This posting will be the last entry for Crossing the Great Divide. The blog will remain, but I'll not be posting to it any longer. I've enjoyed this blog, a lot of hard work went into building it, and it has recorded snippets of my life for the last 16 months. Sometimes... sometimes... we can swim beyond the imagery.
nelle
Traditionally, election day has not been a biggie for me. Oh, I vote, have in every statewide election since first becoming eligible since Fred Flintstone was on the ballot and we chiseled out our vote. Actually, it was 1974, and the election I voted in... ended up in a tie.
A tie. For US Senate.
Yeah, it was weird. Weirder still was what came next. After the recount dust had dissipated, a special election was to be held in 1975. Two days before the election, I witnessed, well heard... something I was not supposed to hear, a nice, direct glimpse into the doings of politics.
In the summer of 1975, I was employed as a maintenance person for a local tv station for the duration of my semester break. Make that the only maintenance person. The place was run down and filthy, nothing like the state of the art facility that exists today. I went in and busted arse for three weeks, cleaning the place up like it hadn't been in years... sort of like cleaning a centuries old frescoe in Italy ;-) (delusions of grandeur, it's my blog)
After this initial wave of cleaning, there was nothing else left to clean. There was a glassed in room in the front of the building, full of books, mostly novels. Actual news stuff, har! I'd make my daily rounds, taking all of an hour, and then retire to this room to read for the bulk of the day, until there was something else actually left for me to do, I'd do it, then wander back.
I recall reading Letters to the Happy Hooker (Xaviera Hollander) and recall one writer who got off on lightning. Impressive. Another was the autobiography (yeah, right) of Bo Belinsky. I recall him drilling a hole in a hotel room wall so he could watch Miss Universe, in the room next door, with his teammates. One idiot was so fired up, when she shut her light off, he shined a flashlight on her. Not a good idea.
I've digressed, again. Where was I? Two days before the special election, I wandered into the restroom off the lobby. Oops. Whilst in there, into the building comes the governor, Meldrim Thompson (who was to the right of everyone on the planet) the US Senate candidate, and maybe a few others. The station gm, a good guy, met them.
I'm not moving. No way. I will root right to this toilet, but I am not going out that door. They were literally feet from that door, like maybe 3 feet. Clear as a bell, I could hear them plot strategy. You say this, then your opponent will say this, and it will all be timed so you get the last say before the voting begins. Great. Station manager is plotting strategy with the GOP. And I'm definitely not moving.
After maybe a half hour, they moved onward and upward, and I got the hell out of there as fast as I could move, once pants were back around my waist. And fastened.
We've come a long way since then, haven't we?
A quick follow up to last night's post. This is more for the record than anything else...
The touching on memories sent me towards some shaking a bit later on. I forced it down, but it left me decidedly uneasy, but as is usual, my mind bounces back quickly, and am fine now.
What's weird is how quickly my mind suppress the offending memories, five minutes after the fact I could not recall. Posting beyond this point though... no, I prefer to stay away tonight.
There are some things I have trouble with.
These things usually come up expectedly, catching me unawares. Initially I'll start to run away, then my neurons, probably the result of aging, finally get their signals sent, and brain processes the new information. Result: "why?"
The first thing I remember doing this to me, was Goddess Lydia's goddess programme in iVillage. Talk of goddesses and such left me decidedly skittish, until it dawned on me one day to question and look at why. It was a new form of self examination for me, and probably came about from being locked into a time of selfishness and a total focus inward. Else, I'd have been distracted and it would have gone unnoticed and uncontemplated. This inward focus was not at all all glory, it led to many other huge issues...
but inward I looked and went. It happened with increasing frequency. Doris Day singing Que Sera, Sera (when I was just a little girl...) chased me from my computer and office. Denise could tell lots of stories of her suggesting something to me, receiving a diatribe in return, only for me to say yer right days later.
One good thing has come with this... I've gotten into the habit of taking a look at things that leave me skittish, and in many cases, taking them on.
Recently, Jodi Picoult's The Pact had me initially skittish. I faced this down, jumped in, and it was like stepping on a rake, spiked side up *thwannnnnng* between the eyes, first page; I persevered.
Now comes a request to consider returning to cl duty on iVillage after a 3 year hiatus. Brain: no way. Went to work with it being no way. Came home to no way. Within an hour, I was looking into cl'ing.
Why? Exactly. Why. Why am I skittish about doing so? Well, 3 years ago coincides with the culmination of all that went wrong, was wrong, with my life, it was all catching up to me... life change was about to force life change, this time for the better, and out I came, stronger.
So when I asked that requisite "why?" tonight, it pointed straight at my fear of those memories, my desire to keep them away... but the more I think on it, keeping them at bay is sort of admitting defeat. They are there, those memories exist, and better to reconcile them, better to face the fear they generate, than to run from them.
And I speak to the spiritual realm that guides me, the representative goddess, to... well, guide me. or at least give me the confidence needed to self guide. I'm going to give this a go. Going to stare down one more nightmare. Little victories by all appearance, and I'll take them.
So y'all can chuckle, roll your eyes, snicker, tell me why I'm nuts - you won't be wrong. Way I figure things, it's easy enough backed out of if it proves untenable for them or me. A debate board. Mebbe they won't want me, har! If they do, more to follow.
20 October last would have been our 27th anniversary. One word: yikes!
20 October, 1979 was a warm autumn day. The entire respendlant in it's best finery, Mother Nature saw fit to not only turn out each and every tree in formal attire, she also put forth a temperature of around 80°, no small accomplishment on this day in this locale.
I did not write of this day on the actual anniversary, because well... I didn't feel like it. It's an honorarium to a failure, a lament and tribute simultaneously to memories made and ended. But I feel like writing on it now.
It was a looser time, more party oriented, we were after all a party generation. That day 27 plus years ago was no exception. Our wedding was to (and did) take place at a small chapel in Hudson NH (see accompanying pic) at 5 pm. Would I make it on time? Well, my best man (sounds weird now, eh?) was given a time a half hour earlier for his wedding so he'd be there on time, and since we were the best of friends...
I don't recall the earlier part of the day, which is curious, because there isn't much I remember of later in the day, either, other than both of us passed out. Small wonder.
In those days, my wheels consisted of a 1977 Toyota Land Cruiser (see da udda pic) a vehicle I loved and wish I still had. It was mustard yellow with white striping and such, a very sporty looking thing, wide flotation tires, and well, it would go damn near anywhere.
So BM (that's best man in wedding talk, not bowel movement) Dan and I head on out on the 21 mile drive to the chapel. With us was a bottle of Gavilan tequila (doubt they make it any longer) and we were passing it back and forth as we headed south. Yup, I was showing my intellectual prowess, and driving. It was a fun ride *cough*.
So we arrive, head on in, and we are waiting... and waiting. Now mind you, I was on time. Finally... she's a comin,' and one look up and I had to stifle a snicker. T always wore her partying on her sleeve, er um... her face. If you have met me, and many of you have, you know Casper and I are related. T isn't much better, after all, she is of Swedish descent. Anyway, her telltale identifier is red blotches on face and throat area... there were red blotches on her red and throat area, along with this sort of serious, damn, I'm feeling no pain, concentrative smiel on her face.
I knew that smiel.
Later, I found out her relatives had emerged from their Vermont environs, and being a definite bunch of happy, friendly, partiers, they came down and partook of happy, friendly partying at her parent's home.
Well, she won that round.
The ceremony was performed by a minister who's name neither of us can remember now. He looked kinda like Mit Romney, though I am sure it was not Mit. I'm not even sure what religion he claimed to minister for. There was no way either of us would marry in a Catholic church and ceremony.
The rest of it all is now a blur, heck it was a blur as it happened. We had a great time. I know people who told me later they never partied that hard before, go figure. Several found themselves the next morning sleeping on someone's lawn, along with their vehicle. Fortunately, they knew the occupants.
There was no honeymoon, hell each of us was earning $150 a week, we couldn't do a whole lot. So we took a week off, and given the weather co-operated (Monday was 87°) we did day trips to exotic places like Hampton Beach.
It is this sort of memory I prefer to keep now, not the ones created in the early 21st century, for there is no reason to retain those. The earlier ones have reason to remain and predominate.
There is one other factoid that remains... years later, T told me the chapel is in fact a mausoleum... the people who bequeathed the town it's high school, and which carries their name... are buried underneath.
With mom away for several weeks recuperating, I'm living on my own for any extended period for the first time *ever*. And this at almost 52.
So what to make of this? Mom was gracious to invite me back here when T and I divorced, but I've been very tentative - skittish really - over things. It is after all, her home, not mine. I've missed owning a home, being able to create, rearrange, take care of (I'm leaving out the familial element, which is surely missed, and goes without saying), and all the other aspects of one's own home...
with mom away, I can clean things as the urge strikes, can get things done, can even delve into foods more appealing to me (there is a great divergence in taste between us, start with my love of spicier, perhaps (at least in relation to mom) more exotic foods, less meat oriented.
And I'm doing more, things I was previously skittish to do, now I can get up and not feel like I'm stepping on toes. On balance, this is a good thing, and perhaps it shall also be a good thing when mom returns, I'll be more apt to be involved, to set the tone, all those things I was scared, well not scared, but very hesitant to do in another's home. This will be good for both of us.
I make no claims to being an expert on Ritalin, or on childhood behaviour. My only knowledge is parental, from parenting my own children to hearing the stories of parents and educators, who also happen to be friends.
Now along comes a story on MSNBC Ritalin for preschoolers? Study warns of risks - might I add a 'duh?'
There are children who can be and are helped by medication. Yet I've believed for a long time poor parenting is being covered up with medicating of their children - the victims if you will of the poor parenting.
Let me repeat and paraphrase the initial caveat in the preceding paragraph... many children can be and are helped by Ritalin. We just way overprescribe the stuff. Consider these increases in Ritalin use. There is no way there is justification for such increases... or as one site mentions, 10-12% of boys taking this drug.
But I'm also going to piss off some parents who read this, because I do think a lot of the unneeded prescriptions are rooted in poor parenting. Not evil, not bad, poor... perhaps unskilled parenting, oh, hell find a way to describe it. I've seen enough of it in action, or inaction.
Children need many things. Not things where we study it up and try to implement some generic parenting formula, but rather things that come from committed parenting and love. I don't wish to self portray as someone brilliant at this, my last few years are exhibit A for parent, failed. But that failure was not lifelong for my children, and it came out of a huge personal issue that threatened to take me out. The result was ugly, but by then one child was adult, the other was well on her way.
First thing a parent should do when medicating is mentioned, is self evaluate everything... how they interact with their children, from playtime to school time to daily rituals - rising, going to bed, how one morphs from one state to the other, interactions with their partner, their temper, their habits, their moods, their leisure time, their work time, chore time... it all has an impact. I'd guess many will find the causation right in the mirror.
For those where this isn't an issue, then sure... if it all fails, proceed. I have no bloody idea what Ritalin does to someone, but as a medication wimp - I cannot take cough syrup, Contac, etc it does weird things to my system Codeine based drugs? Har! - I can guess it isn't a good thing if not necessary.
I look back at my childhood, and know my parents resisted medicating me. Our family doctor told my parents I was the most nervous child he'd ever seen. Mom said no medication. Yeah, my issues were of something parents and doc alike had no clue, well except my dad, who wasn't about to consider that this sort of thing was a problem that went beyond get it out of your head...
so pay attention, world. Let's apply a bit more rational thinking and parenting to Ritalin, eh?
I feel compelled to post tonight, but the words are not coming to me easily.
Normally blogging is something that is in the flow of my day, a news report, a song, a tree or other element of nature, will send my mind off in tangental contemplation, sometimes morphing into a wholly different subject, as seen through the triggering item.
Not so today. I self emersed in Beth after 15 minutes or so of news. A local story, police officer shot the night before, predominated. They had caught the assailant, who had fled to his gram's in Boston. When I got out of work, the first local news story was of his fighting extradition for killing Officer Briggs. Without any other details, they clued me in to what horror came to Officer Brigg's family during this day.
The last officer lost in the line of duty here was 30 years ago. I was in college, and my mom was horrified; that officer lived but four homes cityside of ours.
Enough of this news, my mind already in some state of agitation over the section of The Pact I'm reading. I've reached the climax of the story, wherein the explanation of what happened in the key moments is presented. This book, like all good books, has triggered my mind in so many ways. I mentioned this privately, but there was this juxtaposition of trepidation over proceeding with the read, yet at the same moment my mind let fleetingly pass through it a nonsensical thought of leave slip so I could read the book. Dread and anticipation in the same package. Geesh, does this sound like me or what? Or should that be moved from the rhetorical, and closed with an exclamation point instead of a question mark?
I've done my favourite thing, digress... but in this case, I've digressed from randomness, something that really isn't possible. The proper continuation, in my mind's eye, was a segue into my mind getting lost in the voice and descriptives of Beth. This was something actively contemplated, as my mind told itself the Beatles Let It Be for me is really "when I find myself in times of trouble, Beth Orton comes to me, singing words of wisdom..."
How very apt and true, within the sphere of my life.
This is not a drought stricken, parched area. In fact we are above average in rainfall this year, and average is somewhere around 36 inches.
Showering is a daily activity; daily activities tend to become boring out of their endless repetitiveness. Not so a nice warm, soothing shower.
Despite their commonness, despite a framework that would preclude preciousness, showers are precious. My day just does not feel as if it has begun without a shower. In fact, I simply don't feel right until this ritual has taken place. There are times when I'd do twice a days, though since I've moved in with mom, I've refrained from doing so.
Necessitated by the demands of the workweek, you can set your clock to my shower commencing around 6:12 am. (I know it's 6:12, because I pry myself out of bed at 6:10.) Weekday showers are rushed affairs, a matter of fact, get it done and out approach that is thankfully absent from their longer weekend siblings.
Having freshly emerged from the shower, it is a time of quiet reflection; it begins by my touching base with my inner and outer spirituality; a reminder of what is important in my life as the day begins.Even as this thought focusing reflection begins, shampoo is striking my hands, and quickly rubbed through my hair. A quick rinse off, then it's on to applying body wash to the scrunchy and a complete washdown. Rinse, repeat. Then rinse again, and shut down the hot water, leaving a wonderfully cold stream of water further refreshing skin lazed into contentment by the preceding warmth. I'm now awake, and ready to move on through drying.
I've never been one for baths, they overwarm and leave me lethargic. I surely miss our shower unit in my previous home, a four foot wide, two seated enclosure where the seats generally were used not for setting, but for collecting shampoos, conditioners, body washes, and similar shower products. When my daughters were younger, there were child safe cleansing products, as well as a play item or two for them. Showers are meant to be fun at any age.
Excuse me while I towel off and dress.
Following up on my previous posting, my mom has suffered a fractured pelvis. This was detected in a CAT scan today. From what I understand, the plan now will be to eventually move her to a rehabilitation facility, where she will have resources available for recovery.
That she accepts this plan is startling; my mom is all about home. So I'm thinking she finally is understanding she has to take greater care and not be quite the daredevil she has been.
It surely is not the same without her here, but it is wonderful she can have full fledged therapy, as well as study the underlying balance problem. Mom will be stronger, more confident - and perhaps less reckless. She has pledged to use her wheeled walker out of doors, and one of her old ones around the house. The third... she is donating to those who do physical therapy at the hospital.
