Heart of Fire

When it all goes down

2011-06-12T15:52:00.001-05:00

I ponder in the dark how fate shapes the fleshy clay of my life.
A blind idiot potter molds me on a spinning wheel with delight.
Mocking logic's symmetry, I always thought the potter was me.

I am Will's Sense of Righteous Indignation

I must confess I had lived many years without any medical care. Being uninsured had me thinking that medicine was something that others had access to. Care and treatment seemed to be a luxury afforded to the rest of humanity but not to me. I lived an unexamined life, whistling past the graveyard, and deep in denial. I was one of those people they call the working uninsured. Living on borrowed time as I danced on the edge of disaster.

Then something happened that was a life changing moment. I was on my day off from work, busy preparing for the beginning of my work week. I had just finished dinner when I discovered that I needed to make a quick run to the convenience store 2 blocks away from my home. It was a cold night at the end of February, The sky was clear but the moon had yet not risen. The day had been warm and sunny, a day filled with the promise of spring. The warmth had melted the ice that covered a parking lot chose to I cut across to save time. I did not see the patch of black ice that waited for me. A silent trap, hidden in the shadows.

In a second I was no longer hurrying to the store. It was like a giant hand had reached out and slammed me like a rag doll on the unyielding ice skinned asphalt. Time slowed as I fell, and I could hear that sharp snap, and feel the pain as my humerus snapped like a dry twig. The nausea and the blurring of the senses from shock rushed up on me like a cold wave. It drove home to me the knowledge that I was in serious trouble. I tried to sit up, I could not move. I was on the ice and could not get enough traction to push myself up. My strength was gone, and my left arm was so much dead meat anchoring me to the spot. I lay on my back and breathed deep. My survival instincts took over. That primal part of me rose up, I wanted to live so yelled out with all my might for help.

I am not sure how long I laid there, it could be mere minutes, it could be longer. What I do remember was seeing a shadow cross me, I looked in that direction and saw a police officer. He asked if I needed help, I almost cried, not tears of pain, but the joyful tears of the rescued. By then I was numb from shock and starting to experience the effects of exposure. My speech was slurred but I made it clear that I was unable to get up and yes, please get me help. He called in for an ambulance and I waited.

As I laid there someone who identified himself as a doctor, but never presented anything to establish his claim walked up and stated that I must be drunk and I merely had a dislocated shoulder. I am not sure who he was, all I know is his diagnosis could have not been more wrong. At the time I did not know how this misdiagnosis would effect my ability to get the treatment I needed when healing.

The ambulance appeared and they lifted me onto the gurney. The pain woke up and it became apparent that I definitely needed to be in the emergency room. The next 6 hours were a blur as I phased in and out of the consciousness. I finally got a call through to family to come help me, and my employer. to call off. I was finally put into the first of several casts and released. The next days I was in the office of an orthopedic specialist, being put through the medical torture chamber.

Fast forward a few weeks. I was still in a temporary cast. They could not locate the clam shell mini cast that would be my exoskeleton for the duration of my treatment until a radiologist found one that would fit me. I was forced to wait for it because they would not order a new one without insurance. I had to forgo surgery that would speed up the healing process, in spite of this I recovered, slowly, and with some loss of mobility, but the bone segments grew and fused. During this time it was my own initiative that meant the most to my recovery.

Due to the length of recovery I lost my job. The doctor would not release me for full duty. Even after the cast came off I was faced with self managed home physical rehabilitation I was in limbo. I could not draw unemployment because of the injury, I could not file a claim on the owner of the parking lot I fell on. My savings were dwindling, and the medical bills kept rolling in. I was forced to seek charity, a bitter pill to swallow. While at the trustee's office I saw a form for the Healthy Indiana Plan. I applied and I was accepted so I now had insurance for the first time in decades.

Once I got insurance I still thought a checkup was not needed. I felt fine, life was good, and I was leading a charmed life. The reason I scheduled a physical was to have my unused benefits added to my policy when it was renewed. I was in for a reality check in more ways than one. Before my diagnosis I had not paid any attention to the issue of medical care, let alone becoming my own advocate when it involved dealing with medical care providers.

I hate to say it but I have found that the only way to get things done about medical issues it to be the squeakiest wheel on the machine. Too many doctors take it for granted that you know as much as they do about esoteric medical matters. Most pharmacies assume you and the doctor know all the answers and will duly dodge any initiative to go the extra mile. Insurance companies try to make you shut up and be a cash cow as cheaply as possible so they can profit from all the confusion and suffering.

It has been quite a journey, I am no longer a naive babe in the woods. I know that If I am going to thrive I have to become my own champion in my battle with my condition. We can ill afford to be a passive recipient of what the system will give us. We must be brave, bold and speak loudly to our needs. There is strength in numbers, and if we all rise up and not surrender to despair and apathy we can improve our lot in life. We can fight the good fight and win or lose we can be make a difference. The world faces an epidemic of diabetes. We need to be active in the quest to heal ourselves and those who come into our world without any idea of what they face. What am I going to do about it? What are you going to do about it? What can we all do together to solve this crisis? Does it make you as angry as it does me? I am listening and have that blind hope that some way, some how we will find the answers.

It is time to step off my soapbox and take a personal few baby steps. I will keep you all in my hopes and dreams. Till we meet again, live your life with passion, live it with joy, and wonder. Be good to yourself, and do something good for others. We are all in this together.

Will

Reflections of a Control Junkie

2011-04-28T16:51:00.001-05:00

I am Will's Obsessive Behavior

I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.

Lately while being sick I have had a debate raging inside me. How do you balance a need to maintain iron control with the need to live a full and happy life? When is too much of a good thing not so good for your whole sense of well being. I can rattle off the nutritional values of most the foods I eat on a regular basis. I can calculate the calories of the carbohydrate, fat and protein content. I know my BMI and requirements to the third decimal place. I can see how my test levels fall on the charts I have created. But how do you chart satisfaction? When have you crossed the line where you wake up a slave to your own methods? Do I wake tomorrow and find that my shoes are too tight, but it does not matter because I have forgotten how to dance?

Let me go back to the beginning of my journey on the path of management. When I was diagnosed and the initial shock wore off I met a new force in my life. My inner diabetes policeman. A dark and brooding figure armed with a truncheon of fear, and a scrapbook full of pictures of my mother's downward spiral into an abyss of complications that consumed her. I became an archetypal Üuberdiabetic. A desperate person swearing to seek perfection so what had passed would not happen to me. In my diabetes class I was the one who always had the right answer for the questions asked. I had done a lot of homework to learn all I could to fight for my life. I may have become a bit insufferable. I did not need others to lay the burden of profound guilt on me, I could do it all by my self and I was quite good at it. By now I know enough to be able to temper my need for control with my need for growth.

Lately I have had a change of attitude. The advice of my diabetes coaches is beginning to sink in. We are not perfect, you live life one day at a time and do what you can each day to find a balance. You gratefully take each small victory and diligently learn from your mistakes. You experiment with different methods and strategies to lead a life worth living. It is a lifelong process and you are allowed to make mistakes along the way. If you do not risk you end up missing opportunities for growth, acceptance and happiness.

So here I am. I stand on the edge of the cliff of rigid control frightened and exhilarated. Feeling like a young bird spreading its wings and wondering how they will carry me to new heights. All it knows is it's time to leave the safety of the nest and find its own way in the world. Maybe it is my time to fly.

Till we meet again, live your life with passion, live it with joy, and wonder. Try to be good to yourself, and do something good for others. Always remember we all can fly.

Will

I am Will's Dark Passenger

2011-04-24T12:08:00.001-05:00

Thoughts on the Nature of Depression

We should every night call ourselves to an account; What infirmity have I mastered today? What passions opposed? What temptation resisted? What virtue acquired? Our vices will abort of themselves if they be brought every day to the shrift. -- Seneca

I was pondering the nature of depression. It has made me think deep about how it expresses its self in those who live with it each day of their lives. On my birthday I caught a segment on the news about how "experts" deemed my birthday the most depressing day of the year. I did not let it rain on my parade. I could see why they might say such a thing. The winter season filled with grey dead cold days weight down our spirit and drive some to the edge. Lack of sunlight, cabin fever, brain chemistry or sheer boredom can make us feel blue. Add the link between diabetes and depression and things move from bad to worse.

What constitutes depression? How does depression differ from common grief or justified regrets? The human condition is never an absolute proposition drawn in only black or white. Even at its best it is a bittersweet experience. We all experience joys and sorrows, hopes and regrets. It speaks to us about some fundamental questions: When does simple common sadness change into a damaging mental condition. When we are caught up in depression how do we fight back? How do we turn what at first appears to be a fatal flaw into a life affirming strength?

I think even the most optimistic and well adjusted of us still has those dark moments when we question our worth and goals. It is part and parcel of a life examined. People may aspire to a logical life but there is a primal side that is insoluble in logic. Residing just beneath the veneer of civilization there is a part of us that is governed by emotions and irrational hungers. It is not always pleasant to look into that place and see that part of our humanity. We react in different ways,some act out, some feel shame, some deny it exists, and some make peace with that messy irrational side of the coin we flip each day. The key is to accept who we are under the mask we wear and grow from what we learn.

We all have seen or heard that voice that tells us we are not worthy or perfect enough. When we are faced with temptation it whispers that we should just let go and not try anymore. We see our condition as a burden too heavy to bear. We feel are special, that nobody can understand the depths of the pain we feel. Our resolve weakens and we say to our self. “Life is unfair! Trying to get control of my hunger/glucose level/exercise is all so hard what is the point? Why can't I just live for today and forget about tomorrow?”

Before you reach for the torches and form a mob I have to say I have been there too. I am not point a finger in accusation. I am merely making a confession and an observation. We get in our own way and throw up obstacles, excuses and justifications for not taking responsibility for our own lives and the state of affairs we must deal with to lead a healthy life. Our untamed dark passenger sabotages our new found control and we watch knowing full well that it did not need to happen. That can lead to a double jeopardy of guilt shame, a sense of worthlessness and recriminations. This is a dangerous self-reinforcing toxic cycle that needs to be broken.

What is the answer to this problem? I have more questions than answers. I can not speak for others. Our personal answer is unique for each one of us. Some find it in religion, some in medication and psychotherapy, some in insight, introspection and acceptance. All I know is that it is a journey we must take if we want to live a happy healthy life and be able to lift up those around us along the way. No matter what path you take remember that you are worth the effort. We each are a individual answer to an infinite number of questions life asks of the universe. Find your own voice and answer and shout it out loud. Join the chorus of life and shake the world with our song. We are not alone.

There seems to be a strong link between diabetes and depression. The search for cause and effect leaves me with a conundrum. Does diabetes increase the chances for depression, or does depression increase the risk on diabetic onset? Some think it is a chicken or the egg proposition. The question drove me out to see what has been written on the subject. My research is far from perfect or exhaustive. But life is a never ending classroom and I will keep leaning and sharing.

Here are a few links that I found interesting:

Till we meet again, live your life with passion, live it with joy, and wonder. Try to be good to yourself, and do something good for others. Remember that if you are feeling cast adrift you are not alone. Reach out and accept a helping hand. You are worthy and precious. We are here on this world to help each other.

All the best for you and yours.

Will

Memories, Guilt and Salvation

2011-04-08T17:07:00.001-05:00

Unbidden Memories

The mind is a strange and mysterious thing. Full of doors that open when we least expect it. One of those doors opened, flooding me with memories of my mother. She was my first direct encounter with the complications that can befall a person with diabetes. Her life and death have been a major influence on my motivation to control the condition she passed to me that did not manifest its self until late in my life.

I remember how my mother stubbornly cut her own toenail, and in the process cut herself. She hid it from all of the family until it was too late. We only discovered it when we were forced to take action and hurry her to the hospital. We saved her life, but she ended up losing her leg to just below her knee.

She suffered from depression, and guilt all her life. Diabetes made her condition become much worse. There was a nagging thought in my mind that she did not ask for help because she wanted to punish herself for things that happened to her during an abusive childhood. It seemed that she saw her diabetes as a death sentence for the crime of not being able to defend herself all those years ago. Toxic shame can poison your life if you allow it to. And in her case it was fatal.

I was the person who became the primary care giver in the last months of her life. We spent that time talking, working through things left unsaid for so many years. We both knew this was the last chance to share time together. I found ways to prepare her favorite foods in a healthier version. I did what I could to make her life easier, healthier and more enjoyable. I had her blood glucose levels stable, her numbers were as close to what a normal healthy non-diabetic person's would be.

In the end it was blood poisoning from the dialysis that claimed her life. She had a "do not resuscitate" order on file and there was nothing we could do to extend her life. To me it was a bitter pill to swallow. I nearly choked to death on it. I had the curse of the firstborn. We were brought up to be the strong fixer of problems, perfect and all knowing. Frustration and grief led to profound guilt. I was Prometheus bound to the rock of guilt while a great eagle ate my liver every day only to have it grow back to be eaten again the next.

Generational guilt can be a hard thing to break. It expresses it's self in every member of the family touched by it. It is like a chain wrapped around your family tree. It took me a long time to see how it held me and break free. My way to freedom was through Bradshaw's work on co-dependence and family dynamics. Suing for peace with myself was not easy. Nothing that is fundamentally life changing ever is. We pick our battles and pick a place where we can seek the place where we can find strength to build a better life on the ashes of the past.

We either learn from the past or are forced to relive it. Her tragedy and loss was not in vain. It has made me more aware and proactive in managing my diabetes. For that I am eternally grateful and will cherish the memories of the good times. And I remember the bad times too, so I may avoid making the same mistakes again. I think she would feel proud and be at peace knowing that after all her suffering some good came from it.

I am Will's Childhood Memories

2011-04-08T15:20:00.001-05:00

I have been on a mission of outreach to uncover others who share my condition. Part of my journey has been looking back in my life to see the seeds of my need to act on my mission. I look deep and remember those in my family who have traveled the same path I am on now. Emotions well up and I can feel that fullness around my eyes. Tears are waiting to overflow the dam of my stoic self control. I would not want to escape them It is what makes me human. Healing rain that flows in abundance, they help wash my spirit clean. In our quest for meaning we look back and find moments of foreshadowing. Clues that we find anew in the future. Hidden, unbidden they reveal their presence when we least expect it. a message in a bottle we sent off to speak to our future self. A gift from the past for when we need it the most. This one of those moments.

My thoughts of my uncle Leo came to me the other day and has popped up often since then. He was a gentleman in both senses of the word. A loving husband to my aunt Zella. He possessed a easygoing wit and charm, and a kindness that surpassed that of his loving wife. His passion was making life special for all he touched. Their home was always open to all our family. many happy times we all spent together in celebration of life and family. As a boy I loved to visit them. Their home held many exotic treasures that fascinated me and made me want to see far-flung places. He was my favorite uncle, mentor and friend I felt some shame that I did not know till lately how much I love and miss him. He was not related to me by blood, but he was truly family to me.

He was a pharmacist by trade. And on special Saturdays he would take me to where he worked and sit with me at the soda fountain counter. We would both order a soda, chocolate for him, strawberry for me. We would talk of many things. People came in and recognized him. They would speak with us, I could see that he had touched them as well. He was more than their pharmacist in their eyes, he was their caring friend. I can taste those sodas now and they still taste as sweet. As sweet as my memories of those times when we were together.

One night in the late 1950's when I was sleeping over at their house. He quietly sat down next to me. I could see that something was troubling him. I saw tears in his eyes as he confessed to me that he had been to the doctor and found out he had diabetes. He spoke of how his life would change. I could see the fear, the hope, the slow acceptance of what at the time was thought of as a sentence to slow death. Of things he would have to give up to live. He apologized and told me that he would have to just have a seltzer water when we went for our Saturday afternoon visit to the pharmacy. I took his hand and told him I understood, "You are still my uncle Leo to me". I saw him live with his condition with a quiet dignity. He was still the man I knew, but I could see his inner struggle to live his life on his own terms and not let his secret condition triumph over him.

So today I want to dedicate this post to him. And pay some of the debt I owe to this kind gentle man who means so much to me. He was my uncle, my friend, my teacher and fellow traveler. His passing made the world a poorer place.I dedicate my life to help pay forward in the currency of compassion and good deeds. It is my legacy. It is my history. It is the path I choose, now and in the future. What a world we can make if we all bend a knee to help those who have fallen stand tall. Maybe I'm a dreamer. But it is a dream worth having. I would rather dream than be awake in an uncaring world bereft of human dignity and compassion.

Confessions of an Aging Diabetic

2011-04-08T15:02:00.001-05:00

Every day I remember when I was first diagnosed with diabetes. I can still feel the shock of the cold pronouncement that my doctor gave me. The news he gave me was no real surprise. I had seen the symptoms but hoped against hope. I had been living with my head in the sand refusing to acknowledge what my body had been shouting to me loud and clear. There it is again, that lost feeling I had while being told the news which would forever alter my life. "You have diabetes. Here is a meter and this is how you load it. Would you like to see our mental health care councilor to talk through your feelings? Good I will see you in a couple of weeks." He turned and rushed off leaving me speechless and feeling like I had been hooked up on a blind date just so he could ditch me and move on to another case on his log. I moved through the rest of that day like an automaton with someone else working the strings. I followed the instructions as meager as they were while trying to figure out what to ask, what to do, what did this all mean to me. Eventually the numbness faded and it was replaced with another emotion I can still feel the anger I felt when I realized I had not been given any of the tools I needed to deal with this new challenge.

I was tried to cope with that sense of loss. A feeling like I had attended a funeral of a close friend who I would mourn came over me. I grieved for the me who died that day and thought on how that death would change me. I made a laundry list of all the things I had to leave behind. Those favorite foods, the spontaneous carefree days all gone. Everything I thought I knew was dust in the wind and events blew them away. At first it chafed me and I had a profound hunger that continuously gnawed inside my belly. I never thought I would feel full again. This was not just hunger for mere food but for my old life back. Though the rumbling in my belly could not be denied.Without the input of a dietitian I had been over zealous in my attempt to reduce my intake and had been too focused on losing weight at a rate that was not safe.

Time rolls on and I am now a new man. Gone are the cravings. I have discovered ways to nibble what I choose. Eating small manageable portions that make me feel pampered and content. Moderation in all things always rings in my head. Everything is permissible unless it is damaging to your body or spirit. I dance lightly on the razor's edge juggling with wild abandon. Set free from ignorance I am no longer afraid of cutting my legs off because of an unexpected fall from grace. Fear is an ugly form of slavery and I long to be free.

I am glad that I came to my condition late in life. I am not sure how a younger and less wise me would have reacted to the news. I was one of those willful brash and arrogant young men who saw the suffering of others as proof of their weakness. My pride was legion and my compassion sorely wanting. I walked in twilight when I should have sought out the brightness all around me unseen.

I was living with a chronic case of youthful deception. Blindly thinking that I was invulnerable and brimming with insufferable ignorant certitude. Eventually I was inoculated against this cancer of the soul by a life changing injury. It was my turn to cry out against what I saw as a hostile uncaring world intent on my degradation and eventual destruction. My world crumbled around me. I was faced with the unvarnished fact that my body had failed me. The knowledge shook me to my core. Pain gripped me and I was reborn. My cries were my second birth pangs. It was my wake up call and the first step into becoming truly human. It has been quite a trip, but I would not change a thing. Humility is a hard lesson to learn, but without being humbled I would not be the man I am today.

My world keeps changing, and with it my life has become richer. I gained a sense of concern for the well-being of those around me. It has more weight in my mind than concerns for my personal survival. When my mother was dying I offered myself to take her place because her life meant more to me than my own. When my prayers went unanswered. There was a question that hung in the air insoluble in logic. I had to think hard about what was the reason I was still here on Earth. Maybe some day I will know the answer, or perhaps I will never know. I will keep on finding more questions to ask and someday either I or those who follow me will pick them up and solve the mystery.

In my later years I know I am who I am. I am just a man living life on my own terms. I am much more than a set of statistics and medical conditions. Diabetes is just another place I travel through on this long and strange journey. I am not the road I walk on, but a traveler navigating along it to reach my goal. I may take a detour, I may have to pull out a map to see where I took a wrong turn. I may travel a path rarely taken by others. If I find an oasis of joy I will linger there for a while and feed my spirit and drink deeply. But I know I will get to where I need to be at the time I need to be there. Life is a wonderous journey best taken at a slow pace so we can savor each step. No longer am I in a great hurry to cross the finish line. Understanding has taught me this race is won by those who finish last.

So I sing a song of joy for you loud and without shame. I say a prayer for all of us to see us through our days. May our journey be long and full of wonder and a sense of awe for all the profound secrets revealed to us along the way. Meaning found in a smile, a word, in the warmth of a kiss. Lessons found in s water smoothed rock on a beach, the shimmer of the northern lights, or the sounds of the night chorus from the wetlands on a summer night. A kaleidoscope of imagery and sensations that speaks to our heart if we are calm and our inner voices do not drown them out.

We were meant to make this journey it is a gift given to us and a duty to take it. Though at times we think our life is hard and the path is rocky. We have an infinite inner strength to endure it all if we have faith and the serenity to face it unafraid. The human spirit can work miracles. In the darkest moments it can shine out so bright. I will follow the light that others glow with and l will meet you all somewhere down the line. When we all gather together in the light of grace we will laugh and share ideas on what this life was all about.

I know I may have said some of this all before and if I have said it once I have said it a million times I hate when I repeat myself. But grant me the indulgence an old geezer is due for my ramblings.

Till we meet again, live your life with passion, live it with joy, and wonder. Try to be good to yourself, and do something good for others. Always remember you are never alone as long as friends are near.

Honey I'm Home!

2011-04-05T16:54:00.000-05:00

Every task you choose to tackle has the capability to expand well beyond your wildest dreams of how long it will take to complete. But it is to be expected, and you should rejoice in the opportunity to stretch your personal envelope. The journey of discovery has its own time frame and we are just along for the ride. Hold on tight, and enjoy the trip.
Will Boucher, circa: Early 21st century (2010)

I had intentions of posting earlier, but events conspired to draw my time and energy elsewhere. Time seems to have flown by and I realized that it has been many years since I have posted here. My body had hit the wall and it took time to get back to a semblance of normality.

I am Will's My Life as a Mad Scientist

Yes I know I have not been around lately. Yes I know this is my home. All I can do is beg my friends for forgiveness for my extended period of "incommunicado". My only justification is I have been caught up by events bigger than me, and you will forgive me because I know you love me. (Well some of you do...) Since I have last posted I have been swept up in a whirlwind of manic activity. I have been up to my neck in webpage revisions, turning old-school tag soup 700 page Frankenstein site into a 1000+ pages of semantic user friendly goodness. I keep a history site covering World War One aviation. I had been contemplating a major renovation for a couple years, but the scale of the project was daunting, and I had personal health fires to put out before getting busy on "The Website From Hell". As always every step has bred more revisions and new graphics, more research. It is my way to give back to the online community for all the blessings I have received in over a decade I have spent online.

Thoughts on Rebuilding

2005-09-08T00:15:00.000-05:00

One thing I find incredible is the belief that there can be such a thing as completely safe place to build. When you hear people talking about the "wisdom" of abandoning civilization along the gulf coast and moving all those stupid risk takers somewhere safe for their own good.

Hello! Mc Fly! There is no completely safe place anywhere in the known universe. if you want to think of how unsafe things can be remember this. Nature hs a way of doing things every now and again that ruins more than your day. Life is a gamble at best. It is the irrational optimism of humanity that keeps us plugging away. We keep striving even when with the best odds nobody gets out of the casino alive. It is what makes spirit stronger than mere sterile intellect.

Using the criteria many of the no-build people have trotted out would have ruled out rebuilding many great cities. San Francisco, Los Angeles, Tokyo, and the list goes on ad nauseum. You Learn from the failure and build better. Life goes on somehow.

Cities do not just magically spring up somewhere without a reason. They are formed because the location is critical for a civilization's needs. A unique combination of geography, resources, transportation, inspiration and innovation comes together at points on the globe and they get settled.

The Gulf is a strategic, economic, cultural asset which could not be met elsewhere. I agree the supposed safety net failed on the Gulf Coast. Locals always look to neighbors first with good reason. When local leadership fails they have to take the hit too. But keep one thing in mind. This was not a normal storm event. It Was an extraordinary storm that showed how hard it is to sanely plan for insane times.

It is going to be a hard and painful lesson for us all. The painful ones always stick with us longest. Hopefully we get wiser with each lesson.

Whatever: Noted Without Comment

2005-09-06T04:35:00.000-05:00

Whatever: Noted Without Comment

It's like not having the coin to give to Charron to cross the River Styx.

More Memories

2005-09-04T04:44:00.000-05:00

Dreams have been the place of refuge where I can rest. Remembering happier days. praying for those in danger. May we all be a beacon to those lost in night.

Bourbon Street

slow dancing down on Bourbon Street, 
the hot night filled with sweet music
heating the blood stirring your dreams
a night that was made just for two lovers

arms round a lovely honey sweet belle
her slender body pressed close to mine
nuzzling tight, our bodies locked together
we were a perfect fit like a two piece puzzle

those eyes blue grey filled with her laughter
she whispered to me her voice was lilting
so soft and rich, pure Mississippi beauty
melting my heart, till I was putty in her hands

we danced to the music that poured like water
from open doorways that called to the crowd
like streams that flow into a turbulent human river
swept along as we danced by the neon lit tide

How You Can Help

2005-09-04T04:34:00.000-05:00

Here is a good short list for chariable organizations involved with the disaster recovery operation on the Gulf Coast. Please take time to get involved in any way you can. What harms one of us, harms us all. We can make a difference in the shape of the future. For a longer list see CNN katrina Help Center.

American Red Cross

(800) HELP-NOW
The Salvation Army

(800) SAL-ARMY (725-2769)
Feed the Children

(800) 525-7575
America's Second Harvest

(877) 817-2307
Habitat for Humanity

(866) 292-7892
MercyCorps

(800) 852-2100
National Next of Kin Registry

(800) 944-4084
International Medical Corps

(800) 481-4462
Army National Guard

(800) 833-6622 For Service Members and Families
ASPCA

(866) 275-3923

Natural Disaster/National Disgrace

2005-09-03T05:27:00.000-05:00

People are beginning to wake up and see that things have not been handled very deftly in Katrina's wake. A lack of a coherent plan, foot dragging helped the state of chaos to grow. Desperate people pushed over the edge by a horror most of us will never know. The images coming from there are like scenes from the bowels of hell.

Government officials have been sleepwalking their way through the crisis. It has not been FEMA's most shining hour. We are watching a city being killed by neglect. When you see people who followed orders to evacuate to a shelter and find that they are in a death trap with no food or water for 4 days. This will not do!

After 9-11 and the creation of the Homeland Security post FEMA became part of the package meant to handle threats fo our country and way of life. They do not seem to be up to the job during this crisis. Granted the scope of this Disaster is beyond anything we have had to face before.

Please call the American Red Cross at 1-800-HELPNOW today. Or make a contribution online at American Red Cross - Credit Card Contribution

To all those who find their lives storm tossed tonight know you are in our prayers. Be well, be safe, and be happy. I'll see you all again soon.

Survival of New Orleans blog

2005-09-03T04:42:00.000-05:00

News from the heart of the crisis in New Orleans. The more information that can get in and out of the disaster area the faster we can recover from this disaster. Words can only hint at what is happening.They have preserved many powerful images from New Orleans

dedicated picture server:Images From New Orleans

Riding the Storm Out: Katrina's Aftermath

2005-09-01T05:43:00.000-05:00

Memories of Mississippi

I have been watching news coverage of the aftermath of Katrina. Television cameras have made into the part of Mississippi I had called home. So much destruction so near to where people I have loved makes it hard to watch.

I watch images of heros and villians thrown together in an environment that is deadly. The drama unfolding shows people at their best and unfortunately in a growing number of cases at their worst.

Sleep has been hard to come by for me. But in my dreams I go back to happier days. Times of peace and joy surrounded by the beauty of the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

Dragonfly Dance

waves of heat shimmer above the front yard
warmed by the golden autumn Mississippi sun
the southern pines dance slowly in the breeze
we set content in the shade on the porch step
marveling at the clouds of mating dragonflies

they darted and then hovered, weaving patterns
blue green jeweled bodies, around us they whirl
lulled by the soft humming of their wings in our ears
I was lost in the moment, so fleeting and precious
heart pierced by the beauty of the dragonfly dance

Please call the American Red Cross at 1-800-HELPNOW today. Or make a contribution online at American Red Cross - Credit Card Contribution

To all those who find their lives storm tossed tonight know you are in our prayers. Be well, be safe, and be happy. I'll see you all again soon.

soul food: sigh $50 ain't enough!

2005-08-31T19:58:00.000-05:00

I was happy to see an old friend's blog today. soul food: *sigh* $50 ain't enough! Everyone needs to get involved when disaster strikes. Charity and compassion in times of advervity is a large part of what defines humanity. The strength to give aid to those less fortunate without thought of compensation.

The images coming out of the Gulf are staggering, but we must not freeze in our tracks. Action is needed by everyone who can help. Get the word out ot others, contribute whatever you can. The need is immediate and critical.

American Red Cross - Make a Credit Card Contribution

The Red Cross is responding to the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Please help in any way you can. We can all make a difference in the future one life at a time.

Katrina

2005-08-31T06:10:00.000-05:00

Struck Dumb by Katrina 's Fury

The past several days I have watched many places I have known and loved, swept away by the brunt of Katrina's tidal surge and deadly winds. Familiar places twisted out of all recognition. A place I have called paradise turned into a wrecked and littered vista of misery. The size of the disaster is so big that it's hard to get your head around it.

Worse than that is wondering if those you hold dear are safe and healthy. Many areas are still inaccessable, downed trees and electrical lines must be cleared to get in and find out the magnitude of the loss. For the moment all I can do is wait, hope and pray for those who have been through so much danger and privation.

I need to sleep. Rest has been hard to find the past few days. To all those who find their lives storm tossed tonight know you are in our prayers. Be well, be safe, be happy. I'll see you again soon.

American Red Cross - Credit Card Contribution

The Red Cross is responding to the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Please help in any way you can.

Wash Me Clean

2005-06-12T02:13:00.000-05:00

Wash me clean with your love
tame the wild beast deep inside

Wash me clean with tender kisses
till I throw away My foolish pride

Wash me clean in tears of joy
until all my demons have died

Wash me clean with sweet salvation
hearts joined together, open wide

 November 17, 2004

The Last Summer of Freedom

2005-05-12T05:37:00.000-05:00

On the Road Through the Smokey Mountains

It was the summer of 1955. I was 5 years old, blonde, willful monkeyboy facing a major defining moment in my life. It was the moment I realized that I would no longer be a free man.That was when I saw the future of at least 13 years of school looming on the horizon. Time for one last fling.

Intro: We Need a Vacation!

My paternal grandparents had not had a vacation in many years. They decided it was time to remedy that problem with a leisurly two week trip through the Smokey Mountains to Charleston South Carolina to visit one of my cousins who was stationed there while in the Navy.

My grandparents could see I needed a break so they invited my sister and me to go along with them. Somehow my babysitter and first crush was invited too, Ahhhhh Life is good! Due to sleeping space being short I would have to sleep cuddled up with the babysitter. I could tell that this was going to be a trip to remember.

This was the trip that introduced me to many of life's finer things. Things like mountain vistas, motels, with air conditioning that would hum you to sleep while you lay with your head resting on a shapely breast her fingers stroking your hair, breakfasts at a diner next door to the motel. Simple things like the sound and vibration of tires on asphalt, of the wind in your face as you eat up the miles. The sense of gypsy wanderlust, a hunger to see new people and places that would get me out on the road working my way around the world.

Waking in the Bowels of Hell

On our third day of our trip through the mountains, I had to get into mischief. The road side attractions promised by some of the weatherbeaten signs were closed that day and I had become bored. I could not get the babysitter to play a new game I had thought up... German U-Boat Commander and the captive female spy. I was not happy, I even had the black pigskin gloves for the interogation session. She blushed and chuckled and told me not today. Women.... I was frustrated and let it out by misbehaving.

My grandparents were less than pleased. Eventually My grandfather pulled the gray Studibaker onto the gravel on the side of the road and rolled to a stop. I knew it was close to being in some really hot water. I attempted to apologize my way out of this mess, my grandmother was not buying it. My grandmother told me that if I kept acting like a heathen I might go to hell someday. How did I know that it would be tonight?

We stopped for dinner of fried chicken, hushpuppies, and catfish. Then we pushed on into the night. I fell asleep curled up next to the window. I felt the car roll to a halt. Shaking off sleep I sat up and looked out the window and my blood froze.

There in the dark were huge glowing red letters was a sign marking where we had stopped. HELL was written large against the black pitch. I was in shock! The first words out of my mouth were: "Oh Shit! I've really Focked up this time!" I tried to hide on the floorboard of the backseat while my grandparents began to laugh.

"What's wrong with you boy?" My grandfather said. "We just needed gas so I pulled into this Shell station." He pointed to the sign and now that I was awake I could see the burned out S. They laughed till tears ran down their cheeks, And I laughed along because I got a bonus, they found my reaction to be too funny to give me an ass-whoopin'.

The Zen of Gardening

2005-02-25T14:42:00.000-06:00

This cold keeps hanging on and I am groggy from a dose of nyquil. I have spent the involuntary downtime here working on the templates on my new home away from home. I have been more visual the past few days. I have not written much of anything lately. The verbal side of me has been slumbering while I work on how I want the content to be displayed on my existing blogs.

I want to do some gardening this year. I have enough room for a good square foot vegetable and herb garden setup. and I have plans for some rose bushes that have been neglected by it's previous owner. I lived on a farm long enough when young to not want to go back, but I do have a passion for gardening. It is a link to the earth, a way to ground yourself in nature.

There is a simple wonder in making the earth around you more fertile than it was before the time you arrived there. A calming resonance inside you as your fingers run through the lush rich soil and you plant new life where none was before. Hands covered with the rich loam, laboring peacefully in a warm shady garden, time forgotten.

There is a moment that slips up on us and we fall under it's spell. We dream while our fingers move with a purpose of their own. Body wisdom takes over and we are in that quiet place where words mean nothing. A perfect moment of grace and clarity.

One Too Many Santas

2004-11-22T16:17:00.001-06:00

There we were snowbound somewhere in the heartlands, over fifty friends and relatives gathered for the holidays all trapped together in the old family homestead by the worst blizzard in twenty years. The snowstorm had been raging for the past twelve hours and showed no sign of stopping anytime in the foreseeable future. The wind howled and shrieked like some huge wounded beast that was determined to beat down the door and rage through the house. Peering through the frost covered windows we could see the swirling waves of wind blown snow was still falling thicker than the hair on dear old Aunt Polly's puckered upper lip.

The stampeding herd of shrieking sugar-maddened children ran from one room to another. They swept from one room to another in a nonstop migration to and fro. The thunderous sound of their passage rocked the old overheated farmhouse. They clamored to see Santa and would not be denied. The unruly mob of young ones almost overturned the Christmas tree as they franticly clawed for position to get closest to where jolly Santa would settle down and hold court after he parked his snowmobile carrying a big bag of loot for all the girls and boys.

The shell-shocked adults quickly sought much needed refuge in quieter rooms of the farmhouse. They hid behind doors barricaded against the siege waged by the horde of youngsters overrunning the living room. Occasionally one of the braver adults would stick their head out to check to see if there were still a few unbroken chairs to sit on when time came to watch Santa passing out of the gifts later that night.

The night air suddenly was filled with the flashing of blue lights and the shrill earsplitting howl of a fire-truck siren. Some of the neighborhood volunteer firemen hell-bent on rescue had driven their aged four-wheel drive truck into a huge snow bank. They swore and spun the tires as they rocked the truck back and forth. They only managed to bury the truck deeper into the mountain of dirty packed snow pushed up over the past twenty-four hours by countless snowplows. In the desperate attempt to keep two lanes of traffic crawling along on their way to home and kin these heroes had become stranded.

I opened the door to see what was the matter and they staggered into the house begging for help to shovel a path out of the driveway. Once inside the shelter of the house these three stranded snowmen thawed out, we saw that it was Bill Le Blanc, Otis Blake, and Charlie Moffett. These three drunken reprobates were some of my old man's drinking buddies and partners in crime. They were all long-term denizens of the local bar down the road, so it was no surprise that they would seek shelter under our snow-covered roof.

Our new visitors had been tipping the bottle all evening to ward off the bitter chill of the frigid arctic blasts from out of the north. The wind whipping down Lake Michigan was like a giant straight razor that could cut you to the bone. The thermometer showed a temperature of minus 5 degrees, and was plummeting as we watched. Drastic times call for drastic measures, and massive amounts of antifreeze was just what the doctor ordered.

After more than a few tastes of Christmas cheer, they were three sheets to the wind, telling off-color jokes, leering waving mistletoe over their heads, puckering up their lips at any lady passing by and singing bawdy carols. The vote was unanimous; it was going to be one hell of a Christmas Eve.

Seductive aromas of home cooking called to the men like a siren's song. The scent luring us into the busy kitchen like moths attracted to a flame. We had been hungrily circling the growing pile of temptation that filled the kitchen table. A ravenous pack of men folk, drooling over the cookies, candies, rolls and slices of turkey, ham and assorted cheeses. It was not our fault that the ladies had outdone themselves this year. We could no longer wait to sample some of the morsels that had been prepared with such loving care for the upcoming holiday feast.

The womenfolk were on the verge of throwing all the unrepentant male food thieves out of the kitchen. Our constant raids on whatever dish that popped out of the oven, or was left unguarded on top of the stove quickly spent even their usual vast sea of patience. We would smile at them and try flattery to postpone the inevitable exile to the chaos of the child-packed living room. We were shooed out of the kitchen at broom point. The law had been laid down and we were told that we had to wait for supper just like everybody else. We grumbled, quickly snatching whatever was at hand and fled the scene like thieves in the night bent on evading capture and punishment at the hands of the law.

We exited the kitchen with whatever booty we could grab on our way out, stuffing food into our mouths to avoid detection. As we entered the dining room there was a loud banging at the door. This was followed by loud laughter and the sound of frantic tapping on the glass storm door. Someone had the presence of mind to look at the clock and notice that Santa was running late this year. Through the window we spied the flash of a red cap and the white of what was obviously a fake beard. Next we all heard a loud whoop and a bone jarring crash as Santa toppled and began swearing like a drunken sailor.

We looked at each other passing the buck on who was going to go answer the door and help get the old boy back on his feet. It was quickly if not quietly decided that we all might be needed to get the job done, because our Santa was a three hundred pound biker, and none of us were feeling particularly frisky enough to do it on our own.

Throwing open the door we grabbed the fallen Santa, and hurriedly scooped him up. We got him back on his feet. We wasted no time pulling him into the safety of the house. Everyone in the dining room looked closer at Santa, our jaws dropped and then looked at each other in dismay. Even the most oblivious of our group could see that something was wrong, seriously wrong!

This was not our Santa! First thing you could see was that his beard was about to fall off and was only held on with some old Band-Aids. This gaping pretender stood at least a foot shorter and at over one hundred pounds lighter than our Santa. Not to mention that this one smelled badly. The stench was a mix of aged sweat, stale beer and cheap cigars. The less intoxicated members of the male hunting party noticed one more thing that was cause for concern.

Instead of the huge bag filled to the top with brightly wrapped presents that we expected he had a dirty beat up burlap potato sack slung over his shoulder. The sack he carried was doubly surprising to us all because it was moving on it's own accord. We could hear a muffled hissing and growling coming from inside it. The sack bounced on his scrawny shoulder with a life of its own. It was all too plain to see that something alive was trapped in there, it was not wasting time waiting to be let loose. Whatever Santa had in his bag was desperately trying to escape.

He stood there wobbling back and forth, his red suit hung off him like a rumpled dirty sack. He grinned and yelled "Merry Chrissssssmuush!" spun around and fell flat on his face in the middle of the group who filled the dining room. The potato sack tumbled in flight and bounced off the wall into the corner spilling a live hissing enraged opossum onto the floor. The frightened beast snarled and bared its teeth at the onlookers, and then promptly rolled into a ball and played dead. Santa crawled slowly on his hands and knees over to where it landed, picked the bag up and grabbed the opossum by the tail and threw it back into the sack.

The band-aids holding his tattered beard to his face had met their match. The dirty white clump of whiskers fell to the floor. We could see that this uninvited impersonator was none other than old Tom Morris, the town drunk. The children screamed and ran away, hiding behind chairs and the sofa in the living room. Tom was not deterred by the general panic he caused. He belched loudly and finally regained his shaky footing. "Damn if that didn't spoil my surprise!" he slurred, wiping the drool from his mouth on a grimy threadbare sleeve. "Anybody got a drink for good old Santa? It's hard thirsty work bringing you damn little kiddies a bunch of Christmas joy. Bessy got stuck in a snow drift when I was heading home from the Waterford Inn and your place was on the way."

Tom was a neighborhood legend around our town. He was part bogeyman, part brunt of every joke told at the tavern in the village of Waterford. People whispered and offered their sympathy to his long-suffering wife. The common opinion being that he was not too bright, lazy and shiftless. The one true love of his life was not his wife. That was Bessy his rusty second-hand riding lawn mower that he rode almost year round. It can't be said that the loamier returned his affections. Tom had lost 3 toes on each foot one summer when he ran over an embankment and fed his feet to the hungry metal mistress of lawn care.

Suddenly the roar of a snowmobile filled the air. Squeals rang out from the living room as the kids spotted the guy in the red suit through the frosted windows. We all rushed to the door to welcome Santa. " Ho Ho Ho!" Santa bellowed as he strode through the door carrying a huge bag of brightly colored gift boxes and toys. "Ho Ho Ho?" Santa looked at the pretender and frowned. " Who is that guy dressed like me?" he asked. We explained the situation to our mystified Santa, and asked if he could give Tom a ride home because his wife might want him home almost as much as we wanted him there.

Santa winked at the young ones and grabbed Tom by the scruff of his neck. He merrily shouted to the mob of children who threatened to swarm over him like a nest of ants that had been disturbed. "Santa will be right back children! I want you all to behave and stay out of my bag. I have to deliver a special present to Mrs. Morris." He picked Tom up by the seat of his pants. He then threw the defrocked pretender over his shoulder, and carried him out the door. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief as they rode off on Santa's shiny red snowmobile into the snowy night.

Santa quickly returned and began passing out presents to all the waiting girls and boys. At last the youngsters were placated. The parents got them settled in to bed and eventually they fell asleep. The men folk finally got fed and drinks did flow. We were all on our best behavior and no fights broke out. After midnight the snow stopped. Later the sky cleared revealing a full moon. The snowy yard brightly sparkled in the moonlight. And all was right with the world on the night we were visited by one too many Santas.

Poem of the Moment

2004-09-24T01:27:00.000-05:00

Golden Autumn Splendor

The branches sway, weaving patterns
Beckoning the eye to join their dance
They reach to the deep blue heavens
I sit and watch them, rapt, entranced

So full the sky, so gold the maples
So spicy sweet the cool crisp air
Sprays of green, brown, and crimson
Festive dress for an Autumn Faire

The pale golden threads of the sunlight
spun round the boughs, in crazy designs
a spider web of golden beams capture
the forest spirit,  speaks of the divine

The gold of your heart is so much purer
Than these Autumn leaves could ever be
Your graceful movement, rings much truer
than this wild forest ballet to me 

October 17, 1999

The Secret World of Childern: Rites of Initiation

2004-09-23T06:31:00.002-05:00

When I was young I would often stay with my father's parents on weekends and during the summer. They lived near the beach in a two story three apartment flat tucked behind a bar and restaurant that was owned by a German matriarch named Bertha. She was an amazing woman with the physical and mental strength and energy of ten men. She made her own sauerkraut in huge ceramic vats and would try to marry me off to her granddaughter though we were both only twelve.

My best friend was one of Bertha's grandsons. John was a clever sharp tongued prankster with an air of detached superiority for those who did not meet his standards of intelligence and quickness. John won the leadership of the pack of boys who lived in the neighborhood by his sheer force of personality and fast talking. He always had a new scheme to break the summer boredom that would creep in sometime in July.

When I first met him we sized each other up and decided we could hang out together. One day while we were returning from taking practice shots at empty bottles with out BB-guns John pointed to at something. There we saw a strange object on the ground half hidden near the walk to my grandparent's place. I picked it up and discovered it was an old bleached out bone wrapped in paper. I removed the paper, unrolled it and saw something was written on it. In a shaky uneven hand were the words "I know where you live kid and you are going to die!"

I showed the tattered piece of paper to John. He looked at me with a wide eyed amazed stare, that turned to shock at what he read. He looked at me with concern and said, "Oh no! not again! I thought the police caught him last year. There was a crazed killer named Gus Johnson who kidnapped and killed three kids last summer. He stole their eyes when he was through. They caught him in the old abandoned slaughterhouse out in the woods about a half mile from here. The police searched the slaughterhouse and discovered that he had been staying there. This was where he took the missing kids to kill them it was said that they found the eyes in a pickle jar on a shelf. There were rumors that they did not recover all of the eyes, some say he was eating them like they were pickled eggs in the bar."

I looked at John with much skepticism and told him that I wanted to go there to see if there was any sign he had returned. I would not tell him that I thought he was full of BS until I found out if there was really an old abandoned slaughterhouse deep in the woods. John nervously agreed to show it to me as long as we stayed quiet and on guard in case we needed to escape from a madman bent on turning us both into dinner.

We set off down the path that led to the clay pit. Then we turned east and began to wind our way through the woods. We walked for what seemed like an hour. Then after skirting spiny thickets of blackberry bushes the object of our search came into view. There it was, buried deep in the brooding woods. We silently approached an old weather beaten wooden building overgrown with vines and shrouded by young oak saplings. The ground was littered with old animal bones and rusted parts of broken farm machinery.

John took the lead and crept up to an old set of double doors that hung askew on their hinges. We peered into the gloomy ramshackle interior of the place. bones were strewn across the dirty wooden floor. A block and tackle hung from a beam the chain swinging in the breeze. On a wall were old knives and an old axe was buried into an old wooden chopping block. In the far corner was a pile of dirty rags that looked like someone had been using as bedding.

Silently we looked around, shocked and stunned by the scene around us. John looked startled and grabbed my arm. "Keep quiet... Did you hear that?" he whispered. " What did you hear?" I whispered back. the fear rising inside as I expected to see Gus crash through the woods and surprise us both inside his lair. John froze and then said in a low voice filled with fear. "Quick he's coming! Run!"

We ran for our lives, jumping ditches and streams, painfully crashing through berry bushes until we were out of the woods. We did not stop running till we collapsed breathlessly in the basement recreation room in John's basement. Secure in our stronghold we began to plan on how we should handle the return of Mad Gus, the eyeball eater. We plotted different ways of catching him so we could collect the reward. Our war counsel lasted until it was time for me to get back to my grandparent's home.

The next morning I awoke and had breakfast with my grandparents. John and I had decided it was our problem and we had to solve it by without the aid of adults. After spending a while making small talk with my grandparents I headed off to see John. I opened the door to the apartment and there on the deck laying next to the door was another bone wrapped in dirty scorched and tattered paper.

I hid the bone under my shirt and quickly slipped past John's mother on my way to the basement. John was nervously waiting for me to arrive. "Man am I glad to see you. When I got up and went outside this morning There was a bone with a note around it sitting in the grass by the steps.. I read it but had to throw it away in case my mother found it. He's after me too." he said quietly, looking to make sure nobody heard what we had to say.

As soon as I pulled the bone I had found out from under my shirt John gaped and stood back. I unrolled the note from the bone. This time there was a picture from an old newspaper that had been crudely torn out and glued to the paper. The eyes of the person in the picture had been burned out leaving charred sockets, on the note it said in the same crazy tilted printing. "I saw you two messing around my place yesterday, and I am going to do this to you tonight. See you soon. xxx Gus"

We hurriedly gathered up the bone and note and stealthily disposed of it. While we were gathering our wits John told me that tonight he was going out of town with his parents to visit family in Illinois. I would have to protect myself by staying indoors. I would stand guard, keep the door locked tonight and not let anyone into the house.

I made it home before darkness fell and secured the door. I kept a poker face while eating supper. I helped with the dishes and then played three handed cut-throat pinochle with my grandparents till they were ready for bed. I got out a new model airplane kit I had bought a few days before and began to trim and glue the parts together as I waited for them to fall asleep.

Around eleven that night I heard a thump of something tossed at the door. I turned on the porch light and scanned the lawn with a flashlight. There was nobody at the door and I took a chance by opening the door. I looked around and then down. Laying at my feet was a bone with a note on it. I grabbed it and quietly closed and relocked the door behind me. I listened to hear if I had woke anyone. the snoring from the bedroom told me that they had not heard a thing.

I took the bone into the bathroom and locked the door. Unwrapping it I read the final message. "Tonight at midnight prepare to meet your doom. I will get you and then your little buddy is next!" I left the bathroom and hid the bone and note in the garbage can. Then I prepared to make my last stand.

I went into the kitchen and dug in the knife drawer till I found a large sturdy homemade knife that had once been a lawnmower blade. I set it on the stove next to the door so I could grab it with my right hand when the moment came. I practiced the motion of opening the door with my left hand while grabbing the knife in my right until I was satisfied that I had it right. then I returned to the dining room and waited while watching "The Wolfman" on a local late night show called Shock Theater hosted by a television ghoul named Marvin and his undead rock band the Deadbeats.

I kept one eye on the television, one on the clock as I sat at the table. I grabbed a snack and went to the bathroom. getting killed by a psycho was something I would risk, crapping my pants in the face of danger would not. The minutes crawled by slowly, until the clock read 11:59 pm. I breathed deep and quietly stepped into the kitchen.

Suddenly I heard movement outside moving closer to the building. The sound of slow lumbering footsteps climbing the stairs to the door I stood waiting behind. one hand on the knob, one hand on the handle of a foot long knife. I listened as the plodding journey ended inches away. The silence was broken by three loud sharp raps on the door.

I threw open the door and confronted the monster that had come in the night to claim me. I prepared to strike with all my strength at the heart of the beast only to see one of my grandfather's drinking cronies from the bar out front standing there as he drunkenly weaved from side to side. I slid the knife onto the stove top so he did not see it in the semidarkness and asked what on Earth was he doing beating on the door at this time of night.

He looked confused and asked where my grandfather was, and why he had sent John over to the bar to tell him my grandfather wanted to see him right away. I told him that he must be mistaken, because my grand folks had gone to bed a couple hours ago. He scratched his head and turned to leave. As he staggered away mumbling something about damn kids I heard the muffled sound of laughter around the yard. One at a time the local boys popped up and cheered.

I went downstairs into the yard and walked up to John. I looked him in the eye and told him that he had almost got old Charlie killed. John laughed and said welcome to the club I passed the bravery test unlike poor gutless Butchy who was doomed from that day forward to be a pack animal for all of us to use. I laughed and punched John in the arm as hard as I could and told him no hard feelings. We shook hands. That was the night I took my place as a honored member of the Boy's Tribe.

Those Wonderous Treasures of Life

2004-09-21T05:40:00.000-05:00

You Were Born of Such Exceeding Grace.

Tuesday is a day that means a lot to me, 20 years ago I saw a new life begin in a birthing room in Chicago. The awesome mystery of birth. I had studied, practiced in class with My wife, but when the time came I wondered if I would know enough to see us through. It all began when My wife woke Me to say she was having contractions very close together.

On arrival at the hospital she refused the wheelchair they brought for her. Once inside they seperated us so I could fill out paperwork. When I got back up to where she was being checked out I found her in a very angry and agitated state. While I was gone the doctor on duty (who had a suspiciously high rate of cesarean sections to his credit) had told her the birthing room was in use and then tried to browbeat her out of using a birthing room at all. They had no idea that they were messing with the wrong people. I ordered him and the nurse out of the room then called the hospital administrator and the head of the birthing room program.

The matter was taken out of our hands. When she heard that the birthing room was not available she gave the staff the die slowly and painfully look look and shut down her contractions. She smiled a poisonous smile at the offending doctor and nurse and said, "You can wheel me down to a taxi now". It was time to go home and wait some more.

We slept wrapped in each other's arms until afternoon. Waking we ate and talked, and inside I felt we were centered and ready for anything. I was sent out for snacks and videos and we settled into waiting, knowing we would not be denied. We slept again, and then at 5:00 am it happened.

We woke in a pool of water. It was time at last. and this time she did accept the wheelchair. The doctor on duty was the husband of our birthing class nurse midwife, the birthing room was ours, and we were commited.

We were focused on the sweep of a stopwatch, walking, breathing, timing contractions. The nurses and Doctor had left the room when it all began to run it's course. We were alone waiting, and slowly our daughter's head began to crown. the wonder of knowing that a new person was here and I was the first person on Earth to see her. Even 20 years later it still brings a tear of joy to My eye and humbles Me with sheer beauty and emotional power of the moment.

The nurse midwife and doctor arrived, and things started to happen rapidly. Breathe, in... out..... suddenly Lisa threw back her head and swore at us all. "Ok so that is transition" I said to her. She centered again and began to breathe as I counted out for her. Suddenly after that last push where she threw her whole being into it our daughter was free.

A perfect new being, who looked around the room so serious and calm. After the cleaning and APGAR test I got to touch her and talk to her, watch her first small smile. All those hours I had spent speaking to her while she was inside her mother as she grew to term. I think she recognised my voice. Her tiny fingers wrapped around my finger and I sang to her soft and low. Carefully I picked her up and carried her to her waiting mother.

She took our child into her arms and kissed her. She pressed her to her full swollen breast and suckeled her for the first time. I watched the two of them together as sleep began to take them. I sat there beside them and marveled at how I had earned the right to so much beauty in my life.

Heart of Fire

When it all goes down

I am Will's Sense of Righteous Indignation

Will

Reflections of a Control Junkie

I am Will's Obsessive Behavior

I am Will's Dark Passenger

Thoughts on the Nature of Depression

Here are a few links that I found interesting:

Memories, Guilt and Salvation

Unbidden Memories

I am Will's Childhood Memories

Confessions of an Aging Diabetic

Honey I'm Home!

I am Will's My Life as a Mad Scientist

Thoughts on Rebuilding

Whatever: Noted Without Comment

More Memories

Bourbon Street

How You Can Help

(800) HELP-NOW

(800) SAL-ARMY (725-2769)

(800) 525-7575

(877) 817-2307

(866) 292-7892

(800) 852-2100

(800) 944-4084

(800) 481-4462

(800) 833-6622 For Service Members and Families

(866) 275-3923

Natural Disaster/National Disgrace

Survival of New Orleans blog

Riding the Storm Out: Katrina's Aftermath

Memories of Mississippi

Dragonfly Dance

soul food: *sigh* $50 ain't enough!

Katrina

Struck Dumb by Katrina 's Fury

Wash Me Clean

The Last Summer of Freedom

On the Road Through the Smokey Mountains

Intro: We Need a Vacation!

Waking in the Bowels of Hell

The Zen of Gardening

One Too Many Santas

Poem of the Moment

Golden Autumn Splendor

The Secret World of Childern: Rites of Initiation

Those Wonderous Treasures of Life

You Were Born of Such Exceeding Grace.

soul food: sigh $50 ain't enough!