All in the Eyes

I remember a time when I was not so infatuated with Don. I even told him that even across a crowded room he would not catch my eye. Why would he? I thought. He is bald and much older than I was (about 12 years) and, though he was well dressed (in a suit and tie), he was not my type. 

At that point in our relationship (and it was a relationship at that point), we could be honest with each other. We were having an affair, so honesty was permissible. Or not. He was married, had two children (his daughter was in college and his son was probably a senior in high school), and his wife and he were on the road to divorce -- as I saw it. Don was not the kind of man who would give in at the end of a thirty-year marriage without a fight. He was still having sexual relations with his wife, Lois, who was still mostly in the picture. Lois was a bulldog and not going to give up without a fight as far as I could see. I should probably say snapping turtle since she would never let Don go without making sure she had a really good settlement.

Their daughter was studying art in college and ensconced in her own life. She had a boyfriend she liked and lived with, but she was not so involved in her own life she would miss the clues in her father's life -- like a mistress.

We (Don and I) did not dare to go too far into the whole issue of her father having an affair and her parents' marriage on the rocks. No, Don and I had to be discreet or he would be blown out of the water. I did not want that to happen since he was my employer.

I, innocent that I was, did not want to end our affair, but I was confident -- and so was Don -- that I could meet his daughter, have a conversation, and go on with my -- our -- lives. Don was confident he could bring about a meeting between his daughter and me on neutral ground -- The Humidor, a club in downtown Cleveland where Don went to share his poetry -- his live poetry. His wife, Lois, would not come; she was not interested in poetry, except in the usual marital sense of being present. Don's daughter would be interested. She was daddy's girl and she was an artist, so bound to be interested in her father's poetry at The Humidor; she would be there.

I would be there, too, since Don and I had been there before and would be again. I was also interested in Don's poetry since I was a writer (another artist) and creative types tend to travel together to be supportive of each other. No doubt, that is why his daughter was going to be there -- not to meet me, though she would be there and she would meet me, but to be supportive of her father's creative endeavor, his poetry reading in public.

And so she and I would finally meet and hopefully like each other and get to know each other without blowing Don's cover (his affair with his much younger female employee.  Her mother had met the employee (me) and had pronounced me as no threat at all to her marriage or to Don since the employee was fat.

She (Lois) had seen me, met me, and dismissed me because I was fat. Don was thin as a rake and his wife was shorter and very petite -- a mere five feet to my five feet eight inches -- and I was fat. No threat to his marriage or his wife as far as she could see. Lois did not see the reason in being at The Humidor since she was not worried and she had to work on documents pertaining to her long term care facility. No sense letting her husband's hobbies (poetry) getting in the way of her promotion at her job. Her daughter would attend the reading and she would get on with her work.

And so it went.

I, for the first time since Don and I began our affair, would drive to downtown Cleveland and arrive at The Humidor separately. I would get a table by myself and he would get a table for himself and his daughter. We would sit apart and, at some point, he would see me, recognize me, and introduce me to his daughter. No harm, no foul. Don and I would be safe -- or rather he would be safe from detection, either by his daughter who would not tell his wife that she had met me and that she had liked me. That is the scenario Don and I had painted in bright, cheery colors.

That is not what happened.

After a horrible miscommunication and screwed up directions, I ended up on the side of town where Cleveland had its projects -- the poor side of town, the criminally active side of town. I am not the shrinking violet type nor am I the panic when I get lost type. I did what any thinking person would do, I stopped at a 7/11 store to get clearer directions. The bonus was that a police car was out front and I met the officer inside the store.

No, the officer was not getting a donut. He was responding to the cashier's alert that a shoplifting criminal had been seen. It was late at night and dark and the police officer had thwarted the perp's plan to steal the money from the store's till. The perp got away -- his driver took off with the perp as he emerged from the store and took off down the road probably to lose the cops in the projects, but it never got that far. The perp (sans cash or loot of any kind) jumped into the car and the driver sped away as I parked my car and went into the store. I was in no danger and the officer was especially kind and helpful to me. He offered to show me the way, getting into his vehicle and leading me down the road (the opposite way to which I had arrived) and waited for me to pull up behind him before heading off down the road.

The officer did not so much as pause at stop lights. Ignoring the lights, he drove through, waving at me through the window to follow, which I did reluctantly -- and somewhat hesitantly. I was following the police so would be in no trouble and in no danger of getting a traffic violation. I followed the officer to the right side of town and began to recognize the street where The Humidor existed. The officer stopped and came back to my car to tell me I was on the right track and The Humidor was right down there -- pointing to the sidewalk where the stairs went down into the sidewalk. The Humidor's sign was visible and I was finally there. I thanked the officer who politely touched his hat and then my hand resting on the window of my car before walking back to his cruiser, getting inside, and driving off having done what I thought was a good deed for the day: he had protected and served the public -- me.

I was soon safely inside The Humidor and ensconced at a table near the back, alone with a drink on the table in front of me, and I waited for Don and his daughter to arrive. I did not have a lot of time to cool my heels and noticed Don and his daughter arrive and take a seat. Her boyfriend (I assume it was her boyfriend since he held her chair and sat down next to her) seated her and sat down between her and Don, chatting amiably.

I was nervous and a bit anxious since they had arrived and were just a table away. I kept an eye on Don, but not so anyone would notice. I tried to listen to their conversation, but the club was noisy and I could not hear anything. Don did not notice me and did not even look in my direction. He was engaged in conversation with his daughter and her boyfriend, laughing and explaining the history of how he came to be there at The Humidor to recite his poetry. I already knew all that, so I did not join in the conversation, stayed silent, and waited for some hint as to when -- and if -- he would introduce me.

He did not.

Don did not even notice me when the emcee called him to the stage where he pulled his poems from his jacket, took a deep breath, licked his lips, and began to read -- and perform -- his poetry. It was Poetry Slam night and everyone else got up on stage and performed their poems. Don was not the poetry slam kind of poet. He was a poet, but much like me who never remembers his writing well enough to recite without reading my notes, Don did not so much as perform his work, he read them.

He read some of his racier poems, but not the poems he wrote about me or about anything that could be construed as being about a young female (or a mistress), just poems that had racy details like ripe peaches warm from the sun and dripping with nectar falling into his hands, and such like.

As soon as he finished and took his seat (still without recognizing me or introducing me to his daughter and her boyfriend), they chatted quietly about Don's performance and marveled at the much younger poets who wore dredlocks and were pierced in various places in their eyebrows, lips, and one young girl had a diamond stud in her nose gesticulated, screamed, and performed their poems to thunderous applause.

Don had rated a polite smattering of respectful applause, but no thunder echoed in that smoky and darkened club -- and no sign of recognition nor did he turn to me or introduce me to his daughter or her boyfriend. After a polite interval, the boyfriend stood up, reached his hand to Don's daughter, and assisted her to stand, helped her into her coat (it was winter after all), waited patiently for Don to rise and shake his hand, and they left. Don followed them out the door and into the blackness beyond the fog of cigarette and cigar smoke, leaving me behind unrecognized and still waiting to be introduced. ''

The eyes certainly do not have it. He did not notice me sitting at the table next to him. He would not have crossed the room -- or turn around -- to look at me. 

I finished my drink and began to stand when the gentleman behind me touched my elbow and asked if I would like to sit down."'No, I think it is time for me to go home."

"Will you be all right to drive?" he asked.

"Of course. I only had one Irish coffee, and it was more coffee than Irish," I said. "After the one coffee, I just drank ice water. That was hours ago. I will be fine to drive," I assured him.

"Just checking," he said. The cops have been out in force and I did not want you to be arrested for drunk driving."

"I think I could walk a straight line after half a dozen glasses of ice water," I said. "Thank you."

I drove home and driving was easier than I thought since I finally knew how to get to The Humidor and would be traveling home on the freeway. The road was slick. It had been snowing and sleeting since I had been inside The Humidor, but slick roads bring out the stupid in other drivers. That night was just such a night for idiots on the road. Good thing I had drunk very little of the Iris coffee. I had never liked coffee -- it was too bitter -- and no amount of Irish cream would change my mind. I did not smoke either, but was brought up in a house where Mom smoked, and so did my Grandma, Grandpa, and my aunt -- all of whom were back in Columbus and unaware that I was out and about on such a night.

As soon as I thought I was no worse for wear, I hit a slick spot and careened toward the back of an empty semi truck. I remembered to keep my foot off the brake and steered slowly into the spin. I slowly and very deliberately caromed off the guard rail until I was pointed back the way I had come. I was shaken but alive and unhurt. The car was still running and no one still driving the freeway had noticed I had had an accident. Not even the police since I saw no police and no cruisers flashing red lights at me. I was safe and unharmed -- and I was unnoticed by drivers heading down the road, opposite to where I was facing. The car was still running and I suddenly had the feeling that I would still be good enough to drive. The truck I almost hit had continued on his way, had not even noticed I almost hit him, and my car was still running.

I looked out at the traffic, waiting for a good time to see if the car could drive, pulled out onto the freeway, hands shaking, turned back around, and headed for home. The car still drove. I had not actually crashed into the guardrail. I was safe, my car still drove, and I soon exited the freeway, hands still shaking, and pulled off at the Budget Motel where I currently lived, parked the car, took a few deep, deep breaths, stilled my hands, and got out of the car. After putting my key in the door, I pushed open the door, hung up my jacket, and fell onto the bed, and did not even notice the door was still ajar. I levered myself up, shut and locked the door, kicked off my shoes, and crawled into bed with my clothes still on.

I was home at last.

I was alive.

I was safe.

Don had not recognized me or introduced me.

The evening was a bust, but I did not care. I was alive, unhurt, and my hands had stopped shaking.

I was alive.

I did not realize anything until the next morning when the phone jangled me awake.

"Who the f...?"

That is all. Disperse.

Review: Leota's Garden by Francine Rivers

A resident here at Messiah Community gave me this book to read with the admonition that the first part of the book was very slow. I pounced on the book, putting Crazy Horse's biography to the side because I wanted to judge the slow chapters for myself. 

I dove in. The first chapter sets the scene. Professor Webster, close enough to Corban Solsek's proposed 'warehousing' scheme (well meaning bureaucracy) for the elderly, to smell the Ben Gay. He doesn't approve Corban's proposed paper. He does put Corban into a mood that does not bode well for his hoped for stellar grade, but he must give in and do what Professor Webster proposes -- interview a senior citizen. 

Corban does so with a chip on his shoulder. He calls and gets an appointment with Leota Reinhardt, an 84-year-old senior citizen who wants assistance with getting her groceries. Her sharp tone and demanding attitude do not sit well with Corban, whose nose is forced further out of joint when she proposes they walk to the market instead of riding comfortably in his car. Leota does not even want to look at the car let alone get in it, and so Corban and Leota walk the ten blocks to the local market. Leota nails Corban the moment she meets him as he wipes some of the grime from her windows to see inside her old home (built before the war, likely about 1920s). Leota nails him to the wall with her accurate assessment of Corban's offer to assist her. Nose thoroughly out of joint and the chip on his shoulder set firmer in place, they set off for the market where Leota choose her items and further sets Corban's mood deeper into the dumps.

What he has to do to get a passing grade to please Professor Webster us worse than breaking rocks on a chain gang. But Corban must get through his ordeal or risk flunking and thus not graduating.

Leota's house is in disrepair due to her increasingly limiting arthritis. Corban looks through the kitchen window and sees Leota's garden, which is as overgrown and ill kempt as the housekeeping inside the house. Corban wrinkles his nose, but will put up with his voltary task because he wants a good grade, and excellent grade. He digs in and faces the ordeal of assisting Leota in his one day a week voluntary chore. 

Leota has no family to speak of and Corban will follow through just as he planned. He needs to interview Leota, per Professor Webster's criteria, in order to get a passing grade on his proposal. He can endure anything -- even Leota's sharp-edged tongue and eagle eyes. She misses nothing and digs her spurs in with deadly accuracy. She knows Corban wants something from her or he wouldn't be here, and he is not pleased with the assignment. Obviously, he is not volunteering to aid her out of Christian charity.

Nearby, Anne-Lynn, Leota's granddaughter has surreptitiously left her mother's home. She WILL NOT go to Wellesley or any other acceptable college back east Her mother has driven her to excel and succeed, all the while spurring her on by watching everything Anne-Lynn does and digging in her spurs to help Anne-Lynn to succeed and be perfect. Anne-Lynn moves in with her friend, Susan Carter, a friend that Nora, her mother, is certain will seduce her daughter to take drugs and act irresponsibly with boys. Susan Carter is not Nora's idea of a good friend -- or even an acceptable acquaintance -- and Nora is sure Susan will lead her daughter down a dark road far from the perfect life she has suffered and worked to provide. How dare Anne-Lynn refuse her after all she has done and sacrificed to provide for her and her older brother, Michael? How dare she? Anne-Lynn must come to her senses and follow the path Nora has laid out for her, but Anne-Lynn is just like her mother, selfish, and ungrateful

Anne-Lynn moves in with Susan in her tiny, studio apartment, and enrolls in college, an arts college and not Berkley no less. Nora's nose is thoroughly out of joint. To make matters worse, Anne-Lynn snuck away in the middle of the night to move into Susan's apartment and has taken a job as a waitress where Susan works.

Into this very emotional and complicated set up, Francine Rivers weaves together a wonderful book with masterful writing and attention to detail. "Leota's Garden" is about the clash of families and the hopefully altruistic college students who want to help the elderly. Warehousing them and keeping them out of sight may be Corban's initial plan, but Professor Webster sees his plan as more interference that does not meet the needs of the poor and elderly. Not to mention that there is no hint at all of Corban's having met or conversed with the elderly to get their views on what he plans to do -- in the name of taking care of the elderly. It is certainly not a plan that Professor Webster wants to see landing on his head when (and if) it takes effect. 

What follows is Corban getting to know the elderly through his weekly chore of walking Leota to the grocery. The walk is long for a young, fit, mobile young man like Corban and must be tiring and trying on the elderly, barely mobile Leota, but she gets through the task with sheer guts and determination, and not a little sass and passion.

Anne-Lynn, denied of getting to know Leota, her grandmother, decides to meet and get to know her grandmother against Nora's high-minded (handed) wishes to find out why her mother dislikes Leota so much and why she is "just like her mother." What is so wrong with her grandmother? What is there about Anne-Lynn that is so reprehensible and exactly like her grandmother? What did her mother mean and why is her grandmother frivolous and selfish as her mother claims -- and has harangued Annie about endlessly for years?

Annie is a Christian and has decided that she must bring Leota to the Lord. Maybe Annie can help mend fences between her mother and her grandmother, build a bridge to span the decades-old differences that have put them at odds. Annie has faith in the Lord and faith in her belief in God.

Francine Rivers has penned a faith-based and centered book in "Leota's Garden" and has not gotten too heavy with the dogma or the language. It was Leota's prayer to just get it over with that got to me. It was so like my own when I was stuck in the hospital and the future was bleak and dark. My useful days were over and all I wanted to do was lie down and never get up again. Leota's prayer was so like mine and I felt her pain and her wish to be over with this life. When I said the same words out loud, the doctors thought I was suicidal and put me on an antidepressant. It was refreshing that people older than I am had the same feelings and didn't (and don't) wan to commit suicide, but dealing with the feeling that you've gotten to the end of the line is obviously pervasive.

Leota doesn't die. She comes alive when Annie comes to meet her and get to know more about her grandmother -- and herself. She perks up when she tells Annie unfolds their family for her. Annie is pleased when she finds out that she has a great aunt who was an artist just like she plans to be. She marvels at the beautiful work that Leota shows her and revels in coming from a family that is so talented and gifted, much like she is herself. She has the genes, but she will work hard and hone her gift.

"Leota's Garden" is full of family drama, good and bad, and doesn't dwell on the maudlin aspect of young people dealing with the elderly. The book shines with hope and brims with possibilities as Ms. Rivers's writing peels away the layers and lays the heart of the novel bare with finesse and loving kindness. I didn't think the first part of the book was slow, but Ms. Rivers does take time building the bones upon which this novel is fleshed. A marvelous novel that will stay with you as it stays with me, a gift of storytelling that does not rely too much on the Christian message or dive too deeply into depressing and maudlin circumstances. A shining example of modern literature. I give this novel 5 stars.

Not to be missed. Will stay with you long after you've finished reading. Definitely not to be missed. Share it with your family and your friends. This is a classic.

Acting OUT in haste

The evening before I left Colorado and came to Ohio, Megan told me I was in her sights and she was taking aim.

Better if she had done that when she hooked up with my eldest son, David Scott.

Of course, if she had, I would not have two beautiful and talented granddaughters, Addy and Tori. 

She forbid me to show up at her door or to see my granddaughters. She informed me that she stalked me for two years, not to let her girls get to know their paternal grandmother (that's me) but to let me know about her and my granddaughters.

She claimed she was not replacing the girls' real grandmother, her mother (and I don't dispute that and don't want to take aim at her at all. I like and respect her.) but informing me of Tori and Addy's existence.

Thank you, Megan. I have never disputed their existence and I enjoyed thoroughly getting to know the girls. I do not agree with your actions regarding me.

You have banished me from your life -- and the girls' lives -- without giving me a chance. You gave David Scott more chances than you gave me.

Yes, I should not have talked so plainly with Tori. I should not have acquainted her with David Scott's history since you have taken great pains to hide much of the truth from Victoria and Addison, and I have aided and abetted you with regard to that. Mea culpa. I did wrong.

I should have told them the WHOLE truth. I bowed to your wisdom in hiding from them the fact that David Scott had married Julie, the mother of his twins (and their half-brother and sister), Connor's death, and Sierra's adoption by her maternal grandparents. David has left a long trail of broken hearts and broken dreams in his wake that stretches from Ohio to Mexico and up the western coast of this country. You may tell the girls whatever you choose and I will stay silent and won't turn up on your doorstep to meet the girls face to face. That is your choice -- and I have honored that choice.

No longer.

I will not stay silent any more. I will see the girls -- and meet them. If you were prefer I do not, then go to court and get an official order -- a TRO, temporary restraining order. You may get a judge to agree with you and then you will have to renew the TRO every five years (if the TRO is granted) to keep me away. You will have stalled my toxic effect on the girls -- for the time being. You will not, however, get me arrested and thrown in jail for ignoring  your wishes and meeting MY GRANDDAUGHTERS. I think your mother would agree with me and that I have the right to see, meet, and get to know them without the distance between Ohio and Colorado since I am here IN OHIO and living in the state.

You may turn away and send back any letters I send and you have already unfriended me on Facebook. So be it.

Just a note, my siblings have cut me out of their lives too. I'm used to it. They have their views and opinions of me and I will not -- and cannot -- change their minds. It's rather like the endemic abuse suffered by women since Eve. I might even join the #metoo movement, not only for my own abuse by men and relatives, but by MEN since the beginning of time.

You have the right to refuse to see me, talk to me, or listen to me and I will respect YOUR rights, but you must respect MY rights.

I AM their paternal grandmother and I will speak the truth, the WHOLE TRUTH, whether you agree or not. I will no longer censor myself. I will be who I have always been and will always be. Keep that in mind.

I have been honest with you and now I'm going to be honest with Victoria and Addison. They need to know the truth, not the truth as you have told them, but the whole truth. I'm going to be honest with them. I won't lie to them or for you any more.

So go get your legal TRO and keep renewing it every 5 years as long as it is in force -- and while I am alive and a danger to you and your daughters. You might want to get another TRO for David Scott if he ever returns to Ohio and keep renewing that one every 5 years as long as he is a threat

Go on with your life. Get married. Move out of your mother's home and grow up. Be an adult. Be responsible for yourself and take responsibility for your life without using (and abusing) your mother's kindness and tolerance.

There are consequences to hasty actions and here they are in black and white. Don't blame others. Either tolerate them and accept their generosity or cut them out of their lives and take the consequences. Not everyone -- and that includes me -- agrees with your decisions or your actions. I don't agree with my sons' actions -- not even David Scott.

That is all. Disperse.

The Politics of Manners

I don't know why it is, but my best thoughtful (philosophical) moments come when I'm doing needlework or writing in my journal.

I need a case for my reading glasses because I've reached that age I need them everywhere (grocery store, banks, filling out applications, etc.) and the little reading glasses that fit into a plastic case just isn't cutting it any more. They are small, fall off my nose, and are a little bit too strong. I know. I could buy a pair that aren't as strong, but they have a tendency to fall out of the hole in my shopping bag since I don't carry a purse any more. Why bother? I do not need a bag hanging around my neck or over my shoulder or arm to carry a lot of useless things I won't use; whereas my shopping bag (very stylish, blue, printing about being eco-conscious) is very useful for quick stops, holds my canvas shopping bags, and all I put in it are my wallet, keys, and reading glasses. Very useful and I'm not dragging around a lot of junk. That's what I have a house for -- a place for my junk stuff.

Anyway, I was needlepointing an eyeglass case in the wee hours before the dogs got up and started barking (just minutes before) and couldn't get back to sleep, so I picked up the case and continued stitching. I did get all the color work done and now have only the black background to stitch. Have you any idea what a pain it is to stitch black on black even with a 150-watt light? Getting old eyes sucks, but that's another topic for another time.

As I stitched, the idea of gratitude and manners came to mind. Okay, both are subjects that often come to mind in this mannerless world of rude crudes. There is a difference between gratitude and manners. People with manners will ma'am and sir you and speak with what sounds like respect, but it's like a smile that never reaches the eyes. An exercise of learned response versus true gratitude and manners. I prefer the former. I can handle rude (have you met my family?), but I find it difficult to understand and accept ingratitude.  It's something I see several times a year.

Don't get me wrong. I often donate and give gifts anonymously. I don't need the accolades and I'm not trying to build up points in heaven because I don't believe in heaven. Well, not as a religious concept where people who said the right words in the right religious way, and often with zealous religious fervor. It seems to me that refusing to enjoy the life you're given to build up points to go to a place where everything is all sunshine and light and praising some god is the antithesis of living the life you were given. Mortgaging the present for some nebulous future that may or may not exist and could be taken away if you fail to give thanks or do the right things according to whatever doctrine you follow. Makes no sense. Yet another topic for another time.

Back to gratitude and manners. There is something empty about someone giving the formulaic response to a gift. "Thank you, ma'am. It was nice. I like it." A 'really like it' may be added -- or left out -- but that empty feeling settles in the pit of my stomach when I hear it. I can tell by the tone of voice, the glitter in the eyes, the broad smile, the excited words, and the spontaneous hugging that the gift was well received. That is gratitude. The former is manners -- by rote. A formula for acceptable behavior. It's as flat as last week's 7-Up left open on the counter.

As I pondered the difference, I got an idea to embark on a completely new path. I thought about writing a short story, but something inside me kept saying, "Write a play. Dramatize it." I've done enough plays and read a lot of scripts, so I know the basic format and what I want to achieve. Flitting over the transom in my mind came a memory of Sandra Bullock overseeing the stage settings for one of her character's plays while giving an interview to a reporter. That published interview set the stage for family drama the likes of which I can imagine. Good thing most of my family is either dead or estranged. No one will notice if I put them on the stage and give them sides to memorize.

What it all comes down to is this. Give me honesty emotion however expressed and save me from learned manners without emotion. No wonder the world of Jane Austen has gone the way of historical romance and movies. That kind of socially correct and soulless responses leaves a bad taste in the mouth -- and on the heart. Maybe honest, unguarded emotions (and words) are best. At least in the case of political posturing, give me emotion every time.

Other thoughts have crossed my meditative mind, but this is the first time I've considered writing a play. I like it. I like it a lot. (imagine a big grin full of teeth and the glitter of mischief in my eyes.) Now that is gratitude. Honest gratitude from me to the muse without political correctness and political posturing. Unadulterated. Unexpurgated. Unvarnished. Unfettered.

That is all. Disperse.

Through the Grapevine

The past week has been full of surprises, thrills, and chills -- as is most every week lately. Through the grapevine, I heard that my oldest son, David Scott, was assaulted and in the hospital having abdominal surgery. Evidently, he was carjacked, beaten with a baseball bat, and waited 24 hours to go to the hospital. I asked him why he waited and he said he thought he could just suck it up. He's sucked up a lot over the years when he had stabbed himself with a knife to add veracity to his stories (yes, there were multiple episodes) that he had been accosted, assaulted, stabbed, and whatever he came back without (usually my possessions or someone else's) were stolen, but he fought hard to get them back. Of course, the money and/or things (my car radio, tools, etc.) were never retrieved, but the stab wounds (usually in his thigh) were bloody and his pants ripped, but then who doesn't have ripped pants in their closet or drawer since that is considered high fashion. Blood is just fodder for the story that inevitably follows.

Okay, so David Scott is in the hospital on a ventilator and has undergone major abdominal surgery for a bucket handle tear of his intestines, which the doctors had to go in and rearranged, closing the tear, and his belly is still open with a wound VAC attached. He has been in surgery 3x since then and I haven't yet heard about the results of the surgery yesterday because they hadn't taken him in yet when I called right before starting work. It was too late to call after work and there have been no messages. They took David off the ventilator on Sunday and I have spoken to him twice since then when he was actually lucid and his voice didn't sound like it had been dragged backward over rough grit sandpaper while gargling sharp-edged kidney stones.

Now that he is able to talk the waterworks have been several appearances and some of the carjacking story had surfaced as well. First came the "I'm sorrys" punctuated by sounds of muffled tears and the anguish I have come to know so well after these episodes. The car wasn't his; it belonged to a friend, which is why he fought so hard with the carjackers armed with only a baseball bat. The story goes that he was stopped because the engine stopped and he was looking under the hood with the driver's side door open when he heard someone get into the car. He looked up, saw the thieves were trying to steal the car -- the same car where the engine had already died at an inopportune moment -- and he got into a tussle with them. He was overwhelmed and was beaten with the baseball bat they carried with them and eventually dragged several feet as they thieves took off in the car (evidently without putting down the hood of the car first) with him hanging on for dear life. "I fought so hard because the car didn't belong to me," he said through hitching sobs and a waterfall of tears bravely held back.

I cannot say I have ever heard of carjackers using a baseball bat or, if they did use a bat, why the only place on his body they hit repeatedly was his abdomen. Carjackers want to incapacitate and immobilize their victims, so the knees and head would be the quickest and most efficacious target, not the belly.

David assured me he had road rash on his back from being dragged behind the car (maybe beside it -- he hasn't actually worked out his story sufficiently) and that he fought so hard. The car is gone. David is in the hospital still -- under a fake name and birth date, which I didn't discover until the second time I called and talked to a nurse. Yes, he told the hospital staff his name was Michael and he was born in October 1978 instead of November 11, 1973. After clearing that little mistake in his hospital record (and clearing it up again twice more with the doctors), I was able to get more information. The doctor and anesthesiologist called me for permissions before he went into surgery on Sunday and I have spoken to the ICU doctor once, who was still of the opinion that David Scott's name was Michael, about David's surgery and prognosis, most of which information the doctor didn't have since he was the ICU doctor and not one of the surgeons. It is taxing listening to a doctor go on about bucket-handle mesenteric tears and rearranging bowel, washing out fecal matter from the abdomen, and exactly what a wound VAC is when I've already explained several times I've been doing medical transcription for acute care hospitals for about 30 years. I don't know how lay people sit through all this stuff without screaming.

At any rate, the story continues to change. David doesn't remember his estranged wife, Julie, has been to see him. He hasn't received a phone call from his father and stepmother in spite of his stepmother, Brenda, demanding I give them the number so they can call by way of the familial grapevine where I have given updates, and I am heartily sick of the whole shooting match. I am David's mother and I do care about him, but I have to say that this is just one more upside down pyramid of lies in a world wide web of lies that I have heard over the nearly 40 years of my son's life. He lies even when the truth sounds better. For an intelligent and talented man, my son wastes his talents on carving a wide swath of destruction everywhere he goes, littering the views with mounds of battered, broken hearted, and much poorer bodies, most of which have been women. It is exhausting.

As my friend Jeff says at the end of his updates, so tell me about your week.

Don't Quote Me

Many people have the wrong idea about blogs, especially about personal blogs. Seeing their lives through someone else's eyes is seldom pleasant, especially when the view is unflattering.

Like paper journals where people keep secret thoughts, wrongs done, drama chronicled, life's dramas are kept like moments frozen in time. Pain and hurt and heart break color the words and seem to be an unreliable truth, but they are the writer's truth seen through their emotions and their experiences. Anyone looking from outside, especially those involved, would see things in a different light and perspective. Ask a villain and he will see himself as the hero and vice versa.

Relationships are complex. In her heart of hearts, Cinderella knew she was abused, but she looked for the small moments of happiness and was glad she was able to remain in her father's home, her family home, whatever the cost. She knew her stepmother was an evil woman and her stepsisters spoiled brats, but Cinderella was determined to find happiness wherever she could. It was a fairy tale after all.

Had Cinderella been a writer or kept journals, maybe she would have been more willing to put the truth -- her truth -- out there. Her stepsisters and stepmothers would have seen things in a different light. Cinderella was a burden they were stuck with because Cinderella was the only reason they were able to live in her father's home and waste her father's wealth. They couldn't get rid of her, so they mistreated her, abused her, made her their servant when they could no longer afford to pay the servants.

No doubt Kim Jong-il saw himself as the saviour of his people driving them toward an equal footing with the leading nations of the world. That he had to starve his people, take foreign aid and food for them and turn it into nuclear arms while he lived in luxury and splendor was of no importance as long as he got what he wanted. The rest of the world sees Kim Jong-il as a tyrant, a despot, a terrorist working hard to hold the rest of the world hostage with his nuclear capabilities, standing on the backs of his people and grinding them into the dirt. He is a villain. He sees himself as a hero.

As I've said many times, it's all about perspective. There may be a landfill at your feet, but if you live on the cliff above it and your view is a perfect unbroken vista of trees and cities and sky, you never see the landfill.

In blogs, the writers use dialogue to dramatize an incident or a moment. It's not meant to be a direct quote, but the gist of a conversation. The writer isn't writing a factual article but dramatizing a bit of their life. The dialogue is accurate in what it says even if it's not a direct quote, or is a boiled down version of a quote. It's life. It's art. It's gossip. It's the aroma of life. It's drama.

Since the Internet offered a place to be heard, people rushed to put their perspectives and views out there. It reminds me of a book co-authored by Arthur C. Clarke, The Light of Other Days, in which young people were freed from social constraints by having wormholes installed in their heads. Young people had no qualms about having sex in public on benches and on the street, taking public displays to affection to a whole new level. Through the wormholes in their heads they could see everything: past, present, and future. There were no more secrets. All lies were laid bare for public consumption, so why hide the truth of their lives or their bodies? Young people walked around naked and lived their lives in the open. In a way, the Internet is similar, allowing people a public voice where they lay bare their secrets -- and their drama.

Enter indie publishing with instant access to programs that allow writers to get their books and dreams into print and out for sale at Amazon, Barnes & Noble (which has recently succumbed to financial pressure), Apple, and small presses. Writers don't need to slave over their words, put them into manuscript format, and send them to traditional publishers and agents while they wait for an answer, collecting rejections and rewriting endlessly until someone, anyone, in publishing gives them the nod. Access is available and writers, good, mediocre, and bad, are taking advantage.

Indie authors consider themselves heroes. Traditional publishers and agents see them as villains, as the enemy. Vanity publishing has become independent publishing/self-publishing and has gained credibility. The world is changing and we may not be far from Arthur C. Clarke's vision of the future -- without portable wormholes for now.

In the meantime, bloggers and writers will continue writing their truth no matter how many people cry foul. Their families and friends may not be pleased, but their voices will be heard -- are being heard -- have been heard -- and they will continue to write with and without direct quotes.

This is life as art and art as life.

Bad = Good for You

Isn't it interesting that when someone tries to harm you they end up helping you? I'll bet if they knew, they'd stop causing trouble and meddling. I certainly wouldn't want that.

It's like a bad review. On the surface, your work has been slammed -- HARD. It's a blow to the ego and to everything you thought you had done. Don't take it like that. A bad review causes talk and talk causes interest which ends up in sales. Take a bad review like a free marketing push that will put your work higher up in the consumer's consciousness. Think not?

How many times have you read a book or seen a movie because you heard it was awful? Really awful. Translate and rejoice. You finally get it.

The same thing goes for people who mean you harm by talking about you and creating problems, especially if you're a writer. Their ill intentions usually equal interest and that will equal sales. But don't tell the pot stirrer because they might stop creating problems. You don't want that.

Be a pro. Thank them for the time they took to read and review your book. Ask them to tell all their friends. You might not have to ask; they've probably already spread the word.

Sometimes bad equals good. It's not the best intentions you need, but often evil intentions. It gets more press and generates more interest. Thank the publishing and movie gods for bad intentions.

Pseudo-intellectual Wit

I haven't written anything here of any real substance for a while since I've been spending all my time writing on other blogs that concentrate on writing and books. Bad Fixnwrtr. I have also spent a fair amount of time on Facebook, although not for the games and apps, the way some people do. I have had a good time reconnecting with family and friends and even friends from high school, which is where the problem obviously begins.

I posted my wedding pictures because some of the old gang from West High were in the photos and we had a good time swapping stories and reminiscing. There were some interesting comments and some very surprising ones, especially from an old friend who was at the wedding and reminded me of an incident that nearly made the reason for getting married null and void. Long story. I may write about it some other time.

What I didn't know what that one of my cousins, the only one older than I on Mom's side of the family, took offense at me posting the pictures. Why? Because I am no longer married to the man (boy at that time). I guess I should have checked with her first.

It all started today with a comment on Facebook to take a look at a video her son, my second cousin Matt, posted on his page about his father, her ex-husband, the man after over twenty years she still refers to as a**hole. I was on the work computer, which does not allow me to view videos, and only had time for a quick message. Why do you let it get to you? I unknowingly unleashed an avalanche of venom and name calling (from her) with my simple question.

Laura's ex-husband, Mike Vanderboegh, is heavily involved in the Alabama State Militia and has been written up in newspapers and magazines (the glossy national kind) for years. He's also been on TV quite a few times because of his far right stance on gun control and politics. He's a**hole. It doesn't bother me that he's so well known in some circles. It's his life and he can live it however he chooses. It's interesting (barely) and I know him, so there is a connection, but not a strong one. I think the Icelandic volcanoes blowing their tops is more interesting, but that's just me.

At any rate, the name calling rained down like volcanic ash. Good thing I don't sweat the small stuff, and this was small stuff. I've been called names by a lot of people and they did a much better job. What they didn't do was upset me. Laura didn't upset me either. I never get upset when someone's true colors and deepest thoughts come hurling to the surface and out of their mouths -- or keyboards. It's just words, and not very important words.

So, to make Laura happy, I've decided to share the video. This is Laura's ex-husband Mike Vanderboegh talking about open carrying of weapons, the same man she cuckolded with her present husband . . . and he's the a**hole.



The pseudo-intellectual not wit would be me, according to cousin Laura.

That is all. Disperse.

Days I need wine and roses

"The days of wine and roses...laugh and run away like a child at play..." That song is stuck in my head right now as the lights flicker on and off and another thunderstorm moves through this usually arid area where rain falls everywhere but here. It's been like for over a month, and believe me I'm not complaining. I love the rain and I adore thunderstorms, just not when I need my Internet connection to stay stable and actually on. Had to give up watching another episode of Babylon 5, but I wasn't really able to get into it because of administrative duties that ended in me firing someone. I hate when that happens. Suffice it to say, he deserved it and I did what I had to do. And the day started out so nice -- for a few minutes, and then an email I should have immediately deleted instead of reading hit me wrong.

What is it about some people they feel the need to rip at someone who disagrees with them, usually with some form of snide comment that looks like a compliment but isn't? The world, and this country, offer a widely diverse range of experiences and it takes all of us to be able to experience everything. However, one person can rack up quite a list of experiences if they spend any time traveling other than the safe and guided highways and byways. I've had the good fortune to live in interesting times and even more interesting places and I've never been afraid of new experiences. I have mingled with people from all strata of society and learned things, some of which I wished at the time I hadn't. I have had lots of experience in business, television, medicine, publishing and security, to name a few industries, and my resume covers maybe one-third of my background. I am, as I have told many people, a Jackie-of-all-trades and have mastered quite a few. Doesn't mean I wouldn't like to master a few more, and believe me when I saw I shall. Life's too short to waste it waiting on the sidelines for life to happen. I'm not the shrinking violet or wallflower type.

At any rate, I sent a shot across the bow of the correspondent who sent her snide comment. I'm sure it hit its mark since no response has returned. That's the thing about secrets, and I've said this before. They never stay buried if more than one person knows. When the secret is part of public record that is available for a few cents a copied page and an afternoon digging through civil and probate court records, it is so much easier to find and paper keeps for a long time.

It reminds me of the saying on a wall in a graphic novel. "Who watches the Watchmen?" In this case, all it took was a request for information and I took the time to watch the guardian. Some people feel so safe bilking the government and attempting to hide in reams of bureaucratic paperwork, but there's always someone willing to wade through the red tape, pay the fees and get the information, especially when there is a loved one's health and well being at stake. Even the guardians need to be guarded. The only reason the information didn't come out before this was because one of the parties afraid of the repercussions and what would be lost. I do not share the fears, but I respected the request. Sounds so mysterious and cloak-and-dagger, but I've no doubt the information, if it merely grazed the mark before, will be received and noted in due course. If nothing else, it will make a great story about families, fraud, malfeasance and greed. I'm sure it will quickly find a following.

I guess some people never read the sign that says, "Don't poke the bear," and take it to heart when they should. There is only one thing more dangerous and ferocious than a pissed off bear and that's a pissed off writer. Think I'm kidding. You've obviously never read the famous feuds and poison pens employed by pissed off writers that rival the Hatfields and the McCoys. There are enemies turned into villainous characters in novels and public and written sniping, as when Gore Vidal quipped that Truman Capote's horrendous end was "...a good career move."

Writers, as in a recent post by a friend, are more than capable of rendering life into art and finding new and inventive ways to murder those who raise the writer's ire to Mount St. Helen's or Krakatoa's proportions that can darken the horizon for years. I've always wondered who Dickens loathed so much as to immortalize him in the greedy, grasping and obsequious person of Uriah Heep? Probably someone who was given guardianship over a loved one.

Yes, this day would have been better for wine and roses, but I guess I'll have to settle for a glass of wine. The roses aren't in bloom yet.

Sex, death and drama

There's a situation going on at my best friend's job. Evidently, a married woman, Bridget, and one of her co-workers, Jerry, have been having a very blatant affair. Several people over the past five or six months emailed Bridget's husband, Phil, who also works there, and told Phil what has been going on in plain sight. He tried to find out who was sending the emails but can't get a line on them because the emails are being sent from outside and the IT guys can't pin down anything specific. The addresses are all different -- as are the names.

On Monday, Phil confronted Jerry, took him in a conference room and slammed the door. Bridget has been crying off and on over the past two days and claims there has been nothing going on and neither she nor Jerry have changed their behavior. They still go out to lunch every day (for 90+ minutes) in an effort to prove there's nothing going on. Bridget and Jerry are caught in a trap of their own making and now Jerry, who has a history of affairs with other women in the office, wants out. He can't get out because Bridget is determined to hang onto him and her husband. Phil, meanwhile, has taken a week off from work because he can't face everyone.

My best friend is caught in the middle because she is afraid of history repeating itself. Many years ago, one of the supervisors killed his girlfriend and then himself because he caught her having an affair. What made it all so much worse is that he killed and himself at the office. It's all my best friend can do to keep the images of that horrible day out of her mind with all this going on.

Phil and Bridget want to know who is emailing and how the people know what's going on. Well, that's not hard to understand since Bridget and Jerry have been carrying on for months and everyone has been talking about it. Bridget thinks she can figure out who is behind telling Phil by planting different tidbits of information with some of the people she suspects in hopes that one of them will take the information and run to Phil with it. That won't work. She's just not smart enough; she hasn't figured out that everyone knows what is going on and have spread the word that she's up to something in order to throw the blame on someone else, or at least trap someone into taking the fall in her place. She's deluding herself. She's flaunted her actions for too long and too many people want to see her take it in the end. The damage has already been done and she has been rear-ended by her own actions.

Unknown to Bridget, Jerry had a relationship with another woman in the office, Pam, but they have not been together in years. My best friend knows Pam and Pam confided in her that she propositioned Jerry. She wants to pick up where they left off. She's in a bad marriage and so Pam suggested they get together again. Surprisingly, Jerry turned her down flat, but her offer reminded him that he deserves to be happy and the only time he was happy was when he was with Janine. However, he treated Janine badly and it isn't likely she will take him back.

Jerry has been in contact with Janine but he doesn't know how to approach the subject of getting back together. My best friend knows Janine, too, and she said Janine is determined to prove to herself that Jerry is being honest with her. She's going to keep him at arm's length until she is satisfied he is serious and doesn't want just to scratch an itch.

One thing is certain, Peyton Place has nothing on my best friend's office. Violence, murder, suicide, sex and betrayal are commonplace there and she often regales me with the tales. It's a wonder they ever get any work done with the constant soap opera. One thing I don't miss by working at home, is all the drama. Besides, I get the benefit of the drama without having to get too close to it.

Time to end

It just never ends and it is partly my fault. I shouldn't pay attention when people let me know she's trashing me again. I thought she would have found someone else to trash by now, but since she's trying to keep people from finding out how shallow she is and how she lies and manipulates to keep them buying her books and reading her posts I guess I'm all she has, especially since her BFF disappeared after her husband's divorce and no one on LJ knows her. The drama is boring because she never says anything new and most of what she says is completely off base. It wouldn't do to let her know what she says gets to me from her best friends and closest relatives who think she is obsessed and has gone completely over the edge. But it's my fault for reading the messages. I should just ignore them since they won't listen when I say I'm not interested.

I stopped reading her blog over three years ago but she emailed to tell me that she continues to read my blog because she says my posts are "the most erudite and interesting" she has ever read. Personally, I think she said that to hide the fact that she's stalking me online, reading all my reviews, articles, stories and posts so she can keep track of my publishing progress and prove she's better than I am, a real writer as opposed to a writer whose stories are included in ten anthologies at last count. After all, I'm not the only name in or on the book, therefore, I am not a real writer.

The news of a literary agency approaching me to represent a series of articles and putting the book based on the articles up for auction is what probably sent her over the edge. I didn't put the news out there because of her. I put it out there to share the news with friends and to let other writers know that success happens when you least expect it. So why does she insist on using the same tired old line about me being deserted by friends, lovers and family when she knows nothing of me or my life? Is it because she has nothing else to use and she can't fault my writing? She has nothing left but empty and repetitious and very old personal attacks. Like I said, she knows nothing about me or my life or who my friends are. I don't mention them by name in my posts. I have other things to write about, most of them dealing with relationships and writing. I have neither the time nor the need to prove I have friends by writing about them and putting their names and personal information out there. If I wrote everything about my friends, I wouldn't have any time left to spend time with them. I have a full time job and a writing career and a life.

I need to go back to my old policy of not reading any emails sharing the contents of her posts because all it does is feed into her obsession. At least then I won't know when she reads one of my posts and decides it's all about her because everything is about her and I can't possibly have a life without her in it. Not everything is about her and she's not so special or important to my life that I can't find anything else to write about. If she sees herself in my posts, it is because she's looking for a reason to create drama. As far as I'm concerned, we are done. I wish her well. I hope her book is a success. I hope her life is happy because then she will have less time and fewer reasons to create more drama. Then maybe her friends and family won't feel the need to warn me she is still obsessing about me. It's time for it to end.

I've been done for a long time. I've kept her secrets so she need not fear me spilling the truth about her and ruining her life. It's time for her to get over it and move on. If she's so happy, she shouldn't need to focus on me. It would be best if she just didn't read anything I wrote. I don't read what she writes. I have far too much going on in my life. I even had to drop editing and writing a newsletter because I needed more time for my life and my work. That was important. Her obsession with me is not.

So, in the interest of making things very clear. She should go her way and let me go mine. I wish her well and hope she has much writing success and whatever she wishes she should keep to herself. It's time for this to end.

I have been damned

I am constantly fascinated by the people who read my journal and by the people who trawl for dirt. When I earlier posted the You Are Damned website because I found it interesting I had a feeling it wouldn't be long before one of the shadow lurkers would come out of hiding just long enough to send their love. I was not to be disappointed as one person proved. You will find me by my real name, Jackie Cornwell, on the wall of the damned, courtesy of said lurker, whose personal proclamations say it all.

Thank you, lurker, for proving me right. Too bad you have the wrong end of the stick--yet again. You have to wonder about someone who has only two friends on their friends list, one of whom is a known lurker. It does, however, prove that I continue to be a source of interest to you and your shadow lurking cronies. All I can say is: read on.

That is all. Disperse.