Tag: writing

A belated Valentine’s love story

This may be a bit late to the party but I want to share my Valentine’s Day experience with you.

It was a busy evening at my favorite watering hole. Perhaps because it was Valentine’s Day, maybe because the skiing has been good with all of the recent snow. I couldn’t help but notice that I was one of the only ones rolling solo that evening. That may have bothered me at one time but I’ve gotten quite used to my own company. Nursing a drink and uninspiredly munching french fries isn’t so bad once you’re used to it.

I scanned the room, the people watcher in me cannot be denied. I do have to admit that seeing all of the happy couples canoodling as they celebrated a Hallmark Holiday got to me a bit. I never understood the need to go to extravagant lengths to show your love for someone, isn’t love something you should express every day? Why do you need dinner reservations, overpriced flowers and credit card debt to prove it. I then reminded myself that every guy in this room who adhered to this forced ritual is going to get laid tonight. I won’t have that luxury despite how much alcohol I pour on my hand to get my date drunk.

Still, I passively observed the ritual as it played out before me, fondly remembering the days when I was still in the game.
Then I saw her. She was alone at her table, listlessly staring at the table and stirring a drink. I could tell, despite the fact that she was seated that she was tall. A heavy sweater couldn’t disguise an athletic build. Most men would be afraid of that but I’m not one of them. Fit is sexy.

Occasionally, she would glance around the room. I was careful to avert my eyes. Was she waiting for someone? Enough time passed that a date in the Men’s room seemed unfeasible. How is this lovely specimen alone? She turned and met my gaze.

Unable to turn away without looking as if I was busted, I managed a weak smile and turned to study the ice cubes in my glass. Despite my interest in her I wasn’t prepared to meet anyone tonight. After many years of a loveless marriage distinctly lacking contact other than self-imposed my confidence level was non-existent.

“Mind if I sit down?”
Surprised, I turned and there she was.
“By all means” I managed to reply.

“You were staring at me.”

“Guilty as charged.” I said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It happens when you’re alone in a place like this.”
“About that.” I asked. “Why are you alone on this hallowed Hallmark Holiday?”

She smiled mischievously. “I could ask you the same.”

I went for it. The humorous route. “I’m divorced, broke and living with my mother. Still want to sit here?”

She told me I was cute.

Small talk turned into conversation. She was indeed an ex-athlete. She had just gotten out of a long relationship but didn’t provide many details. I didn’t pry. I was just glad to have company. Several drinks were consumed and I began to relax a bit. She warmed up also and soon was stroking my wrist with her strong hands. Clearly, she was in the mood for some fun. I started to tense up, trying to remember the last time I had been with a woman and having a true crisis of confidence.

“Let’s get out of here. I live around the corner. The drinks are cheaper and we can just hang out.”

“Listen.” I said. “There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll just blurt it out.”

She patiently stared at me, waiting for me to get it out.
“I haven’t been with someone in almost 10 years. Sex for me is like a dog chasing a car. If I caught it I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

She laughed. “Sweetie, you’ve already caught the car. No worries, I’ll be gentle.”

I paid the tab and we put on our coats and left. We got to the parking lot, she pointed out her car and told me to follow her.

She was right, she did live close. We went inside her neat apartment. She poured two scotches neat, turned and walked towards me as I was mentally choosing what seat to choose. Sofa for action, or single seat for plotting my next move. My palms were sweating. I didn’t need to decide, she decided for as she led me to the sofa. She gently pushed me into my seat and stood over me. She took off her sweater and revealed a sheer sleeveless top. Her shoulders were strong like I imagined. Things were getting hot.

“Scared?” She asked me.

“No.” I replied. “But I think my cock is scared stiff!”

She laughed haughtily. Then she proceeded to toss me around like a doll for what had to be an hour. She gladly called the shots and I gratefully let her. Fortunately I was able to think about baseball enough to make the encounter last.

After, we lay on the rug in front of the sofa. Our clothes were strewn about. I was panting, sweaty and satisfied beyond the measures attainable by modern technology. We didn’t speak. Conversation could have added nothing to the moment. We laid there for quite a while, her lying on her side with her head nestled under the crux of my arm. The only movement was her persistent caressing of my balls. It didn’t bother me, but it was unsettling how she was fixated.

Eventually I asked her why she was so intent on fondling my testes.

“Sorry,” she said as she exhaled whimsically.

“I miss mine.”

Did I get you? C’mon you can admit it!

For you, Steve. You told me to mix it up a bit.

The new normal



Chair one is empty today.

An empty chair is the car wreck of the room. You don’t want to look at it but as you pass by, you have to. Sick? Vacation? Or did they…get that out of your head, don’t think the worse.

Chair 3 is in the private room, a walled oasis in a open desert. I’ve never been in chair 3, I’m too well-behaved. The “problem” patients seem to go in there, the ones that hassle the nurses and complain a lot. Dan the Veteran is usually in there, he hassles the staff like an old man at the early bird special. I like Dan, mostly I respect him for his military service. You know, the service that gave him the need for a heart and a kidney transplant and then denied him his VA benefits. The last time I saw Dan I asked him how we was, and he told me. After 5 minutes of him complaining, I not-so-politely reminded him that we are all at the clinic for the same reasons, maybe he could try to be a little more pleasant? It’s not that he’s not sick or that I don’t empathize, but he’s preaching to the choir. Did I hurt his feelings?
He’s not here today, and I feel bad.

Chair 4 is also empty, it is usually reserved for a new patient, a transient or someone who missed a session due to illness or weather.

Chair 5 is today’s home for Terry. I don’t know much about Terry. He’s a quiet guy, in his 60’s. He nods his hello’s and goodbyes. His knit Harley-Davidson hat and multiple tattoos suggest that he was a pretty fun guy before he got sick. He seems simple and direct, I earned his respect the first day he made his way by with his walker, when I moved my protruding feet to make room. His nod of thank you told me all I needed to know.

Chair 6 is today’s home for Kim. Kim plays with her phone and sleeps. She doesn’t say much, but she monitors the banter of the room and will occasionally smile warmly. Kim doesn’t have teeth, I think that’s why she doesn’t say much or smile often. She clearly doesn’t feel well, even after dialysis. She walks the same painful, slow walk on the way out as she does on the way in.

Chair 7 is today’s home for Jack. Jack sits upright, vomit bag in lap because of his chronic nausea, staring straight ahead through dark glasses the entire session. He says little and smiles less. It took me a while to realize that he is legally blind because he walks out unattended. He’s a big dude, I wouldn’t want to have messed with him in his prime. I wonder how he is handling his new life.

Chair 8 is empty. Lisa has been missing a lot of appointments. She has not been a patient for long. She is not handling it well, she has experienced almost every complication one of us can. I hope she starts tolerating it soon. She’s quiet, I really don’t know anything about her.

Chair 9 is today’s home for Kurt. I don’t know for how long, but he’s been doing this a long time. A small man with a great head of hair, he makes his way in with his walker and oxygen tank, armed with enough gear to survive an ice age. He always says hi to me, occasionally we sit next to each other and talk, between his frequent naps. He used to be a big man in business, now he lives for his next treatment. I like Kurt.

Chair 10 is home to John. At 81, he is a vibrant guy. Witty, always smiling and messing with the Nurses. He passes the session with a stack of newspapers in his lap, occasionally glancing at the TV. He is quick with a smile and a joke. Not eligible for a transplant, he is fine with his routine for now.

Me, I’m in chair 2. I’m uncomfortable. I’m itchy. My arm hurts from the needles. I don’t much care for this spot, the glare from the window makes it hard to see the TV. The Nurses station partially blocks my view of the room, which dampers my people watching. I read and I watch mind-numbing TV, I try to blog. I talk to the nurses to pass the time. The nurses love me. I never rush or hassle them. I am never rude. I don’t complain. They wish the others were more like me. They hate that I have to be there, but they are glad that I am.

When I’m not wondering what is going through the minds of the others in the room, I evaluate how I’m doing. The doctor’s tell me that I’m doing great. That’s the physical part. I know that. I focus on how I’m handling dialysis emotionally. I think I’m ok. I try to be active on days I feel well. I try not to be discouraged on days that I don’t. I’m getting used to it.

It’s all about the routine, after all.

Arrive and wait in the waiting room to be called in.
Make small talk with the others.
Get called in.
Report to the scale to weigh in.
Any nausea, vomiting, dizziness, change of appetite? Me, I always say no.
Go to your assigned seats and do a standing Blood Pressure.
Sit and wait for the 2 sticks from the one-inch needles that would make Dracula himself wince.
Wait for the pain to subside as the Nurse programs the machine.
We make small talk until it is time to settle in, our feet up, laptops or tablets at the ready, our headphones plugged in.
We try to nap, try to read, try to watch boring daytime TV, anything to kill 4 excruciating hours of sitting perfectly still.
When the welcome sound of the end timer goes off, the blankets come off, the needles come out, we apply pressure to the needle sight to stop the bleeding and we wait for the dizziness to subside.
We then dutifully wait our turn at the scale and announce our new weight, which is hopefully significantly lower now, and trudge out the door.
We’ll be back in a day in a half.

This is my new life, my new normal. I can live with it for now. I really don’t have a choice. Planning, scheduling, hoping to make the most of the good days. I hope to be on a transplant list soon and be in recovery by Summer.

In the interim I will continue to be the guy the Nurses look forward to seeing. The guy that other patients laugh with (or at). The guy that has become part of a community, one that has altered his outlook on what really matters in life in a wonderful, if not a routine way.

The best laid plans

The last 5 days have been quite a ride.

I had a great weekend planned. There was a special dinner at my lodge on Saturday that I wanted to attend. The timing worked well because it was the weekend before our monthly Monday meeting. I had it all worked out. I changed my dialysis time to an earlier slot, I would drive down in time for the dinner at 4:30. I would stay over my best bud Jeff”s house and visit with my kids (at 3 different locations) on Sunday. I then planned on staying another night, have coffee with one guy and visit another until it was time for the meeting and then drive home.

Saturday rolled around and I was ready to go. Tux in one hand, overnight bag in the other I left the house at 8. I ran into my first wrinkle when I arrived at the dialysis center and they wanted to know why I was there so early. I explained that I had scheduled it with Lisa, but Lisa never marked the calendar, They made me wait an hour. I rolled with it, I had allowed extra time in case such an issue arose.

It was a brutal session. I had a bad reaction to a med, I cramped up horrible and the injection site hurt like hell the entire 4 hours. Somehow, I got through it. At 2:30 I was off like a Prom Dress. Straight into a traffic jam. Fortunately, I didn’t need to go home first. I barely made it on time to the dinner.

I was given a warm welcome by my friends and brothers, but the evening was mediocre because I wasn’t feeling well after my rough session of dialysis. I put on a brave face and got through it but by the end of the night I was cooked. Jeff and I had little Scotch and Cigar time that night, I went to bed early. Fortunately, I was up most of the night. Insomnia isn’t limited to your own pillow, it’s transferable.

Sunday morning I got up at the butt crack of Dawn because Jeff has young children (is it still called getting up if you never slept?) and had breakfast with his family. At 9:30 I embarked on my day of visiting the kids. Over the course of the morning and afternoon, I drove a total of 130 miles and saw my youngest 2. I spent some time with my youngest daughter hanging out at the apartment. I then went to a cigar bar with my youngest boy and enjoyed a ten dollar cigar and a good conversation. It was then back to MA to have dinner with the ex and my oldest daughter at the restaurant my oldest boy works. I wasn’t feeling great by the time dinner came but it was good to see everyone, even if my son was working. By the time I was done eating you could again stick a fork in me, because I was done.

That night, I managed to have a Scotch and a Cigar with Jeff, we went over the events of our day and I was in bed by 10.

That night I slept like a log. When I woke my stomach was a bit off. At that point it could have been the Scotch, the need for a good fart or just a bubble. I was wrong on all counts, I quickly realized as I raced to the bathroom to toss up the previous evening’s dinner. I had caught the stomach bug. I would not leave Jeff’s guest room the entire day. I spent the day alternating between sitting on the throne with runaway diarhea while simultaneously barfing into plastic shopping bags and then sleeping. The meeting I had gone to all of the effort to plan for…I never made it.

Tuesday morning I made the 2 hour drive at 75 miles per hour, plastic bag handy and butt cheeks clenched firmer than a Southern Baptist minister. Having successfully made it without an “accident” vehicular or otherwise, I made it to dialysis.

Where I had another miserable session.

It’s so absurd it only makes sense to laugh. The best laid plans, right?

A Daughter’s love

I received a text from my youngest daughter late last night. We text almost every day and I always light up when I see that it’s her.

She told me that she has an English assignment to write a 20 sentence essay about a powerful moment in her life, and would I mind if she wrote about my last hospitalization. I joked with her, which one? It was a caustic joke, making reference to the many crises I’ve been through in the last couple of years. It wasn’t funny of course, my battles have had a real impact on my kids, one that I wish they never had to deal with. The last one, I’ve heard, was particularly bad. I have to rely on what I’ve heard because I was unconscious for 2 days.

I told her I was fine with it and asked her to email it to me. Here is what I opened.

As I pulled up to the hospital, I did not know what to expect when I walked into his room. My mom and I made it into the hospital, to the elevator, and into the ICU. The nurse led us into the room and my heart dropped to my stomach as I saw my dad. I have never seen someone look so helpless, while he laid there with a tube down his throat and a machine breathing for him. The nurse was talking, but I couldn’t listen. All I could hear was my heart pounding, the machines beeping, and the sound of oxygen being shot into his lungs. The first time I saw his chest rise then fall, tears came to my eyes, but they did not stop. Tears kept pooling in my eyes and falling down my face. I could not breathe. I felt like I needed to have oxygen sent to my lungs, too, because I couldn’t seem to breathe on my own. They told me to talk to him, but what do I say? Would he be able to hear me? All I could do was hold his hand and hope he could hold mine back, but he didn’t. Even if he wanted to, he had gloves on preventing him from ripping the tubes from his mouth, which he had tried to do during the many attempts to wake him up. So I did the best I could and I held his hand and spoke soothing words to him. I told him I loved him. I told him he couldn’t leave me, and he didn’t. He stayed strong for me, for my family, and for himself, like the fighter I know and love. “He’ll be okay,” they told me. He’ll be okay.

She will be reading that in front of her class.

I was floored. I cried. I was so sad for her that she had to go through that, so proud of her ability to express herself so boldly and honestly, and so taken back by her account. Above all, I was blown away by the love this child has for me.

I told her how proud I was, how well-written it was and that I was moved by her words.
“Well, it’s all true”, she matter of factly replied.

I continue to struggle with that episode of my life. I’ve had a couple of medical close calls in my life and I sincerely remember traveling towards a tunnel of some sort before being revived. I know what I experienced and no skeptic will ever talk me out of it. But the last one was the worst. I was inches from the dirt farm, to the point where the Doctors were discussing my DNR.

Through Doctor and family accounts, I’ve been given details of the ordeal. The 2 ambulance rides, the first to a hospital that was ill-equipped to treat me. The 104.9 fever. The medically induced coma. The breathing tube and the bedside dialysis. I don’t remember any of it of course, and there lies the frustration.

The one thing I have never wrapped my head around is what my family went through during that time. The guy who always tried to act strong, through a carefully orchestrated design of denial and lying about my health was, in my daughter’s words, helpless. Helpless is not a word often associated with me.

My mother, my ex-wife (who was amazingly supportive and present throughout the ordeal), and my older children were all deeply concerned. But my youngest, she was beyond herself. We have a special bond.

As all of these thoughts ran through my sleepless mind last night, I texted her:
“That was a scary time.”

“I was more scared that I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye.”

Is there anything that would make a guy want to keep plugging on stronger than that? God, I love that kid.






Rest well, my Brother

“The roll of the workmen has been called, and one worker has failed to report”.

I dutifully hung my head as the familiar dialogue of a Masonic Funeral was read. I’d been in many Masonic funerals in my years as a Freemason. It is a beautiful ceremony, the same one performed for George Washington, and a show of respect for the fallen brother and a glimpse for the family into the ways of the fraternity the brother’s family never saw. They always make me sad, but this one really hurt.

This brother was also a very close friend whose loss I know I will feel for a very long time.

I first saw Adam from across the room at a meeting. The first thing I noticed about him was the absurdly round face. I observed that he was heavy, but his face was bloated beyond that. When he stood up I could see that he was in pain. This man had a story to tell.

As the room cleared at the end of the meeting I saw the small crowd gathered around him. Handshakes, hugs and greetings abounded, it was obvious that he was a beloved member of the lodge. I made a goal of getting to know him.

During cocktail hour I walked across the room and introduced myself. Never one afraid to approach a stranger, I stuck out my hand.

“Greetings, Brother. My name is Bill”. He stuck his hand out, “Adam.”
And thus began a beautiful friendship.

Adam had joined Freemasonry at the suggestion of his father. It was suggested that he would make friends, enjoy the fraternal bond, if nothing else to have something to do to get his mind off of his problems. He had many, chief among them being a Cancer survivor.

Adam was diagnosed at the age of 30 with Mantle Cell Lymphoma, a highly aggressive cancer with a very low survival rate. Newly married, with a flourishing career and a young son, his life came crashing down. He survived, thanks to the wonderful gift of a bone-marrow transplant from his brother. It was an agonizing, extremely painful surgery for both, but his family continued to make every sacrifice they could for him.

A year later, Adam was living with his parents, sleeping in his childhood bedroom, a mountain of prescription bottles at his bedside. Divorced and friendless because his wife couldn’t handle his illness and his friends stopped calling him. Seeing his son every other weekend was the only glimmer of hope for him, he would tell me one day, keeping him from taking his own life.

I learned part of his story from mutual friends before he and I actually spoke of his travails. As our friendship blossomed he gladly told me the rest. Over lunches, cocktail hours at the lodge (his lodge, that I joined to spend more time with him) and hanging at his house he would tell me the stories about the events that led him to this point.

He was grateful for his new friends and humbled by the support of his new brethren. His father had been correct. His father was a 50 year Mason when Adam entered the fraternity and his father was enormously proud. His mother proudly beamed at the results his new circle had created for him. I vowed to be one of the best friends he would have.

Adam didn’t just take friendship, he gave it back. When he learned of my health issues he became one of my biggest advocates. He spent time at home on his computer researching possible treatments being developed, texting me his findings and always checking in to see if I was eating right, taking my meds, or just to see how I was doing. It isn’t lost on me to this day how someone who felt like garbage almost every day could manage to check up on me, and all of his friends for that matter, to see how we are. He was a special friend.

In the course of our friendship Adam had a rollercoaster of health challenges. On a flight to St. Louis he contracted a virus that caused him to spend 7 weeks in the hospital. He almost died, but he pulled out of it. He had two knee replacements, a hip replacement, a pacemaker and was hit by two more staph infections, one that required removal of both knee replacments. At the end of all of it, there he sat with his absurdly swollen face, a result of a massive amount of steroids and other medications. He was a fighter like no other I have never met. As his Facebook announced another setback, myself and all of his friends had faith that the tough sonofabitch would bounce back and smile that huge smile again.

This past December, Adam met a foe he couldn’t overcome. Another staph infection that the Doctors, despite their Herculean efforts, could not pull him out of. He was forced into a medically induced Coma at the end of January.

I found out too late, for some reason his father’s FB wasn’t showing on my newsfeed and by the time I knew it was too late to visit him. Had I been sitting next to him he wouldn’t know I was there. All of my prayers from afar wouldn’t change it. His parents thanked me for my friendship and support, I knew in their voices they had given up this time.

He died a few days ago.

I miss my friend. I regret not being able to thank him for his unwavering friendship and his eternal optimism. His selflessness in the face of adversity that would cause so many to wallow in a pool of self-pity. He was an amazing human being.

As I stood silently in a moment of prayer, I was flanked by dozens of brothers who knew Adam as I did. We all knew his family. We all knew the efforts he made for our lodge as he took different assignments to keep himself productive, a concept that meant the world to him. We all knew what a loss we had experienced.

I waited patiently as the procession slowly entered the funeral parlor, each waiting our turn to place a sprig of evergreen, a masonic symbol of the eternity of life, on his simple coffin. A rare tear fell onto my cheek, one of many that would fall that evening.

He is resting now, his pain is gone. The irony of it is that the cure for his disease killed him. If he were here right now he would laugh at that line, we shared a morbid sense of humor. Sharing the burden of Chronic Illness, we knew that laughter is the best medicine. I want to laugh at the funny exchanges we had over the years. I can still see his big, round face that initially caught my attention. The smile that shone through some tremendous sadness, the face of a truly great person.

Rest well my friend, I hope to see you again someday in the Celestial Lodge above that we, as mere mortals hope to achieve at the end of our journey.

Basic

Jeff is the rare “3 AM friend”, if I called him at 3 AM he would be there for me (he has). When he called me last week and invited me to play Poker I jumped at the chance. The prospect of playing cards with him was worth the 2-hour drive.

I met up with him at noon on Sunday and we headed out to get snacks and drinks for the game. We arrived at our friend Justen’s place on time. Jeff and Justen were the only ones I knew, but as a believer in “a stranger is a friend I haven’t yet met” I immediately became friendly with 3 of the 4 new guys. The fourth set off my “Spidey-Sense”, I didn’t like him at first impression.

My senses were accurate, not long into the tournament I concluded that he acted and played like a Dick. But I put up with it.

As the game wore on, players began to drop off. Our Texas Hold’em tournament was 1st and 2nd winners only, once you were out you were out. It had come down to me and the Dick. After a showdown in which I bet and he made a huge raise, I was forced to fold. As I threw down my cards he laughed and talked some trash. I ignored him.

In Poker, if your opponent folds you are not required to show your cards. It is an unspoken rule. When he threw his cards in, I scooped them up in preparation to shuffle and deal the next hand. In the process I accidentally flipped his cards up. He immediately reacted, accusing me of looking at his cards. I assured him that it was an accident.

It escalated. I stood up and told him that if he didn’t stop we were going to take it outside and handle it a different way.

That is when Jeff stepped in.

“Dude”, he said to the Dick. “Bill wouldn’t do that. If he says it was an accident it was, he is one of the finest people I know. Sit down before he kicks your ass.”

The Dick sat down. He and I finished the game. He won, I took second place, doubling my buy in. He took his money and left.

Soon after, Jeff and I left also.

“Thanks for getting my back, brother” I said to him.
“No worries, bud. I meant what I said.”
“Finest people I know?”I joked.
“Bill, you are an amazing human being. One in a million, maybe a billion.”

I was floored. I was unable to offer a response other than to thank him.

Soon, I was on my way back home with 2 hours of quality “me time” ahead of me. I love to drive, I do my best thinking behind the wheel. I can’t count how many blog posts came to me while driving.

This ride, I was thinking about what Jeff had said. What about me made him say that? I’m a pretty laid back guy, I try to be honest and kind-hearted, I’m not judgmental and try to be nice… But I’m nothing special. Then a word popped into my head.
Basic.
Basic is a urban slang word, like fleek, lit, woke, bae,. Etc. Words my kids use that drive me crazy. Basic is a derogatory word denoting one’s lack of spark, of being of no particular interest. Not a nice thing to be called. But it’s a great thing to be and people seem to admire it.

In the last two years I have embarked on a spiritual journey to find myself. By applying the harsh spotlight of self-evaluation, unwavering criticism and acceptance of unwanted but necessary truths I emerged as a person who, for the first time, could look into a mirror and like what he saw. I had stripped myself of pretense, hubris, ego, pride and the conventional measures of success. Isn’t all of that a fancy way of saying that I got down to the basics?

I’ve never been happier.

I am basic. Like a child. Remember when we were children?

We loved everyone because we did not know hate.We were friendly to all because we had not learned prejudice and bigotry.
We were honest because we had no reason to lie.
We were happy because we had not been taught cynicism.
We said the “darndest things” because we were too young to be censored.
We asked questions to learn, not to make judgments.

Then the world changed us.

Fortunately, I have restored myself back to “Factory Settings”. Not amazing, not particularly noteworthy. Pretty basic overall. Some people seem to like that so I think I will run with it.




Tell your story

Steve at Msich Chronicles has passed me, as well as the incomparable Tom and Naturally Calamity Jane, the baton in the Tell the Story challenge. It’s quite simple, look at a picture and tell its story. I welcome this challenge, it may be just what I need to get going again. I hope you enjoy it, and I also hope you check out Steve, Tom and Jane’s Blogs. They really are exceptional bloggers and people.

It’s almost Spring in New Hampshire.

I survived my second winter.

This is my home.
See that matted down spot under the tree? That’s my bed. For so long it was covered in snow and ice. I still laid there, it was the only comfort, the only normal I would have during the cold months. As it got colder, the matted leaves were replaced by snow and ice. So. Much. Snow. The dense woods were thick and shielded me a bit from the harsh winds and falling snow but it was so cold, so very cold.
My bed was lucky, for me at least.
My sister, not so much.
See all of the fallen branches? The heavy snow and high winds brought them down. She was nesting down under another tree close by and the wind blew so hard it toppled her tree. As it crashed down she got scared and frantically darted off. She was so spooked she ran into the road and was hit by one of those fast metal things with glowing eyes on its front.
The human in the metal thing stood over her as she died. He cried. I cried too, from a distance, safely in the brush and far enough away that I could run if the human came for me. I wanted to trust him because he didn’t have the long thing in his hands that shoots thunder. But I couldn’t be too careful. One of them killed my Daddy a few months ago.

Mommy was sad but strong and I trusted her to get us through the cold months. She taught us the safety of routine. Each day Mommy, me and my two remaining sisters faithfully followed our path. We walked through the same trails, leaped over the growing snowbanks, carefully walked through the clearings of the human dwellings. Mommy knew we were scared but we followed her, she was all we had.

Once in a while, we would encounter the nice human with the checkered coat. He always smiled at us. We wanted to trust him, but that whole thunderstick thing prevented it. Mommy said he looked worried about us. She said he sometimes had food in his open hand, kneeling down and gesturing for us to come closer. I wanted the food but Mommy said no. She told me she was tempted once or twice to get a little closer but couldn’t take the chance of us getting hurt. We were resigned to watch him from far away, our eyes intent, our ears up, watching for when he took a step towards us. We always bolted when he did that. I think he’s a good human, but Mommy has lost enough already.

Many humans want to feed us. They worry, they wonder how we get through the winter. We manage to eat enough to survive. See that spot on the tree that is missing bark? This is one of the things we eat, and tree bark is plentiful. Berries taste better but it works for now. It has to.
Still, I’m looking forward to the berries.
Soon, the leaves in my special little spot will dry up. Soon, I will feel the warm sun on my coat. Soon, the pond will melt and I will be able to drink the cold water. Soon, Mommy will search for a new Daddy for us.
She deserves it. We do too.

I love my special little clearing in the woods. I love my bed. I love my Mommy. I love watching humans…from a distance of course. I love feeling safe.

For now.

When the leaves start falling on my bed, in my clearing, it will be time to brace myself again for the short days, the cold nights and the Thundersticks booming in the near distance.

Until then, I will enjoy the reprieve of Springtime in New Hampshire.

I nominate BPD Bella,  JT Twissel and Dan Antion @ No Facilities to tell a story about this image.

Have fun

the longer it is, the harder it gets

Now that I’ve drawn you in with a sexually provocative and misleading title, here we go.

I’ve heard it said that Blogging is like riding a bike. You never forget how and it’s easy to get right back in the saddle. I don’t agree. I think it’s more like working out. When you are really into fitness you feel strong, vibrant and you crave more of that feeling. But once you stop, or take a break, the longer you are out of it the harder it is to go back. You know that you have lost strength. You know that it will take more effort to get back, if ever, to where you were. It is going to hurt. You fear you will never get that high again.

This is where I am now with my blog.

18 months ago I started this blog. I had no readership at first but I poured my heart and soul into it and I told my story. The readers eventually followed and I began to feel a “writer’s high” in which I was getting gratification through feedback and stimulating dialogue, I even had a follower write a blog post citing mine as the “best blog she had ever read”. I was thrilled and honored by that.

Now, I fear that most of my stories have been told. The ones that I do tell do not seem to get much readership. Most of my loyal, regular readers are gone. They have either stopped blogging or just stopped reading me. Being fond of feedback and comments, I mostly get some “likes” with no real indication that my post was actually read.

Then there is my health. I have been on dialysis for 5 months and overall it has been a positive experience. I do feel better in some ways. But the fatigue, the washout and other unpleasant side effects such as insomnia are taking a toll. I am up all night many nights a week and forced to sleep late, which I hate. And when I am awake I just don’t have the energy or mental clarity to be creative. I limp through most days.

The longer I am away from it, the harder it is to get back into it. Like exercise.

But here I am, pondering a change in format. Reviewing insights. Evaluating my tags and categories. Trying to find answers to explain why my blog isn’t giving off the spark, to my readers and to myself, that it used to.

And here is what I came up with. I still have a story to tell. If not for you, then for me. Read it, don’t read it, I can’t control that.

I do it for me and hope that someone enjoys the ride with me.

Play along–7 and 3/4 Nutty questions

7 and three quarters Nutty Questions

I was inspired by a post by Sadje to answer the following questions. I found the questions and the concept interesting so I dove into it. Please pop over to her blog and show some love. It’s a great blog, you’ll like it!

7 and Three Quarters Nutty Questions

How Bizarre

Don’t just answer these questions with quick one word answers, but give them some body! Throw yourself into it.

What will your epitaph read like?

Here lies Bill, in the hole again!

If you could explore anything Indiana Jones/Lara Croft style, where would you go first?

I’d like to journey into my ex wife’s psyche and find something that makes her happy. All conventional methods have failed to this point

What has been your biggest mistake in the kitchen?

I am an experienced cook. I was also, for a very long time a experienced drunk. One night I came home from work 3 sheets to the wind and I started a pot of rice. I fell asleep with the burner on and set the smoke alarm off. I woke my family and my wife tore me a new one about ruining a pan that was a wedding gift (and for being a stupid drunk).

What was the craziest thing you did at school?

We were on an exchange trip to Ajax, Ontario and my friends and I wanted to drink. We stole a case of beer from one of our hosts and filled 2 suitcases with beer and ice. We planned on walking to a local school and drink there. We were walking down the street and the suitcases were leaking water from the melting ice. We were stopped by police, asked why we were carrying dripping suitcases and promptly arrested. THAT was a fun phone call home. oy.

When you dream do you dream in colour, black and white or technicolour?

Vivid technicolour. As are the memories of them

What quote or saying do people spout but is complete and utter rubbish?

“Everyone is entitled to their own opinion.” I agree to a point. But an opinion needs to be an informed one, based upon due research and a genuine understanding of the subject matter. A tomato may be technically a fruit, but it is my opinion that it would taste like shit in a fruit salad.


What’s the most interesting thing you’ve read or seen this week?

I don’t want to open a can of worms here, but the most interesting, in a disgusting way of being interesting, was New York City lighting the top of a building in celebration of a barbaric new Abortion law. I’ve never taken a political or religious stance on this issue, and I respect a woman’s right to choose, it’s interesting that people who cry about children being separated at our border are celebrating the ability to slaughter a baby up until the day before it is born. Sorry, it’s disgusting. And interesting…how much more barbaric are we able to be?

What’s the most useless talent you have?

I’m not blessed with many talents and I have none to spare, but I am very talented at trivia. I am a wealth of useless knowledge. It does come handy in bars, however.

Would you rather be alone for the rest of your life or always be surrounded by annoying people?

I used to love to be around a lot of people. Then I lost my ability to tolerate annoying people. My definition of annoying for the sake of this conversation is people who are fake, loud, backstabbing or untrustworthy. My life for the last 2 years has been fairly solitary and I found that I am ok with being alone because I finally like me.

Would you rather be locked in a room that is constantly dark for a week or a room that is constantly bright for a week?

I would prefer to be in a dark room for a week. Because I would be so happy when I was reintroduced to glorious sunlight, which I will never underestimate as one of the greatest joys of life.

Would you rather relive the same day for 365 days or lose a year of your life?

Groundhog Day! Great movie. We all have a moment, or era that we wish we could do over. Imagine having one year to completely change, by learning and practice, to do it over like a boss. Especially if it leads to a better outcome.

Would you rather find your true love or a suitcase with five million dollars inside?

5 Million dollars. I am no longer capable of romantic love, I’m damaged goods. Now I’m into charity. The good deeds that I could do with the 5 million would make me a happy man.

Answers please on the underside of the topside of the backside, that’s just plain square!

I don’t understand the question.

If you like these questions, hear over to The Guy or Bloke and generate your own post.

#Keepitalive

Just Jot it January # 21 Echo

Echo-cho-ho #JusJoJan 2019 Jot #21

“Echo” is the prompt word for today, brought to us by Lady Lee. Thanks, Lady Lee! Click here to find her JusJoJan post for today. And say hi while you’re there!

A message from Dr. King

I had a dream
with the world I shared it
that we’d embrace diversity
not run scared of it
please explain it to me
I have nothing but time
how ending the lives of each other
honors the memory of mine
I fought without fists
without anger or spite
I called for equality and love
not to spill into the streets and fight
I reached out in peace
extended my hand
hoping to set an example
that would echo throughout the land
yet still we fight
we hate and we label
to see beyond the color of skin
we seem hopelessly unable
I left this earth many years ago
but I still watch from above
as my dream remains just that
in the absence of brotherly love
we must come together as one
recognize hatred as cowardice
that labeling a man by his skin
is a terrible injustice
it’s never too late
to right this wrong
when we walk and live hand in hand
that will be my victory song