Climbing Out of the Debris Field of Hate

It's not been an ordinary week. 

On 9/11, and the weeks that followed, most cared little about what political party a person favored...

America became ONE AMERICA.

One color. One family. One heart. 

We wanted to gather everyone we loved or cared for into a safe place - and never let them go. 

We became better friends, neighbors, parents, employees and citizens. Americans cared about things previously taken for granted as we healed from the internal bruising caused by a giant kick in the gut. 

I prayed I would never feel that way again. 

Then this past week happened ... in my proverbial back yard. 

The senseless murder of an aspiring young singer. 

An incomprehensible slaughter of people in a nightclub. 

A toddler ripped from his parent's hands by a reptile native to our region. 

My gut hurts and I am finding myself broken down again. 

That hard shell I formed around myself - so nothing would shock me anymore - has been completely shattered.

I've cried like a lost child. I'm feeling like a lost soul. 

I can comprehend loss, accident and tragedy; not easily but eventually. 

I can't, however, comprehend violence and hate. 

I'm simply unable to wrap my head around it. 

I'm powering through raw emotions and sucking in screams that want to pass my lips. I'm trying to achieve a semblance of peace and calm through my faith while silently pleading with God to fix this super virus called hate. 

I'm praying for safety of America's law enforcement, first responders, military and teachers...and all of you...

I'm praying that I never get a hard shell which shields me from all things evil again; to which my own continued goal of goodness, as well as everyone else's, can conquer and defeat.

xoxox

Sent from my iPhone

TAKE THIS... YOU REALITY TV HOUSEWIVES..

A group of local women I know, many for some time now, get together on a regular basis. I like to think of us as a unique and beautiful collection of the female persuasion. Intelligent and passionate; our backgrounds are as varied as our number which over the years has hovered close to 30. Yes, that's right - 30.

That's a lot of beauty, intelligence and passion.

If there is a poster child of groups of women who gather together - it is this collection of ladies who call themselves CLUB MEETING.

Two words, which when appear in the subject line of our unread email lists, we are delighted, thankfully, that this will continue to bring this eclectic assembly together.

I do not profess to be any sort of leader or spokeswomen for these women.

But my life would be totally different, perhaps non-existent, if not for this group of friends. That's a pretty powerful statement to make; even more so to commit to the written word.

These gals have embraced my affection and amusement for changing my hair as well as my frightening willingness to change it by way of curling, dyeing it dark, bleaching it platinum, frosting, cutting it off and growing out what God has blessed me with. I know they speak of this behind my back but they are never shy about telling me to my face what they think.

I love my girlfriends.

Having said all this, I attribute this particular call to the keyboard to the lovely person who came up to me today and asked if I was blogging again because they saw a recent one on Facebook; I occasionally do and so....you know who you are and I am dedicating this blog to you!

In my world which includes my 'guilty' pleasure of watching ALL of those Real Housewives on Bravo TV, I just thought it would be nice to share that not all women who gather together fight and get nasty.

Some just have fun, laugh, take photos we can't publish, drink too much, talk too loud in public places, accuse bartenders of not putting any tequila in our margaritas (that is when it is never pretty), bond and enjoy our animal print obsessions (that would be me; but I AM from New Jersey!)

So here's another blog, another window into my personality disorder and another reason to be thankful for my girlfriends.

Consider this some fodder to help take your minds off of your tanking 401k's if you are fortunate to have one left
and those wars in the Middle East they all told us would be over by now.

I like to tell jokes, and be funny at times. I also live to write poetry and this blogging stuff is my excuse to write and have to type a little so I don't forget how.

 
Here's to my friends, old and new, welcome to real 'reality'. It's not mean-spirited and full of terrible drama.
Maybe we're just getting too damn old for drama and just happy to be healthy enough to go out and party.

That is a wonderful thing.

Peace

NEVER SAY NEVER

You want to buy us a 'what' and do 'what'?????

In the early 1970’s my parents lived in the Adirondacks.  Faithfully, I’d drive to see them at least once a month from Worcester, Massachusetts and more often than not, I made the trip solo.  I enjoyed the almost 4 hour open road journey and the freedom of the road that guided me through the Berkshires. Each passing mile marker brought me closer to memories of childhood summers and smells of the old Victorian house that stood grandly above the clear mountain lake.

Travelling west on the Mass Pike, I sailed along the open road singing along to my favorites Jackson Browne, Linda Ronstadt, Bob Dylan and James Taylor. My dreamy state of a humming engine and the blaring songs were all I needed  until I pulled off of the Northway at the Saratoga Springs exit. Now the radio was turned off so I could simply enjoy the ride.

I looked forward to this two-lane road which would lead me straight to my folk’s driveway in Lake Luzerne, NY.   

This was what I came to call the 'homestretch'.

In my mind I was almost there. My European-made car could now do what it did best – tightly embrace miles of winding asphalt as it climbed higher altitudes into fragrances of pines that awakened the senses. This was the fun part.

Sometimes,  suddenly and without warning, something would happen as I tested the law enforcement of speed zones…an encounter of the WORST KIND.

Dead ahead, a slow-moving, bobbing and weaving white box on wheels would appear; as I tried to blink away the apparition before me, reality hit like a kick in the gut…

THE DREADED RECREATIONAL VEHICLE.

 
ARE YOU KIDDING ME??????????

My thoughts became audible, loud and anxious. "These things are a MENACE to the real owners of the road" – it got worse and went something like this:
Who the (expletive) would be insane enough to go on an (expletive) vacation in an (expletive) aluminum box!!! I was livid.

The fast time I had made on the highway was now compromised. I was doing HALF of the speed limit and the moron had his left blinker on - there was no left turn for miles.

I could do only one thing for my safety and the others on the road. I slumped in my seat, downshifted to 3rd gear and became the first in line of what was to be a Samba dance of drivers who all shared my pain.

The snake-like line of vehicles became the prisoners of MARGE AND HARRY FROM OSWEGO, NY which was airbrushed on the spare tire cover on the back of their RV.

I made a promise that evening so many years ago to myself - I swore to never, ever own one of those gawd awful things.

Never say never.  
 

ABSENCE MAKES MY HEART GO WANDER

I know I have a poor track record of consistent blogging posts but once in a while when I go to my Favorites and see my Blogger Dashboard is still there, I think maybe I should jot something down.

For some reason, this morning I was daring and opened it up. I pondered possibilities of subjects and now it's afternoon and I'm giving myself 20 minutes to write this because I have other things to do.

I woke up around 7:30 am and padded out to the coffee pot before sitting at the counter. My husband is now back to work as a professor and I sit in his favorite stool at the kitchen island. It has a great view of the river and morning traffic on the Intracoastal is soothing to witness. When he's not home is the only time I ever sit there.

We did travel to North Carolina in the RV. It was wonderful and cool and next year we will try to go for 2 whole months.

But I'm not talking about RVing today.

Anyway, as I perused this morning paper's headlines and looked over the classifieds ads of puppies for sale (no I do not need a puppy),  I ended up where I always do - the obit page. My mother used to do that and it drove me nuts. I would ask 'why do you read those' and her solid answer was always to make sure she wasn't on it.

It got me to thinking and sometimes that takes me to odd places in my reality.

Now I know the process of how to submit a special notice to a newspaper - be it an engagement or wedding announcement - and sadly, more often than I care to recall, the dreaded obituary. I have submitted these various notices of information in person, online and camera ready.

NONE of those had typos or ommissions yet every single one ended up in print with typos and errors. The don't give refunds or credits for mistakes or typographical errors.

I find inaccuracies in obituaries to be the worst of the worst thing to happen when trying to publish a notice. Some errors are obvious even if you don't know the person. For example if the deceased spells his last name one way, but then the list of male survivors all have a different spelling last name, well, that is an obvious error. One can only imagine the angst the family feels when they open the paper to read the words about their dearly departed and discover his name spelled wrong. That person who had 'that job' gets the 'stink eye' aimed at them by the rest of the family - trust me on this.

When discussing the deceased, no one ever, ever, ever is entirely truthful. It's not politically correct to call anyone bad names when they can't defend themselves.

But really, does everyone die peacefully surrounded by loved ones???  It would seem so but I know that not to be true. I was with my mother when she passed and it was not peaceful because before she took her last breath I was already wailing and sobbing in my sorrow.  I was scared and angry and all alone and I wailed and sobbed enough for those who weren't there. I liken it to screaming in the dentist chair with folks in the waiting room...everyone in that wing knew what had happened.

I didn't mention that on the obituary form I submitted.

I did mention however, that she enjoyed her animals and gardening.

If I wrote my own notice it would go something like this:

Patricia Lynn Knoch Doyle died after being sick and tired for a while. Mrs. Doyle - who was 90 (I'm making that up) was kicking and screaming right up to the end. Her family had just gone out to lunch when, finally, she took her last breath and went to meet her Heavenly Father. The jury is still out that she made it. She lived longer than we ever thought possible but you know what they say - only the good die young.  She was not wearing a helmet at the time of her death.

Patricia had a sick sense of humor, could be witty and charming as can be; she also could cut you in half with her words and was famous for her 'silent treatment' approach to those who crossed the line. She swore like a sailor and failed miserably each Lent when she gave up cursing. Her hobbies were worrying, worrying and worrying. She was a recovering Roman Catholic and remained racked with guilt throughout her entire life.

She worked from the time she was 14 years old and in the early days of her marriage, when they were always broke, she drove several shit box cars and never complained unless they leaked. 

Widely known for her frequent change of hair styles, lengths and colors, her husband preferred her blond but that never stopped her constant experimenting with various hues. Some were real doozies.

Left behind to finally enjoy some peace and quiet is her loving husband of what seemed like a hundred years and two sons (all of whom she loved dearly) as well as a couple of siblings, a few dogs and a long lost cousin on Long Island she found on Facebook...................................

Well, there's probably more I would say but I want to watch HGTV's "House Hunters" before Judge Judy comes on - Her Honor is one of  my husband's favorites.

Like I said, this is just a rough death notice but you get the picture of where I'm going with these notices...

Hopefully, I'll have a long time before I have to really get it done. And I'll put money on the very real likelihood of the publication spelling my maiden name with a 'k' at the end instead of an h.

I assure you I'm not going to worry about it at all.

Peace and love.