There is Always More to the Story

My friend Patty was a true healer. People came to her Lodge to earnestly pray for healing for themselves or their loved ones. Some people were dying when they came to her. Western doctors had told them it was time to get their affairs in order. One man had been given the last rites. He had been sent home to die. After his family went into Patti's Lodge, he recovered to spend one final year with his family. They even took a last vacation together. Some people recovered entirely and are still alive today. She herself left this world too early, leaving behind a grieving family and an enormous circle of broken-hearted friends strung around the country and the world.

Somehow I did not know that she was terminally ill. I only knew that she was in the hospital and her son was holding Lodge for her. When I got to the hospital, I was shocked and deeply dismayed. How could I have not known she was this gravely ill? I considered her my best friend. She had adopted me in the old way, so we were sisters. But somehow no one had told me the true nature of her illness. Maybe everyone assumed I knew. She was on life support. We could not speak to one another but the nurse assured me that Patti could hear me. I am certain I did not have wit enough to realize I was speaking to her for the last time in this life. All I could think of to say was that I loved her.

When I left the hospital, I went to her house. I walked in the back door like always, right into that wonderful cluttered mess of a house smelling of sage and sweet grass and essential oils and good cooking. The house was alive with her energy. But beyond that, it was as if she was right with me, looking through my eyes. I looked around her home, seeing the paintings and artwork on the walls, the beloved house plants, bookshelves and furniture covered with books and photos and items from a rather unusual lifetime. In addition to feeling my own grief, I was acutely aware of her deep mourning over possibly leaving this lifetime so unexpectedly and so soon. I felt how desperately she wanted to get out of that hospital bed and come home to her life. I felt how desperately she wanted to finish raising her youngest son, B. I almost buckled under the weight of her immense longing to see him raised to adulthood. I have never felt another's person's grief as acutely as I did in those few moments standing in Patti's house right then.

Later that day her family made the decision to remove Patti from life support. That night we gathered in the Lodge, all of us packed together to pray on behalf of a woman who had given every single one of us the means to heal ourselves and heal our lives. We each humbly asked the Creator to heal Patti. After the Lodge and sharing one last big meal together on her beautiful old dining table, her son said he was going to see his mother and we were welcome to come with him. It was late - well after midnight - and we were all red-eyed from crying and from being in the Lodge. We were bedraggled and quite likely seemed high. The hospital staff said nothing as too many people came into the ICU to speak to Patti. Each of us had a few moments to speak quietly to her though she was unconscious. I am sure we were all thinking she would recover the way so many others had recovered. She died the next afternoon. Someone called to give me the news.

In my grief at losing the only person I had ever considered a sister, in attempting to come to terms with the loss of someone who was an actual light in this dark world, someone who genuinely helped others, I was at a loss. Did Patti ever know how much I cared about her? Did she ever know how thankful I was for her in my life? Had I ever done anything to repay, even in the tiniest measure, the wonderful things she brought into my life?

*******

One of the best things about having horses is that you can see them at any time of the day or night. You can have their big, equine, gentle comfort around you if you are grieving. Honestly, horses do not like to be around if your emotion is too jagged or too raw. They are sentient beings and their bodies are like big, beautiful emotion radars. While they never wanted me to lean on them to cry, they would stand quietly close by. One silent winter night, I was on the little ridge where the "barn" sits, grieving over Patti, my gentle horses nearby. It occurred to me that Patti's sons would no longer have the benefit of their mother's prayers in this world. There was something I could do to honor the memory of my friend and sister. Every time I prayed for my own children, I could pray for her sons as if they were my own. This idea brought me some small measure of peace and I spoke into the silence, telling Patti that I would do this on her behalf for the rest of my life. Across the winter pasture a breeze picked up. I could hear it making its way across the tall grass until it was all around me and the horses - a gentle, steady, pleasant breeze lifting my hair and drying my tears. I do not know if it was Patti who answered, or if the Creator simply took pity on me. It was pleasant and it was deeply comforting.

The rest of the story...

When I first met Patti, her youngest son B was seven or eight. I had written a thank you note to Patti, so I wrote a separate letter to B, thinking it would be fun for a little guy to get his own letter. He wrote back, including a picture he had drawn and a photo of himself with a dog on a recent hike. It was unexpected and so cute. At the end of the letter, in his childish handwriting, he post scripted "Write back".

About a year after Patti was gone, B and his older brother came to my farm to build a Lodge here. B's older brother made it a certain way so that we could all go in together, otherwise he and I would not have been able to go in together. I have photos of the two brothers, smiling and happy together on that day. As time went on, I eventually lost track of B. Life moves on and people are busy. He was a young man off in the world. I always believed that someday when he had settled down, I would catch up with him again in some way or another. Unfortunately, B was eventually on the streets, homeless and wild. Almost inevitably he came to the attention of our "justice" system. It was Facebook that served up the missing link. Someone had posted his prison address. I wrote to him immediately and immediately received a reply. At the bottom of the letter in his now masculine handwriting were the words "Write back". To this day, that is the only thing he has ever truly asked of me.

I eventually went to visit him in person. I was shocked to see the man he had become! Though the last time I had seen him, the day he and his brother had been here to build the Lodge, he was much taller than I, he was still a very young-looking teenager. Always in my mind's eye he is that cute little curly haired boy I first met. To see a tall young man with long black braids was a shock! Of course, what did I expect? He was in his early twenties by then. Little boys grow up! I did not cry but I almost did. Patti could sometimes see into the future and I wondered if she had ever seen her son as a grown man? I wondered if she knew he was going to be tall and handsome... and that he would scare the bejeezus out of white people by simply being a big Native American man? Before she died, she had seen that B's life would be ruined in the city. She tried to warn B and his brother, but sometimes life just does not roll out according to plan.

I do not believe B's life is ruined. I cannot see into the future the way Patti sometimes could but I think he has a destiny to fulfill. All of the personal suffering he is going through serves a reason that will eventually become clear to him. I may not live to see that part of his life. I wish I could do more to help him but there is not truly anything I can do. He will soon be 30 years old. The majority of his twenties has been spent in prison or jail. Sometimes to me he seems like a man misplaced in time. He does not seem to possess the most common skills he needs to navigate through the morass of rules, or maybe it is because they are not important to him. He is smart, quick witted, funny, and so damned tough. I give thanks every day that he is a big, strong man. If anyone wants to physically hurt him in prison they are going to pay dearly in the attempt. He is mentally tough. He was In the hole for months. I wrote to him almost every single day while he was locked up in isolation. It was the only thing I could do. I contacted the ACLU, hoping for a way to get him out of there. The ACLU man told me that Kansas typically does not send people to the hole for "no reason" but he said Kansas keeps people in isolation far beyond what he considered necessary, legal or humane. He said there was nothing he could do because B has a long list of prison write ups. B does not follow the rules in prison either. I read other inmates' records of breaking prison rules. Some of them are shocking and violent, even disturbing. Nothing violent or disturbing on B's records, just a LOT of rules breaking.

For whatever reason, B's course in life right now is right through the thick of prison and parole rules. The bright light that was still shining in B, even after years in prison is fading. I just "visited" him for 20 minutes via a video screen. I could see that this latest round of jail time was wearing on him and not in a good way. Yes, he committed a crime when he was young and foolish and homeless. If he had been able to follow the rules and pay the fines, I believe he would have not been sent to prison in the first place. Hard to manage your life if you are homeless, however. None of his crimes have been against people nor have they been violent. Because he was on parole and a convicted felon when he was arrested with a pocketknife, his bail is now set at $25,000, the same as if he had a gun. He has no history of ever harming another human being. He is a Native American man, covered with tattoos. He scares the shit out of white people. Even if I were the richest person on the planet, I do not think I could help him. He is on his own path and only he can read the map. All I can do is keep him in my prayers. I believe he will eventually get things ironed out. He will make the right decisions and take the right steps. I can see that much of the future.

My Daughter is Iron Woman!

My daughter's account of her long-distance bicycling adventures, in her own words - published on Facebook, 2018 

Coulee Challenge 1200K - August 2018

“90% of Life is Showing Up”

It’s hard to find the “theme” of this 755 mile bike ride from Apple Valley, Minnesota through the North Western sections of Wisconsin in 88 hours. So much content, such beautiful landscapes, and amazing people. So, I’ll begin at the beginning and end, at the end perhaps the golden nuggets will appear.

Disclaimer: What I’m about to write is not to brag or boast by any means, but hopefully to inspire. I may one day not be able to bike or ride, but for the here and now I’ve been blessed to be of sound mind, body, and spirit and Cycling has become such a wonderful gift in my life in the here and now, that I like to share it with you. When my insides don’t’ always feel so great or my heart is broken, I’ve been given the gift to be able to ride my bike and for that I’m eternally grateful, and met such wonderful, amazing, and beautiful human beings that enjoy the simplicity of riding a bicycle under the sun and the moon too.

Before we get on the Coulee Route, I must share how I came into Randonneuring in the first place to then arrive at this juncture in the Coulee’s Minnesota.

Background: I decided to ride through the Florida Keys alone, last year. But, before I set sail alone a series of events happened: the stars aligned, a handful of people were met, to include two Randonneurs from Florida (Jackie Shellow and Rudy) in which a 3,000 mile round-trip (via car), and 5 of us road 400k through the Florida Keys and a Baby Randonneur was born.

Dec 30, 2017: 200k from Florida City to Florida Keys.
Jan 1, 2018: 200k from Florida Keys to Florida City.
Feb 3, 2018: 300k Austin, Texas Brevet
Mar 17, 2018: 200k Springfield, Missouri
Apr 14, 2018: 300k Pomona Lake (only 130 miles completed) due to rain, sleet, snow, & wind.
Apr 28, 2018: 200k Leawood, Kansas Perm
May 5, 2018: 400k Grain Valley, Missouri Brevet
May 19, 2018: 600k Grain Valley, Missouri to Paris Brevet
May 26, 2018: 200k St. Joe Crank
May 31, 2018: 1000k Nebraska Sandhills (only 473 miles due to Achilles and tremendous wind)
Jul 7, 2018: 200k Princeton Roundabout
Aug 13, 2018: 1200k Coulee Challenge Grand Brevet

It was not my intention initially to complete the whole SR Series in one year, but one thing sort of led to the next ride. As for the month of May…well, I thought if I can do a 400k, why not try a 600k, and then the 1000 and then the Big Kahuna, 1200k! Encouragement has come from various seasoned and experienced Rando’s along the way. One of which was Michael Turek in Florida, Wayne Dunlap in Texas, and our very own Rodney Geisert, David Mathews, and Gary DelNero in Missouri. Because of a few words they’ve said, I’ve pushed myself to the next rung.

I’ve also been inspired by some amazing cyclists, one of which is Superman, although he likes to keep himself anonymous, Spencer Klaassen and Joe Edwards. To be able to ride alongside these Big Rando Dude’s, an honor for sure. Wow. (Of which I’d like to tell each of their stories, they’ve been on one epic adventure after another over the years, and often times together.)

Through all of the Big Rides, my thoughts have been, “keep up, keep up….and for God’s sakes, keep on their wheel and then I just might make it.” Through all of these rides, I’ve learned how to navigate by reading a Cue Sheet and the use of a GPS system. This has been super empowering.

Nutrition has continuously evolved and changed over time and I imagine will continue to improve. For the Coulee’s I packed Hammer Ultra Fuel in baggies, drank one water bottle full per hour (give or take), it’s never exact for me, but I try to stay on target. Hammer electrolyte pills, I took 2 per hour (or so), plus one water bottle of water every 1.5 hours or so, sometimes more, sometimes less. Hammer Gue Gel (with Caffeine I saved for the late night riding, which is always the most challenging for me, when I tend to bonk or have tough time staying awake. This really helps).

In addition to these supplements what’s been of utmost importance, second only to hydration is FOOD, REAL FOOD! Although I’ve been Vegetarian and Pescatarian over the years, on ultra-distance bike rides, I eat whatever it takes to get the job done. Whatever I’m hungry for, I eat and eat often. I’ve learned if I can stay fed and watered, I’m golden on long rides. At Control’s, usually a Kwick Shop or Casey’s, the food can look pretty bad, but there are some nice options like an Apple, Lunch Meat, and a half a cup of Coke or an egg salad, crackers and a Sweet Tea or Grapes and Slim Jim and Cheese. Just little combo’s of proteins and carbs. These items have sustained me to the next control.

Bike Fit has helped immensely to avoid injury. I had an Achilles tendon flare up on the 1,000k in which I made worse by a piss-poor wrap job and adjusting my own cleats while on route! Big no-go. I really tweaked myself. Thus after a DNF on Day two, I was determined to get those dialed in. Going to a Bike-Fit-Person who you trust and have good experience with is ideal. And I’ve found my Golden Bike-Fit-Guy. Thus before the 1200k I had him look at me and bike on trainer one last time. We made one tiny adjustment, raising the saddle 1/8th of inch and marking the old and new seat position with a Sharpie. This paid off, zero knee and/or Achilles trouble. (Well, there were normal aches and pains of endurance cycling, but no injury). Also, flat-pedaling when conscious and aware to avoid injury helped.

Physical Therapy: I did have 6-weeks of PT after the 1,000k to ensure my Achilles healed properly and faster and I believe I DID recover faster working with the PT by stretching and one deep needling treatment. I also wore compression socks before and during the 1200k. Next big ride I may consider wearing the compression socks to bed too (but would need a clean pair) don’t want to be the stinky girl on the route.

Mind Set: It is scary to be staring down the barrel of a 1200k bike-ride at 33,000 ft of climb. The old tapes of “can I do this” are there. This is a valid question. And my honest answer at the start was, “I don’t know but let’s see if I can.” 90% of life is showing up, the rest will come. And here is the Golden Nugget.

That is precisely what I’ve done on each and every big ride, showed up. I’ve not allowed my own or others’ fears hold me back. Yes, I’ve been nervous and afraid, but I’ve shown up anyway. These rides I’ve had to dig deep and of the two that I DNF’d on, I didn’t dig quit deep enough, which bothered me a lot. Thus, I’ve been driven to go back and try again until I’ve gotten it right. Which is what we’re doing here in Earth School anyway right? Showing up and trying our best and when we fail, we learn lessons, it hurts a lot, and then we’ve really learned something of value, then thankfully, we get to try it again and this time, hopefully with success. Which has been my experience, thus far.

Mental and Emotional: Staying positive on these long rides is essential. There are many highs but some occasional lows and when I’m there, I tend to keep quiet. There is no one coddling one another on these Rando events, so if feeling blue, it’s a time of reflection for me and creating an inner fortitude to get through to the next control and as Aaron Russell in Texas said, “get fixed up.” Boy was he right! It’s important to keep yourself “fixed up” with food, mental or emotional wellness. Not an easy balance always, especially if in physical pain. Like I was on this 1200k.

Physical Discomfort: Saddle Soars for two days were the most formable for me during this ride. Although I used Butt Butter, it wasn’t enough. Along the route I picked up and used Bag Balm and Vagisil that helped save the day. It didn’t completely heal the troubled areas on route but it did relive some pain and suffering. Any tiny bit of relief was welcomed, less pain is always better than more pain.

This Mammoth Ride is a challenge to write about and to find that inner voice that was there all along the route. Hope that voice has not gone dormant, thus this ride report is more technical and physical. There was much on the inside though, as there always is for all of us I’m sure.

Day One 236.3 Miles: Apple Valley to Black River Falls One hour of sleep
Day Two 180.2 Miles: Black River Falls to Reedsburg One hour of sleep
Day Three 197 Miles: Reedsburg to Winona One point Five hours of sleep
Day Four 141.8 Miles: Winona to Apple Valley Slept good in hotel after this ride!

Lessons Learned: Bring Ear Plugs! This will help with sleeping. Get a back bag so not have to wear string bag and carry all “extras’ on my back”. Get a plastic rain jacket that balls up nice and tiny to keep onboard, just in case it rains.

There is more to unpack with this ride. But, I think the inner lessons were mine to keep and to not share at this time.

In the meantime. Thanks for reading and your support. What a great adventure this has been thus far. More to come readers. Until the next Big Deal, just keep Showing Up! Its 90% of life, right?! Tschuss! 

~Anda Arms

One Cat to Another...

Going through some of my old files, I came across this letter my cat wrote to my mother's cat.  According to my stepfather, this letter made my mother's day.  Snoops is my mother and stepfather's cat, long deceased.  Aldebaran is my cat, also long deceased, murdered right before my eyes by a crazy goddamned stray dog that showed up here and I was stupid enough to feed for two years.  Though my mother is also gone, this letter brought some good memories.

Aldebaran

August 28, 2001

Dear Snoops,

          You don’t know me, but we are related through our human beings.  I overheard my Most Important Human (MIH) laughing about how weird you are.  She even hinted that you might be a product of inbreeding because you come from such a small and isolated town.  What a crock!  You can’t help it because you live with two old people and you’re a bit weird. 

Everyone knows that when humans get older, they lose their strength against Cat Powers.  I have it on good authority that you’ve done a great job with your two humans and they are feeding all the cats in your neighborhood!  Good job.

          It’s important for cats to emotionally support one another.  It ain’t easy being a cat.  I live with a teenage boy and he is a real pain in the neck.  He wears stinky athletic shoes.  He loves to shout unexpectedly to cause me (and his mother) to jump three feet in the air.  And he listens to the worst gangster music you ever heard.  He’s so mean that even I, the Great Disdainful Aldebaran, do not dare to bite or scratch him.  I bite and scratch his mother instead.  She’ll be fifty in a couple of years so she has almost no defense against my Cat Powers.

          I have almost complete control over her.  Each time she puts a rug on the floor in the bathroom or the kitchen, I poop on it.  She throws the rug out instead of me!  She doesn’t even bother buying rugs now.  I heard you chose one of the most important rugs in your whole house to poop on and the old man you live with has to wash it all the time.  (Damn, you’re good!)

          I do other things with my Cat Powers.  I chase mice around when I feel like it and that endears me to the woman I live with.  When a snake got in the house, though, I just let it slither under the kitchen stove.  Now I sit in the kitchen and watch her cook with her feet as far away from the stove as possible.  I could have caught that snake, but hey, I don’t get treated THAT well around here.

          At least you don’t have to live with a dumb dog.  I do.  God, is he stupid!  A skunk sprays him at least once every other month.  I stare at him all the time from the front window, exerting my Cat Powers on him.  (Who do you think convinces him to play with the skunks?)

          I am going to close for now.  I need to stretch and roll over and fold my furry paws on my chest and watch the woman upside down.  She has absolutely NO defense against that.  I just wanted to let you know I am standing up for you, Cousin.  When she said you were inbred, I went over and sharpened my claws on the furniture, but she just scooped me up and hugged me.  Cat Powers!

Sincerely,

The Great Disdainful Aldebaran

Post Script:  Aldebaran called my son "mean" because he was loud and constantly active and enjoyed teasing the cat and his mother.  He has never been abusive to animals - just to clarify!

The Road Home

My road.

My son's road.

Some years ago, I had the great good fortune to travel to the Medicine Wheel in Wyoming. We camped in the Big Horn Mountains and walked up to the Wheel on the summer solstice, which also coincided with my friend Patti's birthday. Our respective young sons were with us as well. There were many people on the mountain that day - tourists, New Age people, Native Americans and our little group. We held a Pipe Ceremony in the Wheel. I prayed for many things and Spirit answered my prayers in such a forceful way that it was all I could do to hold myself together. (Be careful what you pray for.)

Later that afternoon the boys and I went to Mule Falls, not too far from our campsite. As soon as they could get the doors open, the boys burst out of the truck and took off, racing down the steep trail without a backward glance. I tried to call them back but a human voice is simply absorbed in that mountain landscape. The trail was a steep switchback with stands of pines and thick vegetation that deadened my nearly panicked calling.

There are bears and cougars in that wilderness area. It was late in the afternoon so there was not much daylight left for two young boys to be on an unknown trail alone. I could still walk then but my knees were stiff and troublesome. The trail was covered with pea gravel and very steep. I made my slow, painful way down the trail, calling after the boys. Their voices had gone out of range of my hearing almost immediately. As is normal for me, I immediately imagined them making it to the falls that I assumed were towering and wildly dangerous. I imagined those boys running headlong down the steep trail, falling into the water and drowning. I would have to tell Patti that her son had fallen/drowned/been eaten by a bear while in my care. I laugh now, but at the time, I was in a terrible panic. It was not simply that I was worried. It felt as if both boys had already met a terrible fate. It was a horrific feeling.

I had no idea how long that terrible trail was but I eventually realized that the further down the trail I went, the harder it would be to go back up. Almost in tears, I made the decision to turn back. The trail was so steep, the footing so loose that I pulled on the low tree branches to help myself climb. I was at last reduced to crawling on my hands and knees. All the while the panic was growing in my chest because it was almost dark. The deep valleys and high peaks of the mountains made for a very short twilight.

Never in my life had I ever, EVER been unable to physically meet whatever challenge I faced. Never had I been unable to protect my children. I had never been in the position of being left behind nor entirely powerless and helpless. I continued to crawl up the steep slope in such a profound state that I could not even cry. I was in a constant dialogue with the Creator. The only time in my life I had ever felt such an intense soul pain was when my father died. Creator was answering my prayers in a mighty way and it was incredibly painful. I was meant to get this particular message, no mistaking it.

Crawling pathetically up the trail, I clearly saw my path end and my son's path go far beyond my reach. He did not "belong" to me. He would and must go on without me. In fact, he hardly needed me at all even then. I realized that I could not hang on to my son so tightly. I could not live in fear that life would take him away. It was a painful realization but necessary. The unreasonable bonds of my fears were being cut right in the moment. It was physically and psychically painful.

Eventually I made it to the top of the trail and staggered across the level ground to my truck. I pulled out the map of the park to glean any clue it might hold regarding the trail or the falls. To my horror I read that it was an ALL DAY hike to the bottom and back! All day! Knowing those boys, they ran headlong and shouting all the way to the bottom before they even realized I was not with them. If it became dark or if they were lost... I was in full blown panic by then. I weighed waiting for them to come back on their own or getting help in case they were already lost. I decided the sooner I got help the better it would be.

I started the truck and drove on the dirt road back toward a ranger compound we had passed on the way to the trail head. It was miles back and I was driving as fast as I dared, which was far too fast. An enormous plume of dust rose in the still air. I roared into the fenced area of the compound and left the truck running as I hurried to the front door of a building that looked like it might have people in it. I knocked but no one answered, so I walked in - entirely out of character for me. I was in the kitchen of the rangers' private facilities when the surprised Native American ranger from the Medicine Wheel found me. She asked what I was doing, explaining I was in their private quarters. I apologized and explained what happened. By then other rangers had come in. The woman, half to herself, said I had been through a lot up on the Wheel earlier. How did she know? They gave me water to drink and it helped me to calm down.

They asked what instruction I had given the boys. I explained they tore down the trail so fast that I did not have a chance to say a single thing to them. The rangers said they would not be in danger of falling or getting lost as long as they stayed on the trail. They said the boys likely wore themselves out coming back up. The woman kindly asked one of the men to follow me back. I was so mercifully grateful for their kindness and their help.

I drove only slightly less fast back, mindful of the powdery dust, worse than any Kansas dirt road by far, billowing up in front of the ranger's truck as he followed behind. About a mile away from the trail, I saw the two boys walking in the road, coming my way. I slammed on the brakes and rushed out of the truck to hug both of them safely in my arms. I was crying with relief and gratitude and happiness that they were safe! Not eaten by a bear nor a cougar. Not floating lifelessly at the bottom of Kicking Mule Falls. Not lost and hungry and cold in the dark in the wilderness! I did not have to go back to camp to tell Patti that her son was lost.

There was an old hunting shack located at the top of the trail. When the boys returned to the top of the trail, they found I was gone. My son was certain a crazy Vietnam Vet lived in the shack and had kidnapped his mother and her truck. He was in a bit of panic too.

I did not get a chance to thank the ranger though I sent a letter to the park service after we got home, thanking them for their kindness and apologizing for barging into their private quarters. The ranger wrote back, saying that is was his job and that he was thankful it turned out well. He said I should come back to the Big Horn Mountains to visit, too.

On the surface, it was simply not that big of a deal to anyone else but it was one of most powerful things that has ever happened to me. It was a turning point in my life but I cannot say that I successfully released my poor son from the web of my unreasonable panic and fear immediately. It has been a long process - likely ongoing to this day. I am sure I damaged him and my daughter with all of my craziness. I tried not to but I am certain it happened anyway.

Now my son is entirely grown and on his own in the big city, wanting a life for himself that bears no physical resemblance to the life I have chosen for myself. He is a decent human being and in many ways he is more similar to me in thought processes and world view than my daughter is. He is his own man. His road goes on without me, the way it is supposed to be.

May the new year bring an abundance of happiness and all good things to both of my children, now and always.

One Brother's Revenge Against His Bossy Older Sister

There is an established science now of the effect of birth order on children, apparently influencing even such things as career choice later in life. I was the first born in my nuclear family with two younger brothers. If there is one thing in this world that I know for certain, I was born bossy. For as long as I can remember I have known my way was right and everyone else was wrong. Of course, experience has taught me a vastly different truth but to this day my first inclination is that I am right and everyone else is wrong! With such an attitude you know my little brothers never stood a chance.

From the moment he was born my brother Randy was the apple of my mother's eye, so in addition to believing I was the supreme dictator of the universe, I was also inescapably jealous of my little brother. I committed various acts of terrorism against him when he was too small to defend himself - things like kicking up a red ant hill then setting him down amid the angry ants. I pushed him down the stairs. He was a gentle soul who simply wanted to be left in peace but I took every chance I had to torment him, I am ashamed to admit.

As we grew a bit older our sibling spats grew into fist fights. Physical fighting only lasted until he became stronger than me then the warfare shifted to sabotage and terrorism. It was every kid for him or herself if there was a chance we could tattle on each other to our mother. As I recall, by some basic instinct of survival, we would not tell on each other to our father who never messed around with getting to the bottom of the matter nor cared about any fine points of justice.

It was not all one-sided. I had worked long and hard to sculpt a clay horse that fell victim to a murderous coup my brother committed when he tore it apart. He could not wait until I discovered the massacre but tauntingly admitted to it during an argument. My poor mother was left to referee and settle such skirmishes.

Of course, my brother and I could knock-down drag-out fight, argue and be generally mean to each other all day long but no one else better lay a finger on either one of us. Then our blood loyalty kicked in, and all the skills we honed fighting each other would be turned against a common enemy. I believe this is how the human species has survived to become the dominant force on the planet.

We were teenagers when my brother committed the last act of terrorism against me. I devoured books by the dozens and one of my favorite things was to prepare a large bowl of popcorn then retire to the safe refuge of my room to read in peace. One of my brother's friends had a plaster cast of a very large snake someone had killed. It was not even painted but as a cast it was intricately detailed and, of course, uber-realistic. I had a large bowl of popcorn in the crook of one arm, my book in the other when I stepped into my bedroom to see a horrifyingly huge, pure white snake curled up on a little pink fuzzy rug. There was one millionth of a stunned second before chaos!

Yes, my brother absolutely knew the ultimate weakness of his first and most formidable enemy: my fear of snakes! Even though some part of my brain registered that there were no such things as pure white snakes, all other data indicated "huge snake" and my lizard brain took immediate control. I simultaneously screamed bloody murder, threw the bowl and the book as I astral projected down the stairs, leaving a trail of fresh popcorn. This was the best possible outcome for my brother and his friend, who were howling with laughter. I was crying adrenaline tears of fear and relief and outrage. My mother, who never made an effort to hide her opinion that I typically got what was coming to me even as she tried to judiciously settle our sibling squabbles, took my side though her defense was lukewarm. (It WAS funny!) She told my brother that sort of thing was not funny to a person as afraid of snakes as I was. But it was damned funny to my brother and his friend... and to me, still, all these many long years later.

The Bean Experiment

My son will be thirty years old this summer but it does not seem possible - the years of his childhood are still so fresh in my mind. Recently a particular memory surfaced and I have no idea what triggered it. He needed an experiment for the grade school science fair. I suggested that he sprout beans under glass to show the effects of gravity (geotropism). When the beans had sprouted and grown an inch or so, he turned the glass upside down. The bean sprouts made a 180 degree turn to continue growing upwards.

I remember buying the beans and some small sheets of plexiglas. What I recall the most clearly is that aside from the school project we decided to conduct an experiment on whether Reiki energy versus negative energy would cause the beans to sprout or grow differently. We soaked paper towels in water, placed several beans behind plexiglass and embarked on the scientific quest to prove whether Reiki energy would noticeably impact plant growth.

One set of beans was treated with Reiki energy twice a day and the other set of beans was treated to both of us shouting obscenities for the same amount of time. The experiment lasted about a week or so. I fully expected the beans treated with Reiki energy to sprout first and exhibit the most vigorous growth but the beans we cussed and shouted at sprouted first (almost 24 hours earlier) and undeniably grew faster and larger. I think it was the laughter that skewed the experiment. We simply could not yell and cuss at the beans without bursting into almost hysterical laughter - every time!

I have been revisiting that memory lately and I wonder if he remembers cussing at the beans, too.

Post script: He does remember! Well, who wouldn't remember something that crazy?!

A Return to Scene of the Crime

I at last relented and attended the graduating class of '70 high school reunion - forty five years later. That final decision to go rests in equal parts from the flattery and skillful persuasion from my best high school buddy - and a "wild" girl who got in as much trouble as I did back in the day agreeing to meet me - and the fact that the clock is ticking. Now or never.

I almost changed my mind. Every day between the moment I agreed to go and the very day of the event, I decided to not attend and then changed my mind again. I could not imagine that anyone other than a few people would even remember me. Behind this loud-mouth exterior pounds the quivering heart of a truly shy person. I did not want to chance not remembering someone's name or to not recognize the people I spent more time with than any of my husbands! I needn't have feared. I only called one person by the wrong name - and that should not even count because I instantly recognized his face!

Oh, to see once again so many people who meant so much to me! Adolescence is a true rite of passage, and we survived that horrible and amazing time together. All of the women were instantly recognizable. Indeed, most of them had not changed at all, being beautiful to this day. The men were a little more difficult to recognize. It was difficult to match the young boys of my memory with the fully mature men in the room. And by "fully mature" I mean hats and white beards and either balding heads or a few long-hairs like me.

It made me smile to watch everyone lean in to hear, or turn their "good" ear toward the conversation. The acoustics in the large room made it difficult to hear - that, and all the laughter. While we were eating, the cacophony died down making normal conversation possible. Everyone filling his or her pie-hole with food was better than a hearing aid!

We hugged and laughed and told stories. We recalled the spectacular exploits of those wild boys, agreeing that most of their pranks would bring legal consequences in school today. There were amiable apologies, spontaneously welling from the common wisdom that we knew nothing then but believed we knew everything!

We fondly recalled those few who died young, or more recently took their leave. We looked at photos of children and grandchildren. We laughed and cried and hugged again. We caught up quickly. The most wonderful thing was the way we picked up where we left off. It was easy, like slipping on an old sweater, comfortable and well-loved. It was good - all the way through.

Parenthood Finally Pays Off - BIG TIME!

This guy actually belongs to me. He is on the roof of my home, clearing the gutters - because I ASKED him and he agreed to it.

(And, maybe because he was already going to be at my house for Mothers Day.)

(Well, he did need to borrow a few bucks.)

(I doubt if it was because he was feeling regret for being such a willful teenager.)

(He still sprayed water on his poor, long-suffering mother from the roof - but it was just enough to hear me cuss.)

Some things never change.

I am glad of it.

So Long, Little Buckaroo

Now I bid farewell to my good friend Cyberkit. March 3, 2014 he peacefully let go this world, escaping overwhelming physical suffering to embrace the beckoning mysteries with his usual confidence and good humor. Oh, my world is suddenly much smaller. I will greatly miss his good mind, his humor, his love and support, his friendship.

I met Kit when he came to Patti's Lodge in the late 1990's. His doctor's had given him sixty days to get his affairs in order because their medicines and procedures could not save him from cancer. He came to Patti for one final bid at life.

We became better acquainted each time we met at Patti's house for Lodge, but it was the miracle of email that sealed our friendship. We lived 8 hours apart by land travel, making regular visits a hardship. We found, to our mutual delight, that we had deeply compatible minds. And perhaps a bit like Helen Hanff and Frank Doel, we forged a wonderful friendship almost entirely through the written word - without the intellect and genteel decorum of Helen and Frank, of course. (Our coarse humor would have mortified the properly British Mr. Doel!)

After Patti died, Kit and I were left to console one another, facing our respective lives without her. We each needed the another, even though it was all through email. I often ended my letters to him with "Be brave, little Buckaroo", which became a silly thing to say after he became ill again. Anyone suffering with emphysema is the epitome of courage. It is a long, slow descent into physical hell with no hope. He was brave, and smart, and wickedly funny, and my good friend. He blessed my life. Now he is blessing another reality with his wit and constant love. Farewell, my dear friend. Farewell.

Pama mine, Nekan.

Missing the Old People

It is appropriate that a woman born at the winter solstice, during the longest night of the year, would have an affinity for winter. Though I deeply appreciate the pleasant and green days of spring - the dramatic and beautiful thunderstorms of summer and the flowering prairie - it is the cold of true winter that I love the most. I enjoy bundling up in warm clothes and boots and going to the barn to tend the horses. Unless it is brutally cold, they prance and buck and gallop their joy as soon as the back door opens. They know their oats are on the way. Wally arches his neck, tossing his head and mane as if he is the most handsome guy alive. And my bossy little mare, her copper coat dusted with snow, is beautiful in the clear yellow sunrise, her shapely nostrils flared and steaming as she vocalizes her impatience with the slow human trudging up the hill.

Winter is silent and pristine, with or without snow. A woman can hear her own heartbeat in the deep silence. Sometimes the happy memories of my childhood come calling as I lean against the fence panels listening to the horses. Their simple pleasure in the nutritious oats and fragrant hay is tangible. In that simple, sweet space I easily recall the smell of smoke from my Grandma's wood-burning stove. It permeated the house year round - a sweet and familiar incense tracing far back in our human genes, unfailingly reminding us of comfort and safety and warmth and family.

In the closet by the back door, (the only door ever used by anyone) Grandma kept old jackets, hats, scarves, mittens and sweaters. These old clothes, smelling wonderfully of wood smoke and hay, were for city folk who did not know how to dress for the farm - or for a granddaughter who would get in big trouble for ruining her "good" clothes.

Grandma was a simple woman, beloved of just about everyone who ever knew her. She was loving and kind, and had a bit of mischief in her, a spark of something good that filled you up. She loved me perfectly. She loved me exactly the way I was, and never in all the time I spent with her, did she ever make me feel bad about myself.

She taught me to thread a needle, to pick strawberries without damaging the plant, to scoop up fuzzy yellow peeps and cup them safely in my hands. She taught me to build a fire in the stove, and allowed me "grown up" chores, like gathering the eggs or filling the wood box. I could "help" make bread and egg noodles and pie crusts. She was dressing a chicken once when I saw two tiny kidney-shaped organs connected by a little thread of flesh. I exclaimed, "It's kidneys!" Though it embarrassed her, she explain it was a rooster and those were his manly parts. My grandma always told me the truth and gave me the information I needed at a level I could understand. She never told me to wait until I was older, or in school, or to ask someone else.

If the theoretical physicists are right, and in reality there is no such thing as time, and everything in the universe happens now, it means Grandma's kitchen, blessed with the smell of baking bread and boiled coffee, still exists. She is there carefully making four depressions in the snowy white flour where the egg yolks go in order to make egg noodles. That poor unfortunate rooster is just about ready for the kettle, and soon Grandpa will be coming in from doing chores.

I Apologize. My Brother's Lamp Is Not the Ugliest Lamp In the Known Universe

This is bad.

 

This is worse than "bad".  It is creepy.

 

This is not creepy or cheesy or bad.  It is pure ugly.

 

This is sad. 

 

Ugly and cheesy = Cheegly?

 

In my humble opinion, this is What The F**k ugly. 

 

 

I apologize to both of my dear brothers.  The dungeon lamp is a true work of art compared to the electric blue frog.

Is Bad Taste Genetic?

There may be some people on the planet who are so highly evolved aesthetically that they cannot abide anything ugly or unpleasing within their sight.  They are the people who own purebred animals, limited edition cars, designer clothing, and critically acclaimed artwork.  Clearly, no one in my family enjoys membership in that exclusive and limited group.

I unashamedly shared with the world the orange and fluorescent green old-lady sneakers I wear for mowing and working at the barn. I humbly admit they are ugly - very, very ugly. Once a person begins to admit and own shameful secrets, it is difficult to stop. I confess my brothers are also guilty of incredibly bad taste. It is possible that together they found the most unattractive table lamp in the long and torturous history of unattractive table lamps.

Exhibit A, presented here for your perusal, is the lamp my brother Randy found somewhere in his brave and crazy travels across the world.  (Not surprisingly it was discovered for sale within the state of Kansas.) He bought this lamp as a gift for our youngest brother Mark who has always been interested in the Arthurian Legend and the Medieval historical period.

Some creations are singular.  Their unique and distinctive existence produces an aura, an energy that, regardless of purpose, marks their existence as peerless.  They become the epitome of some aspect of themselves.  Exhibit A falls into that singular group of artifacts.    

Mark graciously accepted the lamp. He ferociously defended it through marriage and divorce, and perhaps even more telling, through a much later subsequent romance. The 1970's avocado green sofa inherited from our parents could not be successfully defended forever. The sofa miraculously made it through the marriage, but fell at some point in my brother's current relationship. That he gave up the beloved but ugly and FREE couch is tangible proof of the depth of his enduring love. But even that fierce love cannot part my brother from his ugly lamp.

When I contemplate this item, I realize that there were surely two such lamps purchased originally - one for either end of the sofa. There were likely dozens and dozens of these lamps created somewhere on this earth. Conceived by an artist or a designer, executed in a modern manufacturing center, then with much effort and energy, sent across the world for consumption by eager home owners and interior decorators. Maybe the only thing left of the entire conception, birth and life cycle is this one lamp, the lone survivor, rescued from extinction and obscurity by my own brothers.

Anything as singular and rare deserves something far better than the ugliest lamp shade known to mankind.  I have a new mission in life as of this morning:  a quest for the holy lampshade.  Help me, Lord.

EXHIBIT A

You Never Know Where Dung Beetles Might Lead

My son and I were coming home, driving up the grade after crossing a local creek, when we saw something far ahead making its slow way across the road. We could not identify it until we were close and then we started laughing. It was two dung beetles rolling a large ball of cow manure - uphill. One beetle behind rolling with her front legs, and the beetle in the front guiding with his back legs. (I might be incorrectly inferring the sex of each.)

I saw similar beetles often on my grandfather's farm and they always delighted me. It was funny the way they were intently focused on their task, moving a large amount of manure, far more mass than the beetles themselves. The perfectly round ball intrigued me and I always wondered where they were going. They did not waiver from their course simply because a human being came by. As a child, I assumed the ball of manure was their winter food. It certainly protected them from being smashed under foot.

This morning I was thinking about seeing the beetles in the road, wondering why something so silly and insignificant stays in my memory. It was just a snippet of memory from the time when my son still lived at home. It led me to read a little about dung beetles. They can roll up to 10 times their weight. Male Onthophagus taurus beetles can pull 1,141 times their own body weight: the equivalent of an average person pulling six double-decker buses full of people. The American Institute of Biological Sciences reports that dung beetles save the United States cattle industry an estimated US $380 million annually through burying above-ground livestock feces. And lastly, dung beetles are currently the only animal, other than humans, known to navigate and orient themselves using the Milky Way. That places those beetles in a rather existential light.

Today I will be visiting an old friend who is terminally ill, to say farewell. As a parent myself, I know saying goodbye to his children must be particularly difficult. I wonder if he will be allowed to keep his memories of this earthly life.  I wonder if my friend will be able to remember forever all the silly, random instances of time spent with each of his beloved children. Some day I will surely find out for myself.

Journal Entry: August 14, 2007

I have a dozen journals with only one or two entries in them.  It is an idiosyncrasy of mine to buy journals then write in them once.  I cannot explain it.  It could be heroin addiction or kleptomania so I do not worry about it.  Though I have already written about my kids swimming in Hawaii, I am going to post this journal entry with only minor edits.  It made me laugh when I read it this morning, five years after it was first written.  Rest assured, nothing in my psyche has changed.

I was just thinking today about happiness, and being grateful, and how safe I have been all my life.  That made me wonder why I am always afraid!  If my grown daughter tells me she is at the lake on the hottest day of the year, all I can think of is skin cancer and drowning.  What is wrong with me?  If my son does not answer his phone it is because a serial murderer has abducted him.  I do not know what is wrong with me.  Crazy comes to mind.

So, here I am 54 years old.  My kids are 35 and 21.  They are grown adults.  Well, my son and I still have a few apron string issues.  I supported him through 8 1/2 months of college when he did not work at all, not even part time.  There were many reasons why I continued to support him.  I love him dearly and feel responsible that he has no father.  I know some of his issues well - he is so much like me.  My mother left me to sink or swim on my own.  I eventually learned to swim but it was difficult, so incredibly difficult. 

No one "helped me to succeed" in life.  That is not to say I never had help or friends or fortunate outcomes, because I did.  There was never anyone who loved me enough to "help me succeed" in life.  I still have not succeeded but I am self-supporting, reasonably sane, and have some version of everything I ever dreamed for myself, almost.  But it feels like I did it all alone, like climbing Mt Everest with no Sherpas - like fixing a car engine with my bare hands.

Oh my God - how sorry can I feel for myself?  Really, really sorry it seems.

I am glad I can afford to help my son.  I never could afford to help my daughter when she went through this phase in her life.  I think I have helped my son to succeed so well that he is sick of it and is trying to swim away out to sea to seek his fortune.  He can succeed on his own.  He is currently a mess but he has a strength of character few people have.  I have always been afraid for him.  I am afraid life will take him away from me.  The experts told me he was "extremely ADHD" when he was just a little guy.  I read everything I could find on ADHD and learned that ADHD kids have a large chance of dying before age 11 due to their impulsivity.  That possibility turned out to be oh so true in his case.  Trying to keep him safe kept me in a constant state of anxiety that has never lessened.

When I turned 50, I got to travel to Hawaii for ten glorious days.  I got to "sort of" swim with wild dolphins off the shores of Oahu.  I went snorkeling with my son and daughter in the famous bay.  I was only 98% convinced I was going to drown or be attacked by strange sea creatures, so a mere 2% of courage allowed me to witness how beautifully my kids swam in the sea.  They were brown, beautiful, strong and graceful, as if they had been born to the sea, though both were born and raised in Kansas.  I was collecting their grace in the water like an old woman plucking apples from a tree.  Where did that grace and courage come from?  Who taught them to be so confident and easy beneath those Pacific waves?

I was fine puttering along at the surface, watching the fantastic colors and shapes until I came upon an outcropping of reef and suddenly I was too close to the sea creatures living in the holes.  I was SO not in Kansas any more!  But my son was fearless, snorkeling deeper and continually further from me.  When I could no longer see him clearly through the water, I began to panic that the sea was going to take him from my life.  As always, there is that unhealthy fear.

I know my kids want to kick my ass most of the time.  And they should just go for it.

Post script:  Now in 2013, my son is graduated from the University of Kansas and self-supporting.  He grew up, like we all do.

Parenting Duties Officially Concluded!

Thursday afternoon, my son completed the last final exam required to earn his college degree! Congratulations to the Unabomber for hanging tough until he succeeded! It it truly a red letter day.

I believe this signals the conclusion of my minimum required parenting duties. Though I have never doubted my son is superbly capable to do anything he wants in life, I have worried about him since he was a baby. A born athlete, he crawled for a week or two then switched to his natural rate of travel: high speed. Whenever I took him any where - shopping, day care, doctor's office - I had to hold tightly to one of his limbs or maintain a handful of sturdy clothing at all times or he would dart into traffic.

He wrecked every mode of transportation he has ever ridden or driven, starting with a toddler ride toy. He sat on it and pushed with his feet. The seat was maybe four inches off the ground but he found a way to make it dangerous. When he skidded over a large crack in the driveway, he crashed, landing on the point of his chin. Later, when a thin vein of calcification could be felt in his chin, the doctor said my son must have had a hairline fracture.

He rode a skateboard under a car, miraculously without injury. His father almost crushed him letting a car down off a jack. My son fell fifteen feet out of a tree. He skinned half of his face in a spectacular BMX bike wreck. He wrecked his first car in the first week he drove it. He totaled that car on the gravel roads a couple of weeks after it was repaired. He wrecked his second car on the same gravel road. When I saw the way the car was situated in the ditch, I marveled over the power that prevented the car from rolling. (His third car was a 1987 Cadillac - 3000 pounds of heavy metal to keep him firmly on the road.) Needless to say, I have actively and consistently campaigned against my son owning a motorcycle.

Almost from the beginning there were regular phone calls from the school. He was always too busy, too talkative, too much of who is he is to fit quietly and easily into the uniform square pegs the school requires. I always told the school that he has a right to be who he is. Luckily, there were teachers who clearly saw my son, recognized his potential and genuinely liked him. In the classrooms of those good teachers, he was a brilliant student. If any gifted student makes it through the American public school system with any originality, any spark of creativity, any love of learning left, it is thanks to those precious few stellar teachers.

But now, at long last, he is a free man - a college educated free man - an athletic poet with a tremendously creative mind. The only thing he must do now is ENJOY!

The Mystery of the Gay Meatloaf

My dearest friend in this lifetime was gay. He did not come out of the closet until he was well into his thirties. It was a traumatic and heroic action on his part. He kept his secret so well hidden that I, his best friend, did not suspect. But, at long last, he was out, and the profound change this brought to my friend was a great thing to see. He was happier than I had ever seen him, and I had known him a long time. Even better, he soon found true love.

My friend and his partner invited my family to Sunday afternoon dinner at their restored farmhouse. It was an important step for my dear friend, and I wanted the entire afternoon to go perfectly for him. My brother happened to be visiting that weekend so he accompanied my husband, my daughter and me on the trip for Sunday afternoon dinner.

We had a wonderful afternoon, admiring all of the considerable remodeling and decorating the two men had accomplished in their home - refinished wood floors, restored french doors, excellent choices in artwork, house plants, fabrics, antique furniture. Their home was beautiful and comfortable. The dinner was a sumptuous feast served on a lovely old restored dining table set with heavy silverware and fresh flowers. It was heartwarming to see my friend so happy, lonely no longer, with someone to share his life and building such a beautiful home together.

When it came time to sit down to the meal, there was a tiny problem. They were serving meatloaf. I absolutely hated meatloaf and never ate it, not even my own mother's meatloaf. I was not about to let a detail like that put any sort of negativity on my friend's day, so I ate the meatloaf and said not a word. My brother and my husband had seconds. My little girl ate a big helping of it, too. It must have been delicious.

We passed the rest of the afternoon in good cheer and took our leave fairly late. It was over fifty miles to our house. It was the end of a long Sunday on a long weekend and we were all tired. We went to bed shortly after we arrived home.

My little girl was the first one to be sick. I heard her little feet running down the hall and got up to check on her. As soon as she was settled and I had returned to bed, it hit me. I ran down the hall to be sick. Goodbye, meatloaf! Of course, everyone in the entire house could hear the commotion of people running down the hall. As I returned shakily to bed, my little brother said something smart-assed from the sofa. I did not hear exactly what he said but I caught the drift. It was just a few minutes later when I heard him running down the hall, and that made me laugh. When I heard him returning to the sofa, I called out, "How instant is that karma?"

Only my brother, my daughter and myself were ill and we felt fine the next morning. I, of course, blamed the meatloaf. Since no one gay who ate the meatloaf became ill, that forever put my husband under a cloud of suspicion. He ate two big helpings of the meatloaf and was never sick. I teased him with great delight about that for a long time.

Amazingly enough, after that, I was able to eat meatloaf and I have enjoyed it since. I had some last night at a fine restaurant in Manhattan, Kansas. Of course, I can never enjoy meatloaf without remembering my best friend and the mystery of the gay meatloaf.

Bonnie Vista

A bonnie vista is a beautiful view. It is also my grandmother's name. She lived to be 99 years old. That is a long time looking forward but looking back it is not much time. She once said to me, "It went by faster than I thought."

She was a beautiful woman all the years of her life. She was opinionated but not in the way I am opinionated. She held her opinions with class and restraint. I often wish I had learned that grace from her.

She believed when people die it is simply the end. I do not know what led her to this belief but I am sure it was her logical, pragmatic mind. Based on what we see, that is the logical assumption. This belief informed her life and lent to her an admirable discipline and strength. She told me a person must not weaken. She remained disciplined until the very end.

She was not sentimental but she was loving. Her sense of humor had a touch of the steel blade in it but it was never mean-spirited. Her house was always spotless, from the big old farmhouse to the small home in town where she and Grandpa moved after they sold the farm and retired. I always had the sense that my Grandmother could have run a company or a school or a government if such professions had been more readily available to the women of her generation. In fact, she did run a successful business. She and Grandpa started with nothing but she was quite well off until the end. She successfully taught four children, eight grandchildren, and as many of the great grandchildren as she had the opportunity to know. Under her rule, the family prospered. She never dominated the people she governed but empowered the people she dearly loved.

By some unknown blessing from the hand of almighty God Himself, I spent almost a week alone with my grandparents one summer. Every single day, as soon as I had breakfast, I could go to the barn. I could ride the horses as much as I wanted. It was the best consecutive run of days in my entire childhood! It was my father's chestnut cow horse that I rode. I loved the red horse and she loved me. It was nothing to the big working mare to carry a skinny little girl around in the pasture behind the barn or on the dirt road following the bend of the Little Walnut River. I have often wondered if a horse, such a sensitive and empathic animal, enters into the imagination of a child and experiences the make-believe worlds, too. Maybe it is the simple pure joy of childhood the horse experiences. I was as safe in the care of that wise old mare as I was anywhere in the world.

My grandmother understood me and never placed any sort of burden on me for being who I was as a child. One day when she called me in at noon I asked if I could take my lunch so I could have a picnic in the pasture with the horse. She took my request seriously and packed a meal in a brown paper bag. Beneath the large cottonwood trees in the beautiful little pasture behind the barn, I gathered armloads of grass for the horse. I sat on the ground to eat and the horse, who could have easily chosen to graze anywhere in the entire pasture, stayed faithfully by my side eating the grass I had gathered.

Even late in her years my grandmother remembered when I asked her to pack my lunch so I could picnic with the horse. I do not think Grandma had any idea what a wonderful gift she allowed me that day.

I was lucky enough to know all four of my grandparents well, and to have ongoing relationships with them that lasted until the end of their lives. My grandmother did not always approve of my choices but I never doubted that she loved me. Even when I did not visit in person, we wrote to one another over the years, so she usually knew what was going on in my life. The older I was, the more remarkable she became in my eyes. The thing about loving someone your entire life - that love does not fundamentally change but it expands, adds on, becomes more complex without ever leaving those innocent, simple beginnings behind.

I do not know where my Grandmother is now. She died at the summer solstice when the sun was at its highest, when the most light was available to her. At the graveside the day of her funeral the sunlight was strong and clear. Off to the left, in an open area away from the mourners, a column of bright light was present. It was only thin air, visibly brighter than the surrounding sunlight, and was as clear and straight and as beautiful as my Grandmother's spirit had been in physical life. I knew it was my grandmother taking her final leave of the family and friends she had loved so well and for so long. Wherever she is now, that is a good place.


Bonnie Vista and Charles Asa

Animal Rescue in Joplin

My daughter spent Memorial Day weekend in Joplin, Missouri as a volunteer with the ASPCA. She has contacts with many ASPCA, Humane Society and Emergency Preparedness people because her recent Master Report tackled the problem of pet rescue in emergencies. She spent a lot of time interviewing a large number of people so she is on many lists and was able to answer the call for volunteers.

Each volunteer going to Joplin had to be as self-sufficient as possible, bringing their own food and water, and either a tent or camper, or plan to sleep in their car. It was grueling work - 12 hour days. I was worried because after the sun goes down, like rats, people flock into the vast destroyed area of that town to loot. People who would do such a thing would not think twice of harming a single woman alone in a tent. Luckily, a friend who lives ten minutes from Joplin opened her home to my daughter. No sleeping unprotected while looters and other vermin scurry about under the cover of darkness.

When my daughter first arrived, there were about 200 animals in the care of the ASPCA. Three days later, there were close to 600 and the numbers continue to climb. When my daughter chose animal rescue in disaster planning for her Master Report, her arrogant male professor thought it was ridiculous and would not approve her idea. He is one of those human beings who simply cannot see the value of animals to humans. There are many who agree with his thinking. Luckily for my daughter, a woman professor mentored and advised her until the idea was in a form the principle professor grudgingly approved. The final product is a matrix any community can use in planning for animal rescue should they experience a large-scale disaster.

What my daughter experienced in Joplin was a group of professional, unflappable, organized and dedicated people who have a successful system that directs and harnesses the large numbers of volunteers who willingly arrive to help. Animals are brought in, and each one is assessed, given triage, tested, immunized, treated for worms, fleas, scanned for identification. They are fed and watered, walked, and given human companionship. Any animal that was once a pet to a human being was brought in and cared for: dogs, cats, bunnies - even gold fish were found and brought in by the volunteers who were searching the wreckage.

One of the tasks assigned to my daughter was to accompany people through the kennels at the ASPCA site to identify their animals. Too bad the cranky old professor was not there to witness the true value of the human/animal bond. People who had literally lost every material thing - cut, bruised and limping - came every day looking for their pets. One seriously injured old couple, who probably would have still been in the hospital under ordinary circumstances, came every day. The man could not leave the car but his wife, her face deeply bruised, slowly limped through each day looking for their second dog. They had found one of their two dogs dead and hoped the other had survived and would be found by the volunteers.

A young war veteran on crutches and his mother had lost every material thing but showed up every day looking for a cat. When the soldier came home wounded, his mother had given him a kitten to help cheer him up and provide companionship as he healed. For the three days my daughter was there, the cat was not found. It is my express hope that Frosty the cat is found and reunited with his young soldier owner.

During the time my daughter was in Joplin, for unknown reasons, someone posted a Facebook page of photos of dead animals, attributing them to the ASPCA in Joplin. Why would anyone do such a thing?

Even in disasters, red tape and authorities exist and succeed in keeping people away from what is rightfully theirs. One man who may have been homeless before the tornado, came each day looking for his dog. To anyone who would listen he told how he and his dog had been sucked out of his truck and how he had watched in horror as his little dog ran or was blown down the street out of his sight. He had spent every moment since looking for the dog himself and coming to the ASPCA site daily, hoping someone else had found the dog. Once he spotted the dog amid the carnage but was prevented by law enforcement from entering the area, even after he explained he had recognized his dog from a distance. The last afternoon my daughter was there, the man came through with his dog, joyously sharing his good fortune with everyone.

There were emotional reunions of people and dogs that made all of the hard work worthwhile. Unfortunately, it is difficult to reunite people and their cats in such circumstances if the animals are not micro-chipped or wearing identification tags. Felines are far less demonstrative than dogs and surprisingly, people cannot be as certain in their identification of a cat. If there is any doubt, people are not allowed to take an animal. In the three days my daughter was there, no cats were reunited with owners, but people continued to return each day hoping to find their pets. If possible, owners should microchip their cats to avoid this problem, just in case some disaster should befall them.

I was proud of my daughter for her willingness to give up a three day weekend in service to her fellow man. I was greatly pleased to see the difficult effort at writing that Master Report produced genuine results for her. I was glad to hear first hand from someone I trust that money given to the ASPCA is actually put to the use for which it was intended. I will be a much more enthusiastic supporter of the ASPCA and the Humane Society from now on. The money aids the animals for certain, but it also serves humans as well. A double investment.