Merry Christmas

I suppose I should update my blog since I last wrote. It is, after all, Christmas Eve. The NaNo event long over. I finished just before Thanksgiving, came back and wrote a few thousand more words and then the bottom dropped out. This is my second Christmas without my Paul. Last year, he died and was buried just before Christmas. Two of my daughter's were with me through the Holidays and it was so busy, so much to do, and with all of us trying not to stress the other over losing their dad, my husband, we did put up the tree for a few days and reminisced.

This year I'm totally on my own. The first three weeks of December this year, I shut down completely. I buried my head in the sand so to speak, hoping not to have to go through this experience. About a week ago, just passed the 1st anniversary of his passing, I came out of my fog. I went to the cemetery, laid a rose on his grave. It was a most dismal day, weather-wise, until we neared the National Willamette Cemetery, which sits on a hill up past Portland. There the sun was shining and it was near 50 degrees. It was a wonderful moment of sun and blue skies up on that hill, overlooking Washington across the Columbian River. The air was so clear we could easily see three snow capped volcano peaks. Mt. St. Helen, nearest, Mt. Rainier just to the right, and then more to the right, Mt. Adams. As soon as we left, however, the sun moved on and we were back in the dismal fog and dark, log hanging clouds. My spirits had been lifted, not just for that brief moment in time, but the sunshine, even though otherwise still dark and dreary most of the week, has remained in my heart.

I never put up my tree or decorations. I fully intended to, but as each day passed, I talked myself out of it. No matter, I do have gobs of cards placed on all exposed pieces of furniture, and dozens of Christmas goodies. I won't be able to eat them all and everyone that comes by I pawn off a few samples here and there. I did put out red end-table mats and some red and white candy dishes and a pair of birds in winter garb and wearing ice skates. The mats, red candy dishes, and the skating birds I bought new this year.

The last two weeks I've attended church. That helped. Tomorrow we'll have the Bell Choir as part of the Christmas program again. I'm looking forward to that.

I've been rising early in the morning and pretty much staying up most of the day. Yesterday was a long day, as I never seemed to be able to nap. But when I laid my head down to sleep, I was asleep within minutes.

I've returned to where I left off drafting the novel for NaNao—Dead in the Water at Mallard River Bend. It feels good to write again. And today I just intend to write, work on my scrunchies. Later I will open the presents I received and have some low-fat eggnog. I'm watching out for my gall bladder. So nibbling will be at a minimum.

Merry Christmas family, friends, and all….

Has a year gone by already? Is it really going to be November 1st the day after tomorrow? Yes, and that means I've signed up to participate in another year of the frenzied National Novel Writing Month. Beginning November 1st, just after midnight Monday night, I will start drafting the next novel in the Mallard River Bend Murder series. This will be number three in the series. Dead in the Water at Mallard River Bend, A Campground Murder Mystery.

I'm excited and a bit melancholy at the same time. Just eleven short days after I finished last year's NaNo draft, I lost my husband to Kidney failure. It's been a hard year for me, and even though I'm looking forward to writing this draft, I'm may not be moving through it as fast as I usually do. My campground aficionado will not be here to cheer me on and answer endless question on campground equipment, cars, boats, etc. My easy-answer-man is out of range. That means more research.

I'm usually much further along in my pre-writing preparations by now. But I'm okay. I've got enough research and profiling done to at least get started writing. Dead in the Water is going to be a Father's Day Fiasco at Spit and Dolly's campground. Lots of things will be happening, including a couple of murders.

Wish me good writing days ahead. I'll be busy for the next thirty days pounding keys, staying up late, and sleeping late. This year I've added a pink sequined cap to my writing tokens. I'll disappear into my writing cave with Glorian, my writing cave-dragon, wearing my flashy pink cap while I let go of my mind and create another make-believe world of mayhem and disaster.

For those moments that I am in the real world, I'll still be building inventory for Christmas on my Etsy Shop site. Watch the sidebar for new items coming up. This will be a test to me to see if I can keep up crafting inventory for my shop and spend the necessary hours at the computer to reach my goal of 50,000 plus words by the end of November.

Use It or Lose It

I've found it very hard to get back to blogging in the past seven months. Even though I'm still grieving my forever friend and companion, I feel a little more alert, relaxed, and trying to enjoy the memories my hubby left for me to enjoy and remember him by until we meet again. Now, if I could just learn to sleep again...

So, between a new venture, crocheting beaded scrunchie for ponytails, fancy scrunchies, on my Etsy.com/shop/DeesFancies, I've managed to get my little dirt patch out front cleaned up and replanted. We've had one or two days of summer so far and here it is the middle of July and we've dipped back down to springtime temps with some summer rain showers off and on.

This is my garden for now. I had to replant some flowers, and they haven't had a chance to take hold and prosper yet. As you can see, I've downsized quite a bit. Less to water on hot days. Which we haven't really had yet.

4th of July Blues Hair Scrunchie



4th of July Blues



Still working on 4th of July scrunchies. This one is royal blue with the red, white and blue seed bead mix. Size large (2 inch elastic). See details on my Etsy shop, Dee's Fancies--here

U S of A Hair Scrunchie (Large--2 inch elastic)

U S of A

Much like the Red, White and Blue scrunchie posted previously, but in a large size. The beads are larger also. To learn more, go to my Etsy shop here. More on the 4th of July theme coming up. 







Feeling Patriotic? Red, White, and Blue Hair Scrunchie

Red, White, and Blue

Small (1 inch elastic)

For that picnic, parade, or just shopping, dress your hair in Red, White, and Blue for that patriotic spirit in you.

This one is size small (1 inch elastic) Working on a large (2 inch elastic) that should be up in a day or two.

Come on over to my Etsy shop and see whats available. 

Baby's Breath Hair Scrunchie

 

Delicate Pink Hair Scrunchie

Handmade in the USA. Soft pink with transparent pink glass beads. Cotton crochet thread No. 10.
Check out my Etsy site here for more colors and sizes.

Ronny's New Love and Goodbye--

By the middle of summer, Ronny was doing beautifully with weight, appetite, and personality. He was definitely coming into his own personality.

His favorite food was still Kibbles and Bits but his new loves were red grapes and Chips Ahoy cookies.

There had come a day, or rather I should say a night, where Ronny wouldn't be put away in his cage, no matter what the bribe. So, he was a big boy now, and I figured, it's time. He's old enough to stay in the trees if he chooses.

Well, he just had to choose the largest tree we had and the scariest to climb down. Several times after dark we took the blue Chips Ahoy bag and stood under the tree shaking it and calling for him. With the aid of the flashlight we could tell where he was, but the look on his face said two things: I'm having a great time up here and I'm not budging, and oh, yes. Cookies! But he stuck by his first resolution and that was to stay in the tree all night, alone. Finally, about midnight, we gave up and left him alone. We had a terrible summer storm that night. Heavy rain, thunder and lightning. I was worried sick the whole night. His cage was outside my bedroom window and I listened for him all night. But to no avail.

The next morning I checked the tree and there he was. A little wet, a little frightened, and very eager to come down. I shook the cookie bag and he started down headfirst. I think that was a mistake on our part for not teaching him which way to come down from a monster tree. He'd get about halfway and stop, whimper, and then go back up. I'd shake the bag and call some more. Finally, after a few more tries, he got to that crucial curve in the tree, and as though he'd known all along that headfirst was wrong, he turned himself around and exited feet first. As soon as his feet hit the ground he lumbered over to me and up into my arms. Eating cookies as fast as I could pull them from the bag.

That was the turning point in Ronny's life. He never went back in his cage. He slept in the trees or on top of his cage, and although it worried us, he was always there at the door come morning—ready for his Kibbles and Bits.

I had to leave him alone one day. Which meant I was gone for hours and he couldn’t find me. My reward for leaving him was a torn open back screened door and a raccoon curled up between the doors with a silly, "It's me!" grin on his sly little face.

One other time he tore open the front screen door from the top and climbed down between the doors and took a nap. Needless to say, I had to rescreen both doors.

Hubby's job was coming to a close. The campground had found a replacement for him, and me, and we needed to move into town. We found a house and started packing. It was sad because instead of going out and playing with Ronny, I had to teach him to follow me to the woods.

Due to a camera operator malfunction, I had lost a whole roll of pictures on my camera—all the last pictures of my now forty-pound furball with hands and teeth. So you'll have to imagine a very large, very heavy raccoon in my arms with his little hands wrapped around my neck. That was the one thing I couldn't get enough of, Ronny hugs, and playing with his tiny little fingers. They were so soft, so delicate, and, at times, very imploring. He still squawked like a baby when things didn't go his way. Especially as he got to be a hefty lump. But he was a good boy. Not once did he snarl or hiss, or try to take a bite of any of us. Total trust between both species. After all, we and the cats were his best buddies, his family.

So now I spent the last week we had at the country house taking Ronny for walks in the woods, showing him the stream, rotted logs, and stones to turn over. When he was younger we had carried him to the woods and tried to show him things, but he didn't want to eat anything that crawled or swam. That worried me a little then. I wanted him to be able to find food on his own, but he didn't seem to care. Now that he was older he seemed more interested to rummage through the leaf litter and dabble in the stream. Yet each time we went on our foraging trips, he'd follow me back to the deck and ate his bowl of Kibbles and Bits, maybe have a few grapes, and always a handful of Chips Ahoy.

I was running out of time. I had to leave in two days. The house would be empty and there would be no one there to feed him—take him in their arms and get "Ronny hugs." There was no rescue help among old-time farm-ville. He was just a pesky raccoon. So this had to work or not. There wasn't anything else I could do.

We had gone for our usual walk that afternoon and he dutifully followed me into the depths of the woods. I sat with him by the stream, talked to him, while he rooted around turning things over. Then I stood up and started back, he followed of course, but then when we got to the edge of the woods this time, he stopped.

I turned, said goodbye, then went on. He stayed where he was for a few moments more then turned and disappeared into the high grass and bramble at the edge of the woods. That night I left his bowl on the deck. It was untouched by morning. The next night I did the same. Still untouched. I dared not go back to the woods to check on him. He had made the choice on his own. It was as if he knew we were leaving and he couldn't go. As if he knew, he was finally big enough and strong enough that he could live without Kibbles and Bits and Chips Ahoy.

I knew he knew where home was, but even after I had spent my final day there, and checked back with people from the campground from time to time, he had never, to anyone's knowledge, returned to the house. Ever pray for an animal to make it on his own? I did. And often.

You can imagine that it did my heart good the following spring to learn that Ronny had made the transition. He had conquered the winter snows, was thriving and often visited a couple of picnic tables at the far reaches of the campground for a handout. At the same time, that was a worrisome bit of knowledge. Ronny wasn't afraid of humans, and if anything happened to him because of no fear, I'd have been guilty of a terrible crime. Letting a wild thing bond with you is something we all do when we come across a motherless little beast. We naturally want to raise it up. Love it and have it love us back.

Would I do it again? I'd have to think about it for about thirty-seconds, but I'd still take that, tiny, orphaned, baby raccoon up in my arms and do what I did for Ronny all over again. Only I'd know a few things about raising a raccoon this time.

To this day I like to think that Ronny had matured and had found a girlfriend. That somewhere out there, there were bunches of little Ronny's running about in the trees and lumbering through the campground at night, looking for mischief.

Ronny Raccoon

Spring and summer of 1993

Note: Now that I've introduced Ronny to you, from time to time, I will write short stories about his side of the story from the time he chose to return to the wild.

Ronny Gets Moved Outdoors

Ronny was larger now. Summer was upon us and Ronny was in need of a true outside experience.

His antics had increased to non-stop. Keeping up with him in the house was a chore. He was also becoming very nocturnal. Nighttime was now investigation time.

So we built a new cage. One that would sit on our deck, near the back door, where he would stay day and night. But he was rarely in his cage. Most of the time he was following me around getting into things.

In the evenings, when hubby and daughter were home Ronny joined us outside his cage, running up and down little trees, squashing the five kittens, who by coincidence were the same age as Ronny. Only smaller.

His favorite afternoon caper was to chase the kittens up a small tree and see how far out on a limb they would go. Ronny would only go so far out on a branch. I think he knew he was too heavy for the ends. But the kittens weren't and they would dangle from the ends of the young branches like Christmas tree ornaments on a windy day.

Another week and the kittens and Ronny were of one mind. Food and frolic. After a round of chasing, first Ronny after the kittens, then the kittens after Ronny, required a respite and a bite to eat. When they'd gotten their second wind, Ronny's next favorite stunt was to stand over the kittens and then flop down upon them, smashing the kittens under his belly. No harm done. The kittens loved it and would dart out from underneath him and then beg for more. When they got tired, they would scoot through the latticework under the deck, through holes that Ronny was a tad too big to get through.

Next we ended up with two outside cages for the deck. One of our neighbors had found a little girl raccoon about the same age as Ronny. She was found in a piece of outdoor furniture from a garage sale, after she had hitched a ride in a pickup.

Wild Willie (female)

We named her Willie. She was identical to Ronny but lighter in color. And WILD! It was hard to care for Willie because she was a vicious little soul. She used her sharp teeth and charging stance the way raccoons are supposed to. To protect themselves and frighten away prey.

Ronny would have loved nothing better than to be in the same cage with Willie. He was so friendly. But Willie was anything but friendly and when he tried to get close to her all he would get for his charm, was a slobbery hiss in his face. But that didn't stop him. He was just satisfied that he had a fellow member of his species nearby. Eventually, they played patty-fingers with their delicate little fingers between the wires of their cages.

Not long after that, the sun became too intense on the deck and their little cages were confining as both Ronny and Willie were growing literally inches a day. We built a tall cage for Ronny, four by five feet, and placed it in the shade of the oaks and next to a stand of lilac bushes. So no matter how hot the days got, they were comfortable.

We kept Willie in her smaller cage. We knew we would never be able to handle her. She was already imprinted by her mother. So we put her next to Ronny's new, larger cage and left her door open. She spent her days in the large oak trees above the house, but always came down to eat and sometimes sleep in her cage. It was the best we could do for her. Give her as much of ourselves as we could, but not interfere with her wild nature.

Willie hung around for several weeks, and then disappeared. My biggest worry was the road in front of our house.

In the meantime, Ronny continued to thrive.

Ronny's Progression

Ronny progressed nicely that first week. Solid food was next on the list. We started trying to wean him from his bottle by introducing baby cereal. He wasn't too keen on that alone. Then we had the brilliant idea to add baby apricots. Bingo! He liked it, he really liked it!

Raccoons are not kin to cats. We found that out the hard way. You'd think, or dummies like myself would think, they were more cat like. All Ronny did with the bowl of yummy cat food was spread it around and play with it. Raccoons are more akin to dogs. They will eat anything really, but for a house pet with no market available for raccoon food, we tried Kibbles and Bits next. That turned out to be his favorite meal. As he grew, he ate every morsel.

We added a rabbit-style water bottle to his cage, mostly because putting a bowl of water in the cage with him at night was inviting mischief. With our first try at that, we discovered just how many things a raccoon uses those delicate little hands for. It took a bit for him to understand that the water in his cage was for drinking and not doing the laundry. After he got the hang of drinking from the hanging water thingy, it was time to get a larger cage.

When we were home we left Ronny out of his cage most of the day. His cage was still indoors—in the kitchen, but eventually, putting him to bed at night became more of a chore. He still had his bottle before bed, but if he wasn't ready to sleep or didn't want to alone, he cried like a baby. If we had done our job and sufficiently worn him out through the day, taking him on outings to the lake or just lumbering around the back yard with him, he didn't put up a fuss. It was when he felt he'd been put to bed too early that he threw a tantrum. We started covering his cage and that helped some, but not always. Ronny was into everything, but he was still baby enough to want to curl up in your arms or under the blanket with Amy and sleep.

He didn't run like a puppy, he lumbered. A cat or kitten, will sidle when playing. Watching Ronny perform his play stance was hilarious. I wish I had video camera, but I didn't. Stills don't do it justice, but his attack stance was much like a kitten, but with a bigger, higher butt.

Teaching Ronny to know things of the world, and how to find food, was paramount in preparing him to return to the wild at the end of summer. The one plaything Ronny got the most out of was the bathtub. We'd let the water trickle from the faucet into a water dish and he'd splash about until everything in the room was dampened. After one of our fishing trips, we filled the bathtub with a few inches of water and added some of the minnows that didn't get used. Thank goodness we had a large country bathroom with a claw tub, so we had plenty of room to enjoy the show that Ronny put on chasing the minnows and small fish.

Raccoons grow fast. From a tiny helpless little kit, those first few days, to a week later of climbing and running and washing everything in sight.

On nice days we took him outside with us. He'd follow after as fast as his little feet could carry him, then if he caught up he climbed up the side of a leg. He figured we were his trees those first few weeks. He loved the outdoors, especially when we turned the hose on and let it run.

When it was time to come inside, he'd squawk like a spoiled child. Once inside, dry and fed, he was happy again. Remember, raccoons don't run, they lumber. Their little buts high in the air. Charging is a skill they have to learn for life in the wild. So is washing their food. We never put the water bowl near his solid food. Well, it only took once to show us how un-smart that was. Soggy Kibbles and Bits aren't very tasty, nor easy to clean up after.

Coming up—Ronny moves outside....

You've Met Mike! Now Meet Ronny!

Mike was a magical cat (stuffed cat really) with amazing eyes. He was adventurous and with the element of cyberspace, he has traveled most of the world. And, as his fans know, he's on an extended vacation with a little boy in a faraway place. Maybe someday, he'll come home with lots of stories to tell.

Ronny, on the other hand, is the real deal. Ronny came to us in an unusual place. Hubby and I were a management team for a camping-resort—a fancy name for a campground in the middle of nowhere.

We had originally lived in a park model inside the campground. After several  years we moved into a house owned by the property on a hill at the edge of the woods. The entire campground was set deep in a deciduous forest, but we lived on the edge, overlooking the entire property.

In the spring of 1993, hubby was cutting some rotted trees that had to come down to protect the camping units near them. His father was out visiting and helping—giving direction as father's often do. One of the trees they felled had a mother and some baby raccoons in it. The mother immediately ran off with a couple of them, but one, very tiny one had become stranded. The men backed away and gave time for the mother to come back for the poor waif but she never did. So rather than leave the frightened baby raccoon out in the cold through the night, they brought him up to the house. Amy was visiting with us at the time.

We named the kit, Ronny. Ronny Raccoon. Rather original, don't you think? Ronny was actually named after sassy, Ronny Raccoon, in a novella I had written just prior to finding this animal.

You can see by the pictures how tiny he was when he came to us. He hadn't been weaned yet and we had the privilege of bottle feeding him, teaching him to potty, to eat, to play.

Today, you'll met the baby:

It was May 5, 1993 when Ronny was introduced to us. Amy and me. It was the year I had resigned as the campground's manager after the insistence of my doctor. I'd had a difficult time recovering from an intense back surgery and resuming the 60 to 80 hour weeks I put in as manager wasn't helping my body heal. My hubby, the outside manager, was still working for them until a replacement for him could be found. Meanwhile, little Ronny came into our lives to give us something else to think about besides pain and having to change careers.

Our challenge was to raise this little fella to go back to the wild. The Fish and Wildlife would only suggest that because raccoons were not high on their priority list. In fact, raccoons were considered a pest. So we were on our own.

We estimated Ronny to be between four and five weeks old. After some research we discovered that raccoons don't become weaned until around ten weeks old. Ronny was tiny. We think he'd barely had his eyes open long, and could barely crawl around. He scooted mostly. So we treated him like a baby. He was bottle fed, burped, and cradled until he showed signs of wanting to be weaned. We helped him go potty. Warm washcloths on the belly helped him pee and poop.

We were so enamored with him that we carried him around a lot. He would cry and whine like a human baby when he needed love, attention, bottle, or wee-wee. We kept him in a brand-new pet cage in the kitchen. He had room for a sand box, a sleeping box, and room to climb around and play, for later, when he was able.

No one around us carried anything like raccoon formula. Kitty formula wasn't pleasing to him, so I went to the old standby—half water and half evaporated milk with a bit of sugar. He thrived on that. But in order to keep his bowels normal we eventually dropped the sugar.

He needed fed about ever two hours, through the day and night. He was very attached to our daughter, Amy. Every day was a learning curve. But Ronny proved easy to please and take care of. We were his mother, and he was our baby. Even as he grew to be forty pounds, he was still our baby.

We did a lot of fishing now that we had a bit more leisure, and would pack Ronny up, put him in a pet carrier and take off to the lake. He loved that. He loved car rides. He slept in his carrier on the lakeshore while we fished. Until he got hungry, then he'd put up a fuss. Baby raccoons sound just like children and can get quite loud when they are unhappy or hungry.

He never liked either of us to be out of his sight. He'd come running and climb up a leg until he got in to our arms and was cuddled.

I'm planning on writing more about our experiences with Ronny. But for now you've had a peek at him. My intention is to take you to the point in his life with us that we had to move into town. To the time that Ronny was returned to the wild woods around us. Hopefully, I'll write short stories like those that I did with Mike. Letting Ronny tell us about his life in the woods after we parted.

Surviving--or Pity Post

Is there anything for me in this life—having survived a loved one, a companion of nearly half a century? I'm tired of surviving.

Things have calmed down now. The kids went home in January, they keep in touch by phone, email, text, and Facebook. Other family members and friends do the same. I made it through two months alone. Without anyone living here with me…my neighbors and some friends do stop in often, so I'm not totally alone. As long as they keep bringing me chocolate, I'm good with that.

I've pretty much gotten my life down to a routine. I watch TV all night, listen to classical music all afternoon and evening. Notice I didn't say all day. My day often starts about two in the afternoon. I work at nothing or something or other on my computer. One, because the room where my desktop sits is warmer than anywhere else in the apartment right now. Two, this is where my husband worked, the very same spot, and all his pictures flash on my screen. Three, I think I need to be in here working on something creative, and for a month I was. Rewriting and revising the novel I just finished. Now I sit here contemplating my next move.

I eat in front of my LCD. I open mail here. I peruse catalogs here. I listen to classical music live streaming on my computer. I had a radio—sound system once. Like everything else at this age, it bit the dust a while back and I have not replaced it.

My two lovely cats are totally pissed off at me because I'm either in bed or in front of the computer. In bed they both sleep on me. In front of the computer there is nowhere but my face for them to be, to get my attention. They eat a lot. I don't.

At my doctor's recommendation, I went to meet with a Grief Counselor on Monday. It was more of a meet and greet session. A short session. She was nice, and probably knew her stuff, but it wasn't what I thought it'd be. I'll have to think on that one some more. People of late tend to look at the illnesses and other life trauma's I've survived and tell me I'm a strong person. Independent. I will be fine. I'm a survivor. Did I mention I'm tired of surviving?

Well, I'm not fine. I'm not independent, and I swear that the next professional person who tells me how strong I am, I'll slap them silly.

Now I'm living a life of financial catch-up. Catching up after the car I so desperately wanted to keep decided it needed a few things—immediately. Tires and then brakes. I have some family members and dear friends that are earning extra money with content writing, or making and selling their crafts. That's cool. I figured the content writing would be good for me and bring in the extra money I need. I once did that, only back then they called it advertising and magazine articles. But after checking out the content writing I think I'm a hopeless cause. I't made me feel as if I don't have anything to offer anymore.

I'm bored with the crafty things I do, so that's not even a consideration. I'm a fiction writer, a storyteller. Sometimes dabbling in poetry and prose, but the area of life I'm most comfortable in is storytelling. And I do that. I've started my 15th novel; unfortunately none of them is exactly polished to the point of catching an agent's eye. I just finished revisions for The Wonder of Jane, and sent it out to beta readers. Dust bunnies don't bring in the bucks, either.

Okay, while I wait for Jane's return, I've started the 3rd book in the Campground Murder Series, Dead in the Water at Mallard River Bend. I've got a lot of work ahead of me and a lot of character profiles to create. I'm terribly distracted, however, and don't stay focused on the book, rather preparation of the book, for very long. I've only written the opening scene, the first 4 or 5 pages.

So back to wanting to be a media content writer. I have a friend guiding me, but from what I've read and seen so far, I'm not the right person for the job—and so hoped I would be. But I have to face facts. My children tell me I'm like the writer in Nim's Island. I never leave the house. I travel in my imagination. That can mean one of two things. Exciting or depressing. Oops, I've used that Depressing word. I said I wasn't going to say I'm Depressed. I did that in front of the doctor and he immediately wanted me to take a pill. The grief counselor wanted me to take pills, too. I take enough pills, thank you very much. So My imagination is one of two things: exciting or boring as hell. I guess I'll just have to tough it out. One of these days, I'll catch up.

I'm hoping that spring really does come soon. Last year it barely made it before summer was over. I need warm breezes and sunshine. I need to stand under the tall fir and cedar trees out here and listen to the music they create. The stories they tell.

Now here's what I really want to do. Yes, we know I want to write fiction. But I also want to tell short stories about cats. I want to take the laptop to the park and watch and learn and write. I'm almost scared to death to do that, but I know that if I am truly as strong a person as I've been told, if I truly am a survivor, then I must go out. And often. After all, I didn't pay all that much-needed money to fix the car, just to leave it parked in the driveway.

I also want to get back to painting and illustrating. My hands and arms are somewhat more reliable now, so I think I can trust that my brush and pencil strokes will be just that—reliable. I also have decided that I want to join a book club. I'd rather join a writer's group, one like I belonged to in the last place I lived. But there are none close enough to me. I might even take a painting or sculpting or pot throwing class. Three things I've always wanted to do my entire life and haven't yet. We'll I guess that's it then. I've survived long enough. I need to get busy and live. Be productive and independent and strong.

And to my eternal mate, whose shipmates tell me he is now on eternal patrol—"I love you today."

When Did They Become So Wise?

I look into my grown children’s eyes

and see the babies I once held in my arms,

gurgled on their bellies to make them laugh.



Was that when they became so wise?

Did they come into their little bodies

with wisdom unleashed?



Or was it when they started school

and learned to speak and read and write,

and learned to challenge the world?



Could wisdom have been there all along

and I’d not seen?

not heard nor suspected?



Were they wise when they received their diplomas?

dressed in a line of shimmering black,

excitement in trembling smiles.



Had they made it thus far only to go out in the world

and learn everything all over again?

Gathering true wisdom?



Was there a worldly character lurking nearby,

with outcast hands of forbidden fruit?

“Eat this, it will make you wise.”



In our solitude moments gathered by grief

I see the wisdom in their ways,

I see the wisdom in their tenderness and love.