Gramma,
Five of the thirteen grandkids spent last weekend with us. After school was out, they arrived from three different directions, each about an hour away. The girls chose to share the queen size bed in the guest room, a room as big as a living room and outfitted with a fireplace and tv. That left the boys with the little room. The girls watched DVD's. Much to their chagrin, the boys wanted to hang out with them. Eventually, I sent them to watch tv in their room.
It took all morning to get them ready to go to a play. We stopped at Walgreens so I could pick up a prescription. They all chose a snack item and vitamin water for the road trip. Then they railroaded me into buying them each a small toy item. We were the first ones at the theatre. We looked at art displays while we waited. The kids couldn't believe the prices.
We saw "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever." Costumes reflected the sixties-seventies era. The father came out in the most hideous leisure suit I have ever seen. I almost said WTF out loud, which I related to him afterwards. The story revolved around two families from different sides of the track and a Christmas pageant run amok when the usual director was out of commission.
It was funny and poignant at times, interspersed with inappropriate behavior that delighted the kids. The mean girl was fond of smoking cigars in the church bathroom. She had no idea who Jesus was. The boys were terrified of her and her younger sister. The draw for this financially challenged family was free refreshments. In the end, the three wise guys brought peculiar gifts to the manger, including a canned ham from their welfare basket.
During intermission, the kids roped me into buying cookies, which I had intended to avoid, but it was a fundraising effort. I hadn't been to this bare bones theatre with open seating in a hodge-podge of chairs. We had seen all the plays at the usual venue, where the special effects and seating reflected a high degree of sophistication. In the car, I asked what they liked best. The naughty kids won out.
The last year of the Macy's Christmas display was showing in Minneapolis. In line, there was some annoying old bag in front of us. Her short dark hair was sprayed into a helmet. She held a winter scarf up to her nose and mouth the whole time, as if she were fending off chemical warfare. I began a barking cough, caused by dust, cobwebs and the smell of cigarette smoke on coats. Each time I coughed, she looked at me in horrified disgust. So I took pains to cough when I didn't need to.
The animated displays were worth the wait. Santa's gift shop beckoned at the end. Stuffed items were thirty percent off. I wanted to be young enough to own one of those soft treehouses with stuffed animals poking out all the knotholes. I asked the twins if they would like to share one. "We don't like to share," I could understand that. Everybody got their own.
The kids unboxed gingerbread houses before I could change out of my good clothes. I was tired and put some leftover hot dish in front of Dave. Veve and Ollie got into it over some triviality. Ollie stormed upstairs. I sent Dave after him. Eventually, he put down his book and rejoined us. Five houses were uniquely covered in frosting and candy. The table was littered with leftovers.
The kids ate pizza in the living room before heading to bed, which meant falling asleep with a movie. House cleanup the next morning took upwards of two hours. The twins were leaving around ten to go see Santa. Dave watched the Vikings play at noon, while I took two kids to Wisconsin. Dave took Ollie home while I watched the Packers play.
Memories were made. The twins said I was much more fun than their other gramma, and could they come for a week in the summer. I hoped so. More waffles with free reign of Reddi Whip and sprinkles. More hands for the dogs. More carrots for the donkeys.
Veve's mother called the following week to tell me that the kids were told to draw something that reminded them of Christmas. She drew a picture of a building with Macy's on the front of it.
Showing posts with label Making memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Making memories. Show all posts
Sunday, December 18, 2016
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
The Twins Were Here
Gramma,
It was a rare occasion that the twins were here for the weekend. The girls turned eight on Halloween. Their mother died of MS a year ago. The baby is eighteen months and was here briefly while the girls were being dropped off. They live with Dave's ex-wife and her husband in a small apartment. They do not have legal custody. I suspect that the kids are getting on their last nerve and they wanted a break. I fully expected to be hit up for money for something.
The father of the children is busy hunting and fishing. He bought a new boat with government money meant for the girls. He does not volunteer anything to support the kids, including his time. He is a weird little puke who should be in jail for tax evasion. When his dog died, he put the collar on Tanya's grave. The dog was not special to her. He got another dog. I would guess the dog gets little more attention from him than the children do. We did not ask the twins any questions about how things are and they did not offer any information.
Bubba and Veve were here as well, so there were four kids making noise. Although I said no about a hundred times, I let them be kids. No, you can't go on the roof of the house if I am not with you. No, you can not go on the roof with shoes, it's bad for the shingles. There is a deck that goes from a bedroom onto the roof, but the shingles are much more interesting. Yes, you can go on the roof of the small playhouse. There is a ladder and slide involved. No, you may not go on the roof of the treehouse. Get off that ladder. No, you may not go on the dock out to the island if I am not with you. Yes, there is a monster.
A trip to Wal-Mart was made to pick out a birthday toy of their choice. Nope, that's not an option, choose something else. The multitude of pre-landfill plastic disgusts me. Grampa came along. He NEVER goes to Wal-Mart. I do not go on a Saturday. I get pissy just thinking about it. The old woman and the old cashier in front of us were having a social event. Dave and I exchanged glances and stink eye. It was good for Grampa to see how fast and far $150.00 goes. He tried to hand me a twenty for a Dairy Queen cake. I rubbed my fingers together and smiled. He waited in the car.
The kids helped take down all the Halloween décor. They demonstrated the speed of a beer truck being unloaded at a biker event. I took the four-wheeler out back with the kids in the trailer. We got stuck and unstuck more than once. We raced around the yard with the dogs trying to keep up. Then we had more ice cream cake outside. And more popsicles. They dragged their feet cleaning up their own stuff to go home. I always start the process two hours in advance.
They think we live in a mansion. I have corrected that notion to clarify that it is a castle. My hope for their time here is to go home and say how much fun they had. I hope they tell their cousins all about it. They were here once, three years ago. Maybe they will pester to visit. More kids is not much more work. In the end, it's the same amount of clean-up.
In a month, the twins will be coming for another weekend. We will go see a Christmas play with three of my grandkids. It will be their first time seeing our house decorated with the village and upside down Christmas tree and the lit up Jesus people out by the road. Their mother is watching. I know because their were dragonflies following me when I was mending fences the day they came to visit. Dragonflies were their mother's thing. They are not in season here in late fall. This is all good for Grampa's spirits.
It was a rare occasion that the twins were here for the weekend. The girls turned eight on Halloween. Their mother died of MS a year ago. The baby is eighteen months and was here briefly while the girls were being dropped off. They live with Dave's ex-wife and her husband in a small apartment. They do not have legal custody. I suspect that the kids are getting on their last nerve and they wanted a break. I fully expected to be hit up for money for something.
The father of the children is busy hunting and fishing. He bought a new boat with government money meant for the girls. He does not volunteer anything to support the kids, including his time. He is a weird little puke who should be in jail for tax evasion. When his dog died, he put the collar on Tanya's grave. The dog was not special to her. He got another dog. I would guess the dog gets little more attention from him than the children do. We did not ask the twins any questions about how things are and they did not offer any information.
Bubba and Veve were here as well, so there were four kids making noise. Although I said no about a hundred times, I let them be kids. No, you can't go on the roof of the house if I am not with you. No, you can not go on the roof with shoes, it's bad for the shingles. There is a deck that goes from a bedroom onto the roof, but the shingles are much more interesting. Yes, you can go on the roof of the small playhouse. There is a ladder and slide involved. No, you may not go on the roof of the treehouse. Get off that ladder. No, you may not go on the dock out to the island if I am not with you. Yes, there is a monster.
A trip to Wal-Mart was made to pick out a birthday toy of their choice. Nope, that's not an option, choose something else. The multitude of pre-landfill plastic disgusts me. Grampa came along. He NEVER goes to Wal-Mart. I do not go on a Saturday. I get pissy just thinking about it. The old woman and the old cashier in front of us were having a social event. Dave and I exchanged glances and stink eye. It was good for Grampa to see how fast and far $150.00 goes. He tried to hand me a twenty for a Dairy Queen cake. I rubbed my fingers together and smiled. He waited in the car.
The kids helped take down all the Halloween décor. They demonstrated the speed of a beer truck being unloaded at a biker event. I took the four-wheeler out back with the kids in the trailer. We got stuck and unstuck more than once. We raced around the yard with the dogs trying to keep up. Then we had more ice cream cake outside. And more popsicles. They dragged their feet cleaning up their own stuff to go home. I always start the process two hours in advance.
They think we live in a mansion. I have corrected that notion to clarify that it is a castle. My hope for their time here is to go home and say how much fun they had. I hope they tell their cousins all about it. They were here once, three years ago. Maybe they will pester to visit. More kids is not much more work. In the end, it's the same amount of clean-up.
In a month, the twins will be coming for another weekend. We will go see a Christmas play with three of my grandkids. It will be their first time seeing our house decorated with the village and upside down Christmas tree and the lit up Jesus people out by the road. Their mother is watching. I know because their were dragonflies following me when I was mending fences the day they came to visit. Dragonflies were their mother's thing. They are not in season here in late fall. This is all good for Grampa's spirits.
Thursday, October 6, 2016
New Lives
Gramma,
The new granddaughter finally arrived. She's a noisy model. Her days and nights are mixed up. Mom gets no sleep. She complains often on Facebook at all hours of the night. Mom wanted to call her Jazzerine. She wanted to call the first one Aquila. Though I do not object, these are not white girl names. The protesters won. She is called Lundon Violet. She is breast fed, so I will not be relieving mom for awhile. Baby formula costs more than alcohol.
Three of the grandkids spent the weekend here. So mom got a break from Bubba acting out because he is no longer the baby. He just started kindergarten. He is always fun to have around. He likes to be very very busy. The other two kids are older and do not want his company. I need to have this set of three at the same time, as otherwise they would not be able to see each other at all. Ollie's dad is not welcome anywhere but the bar these days.
We decorated for Halloween, This is a big tradition. There are menacing, bloodthirsty weapon wielding clowns, complete with dead bloody doll babies and stuffed rabbits. Blood spattered toddler sized zombies colonize outside the iron gates. Anybody trying to invade will be shanked by rose thorns. I do this for the kids who ride the bus. Today, I will zip tie upside down skeletons to very long poles. They will be reminiscent of Cirque de Soleil. These will flank the gates.
Lighted spider webs stretch across the gates. There is a Bates Motel sign. The "vacancy" light flickers. There are caskets in the yard. Skeletons sit on a collection of colored toilets talking on phones, drinking beer, holding their skeleton dogs on leashes. There are witches, signs, pumpkins, tombstones and spiders. The annual Witches Ball is always the last Saturday of the month.
Inside the house, the kids form a chain gang on the stairs to bring up boxes of decorations. Veve helps set up the villages while the other two fight over the I-Pad, making Grampa testy. Purple and green cobwebs are stretched on the chandelier and over pictures. It looks like Halloween threw up all over the house. I am overwhelmed by the mess.
Kids are noisy things. And demanding. Also, they always want something. I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. Can I have a donut. Can I have fudge for breakfast. GRAMMA, tell them it's my turn. Bubba spilled his milk. You made me. Ollie won't put away the scooter. He used it last. "Did you fart Bubba." "No, my ass blew you a kiss." Wonder where he got that. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? I was just holding him back by the throat. Can I pick some flowers to bring to mom. There is enough racket to give the devil a headache.
And so it is, with great amusement, that girlfriend's partner of thirty-some years is leaving her for a woman with six frequent grandkids. Freeloader has no concept of cute, adorable tiny ninjas of death who are the right height to punch you in the balls. He has no experience with grandchildren, or children period. He does not like them. He does not like noise, or to be interrupted when he is watching re-runs of Jerry Springer. Kids monopolize the tv. It is best to let this happen, as the alternative is more noise.
The new living space is tight. It is likely section 8. There is no garage. Except for his storage unit, Freeloader will have no manspace to call his own. The kids will be in all his shit. No escape. The new girlfriend gets around in a golf cart. Freeloader will be picking up and dropping off kids. He has always been tight with money. He has plenty, he just doesn't want to share it. He contributed $400 a month to live with my friend. This included his own office, bedroom and pole shed. And he was ornery. Had I known, this would not have been happening. She lives paycheck to paycheck.
AND, there is a new grandbaby, freshly hatched. We wish we could see the shit show up close and personal. Freeloader reignited a decades old relationship on Facebook with a woman who had wronged him every which way to Sunday. He is over seventy. He has visions of reclaiming his studly self. She smokes. He hates smoke. Nothing like kissing an ashtray. He snores like a Harley. She talks incessantly. She is on disability. He will be the meal ticket for many.
AND, he is headed for South Carolina with his Indian motorcycle in the back of his pick up truck. He paid cash for these things. The bike is too heavy for him to manage since his back surgery. There is a record-breaking hurricane heading up the coast. His girlfriend has been biting him in the ass for days to get out there and drive her to safety. It is a two day drive and the truck is acting up. The bike will be pelted with hail. A tarp will not help, as it will beat on the bike and rub the paint raw. We think this is funny, because we are shallow that way.
He didn't even say goodbye to his cat. Weed and paraphernalia was left behind. After a lifetime of toking, he is quitting. I am amazed that guys never quit thinking with their dicks. The honeymoon will be short. We figure he will beg to come back in the spring. "You can come back to Minnesota, but not here," she will say. We will laugh and drink and smoke in the hot tub on the deck. Maybe we will take a bike trip to South Carolina to see the devastation. Stay tuned....
The new granddaughter finally arrived. She's a noisy model. Her days and nights are mixed up. Mom gets no sleep. She complains often on Facebook at all hours of the night. Mom wanted to call her Jazzerine. She wanted to call the first one Aquila. Though I do not object, these are not white girl names. The protesters won. She is called Lundon Violet. She is breast fed, so I will not be relieving mom for awhile. Baby formula costs more than alcohol.
Three of the grandkids spent the weekend here. So mom got a break from Bubba acting out because he is no longer the baby. He just started kindergarten. He is always fun to have around. He likes to be very very busy. The other two kids are older and do not want his company. I need to have this set of three at the same time, as otherwise they would not be able to see each other at all. Ollie's dad is not welcome anywhere but the bar these days.
We decorated for Halloween, This is a big tradition. There are menacing, bloodthirsty weapon wielding clowns, complete with dead bloody doll babies and stuffed rabbits. Blood spattered toddler sized zombies colonize outside the iron gates. Anybody trying to invade will be shanked by rose thorns. I do this for the kids who ride the bus. Today, I will zip tie upside down skeletons to very long poles. They will be reminiscent of Cirque de Soleil. These will flank the gates.
Lighted spider webs stretch across the gates. There is a Bates Motel sign. The "vacancy" light flickers. There are caskets in the yard. Skeletons sit on a collection of colored toilets talking on phones, drinking beer, holding their skeleton dogs on leashes. There are witches, signs, pumpkins, tombstones and spiders. The annual Witches Ball is always the last Saturday of the month.
Inside the house, the kids form a chain gang on the stairs to bring up boxes of decorations. Veve helps set up the villages while the other two fight over the I-Pad, making Grampa testy. Purple and green cobwebs are stretched on the chandelier and over pictures. It looks like Halloween threw up all over the house. I am overwhelmed by the mess.
Kids are noisy things. And demanding. Also, they always want something. I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. Can I have a donut. Can I have fudge for breakfast. GRAMMA, tell them it's my turn. Bubba spilled his milk. You made me. Ollie won't put away the scooter. He used it last. "Did you fart Bubba." "No, my ass blew you a kiss." Wonder where he got that. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? I was just holding him back by the throat. Can I pick some flowers to bring to mom. There is enough racket to give the devil a headache.
And so it is, with great amusement, that girlfriend's partner of thirty-some years is leaving her for a woman with six frequent grandkids. Freeloader has no concept of cute, adorable tiny ninjas of death who are the right height to punch you in the balls. He has no experience with grandchildren, or children period. He does not like them. He does not like noise, or to be interrupted when he is watching re-runs of Jerry Springer. Kids monopolize the tv. It is best to let this happen, as the alternative is more noise.
The new living space is tight. It is likely section 8. There is no garage. Except for his storage unit, Freeloader will have no manspace to call his own. The kids will be in all his shit. No escape. The new girlfriend gets around in a golf cart. Freeloader will be picking up and dropping off kids. He has always been tight with money. He has plenty, he just doesn't want to share it. He contributed $400 a month to live with my friend. This included his own office, bedroom and pole shed. And he was ornery. Had I known, this would not have been happening. She lives paycheck to paycheck.
AND, there is a new grandbaby, freshly hatched. We wish we could see the shit show up close and personal. Freeloader reignited a decades old relationship on Facebook with a woman who had wronged him every which way to Sunday. He is over seventy. He has visions of reclaiming his studly self. She smokes. He hates smoke. Nothing like kissing an ashtray. He snores like a Harley. She talks incessantly. She is on disability. He will be the meal ticket for many.
AND, he is headed for South Carolina with his Indian motorcycle in the back of his pick up truck. He paid cash for these things. The bike is too heavy for him to manage since his back surgery. There is a record-breaking hurricane heading up the coast. His girlfriend has been biting him in the ass for days to get out there and drive her to safety. It is a two day drive and the truck is acting up. The bike will be pelted with hail. A tarp will not help, as it will beat on the bike and rub the paint raw. We think this is funny, because we are shallow that way.
He didn't even say goodbye to his cat. Weed and paraphernalia was left behind. After a lifetime of toking, he is quitting. I am amazed that guys never quit thinking with their dicks. The honeymoon will be short. We figure he will beg to come back in the spring. "You can come back to Minnesota, but not here," she will say. We will laugh and drink and smoke in the hot tub on the deck. Maybe we will take a bike trip to South Carolina to see the devastation. Stay tuned....
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Long Lost Nieces
Gramma,
My long lost nieces came for a visit. They are in college now. Being low income, with excellent grades, they qualify for full scholarships. Their gas guzzling, rust bucket has no AC. The drive was almost an hour in triple digit heat. Their mother is a hateful, mean-spirited person who hides behind her religion. I don't feel special though, as she is also like that to my brother. In public, such as at my dad's funeral, she pretends there is nothing amiss.
Before their mother cut off my contact with them, I always brought bags of clothing and fun food, bread and donuts. They would come running to the car, excited to see what I had for them. They were pre-teen. There would be a fashion show with the new clothes. "What would we do without you," they said. They bragged about me to their school friends, who wished they had a fun aunt too.
One day, I showed up with presents for the girls. I was not invited inside. The parents stood outside, blocking the door. So, I left the gifts with the girls. My step-mother tried to find out why I was no longer welcome. My adopted sister told her to leave it alone. At the time, she was not speaking to my brother. She had many grievances against him. A lot of it seemed like sibling rivalry and jealousy. I did not grow up with these people. There was the expectation that I should not have anything to do with my brother.
At my father's funeral, she was friendly to both of us, so I thought she was no longer interested in being estranged. I was wrong. Over the years, I sent my nieces money for birthdays and holidays. Sometimes, I would get a letter back. My step-mother kept me apprised of their activities.
Then, they found me on Facebook. I was surprised their mother allowed this contact. Ditto, them showing up in the flesh. "Mom says hello," they said. I did not respond to that.
I declined the invitation to a graduation party. It would have been awkward. I prefer to go where my presence is celebrated, not tolerated. I don't like that game where you pretend everything is fine.
We had an awesome four hour visit. There was home made hummingbird cake and artichoke pizza. I sent them off with gas money. They promised to come again soon, but I know they are busy with work and school. Their vehicle is untrustworthy. I wish I could give them more than moral support. They said they did not know how poor they were until they got to college. Only recently were doors installed in their bedrooms. There are no doorknobs. Education is their way out.
My long lost nieces came for a visit. They are in college now. Being low income, with excellent grades, they qualify for full scholarships. Their gas guzzling, rust bucket has no AC. The drive was almost an hour in triple digit heat. Their mother is a hateful, mean-spirited person who hides behind her religion. I don't feel special though, as she is also like that to my brother. In public, such as at my dad's funeral, she pretends there is nothing amiss.
Before their mother cut off my contact with them, I always brought bags of clothing and fun food, bread and donuts. They would come running to the car, excited to see what I had for them. They were pre-teen. There would be a fashion show with the new clothes. "What would we do without you," they said. They bragged about me to their school friends, who wished they had a fun aunt too.
One day, I showed up with presents for the girls. I was not invited inside. The parents stood outside, blocking the door. So, I left the gifts with the girls. My step-mother tried to find out why I was no longer welcome. My adopted sister told her to leave it alone. At the time, she was not speaking to my brother. She had many grievances against him. A lot of it seemed like sibling rivalry and jealousy. I did not grow up with these people. There was the expectation that I should not have anything to do with my brother.
At my father's funeral, she was friendly to both of us, so I thought she was no longer interested in being estranged. I was wrong. Over the years, I sent my nieces money for birthdays and holidays. Sometimes, I would get a letter back. My step-mother kept me apprised of their activities.
Then, they found me on Facebook. I was surprised their mother allowed this contact. Ditto, them showing up in the flesh. "Mom says hello," they said. I did not respond to that.
I declined the invitation to a graduation party. It would have been awkward. I prefer to go where my presence is celebrated, not tolerated. I don't like that game where you pretend everything is fine.
We had an awesome four hour visit. There was home made hummingbird cake and artichoke pizza. I sent them off with gas money. They promised to come again soon, but I know they are busy with work and school. Their vehicle is untrustworthy. I wish I could give them more than moral support. They said they did not know how poor they were until they got to college. Only recently were doors installed in their bedrooms. There are no doorknobs. Education is their way out.
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Today's Snapshot
Gramma,
After I mowed the yard yesterday, I was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. My mower is a tractor. Mowing is a pretty passive activity that I enjoy, especially when I am low on energy. I get to admire all the flower beds, yard décor and animals. It is an especially robust year. Everything is lush and bigger than life. This is the third time in the last week that the only option is to lay down. I'm even too tired to watch TV. The earliest I can see my regular doctor is three weeks away.
My monthly mental health appointment was today. My therapist has finally taken the plunge and given two week's notice. Her supervisor has repeatedly claimed programs she has developed as her own work. There is also that backstabbing and lack of appreciation thing. I hear the same complaints from many of my working friends. We are both working on the big picture.
We talked briefly about my daughter-in-law not returning my calls, which means the kids have not spent any time this summer making memories with me. She is angry about something, but won't tell me what. She is pregnant and crabbier than usual. It is a sad thing to deprive us of time together because she has a butt hurt. Meanwhile, I will send the kids postcards. Life is getting shorter by the minute. Get over yourself.
If the weather holds, Dave and I are going to a biker event when he gets home. It's been dreary and sprinkling. There is nothing planned for dinner and there will be food. I ate a dozen monster cookies today. I got them at a garage sale. Find of the day was a lot of gypsy looking bedroom stuff--pillows, curtains. fabrics. I am thinking for my granddaughter's bedroom she will have in the basement when her baby sister gets her old room. Maybe it will wait until teen years. I have storage space in my hoarding shed.
After I mowed the yard yesterday, I was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. My mower is a tractor. Mowing is a pretty passive activity that I enjoy, especially when I am low on energy. I get to admire all the flower beds, yard décor and animals. It is an especially robust year. Everything is lush and bigger than life. This is the third time in the last week that the only option is to lay down. I'm even too tired to watch TV. The earliest I can see my regular doctor is three weeks away.
My monthly mental health appointment was today. My therapist has finally taken the plunge and given two week's notice. Her supervisor has repeatedly claimed programs she has developed as her own work. There is also that backstabbing and lack of appreciation thing. I hear the same complaints from many of my working friends. We are both working on the big picture.
We talked briefly about my daughter-in-law not returning my calls, which means the kids have not spent any time this summer making memories with me. She is angry about something, but won't tell me what. She is pregnant and crabbier than usual. It is a sad thing to deprive us of time together because she has a butt hurt. Meanwhile, I will send the kids postcards. Life is getting shorter by the minute. Get over yourself.
If the weather holds, Dave and I are going to a biker event when he gets home. It's been dreary and sprinkling. There is nothing planned for dinner and there will be food. I ate a dozen monster cookies today. I got them at a garage sale. Find of the day was a lot of gypsy looking bedroom stuff--pillows, curtains. fabrics. I am thinking for my granddaughter's bedroom she will have in the basement when her baby sister gets her old room. Maybe it will wait until teen years. I have storage space in my hoarding shed.
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
PTSD
Gramma,
Hail predicted. Parked the car where there are no trees, so it would get the max damage. That pretty much insures we won't get any weather. Can't believe anything these hacks say. First round of storms was supposed to be around 3:00 p.m. It was sunny and hot. We need rain. My grass is shredded wheat.
The yard is an explosion of color, flowers blooming everywhere. I deadhead every morning. All weekend, there was this young finch outside one of my picture windows, tapping on the glass. Elvis, my canary, is in his cage watching this. The windows are open and he is singing away.
Dave and I had a staycation over the Fourth. My three kids came over Friday late afternoon, about three hours late. They spent the night. We grilled and drank a lot of beer. The kids had a fire in the pit. I tripped on a step and was impaled by a gargoyle wing. There is a bruise on my ribcage. I had been drinking since noon, so didn't feel it until the next morning.
Party at my son's the next night. He bought the house and land where he was raised. I planned to spend the night, but only had three beers, so went home. I had my daughter's dog while she and her boyfriend were off doing some things. Poor Huxley shook uncontrollably from the sound of gunshots. It brought me back to a dark summer day in 1990.
My six-year-old daughter and I were in the yard with a German shepherd given to me for protection after my border collie was found shot and left in a ditch. Bullets flew past us. The shepherd went down. I grabbed my daughter and ran towards the house. "Get Baby," she yelled. Baby was the lamb she got for her birthday. Baby was wearing a bonnet. I scooped her up with my other arm and got to safety.
When the gunshots stopped, I took the dog to the vet. Later, I called the Sheriff's Department. An officer showed up and blew me off. My husband's family had the police in their pocket. I went to the D.A.'s office to ask for help. He too ignored me. I didn't know then that they are all in the same bed.
I have these kinds of flashbacks all the time. I have PTSD from this and other things the legal system did to me.
Much later, I would see the falsified police report that was filed. I was quoted as calling my ex-to-be a son-of-a-bitch. That terminology had never been part of my vocabulary. My daughter wants to ask her father why he did this, but hasn't found the right time. Is there ever the right time to ask your father why he shot at you and your mother?
Hail predicted. Parked the car where there are no trees, so it would get the max damage. That pretty much insures we won't get any weather. Can't believe anything these hacks say. First round of storms was supposed to be around 3:00 p.m. It was sunny and hot. We need rain. My grass is shredded wheat.
The yard is an explosion of color, flowers blooming everywhere. I deadhead every morning. All weekend, there was this young finch outside one of my picture windows, tapping on the glass. Elvis, my canary, is in his cage watching this. The windows are open and he is singing away.
Dave and I had a staycation over the Fourth. My three kids came over Friday late afternoon, about three hours late. They spent the night. We grilled and drank a lot of beer. The kids had a fire in the pit. I tripped on a step and was impaled by a gargoyle wing. There is a bruise on my ribcage. I had been drinking since noon, so didn't feel it until the next morning.
Party at my son's the next night. He bought the house and land where he was raised. I planned to spend the night, but only had three beers, so went home. I had my daughter's dog while she and her boyfriend were off doing some things. Poor Huxley shook uncontrollably from the sound of gunshots. It brought me back to a dark summer day in 1990.
My six-year-old daughter and I were in the yard with a German shepherd given to me for protection after my border collie was found shot and left in a ditch. Bullets flew past us. The shepherd went down. I grabbed my daughter and ran towards the house. "Get Baby," she yelled. Baby was the lamb she got for her birthday. Baby was wearing a bonnet. I scooped her up with my other arm and got to safety.
When the gunshots stopped, I took the dog to the vet. Later, I called the Sheriff's Department. An officer showed up and blew me off. My husband's family had the police in their pocket. I went to the D.A.'s office to ask for help. He too ignored me. I didn't know then that they are all in the same bed.
I have these kinds of flashbacks all the time. I have PTSD from this and other things the legal system did to me.
Much later, I would see the falsified police report that was filed. I was quoted as calling my ex-to-be a son-of-a-bitch. That terminology had never been part of my vocabulary. My daughter wants to ask her father why he did this, but hasn't found the right time. Is there ever the right time to ask your father why he shot at you and your mother?
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
The Other Woman
Gramma,
My good friend, Tim, died from Lou Gehrig's. His wife cleaned the union hall one day a week and he couldn't be left alone. I spent many Thursday afternoons with him getting shit-faced and mocking the absurdities of life. His stories were so hilarious, I thought I would cough up a necessary organ from laughing so hard. I got to know all his friends this way.
Tim's family refers to me as "The Other Woman." Some twenty years ago, Tim showed up at my door to ask if he and a few of his friends could continue hunting on my property. After stalking deer or turkeys, I would go out to where they were they were debriefing. We stood around drinking and laughing.
After Tim got sick, his friends helped him into his hunting gear and took him out to the woods with them. They went to the cabin on weekends to go fishing. Eventually, the DNR gave him a license to hunt from his truck. He had a special compound bow that he used.
Tim had a couple of electric wheelchairs in his mostly empty two car garage. He challenged me to try one out, beating me at bumper chairs every time. Eventually, I had to light his cigarettes or other smokables, then open his beer and put a straw in it.
He would tell me how suicidal he was and how he was going to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. "And you are going to do this with arms that don't work?" Then he would laugh, suck on his beer, and go on to plot plan B. There was a lot of time spent somewhere between giving up and seeing how much more he could take.
Tim spent ten years battling this horrid disease. His tiny wife was his primary caregiver. She had to call the police for help when he fell out of bed or when trying to get to the bathroom. Tim would yell to hide the pot plants growing on the deck. The police would look the other way.
He was often bossy and mean to his wife, telling her what to do and how, as if she was stupid. He didn't want me to have a friendship with her. He wanted me all to himself. I told her to ignore his request to stain the underside of the deck. "Disappear into your bedroom for an afternoon and tell him you finished the job. It's not like he's in a position to check it out."
Near the end, he told me not to hug him. His joints were coming loose and it hurt too much. When he left, I was one of the first people called. The funeral home was told that I would be coming to spend some time alone with the body. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, his wife and I get together to celebrate him.
I say with great fondness, that Tim and I had a friendship not just based on a solid relationship with beer, sarcasm and irreverence for everything, but a rich love of the beauty of nature and the importance of friends. Laughter was an important part of his ability to cope. I look forward to seeing him again.
My good friend, Tim, died from Lou Gehrig's. His wife cleaned the union hall one day a week and he couldn't be left alone. I spent many Thursday afternoons with him getting shit-faced and mocking the absurdities of life. His stories were so hilarious, I thought I would cough up a necessary organ from laughing so hard. I got to know all his friends this way.
Tim's family refers to me as "The Other Woman." Some twenty years ago, Tim showed up at my door to ask if he and a few of his friends could continue hunting on my property. After stalking deer or turkeys, I would go out to where they were they were debriefing. We stood around drinking and laughing.
After Tim got sick, his friends helped him into his hunting gear and took him out to the woods with them. They went to the cabin on weekends to go fishing. Eventually, the DNR gave him a license to hunt from his truck. He had a special compound bow that he used.
Tim had a couple of electric wheelchairs in his mostly empty two car garage. He challenged me to try one out, beating me at bumper chairs every time. Eventually, I had to light his cigarettes or other smokables, then open his beer and put a straw in it.
He would tell me how suicidal he was and how he was going to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. "And you are going to do this with arms that don't work?" Then he would laugh, suck on his beer, and go on to plot plan B. There was a lot of time spent somewhere between giving up and seeing how much more he could take.
Tim spent ten years battling this horrid disease. His tiny wife was his primary caregiver. She had to call the police for help when he fell out of bed or when trying to get to the bathroom. Tim would yell to hide the pot plants growing on the deck. The police would look the other way.
He was often bossy and mean to his wife, telling her what to do and how, as if she was stupid. He didn't want me to have a friendship with her. He wanted me all to himself. I told her to ignore his request to stain the underside of the deck. "Disappear into your bedroom for an afternoon and tell him you finished the job. It's not like he's in a position to check it out."
Near the end, he told me not to hug him. His joints were coming loose and it hurt too much. When he left, I was one of the first people called. The funeral home was told that I would be coming to spend some time alone with the body. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, his wife and I get together to celebrate him.
I say with great fondness, that Tim and I had a friendship not just based on a solid relationship with beer, sarcasm and irreverence for everything, but a rich love of the beauty of nature and the importance of friends. Laughter was an important part of his ability to cope. I look forward to seeing him again.
Monday, May 16, 2016
Making Memories
Gramma
Had the grandkids for the weekend. Started Friday after school with some garage-saling on the way home and a stop at the Dairy Queen for ice cream. Fresh baked bread, which they love, was dinner. They don't get "good" food at grammas. Saturday morning, there were home-made cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Made a trip to town to get provisions for chocolate chip cookies for lunch.
While in town, we scanned the Goodwill and Helping Hand for "stuff." Fee came away with two pairs of new silver sandals, and an insulated water bottle. It's just like the one her best friend has. Bubba found a truck that does one trick. It's just like the one his best friend has. Neither wants anything to do with the stew I made for Dave. Pizza rolls for dinner. Gross.
The kids love bedtime. We read a story, and then another and another. They each have a heated lap warmer on their beds. They let me sleep in while they take turns playing on the I-Pad in bed or watch cartoons and turn on the fireplace to warm up the living room. As soon as I'm up, they want chocolate milk, donuts, and/or sugar based cereal. My offer of eggs is turned down.
Even though it's cold, they want to be outside making parade laps around the driveway with the scooter they got for Christmas. Periodically, they come in to refuel with sugar and warm up in front of the fireplace. While I am seriously cleaning and organizing my shed/she cave, they play with the toy inventory. Meanwhile, mom posts on Facebook that she is bored without the kids. Take a nap already.
Sunday is a short day. I give them their choice of which playhouse to clean. Up to the treehouse we climb with supplies. Bubba loses interest first and plays in the tube slide. Pretty soon I am finishing the job myself. But, it was about involving them in maintenance. One down, two to go. Next time. I send them home with the rest of the bread, sweet rolls, chocolate milk and more than half of the cookies, which I had a hard time resisting for breakfast this morning.
On the forty-minute trip to the halfway meeting place, which is a Dairy Queen, they watch a movie on the car DVD players. I drive a POS mini-van, but the inside is nice. I was a half hour off on the time, so we traipse through the local antique store. It has been a good weekend, no biting and no more than the usual arguing over who's turn it is. When I am old, will they still visit me? The reality is, not so much. I already tell them to bring me beer when I am in the nursing home. I miss them already.
Had the grandkids for the weekend. Started Friday after school with some garage-saling on the way home and a stop at the Dairy Queen for ice cream. Fresh baked bread, which they love, was dinner. They don't get "good" food at grammas. Saturday morning, there were home-made cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Made a trip to town to get provisions for chocolate chip cookies for lunch.
While in town, we scanned the Goodwill and Helping Hand for "stuff." Fee came away with two pairs of new silver sandals, and an insulated water bottle. It's just like the one her best friend has. Bubba found a truck that does one trick. It's just like the one his best friend has. Neither wants anything to do with the stew I made for Dave. Pizza rolls for dinner. Gross.
The kids love bedtime. We read a story, and then another and another. They each have a heated lap warmer on their beds. They let me sleep in while they take turns playing on the I-Pad in bed or watch cartoons and turn on the fireplace to warm up the living room. As soon as I'm up, they want chocolate milk, donuts, and/or sugar based cereal. My offer of eggs is turned down.
Even though it's cold, they want to be outside making parade laps around the driveway with the scooter they got for Christmas. Periodically, they come in to refuel with sugar and warm up in front of the fireplace. While I am seriously cleaning and organizing my shed/she cave, they play with the toy inventory. Meanwhile, mom posts on Facebook that she is bored without the kids. Take a nap already.
Sunday is a short day. I give them their choice of which playhouse to clean. Up to the treehouse we climb with supplies. Bubba loses interest first and plays in the tube slide. Pretty soon I am finishing the job myself. But, it was about involving them in maintenance. One down, two to go. Next time. I send them home with the rest of the bread, sweet rolls, chocolate milk and more than half of the cookies, which I had a hard time resisting for breakfast this morning.
On the forty-minute trip to the halfway meeting place, which is a Dairy Queen, they watch a movie on the car DVD players. I drive a POS mini-van, but the inside is nice. I was a half hour off on the time, so we traipse through the local antique store. It has been a good weekend, no biting and no more than the usual arguing over who's turn it is. When I am old, will they still visit me? The reality is, not so much. I already tell them to bring me beer when I am in the nursing home. I miss them already.
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