Thursday, November 29, 2018

Here's the scene: People standing on the edge of a rocky high cliff, glorying at the scenery below.
Here's Irene, cringing. They're gonna fall off.

People trudging through the snow, or better yet, people on a ski lift, dangling there above the ground.

Children throwing snowballs at trucks. No, make that ice balls and smashing the windshield of the oncoming car. They run away through the foot deep snow.  What fun?

Take it to another season.

Jumping in piles of leaves that they just raked through the whole yard.
Searching in mud through rows of orange pumpkins for just the right one. Feeling that first brisk wind tear through your too-light jacket.

Or, how about frying in the sun?
Diving into a freezing cold pool or ocean or lake?

None of these things are appealing to me.
I can watch scenery from a window. I don't want to ski. Last time I skated was okay, but my thighs got chilblains.

Shoveling snow is back breaking. I don't care if it looks like marshmallow, it is cold, wet and heavy. Oh, my back!

Don't talk to me about driving in snow or ice or fog!

I am not an outdoorsy person, unless there is a horse involved, and even that would take a mighty fantastic horse to get me outside.

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Where does my brain wander?

Spent the first big holiday without Mom.
Spent it with husband's family as far away from Central New Jersey as I could get.

Two days in the new car there, two days back home.

In a way, I think it cleansed my soul, but something happened that also cleansed my digestive tract. I got sick. Really sick. Never leave the bathroom sick. Not because of the lovely Thanksgiving dinner, no, not that. I think it was coming on before we left home.

But...a sick stomach is dangerous.

It rained. Parts of NC and parts of VA were flooded. When we came home, we found that parts of NJ were flooded also.

All I can say is, Thank God it wasn't snow.

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

Thinking back on Thanksgiving

All of us in 6th grade Miss Clancy's class had to perform in the holiday assembly. She painted a beautiful autumnal backdrop and we liked up on risers in the front of the stage to sing along to Miss Titler's piano.

Swing the shining sickle, cut the ripened grain!
Flash it in the sunlight, swing it once again.
Tie the golden grainheads into shining sleeves, 
beautiful the colors of the autumn leaves.

Then we broke into the Pilgrim's Anthem:

The breaking waves dashed high, on the stern and rockbound coast.
The trees against the stormy sky, their giant branches tossed.

The heavy night hung dark, the trees and waters o'er, 
when a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore.

This was the fall of 1960. JFK had just been elected president. I had the best teacher in the school and it was going to be a good holiday.

Why were we singing songs with words that had to be explained to us? No idea what a sickle was nor a grainhead. We were singing songs from the turn of the 20th century.

I wonder if anyone but me remembers those stupid ancient songs!

I'm gonna try to look them up on Google, see if they are not just a figment of my imagination.

Saturday, October 27, 2018

Sorry to have been away

The current situation in this beloved country of mine stinks.
I don't even want to see news reports.
I don't want to know how many people have been shot or smashed in a bus wreck or assassinated or made redundant.

I want peace.

I want...yes. I want. That seems to be how everybody feels nowadays.

I want money. I want a job where I don't have to work too hard but make lots of money.

I want to be beautiful.

I want the world to go away and leave me alone.

I want to do away with everybody I hate.

I want to live in a world of love.

Fat chance.

Everybody wants, not too many people are willing to actually fight for the right.
Not too many people understand what it means to be an American.

Those people waiting at the border...they think they know what it means, but American is turning their back on them.

What if America had turned its back on their relatives?
What if America had killed off the settlers in the 1600s instead of being killed by them?

Too many thoughts.
Too many horrors.

Monday, October 8, 2018


Today I figured out how to unfriend someone.
I hadn't wanted to friend this old boyfriend to begin with, but wishing somebody a happy birthday was a nice thing to do.
Figuring out he was a real asshole took a bit longer, but yesterday's post showing his true colors was the end.

I unfriended you, asshole.

I do not agree or think it is funny to call me a libtard and laugh at Hillary Clinton.

You're the one who deserves all the shit possible in your life.

I hope you get what you deserve.


Saturday, August 25, 2018

Guns and poses

Growing up, television was entertainment. I mean, it was there to keep the regular folk happy with wrestling matches, a few news shows, a couple of doctor shows and westerns.

Ah, westerns. Legendary cowboys in the frontier, totin' six guns and killing injuns. Or bad guys wearing black hats. Or Mexican banditos who had huge mustaches and wore bandoleers full of brass encased bullets who knew a surprising amount of English.

When it came to the television shows, there were at least fifty westerns, ranging from Disney's Davy Crockett (he died at the Alamo, killed by a legitimate Mexican army protecting its land) to stage coach guards to gamblers to adventurers, to killers for hire to lawmen to bounty hunters...the list goes on and on.

All these stories had someone protecting something with a fast gun and life or death in an ambush, or a bank robbery or water rights or cattle theft or preventing or causing a hanging.

I sincerely doubt that there were as many gunfights and/or hangings as occurred every week on television.

Matt Dillon kills someone every week on the main street of his town. The Rifleman had a special rifle that shot more rounds quickly because of a little latch on the trigger thing. Paladin was a gun for hire...for a thousand dollars, he'd kill anybody while spouting proverbs or Shakespeare and the occasional sonnet. Bounty hunters always brought miscreants in dead, not alive. Maverick won everybody's money and had a derringer hidden away so he had one shot to kill the person who wanted his money back. Sawed off shotguns, Steve McQueen. Buntline Special, an elongated barrel carried by Gene Barry portraying a cowboy who later became a sports writer in Chicago. 

Everybody was packing and ready to kill.
We grew up feeding on this, like suckling babies. I guess it was all right because that was all there was to watch. Wrestling was fake, anyway. Doctor shows were on after bedtime. generation had guns in front of them constantly. We should have been crazed killers, shooting up schools and blasting from '57 Chevy windows at kids on the street playing hopscotch. We may have on rare occasions, but they never ever made the news.

But, perhaps Vietnam happened and killing was necessary for our boys' survival. Kill or be killed definitely puts a different light on the need for weapons.

Our generation is old now. We remember Woodstock, days of music and mud and good old groups where most of the members have passed on. We remember those television cowpokes fondly, but when we watch these programs now, we become aware of all the killing. Bad Indians and Mexicans and rustlers and those who would block the water from their neighbors. 
We don't shoot much anymore.

No, we leave that to our kids who never had the exposure to televised make-believe killing that we did.

Somewhere along the line, what we witnessed and chose to forget leaked into the brains of our children. Maybe our memories were passed in vitro. Maybe the three wars that have happened since Vietnam finally got through to them and killing was necessary once more.

Perhaps the anger at not being privileged or being bullied or being looked down upon or being loners has turned our next generation into killers.

Maybe, just maybe, it is fear of being unimportant without a weapon of destruction that is behind it all.

I don't know. Maybe it is because guns still make people something important. Maybe it is because anybody can shoot a gun and kill or maim a living thing. 
Who knows?

Just something I was thinking about this morning. Maybe you'd like to respond? Go ahead.
I'll listen.

Thursday, August 23, 2018


Elyse posted one of her Elyse Explosion videos in which I have no small part.

I look hideous.

No links from me.

This is what it has come to! Alas, it's all gone.

I also sound as if I am choking on something. I am not, rest assured. My voice apparently sucks, too.

Gone are the days.

The one on the bottom was the best I've taken in years. I look like shit.

Monday, August 20, 2018

Yes, she did

I wholeheartedly applaud Mayor Muriel Bowser for single handedly stopping the Big Parade.

Muriel Bowser

Photo of Mayor Muriel Bowser
Muriel Bowser serves as Washington, DC’s seventh elected Mayor.  Sworn in on January 2, 2015, she pledged to bring a fresh start to the District of Columbia, create pathways to the middle class for residents, and foster a culture of inclusion, transparency and action. 

If the men can't or won't do it, as usual, it is up to a woman.

Friday, August 17, 2018

Body Parts

Old story.
The parts of the body were arguing over which was most important.
The brain stated, "I am, because I do all the thinking for the body and the world."

After some short time, the heart responded, "No, I am, because I deal with the relationships and love and sort things out that way. You must admit, I am the most important body part."

After a long time, the lowly anus decided to say something. "You're both good parts, and useful, but I am the most useful of all. Without me, you all are nothing."

Aghast, the other body parts all protested. "No way. Idiot. What does it think it is?"

So, the anus decided to prove its point and shut down. Completely.

The brain started to get fuzzy, unable to think of anything but the bathroom.
The heart actually started pumping erratically, missing some beats altogether. 
Every other part of the body got really messed up.

Finally, after a week, the body called on the anus. "Oh, please! You were right! You are the most important part of us all."

Smugly, the anus released its grip
to the relief of the entire bodily organization.

So, we know which part of the body is the most important, the most valuable.

Sometimes I wonder which part I am.

Friday, July 27, 2018

Boss 'n' Me Around

Yes, I am a big fan. He represents the wild New Jersey of my secret life...basically the summer of 1965 with Sandy down the shore. We saw him there, on the boardwalk. Did not know what he would become.

But, as usual, I digress.

I had a dream this morning that lasted a very long time.

It involved me singing backup for Bruce while he started work on an epic, the song that would be the end all of all his creations.

Only trouble is, he was working on it in a small meadow near a river/lake, with great acoustics because of the rise of land on either side. There were more than ten backup people and the band, but he was weeding people out who couldn't follow directions, who couldn't sing, who offered nothing to the composition.

Yeah, me. I was left with about five other people after a long process of him writing down words and music, eliminating what didn't work. I suggested one word change (my superior editing skills and vocabulary) and he used it. More people came. The day wore on.
Then it rained. Heavily. (pictures of flooding on the news here)

I had to wade through up to the top of my boots because he insisted on working in that same place. The water eventually ebbed.

Then two famous people came by to sing with him, along with Bigfoot, who had a great bass voice.

I was now working with him on the wording...waiting to see what would happen.

I woke up.

Thanks for the recognition, Bruce!

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Me on YouTube

Well,well, well. I have hit the bigtime.

As you may know, my daughter has a YouTube channel.
She has been working on it for about a year and most of the time she opens boxes of foreign treats and tastes some of them so people can judge for themselves whether they're worth trying. Or buying the box.

She and her sister film in her apartment or in our living room or lately, in her old bedroom.
Karyn seldom appears on camera, but when they do anime conventions and K is selling her artwork, sometimes she gets caught in the lens.

Today, I was asked to be in a video.

Several weeks go, we got a suitcase of some of my old dolls as my nephew was cleaning out my mother's attic.

They were all just about 60 years old and in pretty bad shape, but they wanted to go through it and get my stories about the dolls. For them, let's face it, it is nearly ancient history.

So, I did it.

I told stories about my dolls.

Nostalgia caught me and I am afraid I went on a little too much.

If I sound like an idiot, I do hope the kid will edit me out.

But, when it gets put up on Wednesday, I will include the link for you all.

The very last doll I received is killer....

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Worst Day

When I can't sleep, I think of horrible things. I don't really intend to--they just pop into my mind and I'm stuck reliving horrors for long hours.
Last night, I struggled with what was the worst thing to happen to me in my life.
I came up with a huge list.  Self-pity played a part, but some crappy things have happened to me and I remembered them all. Every horrific one of them.
But, I did come up with the absolute worst day in my life. It lasted eight hours, but they were eight hours of terror and tears.
Nine years ago, I was told early in the morning that I had pancreatic cancer.
My husband was with me, we both were shocked and scared. I felt myself fold if all the fire and outrage and happiness just died or folded down like a paper fan. It was over. My life, my loves, my reason to go on, collapsed. Patrick Swayze had just died from pancreatic cancer. I knew it was a death sentence.
I thought about where I would be buried, after I sobbed about my kids and how I wouldn't be around for them, and for my Herb and how I didn't know how he would handle it. My mother...God, how could she handle it?
Then the pain doctor came to see me. I wanted to punch him in the face. He smiled as he told me that he would make sure I felt no pain in the end, but that wouldn't be for months, perhaps.
I couldn't believe his attitude and told him so.
He didn't understand that I didn't appreciate him smiling!
Then some young woman came through the doorway, She looked at me, but that pain guy was still there and he got all huffy and told her to "get out of the room, can't you see I'm with my patient?"
She slid out of the room.
Hell, I thought she was a candy striper or something, she looked so  young.
He left, pretty much still bent out of shape.
About eight hours had passed by this time. Eight hours of death.
Re-enter young woman,
"It isn't pancreatic cancer, Mrs. Peterson. It is lymphoma, and we can treat that with an excellent chance of complete remission."
This was after 11 days in the hospital in horrific pain, being tested and prodded and biopsied and no shower and a phone bill of about $400.
I cried again. Herb was with me this time, also, and we cried in each others' arms.
But, yes, dying for eight hours has to be the worst day of my life.

Saturday, June 9, 2018

I'm not good with surprises

Surprises scare me.
I don't like people jumping out of the dark at me. I don't like "fun" houses. I am not fond of buzzing noises that turn out to be bees or mosquitos.
Getting mail in my name scares me.
Getting bills scare me.
My husband's health scares me, even though everything seems to be okay.
I had some horrible thoughts earlier and I am scared.
How do I make them go away?

Tuesday, May 29, 2018


Darius Rucker has a new album out. The title song is "When was the Last Time You Did Something for the First Time?"
I had to think about that.
I've been doing a little traveling lately, not too far away, just Lancaster PA and Mystic CN, but I'd been to both places before. I did see and do some things like look at model trains and see some Viking artifacts, but when it comes right down to it, I had done similar things previously.
Hell, I've put together model train sets, though I saw lots more, but in fact, they were new but not new.
Okay, I saw lots more Viking stuff in NY a long time ago...many more on exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum. These were different, and lots fewer than the Met, but in essence, quite the same.
So, what have I done that I'd never done before?
I had shepherd's pie in PA.
I had lobster roll in CN.
It has come to this.
Is it time to step out of my comfort zone and actually try something I've never done before?
We shall see. Should the opportunity come up, I will seize it.

Thursday, May 24, 2018

Irene the Athlete

We were away over the past four days. I must have come up with four blog ideas during that time, yet I cannot remember any of them.
What I do remember was the fact that I am not an outdoor person.
I am not a vigorously active person.
I actually don't like to overexert myself in any way other than mentally.
Hey, I can't feel my feet, thank you CHEMO, so walking is a task most of the time. Forget about dancing or jumping up or taking stairs two at a time.
Anyway, there are several people that I know who are (were) real athletes. They play organized sports, they run, they jog, they walk everywhere, they spend hours on their feet doing whatever it is that they do. But not me.
It bothers me sometimes that I am rather limited. I frequently have to rest, I stumble on uneven pavement...forget about walking alone on macadam. My fear of falling is accentuated by the roughness under my feet.
If I fall, I'll probably break something.
I've already done that and am messed up because of falling off a curb.
Anyway, going back to my childhood, I remember not being able to run fast. I always got caught playing tag. I couldn't throw a ball far. I could kick, but running to the base during kickball usually didn't accomplish much for my team.
I couldn't figure out how to twirl a baton.
Well, I got some moves down, but nothing that would get me to be a majorette.
Turns out, there were two things I really could do.
I could dance to popular music. Came in handy often.
My crowning achievement, however, was that I could walk on stilts while no one else I knew could. They tried, but they failed.
For some reason, I figured out how to do it and did it all the time to show my ability.
What a big deal! I must have hung around with very supple, athletic people. But I wasn't one of them. Elementary school friends were faster, more capable on the field, more likely to finish first in games. I would have liked to be among them, sometimes.
But I could walk on stilts!!!!!

Sunday, April 29, 2018

Thinking Pleasant Thoughts

Once, long ago, while riding in the back seat of my parents' car through either NY or PA, I saw a wondrously beautiful thing.
We were looking for a place to stay (never had reservations because we didn't know where we would be going); we drove down a lonely road with hills on the north side for the most part, and farmland on the south side.
I remember passing a white and blue cabin type motel.
On the other side of the road was a small farmhouse and barn, also blue and white, with a fenced in paddock. In the paddock, a young girl rode a white pony, complete with flying mane and gorgeous white flying tail...looking like something from a magical fairy story.
I was enthralled.
We drove further on, then backtracked to stop at the motel. I guess we got a room there. Wasn't my five year old business.
Along with the room came a boy about Jack's age. He lived on the farm and came out to see the new guests.
I asked him about the pony...he was vague about it, but offered to take us into the barn to see some animals.
It was in there, in a stall. It was small and gleamingly white and I loved it instantly. It was being boarded there.
Right next to that stall was a huge bull, complete with nose ring and horns. The kid told us not to go too near the door as the bull did not like people.
Yesterday, while watching The Adventures of Buckaroo Bottoms, he worked on a white miniature horse. It ran away from him, and I saw its long white mane flying high and its tail waving as it escaped and I remembered that long ago white pony in some place that probably doesn't exist any more, but the magic returned.
I live for the magic.

Monday, April 23, 2018

Facing Facebook

2009 was not a very good year for me or my family.
I started the year, literally started the year, receiving my first 13 hours of chemotherapy in hospital. It didn't initially bother me because I was in a comfy bed with a flat screen television and nurses and aides at my beck and call (they were truly there when I needed them, I wasn't saying that they existed on the holiday just to respond to my whims.)
Still, my body was being filled with poison.
As good as it was supposed to be for me, well, I was being poisoned.
After the treatment, I thought I'd stay in the hospital for a few days to see what would happen. No, my husband insisted I come home immediately because "you never know what can happen in the hospital...germs, diseases (like the skin rotting thing") so I went home. I'd been in the hospital for 9 days.
I thought I was okay, that I wasn't going to undergo the horrors of puking my guts out constantly as so many people (Charlie Dalton, R.I.P.) Back in the early 70s, Charlie had testicular cancer. He was treated somewhere in NYC, Sloan Kettering, I believe, and he puked for days afterwards.
There were homebound kids I taught who had cancer.  They were mostly over their chemo, but they were out of it and really didn't care about what I had to teach them. They all eventually died, bald and sadly left everyone miserable.
The day after I got home, I ended up sitting on the bathroom floor, emptying the contents of my digestive system. Constantly. I don't know where all that stuff came from, but I was in bad shape. Considering I rarely toss my cookies at all, like registering 4 times since I was 9 years old, this was horrifying.
From January 1, 2009 until May 30, 2009, I had chemo. Lost 70 pounds.
The oncologist prescribed some very expensive drug for me to take and once it was in my system, I never found myself on the bathroom floor again.
The chemo stopped the lymphoma. It also probably destroyed some important parts of my body, but I am here and though tired all the time, I'm alive.
I forgot why I started writing this post. I was interrupted twice and my reasons vanished. This is one of the "benefits" of chemotherapy.
But I am alive. I'm working toward 70 and I am alive. I can enjoy the breath of Spring, I can hear the songbirds and the grackles fighting over the feeders in my backyard. I can look at my kids and husband and love them intensely. I can spend time with my friends and they give back to me the strength I need.
Oh, I just remembered why I started this. When I was in my bed, I had the computer, this computer, on all the time. It would ping when I got an email or a message on Facebook and I would rally and find out what was going on in the outside world.
It meant so much to me, to be sort of connected while I was in bed, barely able to move or even sit up.
So, if Facebook shared my personal information with some dark web, I hope somebody enjoyed whatever it was, whatever information they garnered from me. No bank accounts, no social security number, not even my telephone number though they've requested it many times.
Here I am, a woman approaching OLD AGE, who lost her mother recently, whose father was in the Army, whose husband is a Viking, whose daughters are brilliant, who votes regularly.
Eat it raw.

Thursday, April 19, 2018

Because I could not stop for Death

Mortality is not infinite.
We won't live forever, even if we believe in an Afterlife where everything is peachy if we have been good while on Earth.
We're going to die.
We will cease to exist and those we leave behind will put our remains in a box and forget all the bad things we have done and say nice things about us if they can remember anything.
I've come close to death many times so far.
I've been scared every single time.
The thought of not being around confounds me and hurts me and scares me. I don't want to be nothing.
Have I left behind anything good?
My husband and children sure are good. But what would he do without me? How would the girls feel?
Would they cry or just be glad I was out of the picture?
Not saying they feel that way...but a long, slow death makes people wish for the end to come. No matter how much you are loved, if you are slowly, very slowly dying and exhausting your loved ones and worrying them and causing them great pain, they will wish for you to pass as soon as possible, with their permission.
Given gladly.
Every little pain, every pinch, every headache, every sore, every hiccup makes me worry about dying.
If I do not accomplish all I am supposed to do on Earth, I guess I will come back to haunt my house.
Oh, I am not on the verge...just thinking about it and THE END.
I'm not relishing the idea one bit.

Friday, March 30, 2018

Anne's Ashes

In the mid 1930s, the government allowed the CCC to create a small lake as a bulge in the Ambrose Brook that ran from Piscataway through Middlesex, NJ and down through parts of Bound Brook to end up in the Raritan River. They gov't named it Creighton Lake, or Lake Creighton, and nearby, houses were eventually built that were included in Creighton Manor.
There were two islands full of flowering trees that were beautiful in Spring and a wooden bridge at the narrowest end to enable people to cross to the other side where the elementary school was, still some distance away.
The workers created a "boat house" cobbled out of stone and at the other end, a small construction, similar to a pergola and castle (depends on how you looked at it and how young you were) that in Spring was covered with wisteria vines. This was beyond a small dam and relief valve that could keep the raging waters of the lake from flooding.
All in all, the lake was beautiful, the islands were beautiful, the park that contained these man-made structures was beautiful, and lined with forsythia bushes and some fruit trees. There were many open areas in which to fulfill dreams of dragons and army men and baseball heroes.
In later years, however, due to hurricanes and nor'easters, the lake would overflow its banks.

The first  big flood I remember, my older brother had gotten a rubber raft for his birthday in July. It was tied onto the railing of the cellar stairs to get it out of the way. When we woke up that morning after the violent storm, the raft was floating in over a foot of water. We rode that raft around the cellar before we bailed the water out back into the swollen lake.
At these times, the water table rose and with it, the water in the cellar of our little house on the next street, the one that bordered on the park. I have written about the flooding several times.
The lake became more threatening after Hurricane Donna. It covered the park road and definitely got into the cellar of our little house. Things in the cellar were ruined. This kept happening with the biggest storms, but my mother worried as she checked the lake level against some sort of raised sewer thing across the lake. She worried about the cellar and would dash downstairs to make sure that everything was off the floor so she would only have to mop up the dirty water.
Hurricane Floyd ruined the sheetrock walls and reached the top step of the cellar stairs. Everything floated up. She refused to abandon her house, though, and when the water receded, my younger brother and sister in law managed to get rid of the damaged sofa, piano, rugs, whatever, in the cellar for her. It was quite a cleanup.
Mom never trusted the lake again.
Now that she is gone, and her ashes need a place to go, I intend to throw some into the lake. Sort of sweet revenge.
Goodbye, Mom.

Monday, March 12, 2018

Thrills and Chills

Okay. Early this morning I dreamt that I was in Antarctica. Living and working there.
Problem is, there was a part of the frozen continent that was green and had a little town in it...with a main street and stores.
The Gilroy was there with me, showing me the ropes.
Herb was in some sort of supervisory position, so I had to figure out how to adjust all by myself, with The Gilroy's help.
Makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Find some hidden meaning in that, Dr. Jung.

Saturday, March 3, 2018


Early this morning, I had a dream that I was in charge of some sort of tribute to my paternal grandmother. Now, since she died a very long time ago and my mother just died recently, I think things got a little fuzzy there. But the horrifying thing was that I had rented a hall for the celebration and people kept filing in...hundreds of people and outside of my immediate family, I did not know them.

Now, I was one of 17 cousins. One passed away while quite young, leaving a daughter who went to live with another cousin. All my cousins married and had children and probably grandchildren by now. But still, that wouldn't be hundreds!

So, this morning I went on the old desktop and plugged in the last name and asked for a list of all those sharing this last name living in the US.
To my shock and surprise, there were a couple hundred.

I know that there were 17 cousins in the old country. I know that there were clans in upstate NY (I checked that years ago) and some in California. I have no idea how many stayed in Europe, nor how many came to the US.

But it could have been enough to fill the hall of my nightmare.

I think that all the folks listed on the computer page are related to me.
Oh, my God.

Monday, February 26, 2018

Acting Class

Remember that I have always wanted to be quotable? I've wanted people to pull an Irene saying out of thin air and have people nod their heads sagely and say, ah, yes, how insightful and true?
Well, I happened to think of something today and thought, maybe, just maybe, it might be THE ONE.
"I can't stand the drama, especially if I have the starring role."
Or, conversely, it could read "I can't stand the drama, especially if I don't have the starring role."
Can't make up my mind which I prefer.
Or do they both mean the same thing?

Friday, February 2, 2018

Words in my head

Sometimes, a word just pops into my brain and I think and think about it, wondering why I thought about it. Sometimes I wonder what it means. Sometimes, I wonder what brought it up. Somewhere, in the recesses of my brain, I must store these oddities and just to screw with me, they float up to the surface.

Today's word was "Doncaster". Now, I really don't know what it that is, but it came to me in the shower that it is the name of a race track in England.


Why did I dream about an immature cobra that walked on its tail the other night?

How messed up am I?

And the worst part of it all is that I can't call Mom to tell her how weird these things are.

I miss you, Mom.

Saturday, January 20, 2018


My mother passed away this morning.
She's been in hospice at a nursing home since October.
The past two weeks, she's been completely out of it.
When we saw her on Thursday, she was a corpse,
just skin and bones, unable to move except she did manage to squeeze our hands, which meant she knew we were there.
I could write volumes about my mother. She was generous, kind, loving and practical. She coudn't cook worth a darn, but we all got fat enough. She was scrupulously clean, kept her house sparkling and her laundry white in the sunshine.
She loved our father. She loved her three kids and she adored her six grandchildren. She always had candy and little presents for the neighborhood children and she held court on her front porch on summer evenings with many of her wonderful neighbors.
But Mom was basically shy and reserved. She did nothing to put herself forward or stand out from the crowd. I think she had low self-esteem, but I knew she was pretty damned smart and beautiful. Beautiful enough to marry my good-looking father!
I will miss her. Everytime something happens, I want to run upstairs to call her and tell her. I won't be doing that any more.
I just hope she's listening....
                        Together again, at last.