorial Hospital at about nine o'clock at night. I grew up right over on Resh Place, beneath the steeple of St. Boniface Church. Harbor Boulevard to the east, Citron Street to the west, Wilhelmina to the north and St. Catherine's Military School boardering the south. I grew up going to Elvis Presley movies at the Fox Anaheim. Stopped at Center Drug first to buy a nickel's worth of candy to eat while sitting in the front row watching "Girl Crazy" and "Speedway." Mother bought my saddle shoes from George in the shoe department at the SQR. I'm fifty now and so are my classmates of '73 from St. Boniface School. A school that no longer exists. I left Anaheim to go to college, I got married and moved back home to raise my children in a city with no down town. My kids never got to march down Center Street in the Kiddie Parade on Halloween. Robbed of that magic in the name of progress, my kids never had the chance to stand fascinated at the counter of the SQR as the sales slip was tucked into a tube and sent through exposed brass pipes up to the mezzanine. They never knew the little old lady with the thin red hair who cranked the elevator up to that mezzanine where she also wrapped the presents.Their memories do not include the pungent odor of shoe polish at Hoffman's nor the deer antlers that hung from its walls over the shoe-shine stands. No. Those memories went out with the wrecking ball. As daylight savings descends - buried in the rubble - childhood dreams, a small town spirit, the Kiddie Parade and down town Anaheim.

changing - Stan Beatty

When you get old the physical changes are not so obvious to other people. No one can see your aches and pains but you feel them. I accept the aches and pains as reminders that I am still alive and still in the game. I am grateful that God has not benched me.

The changes that are occurring in me are mental.  These are also changes that others cannot see. These changes are more than the normal age changes of the mind. They have nothing to do with forgetfulness that I have from time to time because of my age.

My mind changes have to do with my writing.  Writing has forced me to  see things more clearly and to  ask more questions and to listen to what is being said. I have learned that writing requires me to think and look deeper. Writing is different than talking. When your thoughts are published they cannot be denied. When I present something in writing it requires thought and honesty.  When I write I have to write what I know and not what I think.

I have to evaluate what I am going to write. I want  my writing to be as honest as possible. When I look at a scene or a person I think, "how could I write what I am seeing so that a reader would clearly see what I see"?   I now realize that if I want others to read and enjoy what I write it requires a lot of time, thought and effort on my part.

I have learned that as long as God leaves me on the playing field, I need to strive to get better at what I do. I need to work at improving myself, not only as a writer, but also as a person.

I have learned that since I have started writing I have become more sensitive to the world I live in.

I have learned that I am not a man cemented in the "Stones of Age" but a man still mold-able and changing.

I am writing, I am thinking, I am changing, I am alive.

Some Thoughts on the Awful Truth

The truth, in itself, is really not awful. Pretension is awful, living a lie is awful and being caught in a lie is the worst! Confession is truly good for the soul, I do believe that. I also believe it contributes to a good night’s sleep. Jesus, Himself, said, “The truth shall set your free”, I believe that too. I tell the truth. Unfortunately, there were times when I told it a bit too freely. Without some discretionary restraint, the truth can be awful. Lack of discretion in who to tell the truth to, or how often to tell it or in who’s hearing it is told can lead to unpleasant and unkind consequences. I confess I’ve always had a problem keeping my mouth shut. I remember running to the door even before I was old enough to go to school to be the first to tell Daddy “the news”. I would tell him what Mommy bought him for Christmas, I’d be the first to let him know that the plumbing backed up and there was garbage in the sink, I would tell him all the neighborhood gossip, often in front of the neighbors themselves. I’d always be quick to tell him of my brother’s latest misdeeds. Basically, I told him everything my mother wanted to tell him and all within the first five minute he was home, the more there was to tell, the louder and faster I’d tell it. The competition between my mother and I was intense. All the power was on her side but since she was not willing to burst through the door and run down the driveway when his car arrived, I usually won the first round of our, never named but always fought, contest each evening. Once in the house she would shush and scold me in order to get a word in edgewise. Sometimes, when I continued to interrupt I was sent to my room. All this taught me was to talk fast, talk loud, and always be first. My announcements would start before he was even out of the car. “We’re having spaghetti tonight”, I’d call on the run, “Timmy-had-diarrhea-today-and-it-went-down-his-leg” I’d say all in one breath. One time I even ran out with the news, “Grandma Foley died, the hospital called, it was a heart attack”. I don’t think my mother ever forgave me for that one and who can blame her? I am still somewhat irrepressible but I hope I have now learned enough self control to keep from hurting anyone. The truth is never awful but the way you tell it just might be.

Influence by Stan Beatty

I wrote the list and typed the names. I looked and searched and wrote some stories.  Who or what was the main influence on my life?  Sort of like, who am I or where did I come from?  Why am I the person I turned out to be.  I wondered if  Shakespeare came up with his famous "to be or not to be" question while pondering this same issue?

Was it my mother, my father or maybe both?  The school I went to or the teachers that taught me?  Are they responsible?  The friends I grew up with?  The religion I was taught?  Or maybe it was the place I grew up. The valley, the lake, the mountain?  Was it one or was it all?  Am I a composite of all of the above, or is there something else to consider.?

With who, whom or what do I give the credit or with who, whom or what do I place the blame?

As I thought about my life, it became obvious to me that I am a product of all.  Each and every aspect of my life has served to shape me.

But there is one underlying current that runs through all the influences that have given me my personality.  That one thing is "luck".  That's right, good old lady luck.  Why do I say luck?  Because I truly believe in the adage "but for the grace of God, There go I".

I was lucky to have the parents I did.  I grew up in a loving home, no beatings or child abuse.  No hunger or lack of food. 
I was lucky to grow up in America.  I was not born in a place where people are killed just because of religion or politics.
I was lucky to get an education, to have decent friends, to be healthy and to be able to work

There is no question that good old lady luck played a major roll in shaping who I am and what I am.
Thank you God for planting my butt exactly where you did.

Influence a la naturale by Connie Wolf

It was good to be back with my writing group again, I knew I missed it; I missed the process, I missed the people but I never suspected what a therapeutic release it would be to write again, to keep the pen moving, and to dare, once again to be transparent. I left class Tuesday determined to write every day. On Wednesday I began. I made a three page list of the influences in my life, I was sure I was off and running. The best laid plans….. OK, so it is now Saturday and I am looking at my three page list, I found it on my bedroom floor tossed carelessly by the side of my chair, untouched since Wednesday. I’m going out of town tomorrow and will miss this week’s class. Before I pack, before I make another telephone call or answer another email, I will choose something from my list of influences, something (as Amy would say) that jumps off the page at me. Three pages of people, events, places and things and what do I chose? I chose the weather. Does that tell you how boring the other items on my list must be if climate is my influence of choice? Actually, it is my second choice, my first was going to be a discussion of hormones; they have certainly been an influence on my life. They influenced me when they raged in my youth, when they burned in middle age, and even now, dry as dust, they influence me still, if only in memory. Some how, they are connected, the forces of nature within and the forces without. The forces of my current life are like the Santa Ana winds that blow dust and grit and set my teeth on edge. Holed up in the house, hiding from the heat I feel, angry. Every nerve on edge, the sky is clear and bright in contrast to the grit and heat that beats against my windows. This weather brings out the worse in me. I love rain, it releases something within me, the rain starts and it is as if I have been holding my breath, waiting for permission to exhale, breathe easy; I can live in just this moment. There are all kinds of rains, I’ll describe just three: #1 The Beginning Rain. I have watched the clouds come throughout the day. They came, first in layers of flat grayness, but now the final layer has form in various shades of darkness, now they are dimensional clouds with thick billows of substance. The day was long with the promise of rain. I found myself drawn again and again to the window to see if it had finally started, not yet, I feel the tension rise in me like a taunt elastic band pulled and straining, it must be released or it will surely break. With agitated anxiety I wait. Now I see, on the light concrete of the sidewalk, one large drop and then another. I hurry to my porch to watch and welcome the long awaited storm at its beginning. My hand reaches out, palm up, to feel the fall of the first large quarter-sized drops. It has begun; I feel relieved, I feel a release in my spirit in tune with the release from the sky. #2 Coastal Summer Rain On the coast of Oregon there are two kinds of rain. The storms that fall in torrents lashed with wind that brings down power lines and topples trees in its fury and then there are the mushy rains of late spring and summer. This is more a ground fog gone amuck, a heavy mist so fine it has no form or sound. The only sound is the drip from the trees and the eaves of the houses; a slow mournful drip that encourages boredom and discontent. This rain looks and feels like my depression. This rain will never lull me to sleep. In this rain I can’t cuddle up with steaming mug and watch from my window. It fills the air rather than falls. It fills the air with oppression. #3 The Sudden Storm, The Storm After The Storm It rained all day yesterday and today the sky is brilliant. In Southern California you forget what a really blue sky looks like; we have come to accept the dull gray of pollution that fills our calendar of days. But today, after yesterday’s storm, the people come out and they eagerly remark to anyone who will hear, “Look! Look at the sky how blue it is”. “Look you can see the mountains”. Once again we had forgotten they were there. There are still clouds, huge white fluffy clouds in constant motion across the sky. In the afternoon a dark cloud immerges, darker than any in yesterday’s storm. It moves quickly and seems to be full of its own wind. It does not fill the sky; the incredible blue can still be seen around the edges. With a single loud clap of thunder the rain begins, not slowly but all at once. People scurry on the sidewalks, scurry for cover. Cars slow on the street, in the houses everyone stops and runs to their windows. It is a majestic show of nature, it will not be ignored. It lasts only minutes, a half hour at the most and the cloud glides off to another neighborhood, another town. Mother Nature takes her show on the road.

OLD GLORY Sept. 15, 2009 　 I love it, love it, love it. That dashing red white and blue symbol of America. When Ted Kenned passed away recently we saw flags flying in his honor. My question is, where are those flags the rest of the time? And why can’t we fly them the 365 days a year, not just on holidays or in memory of days? Not to take away the tribute to Mr. Kennedy, but let us Americans show our pride in our country every day of the year. The 50 some years of my married life a flag has flown over my home. I give the flag as gifts to friends and family. They are available in hardware stores and I get mine from Congressman Gary Miller’s office in Brea. Those have flown in our country’s capital, Washington, D.C. In the townhouse complex in which we live there are over 200 homes and two flags are flying. I want to take it upon myself to hang one on each home. The glorious flag makes the statement that I am proud to be an American, and I am proud. Perhaps that pride is waning amongst us, but if everyone had a flag waving at their front door step, I believe that pride would be restored. It seems we are quicker to find fault with our country and that just drags us down. Not to say we don’t have our faults a plenty, after all we are comprised of billions of imperfect people, yet we are in the best country of all, so let us sing it’s praises. I love the flag and what it stands for, mainly freedom. I love to pledge to it, sing to it, salute it and watch it wave in the gentle wind. Pride, that is what it is all about. Splendid, enduring and everlasting pride. Betty McCallister

Finally I belong.

I still remember how I felt as I walked onto my high school campus in my Song Leading uniform the first day of my Senior year. At last, I thought to myself. Finally I belong. I have the right to stand in the area of the quad where all the popular kids stand without feeling like a leper. The other kids smiled at me and said hi and allowed me into their circles as they talked and laughed. All I really wanted from high school was to be a Song Leader. I had tried out all three years and made it my last year. I had also made the try outs to become a Los Angeles Rams Song Leader. I was finally worthy of my peers attention and adoration. I wasn't wealthy enough to wear the right clothes or be asked to join the right sorority. I wasn't pretty enough to be asked out by the most popular boys. I wasn't important enough to be included in any club just because I had the right name or my dad had the right job. I had worked so hard to be worthy of their adoration. But then that had been the story of my life from the day I was born. Perform. Perform LoRee and maybe you will be accepted. Maybe your mother will love you enough to come and take you back from your grandmother to live with her. Perform LoRee and maybe the couple you live with will love you enough to adopt you. Perform, and maybe they will keep you once they do adopt you. Perform and maybe the boys will like you. It's very tiring to be have to perform constantly. But, if you need to be loved bad enough, you keep auditioning no matter what, in hopes of pleasing your audience, whoever that might be at the time. Thank God I finally found an audience of one who only asked that I love Him. I no long have to perform to be accepted and loved. I am loved for who I am and I perform out of pure joy. Praise God.

Blogging by Stan Beatty

I spent all summer blogging and  I thought some of you might find my experience interesting.

My blogging started when I created this site for everyone in the class to use when and if you wanted to.  My thoughts  were to have a site that we could all use to write about our experiences and practice our writing.

The first thing I noticed was that every time a new post is put up it pushes the old post off  the main page.  I thought that every time I post I will push someone else off the main page. Since I was posting so often I thought other class members might  think of me as a hog. So I decided to create a personal blog that I could post on and others could read if they were interested.  I would post on both blogs. I named my personal blog  "Old Grizz and Me".

The new blog would give me the opportunity to write and post as much as I wanted.  I could do both and not be a hog on one.  I began writing short stories and posting them but I was not getting any readers. I did not know how to get noticed by other bloggers,  In other words, no one was "beating a pathway to my door". One day I was reading Connie's profile and noticed she read a blog site called  "Sunday Scribblings", so I decided to check it out. This site offers a weekly prompt and anyone can write about the prompt.  It is similar to what we do in our class.  When you post your interpretation of the prompt on your blog you link it back to the Sunday Scribblings site and other bloggers can see that you have written a response to the prompt.  They can read what you have written and comment on it.

When I first started posting on the blog no one was reading what I wrote or at least they were not commenting on what I had to say.  My "story" was either really bad writing or there was something going on that I did not understand.  I began reading other bloggers that had contributed and discovered that they were getting comments.  Some had just a few comments and some had a lot of comments.  When  I read what they wrote I could see that the bloggers with a lot of comments were not any better or any worse writers than I am. However, I did notice that the bloggers with the most comments were also the bloggers that commented the most.

I began to emulate Amy.  I left positive comments on what they had written.  The response was immediate.  I read and commented on their writing so they read and commented on mine.  I discovered blogging is a "push me-pull you" world.  At least it is for those of us that are not famous.  "You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours" should be the national motto of bloggers.  The bloggers that get the most responses are those that spend the most time reading and commenting on what other bloggers are writing.

Is there anything wrong with this system?  I don't think so.  If you want good friends in your everyday life you have to give of yourself.  No one wants friends that just take and never give.  I have discovered some very nice bloggers from England to Australia and enjoy what they have to say and enjoy their comments on what I have to say.   It has been a very positive experience for me.  In fact, I now have three blogs besides being a member of  "Tuesday with Amy"

If there is a down side to blogging it would be the time it takes away from my original goal of writing my life story and my secondary goal of writing short stories.  However I would say the experience of blogging has been positive and helped improve my writing skills.

Memoir Workshop

The Art of Remembering Memoir Workshop will resume on Tuesday September 29th from 3:30 - 5:30 p.m. at St. Paul Lutheran Church. This workshop is for all levels of writers interested in getting in touch with their story. Offered through the North Orange County Community College District Older Adult Program free of charge. Bring a notebook and pen. Remember, your life is your journey, your journey is your story, your story is your legacy.

the lesson by Stan Beatty

We sat in the police station's waiting room,  My wife was crying, I was mad.  Why would she do something so stupid.  I know she's not guilty my wife sobbed,  She wouldn't do that,  she doesn't need money.   She confessed I replied.  She is guilty, she took the money.  But why?  It's so stupid.  Who knows?  I guess she thought she wouldn't get caught.  My wife couldn't stop crying.  Where's the lawyer?  Will she get bail?  Damned if I know, this is all new to me.  He should be here any time.  He walked in, are you her parents?  Yes, can we get her out tonight, my wife asked?  I don't' know as I want to get her out, I said.  Maybe she needs a lesson.  Maybe a night in jail would be good for her.  But she so scared, my wife sobbed.  She was crying when she called.  "Please mommy get me out of here. I don't like it in here".  She seem so scared. 

She damned well ought to be, embezzling $30,000 dollars is no joke.  The lawyer said he would see what the charges were and if bail had been set.  He went in to talk to her.

As we sat there waiting and wondering, my mind went back to my  youth. 

I was in my parents back yard.  They had friends over, people they had know for 30 years.  I could picture them as if I was right there.  Tom and Brenda Parks.  Tom worked with my dad at the steel mill.  They were both pipe fitter welders. Tom and Brenda were also rock hounds as my parents were.  They belonged to the same club and had gone rock hunting together for years.  They were truly close friends. Tom was a big strapping man, tall, strong and proud.  But that night he was a defeated man.  His wife was sobbing then as mine was this evening. 

Back then they had faced much the same problem as we did this evening.  Evan, their only son, had committed a crime.  He stole some money.  But he didn't steal from a store like our daughter had. He stole from them.  He stole from his parents.  But it was much more complicated that that.  Evan was mentally handicapped.  Not severely handicapped, but handicapped. He went to regular high school but had to receive special tutoring.  He did graduate but only because they couldn't do anything more for him. 

After high school he made friends with a wild group.  They took him with them because he would do anything they asked.  He liked them because they were the only friends he could find.  The "friends" dreamed up a plot where Evan would steal his parents check book and they would get some money to party.  It wasn't a great amount, only $500.00 but it was enough to be classified as a felony.

Of course Evan got caught by his parents.  Instead of handling the crime at home, Tom chose to call the police and have Evan arrested.  Tom was really mad.  The boy needed a lesson.  He wanted no thief living in his house.  Over his wife's pleading he pressed charges.  A little prison time would do him good.  Evan went to prison.  2 to 5 for check forgery.  They said he would be out in 6 months.  Fine Tom said, he will damn well not steal when  he gets out.  He will be a better person.  Every man has to pay for his mistakes. 

It didn't work like that.  Evan was bitter.  He hated his parents.  He never wanted to see them again.  He had been forsaken, abandoned.  He didn't understand.  He was sorry, but for Tom sorry wasn't good enough. The boy must be taught a lesson.

Evan was a bitter prisoner.  He couldn't adjust to prison life. He was a dummy. The other prisoners tormented him.  He fought back.  His Sentence was extended.  He refused to see his parents.

He was killed in a prison fight eight years after his father had him put in prison.  The lesson had worked.  Evan would never steal again.  Tom's heart was broken.  He knew he had been wrong.  But now it was to late.  Tom would live the rest of his life with a broken heart.  He had wronged his own flesh and blood.

The lawyer came out.  They set bail, he said, $50,000 dollars.  I know a good  bail bond company.   If you can come up with $5000.00 dollars, we can get her out tonight.  Call the bail people I said .  I'll put it on my credit card.  Will she have to go to prison?  She did confess.  Well sometimes, he explained, if this is the first offense and restitution is made the store won't press charges. Then it's up to the D.A.'s office if they want to prosecute.  Most of the time they do not.

I said,  I'll take a loan on my house.  I'll pay every dime back.  I don't want any child of mine in prison.

Remembering Ronnie

"Be Bold. Be Courageous. Serve Others." Ronnie wrote those words. I remember telling him, "those should be on a poster!" And what did Ronnie do? He made me a poster with those words on it. This is just one of his legacies. Ronnie faced numerous health challenges, but they never deterred him from persevering. Sometimes, he would arrive to class with an oxygen tank. He walked slowly but with a determination unmatched by most. As his health deteriorated, he sometimes used a motorized cart to get to and from the car. Whenever he could, Ronnie came to class despite the obstacles. He was forthright, honest, opinionated, direct. In one of his last outspoken moments in class, Ronnie railed against his church spending money on a bell tower. The money, he said, could have been used for more important things. His sense of social justice and care for those in need was evident in the things he wrote about. Breath is life. For as long as I knew Ronnie, he was running out of both. But he never wasted either. He wrote stories about his life, his recovery, his camping trips, his family, his beliefs, and his struggles. Writing is hard work. Ronnie worked hard at it. It was a labor of love. Our life is our journey. Our journey is our story. Our story is our legacy. There will be an empty chair at our table - but Ronnie's legacy and indomitable spirit will continue to inspire. Be Bold. Be Courageous. Serve Others. Like Ronnie.

Kent

He hopped off his bike and took the paper to the porch where Lois Holdaway was  standing.  Thank you Kent, she smiled and off down the sidewalk he continued.  He tossed the paper on the porch of the next house and the next 10 houses on his route.  His papers never missed a porch.  He was a master of his trade.  If he had live in New York, he could have been a Peanut Vendor at Yankee Stadium.  But Kent didn't live in New York.  He lived in Orem, Utah, a small city located beneath Mount Timpanogos in central Utah.   His next paper flew into the outstretched hand of Dwayne Finch, the best baseball player to ever play at Orem High School.  You could have been a great pitcher Dwayne yelled with a smile.  But he knew that was not true and so did Kent.  Kent went on, 2 more porches, 2 more perfect deliveries.  Kent prided himself in his perfect throws.  No one ever looked for one of his papers. It was always right there on the porch, right where the customer wanted it.  Ten more porches, ten more perfect strikes.

The next house was Doris Hamilton's, a handicapped lady who lived alone.  Kent would always get off his bike and walk the paper to her door.  He would knock lightly and say "paper Mrs Hamilton" and deliver it personally.    She always said, "thank you Kent" and tried to  hand him a tip.  He never accepted it.  He never ask for or accepted a tip from her for his service.  He knew she was poor and needed to keep her money.  It went that way all along his route.  His customers loved him.  No one could recall ever missing a paper.  If there were a world's record for consecutive deliveries or un-missed deliveries, Kent would certainly have owned it.   He had many years  (I was never sure of how many) with out one missed delivery or one complaint.

I got my paper route when I was 13 years old. Fifty-four customers.  I knew Kent because he was our paper boy.  I didn't know how long he had been doing it but it was for as long as I could remember.  My pick up location was the same as his.  On my first day, he took the time to show me how to fold and bag the papers.  After he finished his route of 200 customers he came to my route to make sure I didn't have any problems.  I was barely half through when  he arrived and helped me finish. I struggled with my route.  I hated the cold. I hated getting up early on Saturdays and Sundays. I hated that dam paper route.  If it hadn't of been for Kent I would have been fired in the first week.  He helped me.   You'll catch on he would say.  It really is easy.  Kent loved his route.  It was his life.  It seemed to be part of him.  In fact it seemed to be him.

One day I ask my mom how old he was.  He didn't go to school.  He didn't seem to have any friends.  I'm not sure, she said.  I think somewhere around 30, but I'm not really sure.  I don't know if anyone knows.  Why is he so little I ask?  I was only thirteen and small for my age but he was a head shorter than me.  He spoke with a tiny voice that was something just above a squeak.  Oh he had plenty of volume but he sounded like  you might think a doll would sound.  He was toe headed and wore big horn rimmed  glasses.  His nose was turned up so that you could see his full nostrils and his skin lacked pigment.  He didn't look like a midget, just a skinny little kid waiting to grow up.  A human ugly duckling that would never turn into a swan.  My mom just answered, I'm not sure of that either.  He's just little.

All the kids made fun of him except me.  My mom would have tanned my hide if she caught or even heard of me making fun of him or any one else.  I think that's why he helped me.  He wasn't afraid to talk to me.  I always wanted to ask him why he was so little but the manners my mother taught me would not allow me to ask.  It might embarrass him  Looking back, he probably would have been more than happy to tell me.

My stint as paper boy didn't last long.  As I remember it, about 2 months.  When the first winter snow hit, I quit. Kent continued to deliver the paper until one cold day in December when I was a junior in high school.  Where's the paper I heard my dad say.  Oh Cecil, haven't you heard, Kent passed away yesterday.  Oh, my dad said as if it was something that happened everyday.  My dad wasn't callous, he just could not show emotion.  I stood in our big front picture window looking at Mount Timpanogos and shed a tear for Kent from both me and my dad.

Handicapped Parking

One of my pet peeves is the abuse of "handicapped parking". It galls me when I see someone using the space and they obviously are not handicapped in any way unless you count "mentally handicapped". But the worst of the abusers are the people who some how get the "handicapped" card or sticker and in no way need it. They use their "parent's" card or car and take advantage of the system. I have often thought of various ways to "teach a lesson" but since I am not a "handicapped parking" officer it is not my place to issue punishment. I just boil over silently when I see it happen. One time a friend of mine screamed at an abuser, "how do you qualify as handicapped, no brains?" The person just walked on without looking or responding. I wanted to flatten her tire but I didn't. Just recently I came across an interesting situation. What qualifies a person to be handicapped enough to get the parking pass? You would think that a heart transplant patient might qualify and to be sure, he or she does. However, if that person has recovered from the operation, does he or she still qualify? I have a friend that had a heart transplant. He has recovered nicely and in fact plays golf. We both played in a tournament in Palm Springs last summer and shared the same room. It was an interesting weekend. He had a ton of pills he had to take. He was well organized and took them exactly the same time each day. All of this information is really secondary and is just to show that he is handicapped but yet he can play golf. He does have the "handicapped parking" pass and used it where ever he went. I became confused. Who could deny a heart transplant patient "handicapped parking"? Why does anyone who can play 36 holes of golf in 3 days deserve a "handicapped parking" pass? You tell me. What do you think?

The Bus Stop

Ann Lamott has inspired me to write this story on a warm Sunday summer evening as I sit on my patio sipping a refreshing glass of ice water. Ann is my new best friend. I fell in love with her in the pages of "Traveling Mercies." Her story pulls at my heart strings and touch the core of my being as no other author, though, there are several other favorites as Ann Tyler, Alice Hoffman, Rebecca Wells, etc., but Ann is different, and perhaps I am different too. I suppose I am. I am a new person each dawn, carrying with me the same ideals and habits, yet reborn anew. Each day I am on a different bus, and where it takes me I do not know, but I hop aboard and am ready for the adventurous ride. Oftentimes it goes around in circles like a dog chasing it’s tale, and many days it takes me to an enchanting destination of new found wisdom and love. Yesterday, Saturday was one of the later days as the bus took me on a heart filled journey when we visited our daughters lovely home to celebrate Ed’s birthday. Our son Craig has done a lot of landscaping work in Julie and Gary’s vast park like back yard and he asked his grandson Alex, age 5 to give me, ‘grandma’ a tour of the grounds. Yes, I am great grandma, but that is too much for little Alex to understand, so I am just ‘grandma’ and I love it. Alex and I were on an exciting adventure as he guided me down about 25 wooden steps (without hand rails yet). I said ‘Alex, grandma must be careful and walk slowly so as not to fall.’ His reply was, ‘it’s okay, I will help you.’ OMG! Did I mention he is a charming remarkable sweetheart of a little boy. He is smart and kind with expressive eyes as big as baseballs as he tells his five year old tales. So Alex gives me this guided tour of the lovely and enchanting new garden as we travel along a creative rock path. Among other lovely things, there is a quiet little meditation area with a wicker chair where I can picture myself sitting and dreaming the day away. As we approach the end of our tour, Craig meets us as Alex runs for a pair of plastic gloves and is bubbling over with excitement to show me the owl poop. Yes, that’s right, dried owl poop! He tires his best to put his five little fingers into the five fingers of the gloves. There were several attempts and I am overcome with laughter for as hard as he tries he kept coming up with two fingers in one hole, and an empty hole in the glove. He finally gave up and wore them as they were and took me to the poop. I think that was the best part of our stroll for him. After all, he is a five year old little boy and different things excite them than do an old lady. What an adventure the bus took me on that summer Saturday, and what a fantastic memory to behold of time spent with this dear little boy. And I thought my writing well had vanished for the summer, taken a vacation, until I picked up Ann’s book "Bird by Bird" and read that a writer should write 300 words every day, (and I knew that), but had become lazy. Thank you Ann for giving me the kick in the pants I needed . If I could ever capture and tell a story as captivating as you do I would be a happy soul. Ann and I do have something in common though, we both walk with the Lord each day. Betty McCallister 8/23/09

Process

Yesterday I met with my writing teacher. She was consulting with me on the manuscript of a memoir I have been crafting for fifteen years. Two intense hours of page by page, line by line critique that have given me a focus for the next revision. I was reminded yet again, that creating an artistic work takes time, patience and commitment. Writing is only part inspiration. The rest of it is hard work. It isn't easy. It is a process. I can't wait to roll up my sleeves and begin. I love fine tuning. It is the same way with theatre. Rehearsing a play is akin to the writing process in that the director may begin with a vision - an idea, a hook, a theme, an insight - and then over six weeks or so, has to work to shape the play to communicate this vision as clearly as possible. Clarity for a reader or for an audience is important. That's not to say that a final product is not subject to varying interpretations. Of course a reader or member of an audience comes to the work from his or her point of view and life experience. The artist, be he a writer or theatre director cannot be worried about what might happen to the work once it is made public. All the artist can do is craft the clearest articulation of his vision possible. The rest is out of his or her hands. The artist must love the process - messy as it is. It is a labor of love. Rushing it, may lead to a premature birth. In rehearsal, I often tell my actors that this is the time to risk, to try new things and to fail. Fear of failing inhibits the growth and discovery process necessary in rehearsal. This same idea may be applied to the writing process. One of the most inhibiting factors to a writer is fear of failure. Every artist must define for himself what this means and face this fear with great courage. Committing to a writing practice is essential to overcoming this fear. Exercising those muscles, staying in shape, and practicing the craft help to develop self confidence. This is why being in a writing group is so helpful. It is why actors continue to study their craft in acting class. Practice. There is no replacement for it. Loving the process makes this commitment a joy rather than a chore. I believe loving the process is the key ingredient to being an artist. I came away from my meeting yesterday knowing that I probably have a year's worth of work to do on my memoir before it will be ready. What a great feeling.

faster horses......horse pucky

Old Grizz, my super 3D alter ego, or as those who know me say "the only part of me that can write" ........(that's a long way around the bush) ........says "the only Philosophy that is worth a dam is from the song by Tom T Hall where the skinny cowboy says the best things in life are "faster horses. younger women, stronger whiskey and more money". Whew, that's a mouth full. Well I happen to know that at least the horse part is a bunch of hooey. You may get the faster horses but you have to know how to bet em. (if you don't bet em what does it matter if they are fast or not?). So as the old saying goes, "if you got em (fast horses) bet em" or something like that. So I did. An old track tout gave me 9 horses at Santa Anita and said if you want to make money "Parlay, young man, Parlay". Don't get excited. I didn't say, "party, party", I said , "parlay, parlay. So, knowing good advice when I hear it, I rushed right down to the corner phone booth and called a bookie I knew. Gimmy $200 on "old john in the first, parlay that to "old Mary" in the 2nd, old Henry in the third, old pud nuts in the 4th and old Ginny in the 5th and make it for every dam horse to win. You notice how I go for the "old" horses. Well, john won, Mary won. Henry won, pud nuts won and my heart was about to burst, but what burst instead was my ego............ Ginny lost. Lesson learned? Not me! I went for the last four. Gimmy $200 on Big Dan in the 6th and (of course parlay, I had only parlayed once and parlay, parlay means twice), Big Bubba in the 7th, Big Horace in the 8th and finally Big Donald (playing my Trump horse) in the 9th and every every dam horse to win. Did you notice I changed to "Big" horses. OK, here we go again. Dan won, Bubba won and Horace won, but my "Trump" horse was a true "Beetle Bomb". ....My Trump horse was a loser. The point of this whole story? Faster horses is not the answer to a better life............. I had 7 winners and 2 seconds and lost $400 bucks. Next week I'll get into the younger women thing. That otta be a hooter.

They Danced by Betty McCallister

Betty McCallister 8/1/09 They are all sitting around in the same community room with blank stares upon their worn and wrinkled faces. Mostly gray haired ladies of the day, and night, along with a few bald headed stately men, each with their hands neatly folded in their laps and droopy eyes with shoulders slumped. Staring, that is what they do at St. Bridget’s Home for the Aged. Lots of staring. There is a television to watch but most are not really interested, yet they stare anyway. A few might exchange conversation with another about their lives lived, fully aware these days that their future appears grim. Numerous thoughts circle around in their minds and the constant question emerges, "will he/she come to visit me today, or are they too busy with their families. I hope they come, and if they do, it puts a smile on their forlorn faces. Then on a low-keyed Saturday afternoon she does come, this rather large statuesque blond haired entertainment lady, decked out in a long flowing pink dress with a red flowery hat. She springs through the door liken to an angel, laden with various pieces of equipment. All senior spectators are overwhelmed with curiosity. Something different grabs their stoic attention. What now??? What it is is music! Beautiful music from days gone bye which they all recall in memory. Each song stirs the souls of these nearly forgotten folks. Faces come alive, toes are tapping and hands unfold with a clap or two. Some kind of wonderful is happening at St. Bridgets. A few tears stream down cheeks, tears of joy and sadness mixed together as the melodies tamper with their emotions. Some begin to sing along. Nostalgia fills the musty room. Then the big blond disk jockey angel gal puts on the Tennessee Waltz, and as Patty Page sings her heart out, a gentleman rises from his chair and asks a little white haired lady to dance, and dance they did. His legs are long and lanky, his steps are smooth as he hold her tenderly in his arms and glides her gracefully across the floor to the melodic sounds, "I was dancing with my darling".... It appeared he had waltzed many darlings in his bygone years as he was so statuesque and polished. A man who usually sat comfortably in a corner of the community room chatting with the few other men about their heroic days of yesteryear, came alive that Saturday afternoon at St. Bridget’s Home For the Aged. He waltzed like he was going for the gold. His pretty little partner glowed like she was 18 again and at her senior prom. They danced with delight as the audience beamed with gaiety. Is this a dream I am, or is for real? A few more joined in the dance as the afternoon faded into twilight. "Gonna take a sentimental journey".... ‘Please come back’ big blond lady was their plea as she departed . ‘You brought such pleasure to our lives when we thought it had slipped into neverland’. She tipped her blossomy hat and said she would be back, oh yes she would. Music was her true and dear companion and sharing it was her reason for being.

An Unsinkable Legacy

Why must the captain go down with the ship?

I come from a family of survivors.

Though the Titanic sank, I grew up with that story about my

Great

Great

Great

Aunt Ida Strauss.

Mother told the story of how Ida loved her husband so much

She refused to get into the life boat.

A love as deep as the ocean that became her grave.

Is this heroics?

Or stupidity?

Where is the line that separates one from the other?

Loyalty from lies?

Denial from hope?

Why must the show go on?

What if Ida had gotten off?

I might have been spared this legacy.

And what about my grandmother who sailed bravely from Panama thrice widowed

with two little girls

one of them my mother

who told the story of how, once settled safely with family in Cincinnati,

she was put into boarding school

but no she did not feel abandoned by three dead fathers and her

courageous mother.

When does denial become pathological?

When does strength become suppression?

Why do it the company way?

Why tow the party line?

Don’t air your dirty laundry.

Don’t tell our family business -

speaking of which

it might have survived after daddy dropped, had Mother been less sentimental and my brother more realistic.

Recklessness.

But into the drink it went right along with the ship

and so did we.

And what about that unopened video tape, “AIDS, What Is It and How Do You Get It?” I found on the floor of my brother’s closet when boxing up his life?

Another iceberg.

Denial disguised as secrets.

Lies clocked in nobility.

Silence mistaken as loyalty

brings down countries, companies, families and ships.

 

 

Deadly Betrayal

Cats in the cradle, the perfect snare, woven through the fingers of time. I drifted through the morning mist coming closer and closer. She was there waiting for me. I could not resist. She enticed me. I knew she was poison and I would die, but I could not resist. I remembered her body, how she felt, how she shook when we made love. One more time. Please, just give me one more time. She had been there for all eternity weaving her cradle. Weaving a perfect web of death. She knew I was coming. Her eyes burned the mist. I could feel their heat. I could feel their strength pulling me. My lust engulfed me. A damned eternity of lust, burning my loins, racking my body, forcing me towards her. I was sacrificing my eternal soul for lust. I knew it and I could not stop. I was almost there. I felt the heat of her body, sensed the rhythm of her hips. I could hear the sound of her heart throbbing wildly behind her heaving breasts. Her breath came in pants. I sensed her desire for death. It engulfed me like a web. I had betrayed her. She had waited an eternity for revenge. I was so near I could feel her breath through the mist. Her cradle was perfect A snare of eternal revenge. I had to touch her, feel her one last time. She knew I couldn't stop. I reached out, felt her arm. She gasped, shuddered, the excitement of revenge gripping her. Centuries of hate erupted within her. Her heart exploded, her revenge lost. An eternity of planning, building her cradle of deceit, setting her snare, all lost in a heart beat. My lust released me. I was free. I had won..or.. I had lost

Elements of Life

Air Meets Water:

The warm, tropical, humid Hawaiian breeze stirred in the palm trees. Blissfully ignorant, I sat gazing at the pounding surf. Little did I know how quickly this calm would escape me. Swimming with sea turtles, lounging on rafts, snorkeling over coral reefs and kicking with fins through the green waves brought a renewed patience within myself. I was slowing down and just being. Ruah, the breath of life, moved through me. I was grateful for the gift. Would I be able to bring this feeling full circle after flying back to my real life?

Water Meets Earth:

The ocean has always been my solace. I return again and again and she, like an old friend who has waited patiently for my return, welcomes me. Her primordial waters encircle me like the womb of my mother. At the end of the earth, I swim to her, buouyant and weightless. This ocean, with its tumultuous moods, peaceful calm and pounding surf will be my grave. The earth erodes into the sea. And I will swim eternally in her embrace.

Earth Meets Fire:

It was the flatness of her voice and the silence that preceded it that struck fear in my heart. Something was wrong. I know her too well not to detect the nuance of unspoken dread. And then the grave report: "I had a bad biopsy." My heart thumped and the fire of rage consumed me. Her voice, crackled with forced optimism. "We are thinking positively." All I could see was the brown dirt of grief, again. The ashes of a life, again. Only this time, it was Peggy. Life is relentless, I thought. It has only been two years since I stood by as the jagged flames of the oven consumed Mother's body in its fiery cremation. Fifteen since Bob's ashes were placed into the earth next to Jamie's tiny coffin. And twenty-seven since Daddy led the way that August morning in 1981. This time, I fear, I will not have the strength to walk across the red hot coals. No. Not this time. This time I will fight. You will not take her from me. This time you will lose. Not me. The white sands of Hawaii seemed a distant memory and my old friend grief welcomed me home.

Fire Meets Air:

It had been a day of dread. Mother's cremation. As I awoke that morning, I knew I had to go. I called the funeral home. They advised against it. I insisted. I wept. How could I not be there? I had been born from my mother's body. Hers was the first touch I had known. She had cradled me, stroked me, caressed me, protected me until it was I who protected her. Wiping her. Washing her. Even brushing her dentures, something I never thought I could do. On this day, that body would burn to ashes. Dissolved in grief I searched for a sign. A lone pink camellia beckoned me. Mother's favorite flower. I clipped it from the stem, wrapped a wet paper towel and foil around the bottom and left the house. I drove through my tears along the tree-lined street alone in my mother's Buick. And then just ahead there appeared two large birds with wide wingspans. They may have been hawks. They flew just in front of my car, soaring through the air. And I knew I had a sign. There were my parents, reunited, dancing, soaring freely after twenty-five years of separation - together, leading me to the crematorium. I placed the camellia on my mother’s chest and kissed her forehead. They closed the cardboard coffin and slid it into the oven. They waited for me to give the o.k. to push the button. I nodded. It would take four hours for her tiny body to be turned to dust. But I knew, her spirit soared.

Where Did Mervyn's Go?

Where Did Mervyn’s Go? Betty McCallister 6/21/09 It was at the corner of the street, Mervyn’s was. No need to maneuver around the hectic mall parking lot to grab a quick item. Mervyn’s was so handy, but is no more. Perhaps it went the way of my really favorite store, Robinson’s May. And what happened to the local Hallmark Card shop a mile from home where I bought at least 100 cards, gifts and gadgets. They closed their doors after 23 years, along with the Video shop beside them. Both gone with the blink of an eye. The nearby Target and Smart and Final picked up and moved to the next town. So I drive to Long’s Drugs that I visited on a weekly basis and the parking lot is empty. No more Long’s. Bobby McGee’s, a Brea landmark restaurant has a ‘for lease’ sign on it’s face. We celebrated several happy occasions there, where they would place around our necks a paper toilet seat cover for a bib and the good times ensued. Am I living in the twilight zone, I ask myself. Vacant and boarded up buildings are destroying the landscape and scares me so. And what happened to all the hundreds of employees of these establishments I wonder. Perhaps among the gainfully unemployed. Oh, there is more. These days our minds are burdened with downcast news of spiritless events as foreclosures, bankruptcies, war, gay marriages, immigration, budget cuts, short falls, health care, terrorism, Iraq and Iran and Afghanistan, and on and on the list goes like a snowball gathering snow. Our minds are in a boggled state as we try to digest these bigger than life issues. I want to be informed and be a concerned citizen, but it is all a little overwhelming right now. I guess we are all looking for answers as to how and why and to whom to lay blame and point the finger at. Are you as puzzled with it all as I am? Still, as we greet each new day we put one foot in front of the other and nod. We set the table, fold the laundry, butter the toast and go on with the normal functions in an abnormal world, each of us finding our own coping tools in order to stay on top of the game, the game called life that is. Am I on the outside looking in, or am I in the inside looking out? I have always heard that change is a good thing and we must roll with it. Well I sometimes think I am on a slippery sloop just a rolling and a rolling along. I do not want to hear another newscast of more impossible situations. I cannot fix them, I can only fret about them. Is it okay at 70 years young to bury your head in the sand and pretend that everything is just fine? Do I have permission to do that? I have a sign on my patio that I bought at a craft fair which reads, ‘do you suppose the hokey pokey is really what it’s all about’? Do you suppose????? I just want my Mervyn’s back.

the jacket

For some reason certain things stick in your craw. They never leave. I call them poppers. They keep popping up when you least expect them. They usually mean nothing. They are not harbingers of doom or bad memories that depress you. They are just poppers. Pop, there is is again. Why? No one knows. Certain things we never remember. Certain things we never forget. "Poppers" are those unforgettable things. The jacket is one of my poppers. It happened 52 years ago in the fall of 1956. I was seventeen, full testosterone and stupidity and I had five good buddies that were exactly like me. We were shopping for school clothes in Provo, Utah. Provo was not our home town. We were from Orem but in those years Provo was the place to shop. Provo was one of those quaint small towns with one main street going east and west and another going north and south. Both streets were lined with trees and parking was at a diagonal in front of the stores. 1956 was the year of the "Car Coat" and we all wanted one. However, they were quite expensive. They ran about $40.00 and by the time we had our Levis, dress pants and some different styles of shirts we didn't have much money left. We all went onto the jacket store and wandered around looking at the different car coats. I was trying on a gray wool one with a lapel collar. It was mid length and hung just below my butt. I walked over to the mirrors to check out the look and then I just wandered around the store wearing the jacket. One of the group said come on lets get out of here and they started to leave. I looked around and both clerks were busy and not paying any attention to me so I just walked out with the jacket. Oh my God, one of my buddies said. You stole the "effen" jacket. That's really cool. I "was" the "man". They all laughed and giggled and said how great I was to steal the jacket. I was elated and excited. I did it. Wow, I had a "Car Coat". As we were driving home it dawned on me that I couldn't take the jacket home. My mother would know that I stole it. I told that to the others and one of them said he could fool hsi mother and he would pay me for it. I thought boy am I stupid. I took the chance and if I had been caught it would have been my butt at the police station. Now I wasn't even going to get the jacket. He took the jacket and came up with a story about winning it in a drawing. I was the thief. He had the jacket and you know what, he never paid me a dime for the damn thing. I have never stolen another thing. Maybe "poppers" are really my conscience talking to me.

my hero

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life...... is a thought that deeply troubles me. Who else could be a hero in my life? Does my life have any heroes? I am certainly not a hero by any imagination of the word, but I could be a hero of my own life. I could be if I could overcome my main weakness...procrastination. I sure it's not to late. I just have to get started. I'll do that tomorrow. Right now I have to take a nap.

I Owe It All to Kafka

Little did I know I was in for an epiphany right there in the old town square in Prague. I was on a Franz Kafka walking tour with a few other tourists from England. The tour guide was telling us that Kafka only left Prague once in his life to go to Berlin with his wife. He returned to Prague shortly after and never left the city again. He was a tortured soul – working for his father in business. But Kafka was first and foremost a writer. He never published anything he wrote in his lifetime. In fact, he instructed his friend, Max Brod to burn his writing after his death at the age of forty-one, an instruction not followed. As I listened to the story of Kafka’s struggle with the writing life, I took in the historically ornate buildings around me. Prague, with its own tortured history, is emblematic of the strange tension that resides in so many artists’ souls – that is the tension between beauty and despair. Prague is a town brimming with artistic genius. Music pours out of the churches – organ concerts and Mozart’s Requiem – creations from another world - clash with the popular culture of the twenty-first century. Prague, the town of the Velvet Revolution and Vaclav Havel, spared bombing in World War II by Hitler because of its beauty – even that a shadowed piece of history, is a city with an identity crisis. It seemed fitting to me that Kafka would have come from this place. As I walked along the cobble stoned streets and crooked buildings, I was moved by the idea that one could spend an entire lifetime in such a small area. Where stimulation fuels creativity, imagination must take over when travel and adventure are lacking. The mind is indeed a vast resource – how else could Kafka have written Metamorphosis ? And then my epiphany. One of my fellow tourists remarked as we walked along, “why would anyone keep writing if they aren’t ever published?” And right there beneath the windows of unseen ghosts, I said to this stranger, “Why then, you must not know what it is to be an artist.” Alone in Prague, I pondered my response. I sat at a café and pondered what I’d said. Do I know what it is to be an artist? I pondered as I sipped Czech beer and ate goulash. I pondered as I crossed the Charles Bridge between the line of carved statues toward the immense castle looming on the other side. This city, hauntingly beautiful, became a living, breathing symbol for my own stunted artistry. “What am I waiting for ” I asked myself. Kafka wrote because he had to. That’s what writers do. An artist must produce his art regardless of pubic acclaim. It must move from the heart to the page in order to be. And I pledged then and there to produce my own art in whatever form it would take. I promised myself that I would fearlessly create because otherwise, as Martha Graham says to Agnes DeMille "if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it." And I recalled my favorite passage in Virginia Woolf’s To The Light House;

Quickly, as if she were recalled by something over there, she turned to her canvas. There it was, her picture. Yes, with all its greens and blues, its lines running up and across, its attempt at something. It would be hung in the attics, she thought; it would be destroyed. But what did it matter? she asked herself, taking up her brush again. She looked at the steps; they were empty; she looked at her canvas; it was blurred. With a sudden intensity, as if she saw it clear for a second, she drew a line there, in the centre. It was done; it was finished. Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision.

It is this that I wish to be able to say on my deathbed.

Amy Luskey-Barth

Portrait of my Mother

My Mother was a highly intelligent woman; she skipped two grades in elementary school and graduated from high school when she was just 16 years old. She had majored in science and took two years of Latin, she dreamed of going into medicine but unfortunately it was 1936, the height of the “Great Depression” there was no question, she was not going to college. Her father deserted the family when she was still quite young; her mother was on the public dole, supplementing the family income with a part-time job cleaning a movie theatre. There was no work for a 16 year old girl, with or without a high school diploma so Mom sat all day and strung wooden beads, busy work invented by the WPA. Finally when she was 18 she found work as a waitress at a bus station lunch counter. When she was 21, she married her best friend’s older brother, my Dad. My Mother was beautiful, caustically funny, athletic, hard working, organized to a fault and baked the best pies in the world. She was absurdly thrifty and could stretch a dollar until the Eagle screamed. When she died, I cleaned out drawers and cupboards full of recycled twist ties; reused so many times they were but bare wires. Also empty margarine tubs and cool whip containers, dozens and dozens of them. There was little of a personal nature; she hated nick knacks, called them “dust catchers”, never wore jewelry and didn’t save mementos. Her penmanship was beautiful but she wrote only grocery and “to do” lists and threw those away as soon as each item was neatly crossed off. She left nothing behind that could give even a clue to what was in her heart. My mother was depressed a great deal of the time, prone to rages that caused her to scream at us, eyes bulging, face purple. For many years, while we were growing up she kept a huge bottle of vodka under the kitchen sink. When we were grown and out of the house, she didn’t seem to need it any more. She was also honest, sometimes too much so. When I was a young woman she told me that there was something missing in her, that she was unable to love children as other mother’s loved. She did not mean to be unkind; but all I could hear was “I didn’t love you”. No that is not exactly what she said, but that is what I heard. I would have rather heard a lie. I never thought I’d be like my Mother; I worked studiously towards being another person. I would be like Aunt Shirley or I would be like Annette on the Mickey Mouse Club, I would be a new invention, a person created in a vacuum, like no one else. In many ways, I succeeded, I am not like her. I do not have her organizational skills, I was never athletic, I can not do the New Times Sunday crossword puzzle in ink. My pie crust looks like a child’s paper Mache art project not perfectly formed like my mother’s. My house tends toward the chaotic, not a “place for everything and everything in its place” like my mother’s. My handwriting looks like chicken scratch; it is not perfectly formed like my mother’s. I am like my mother in many ways despite my childhood resolve. I am prone to depression, I force myself to “hug” and to touch, and it doesn’t come easily. I have a sharp and sometimes hurtful tongue. I became so much of her that I did not like and in my struggle I forgot to embrace that which I most admired.