tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90874745484040991122024-03-14T15:36:06.873-04:00Song of the Rain Crow"The whippoorwill is silent; the rain crow foretold truth. Rain taps a lullaby on an old metal roof, bringing easy dreams. The scent of earth ready to receive seeds warms the soul. To sleep and dream of new beginnings! When the sun rises, it will be time to move on. There is no going back." ~ RLMT (c) 2021RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-31486702459526801612023-12-30T20:48:00.000-05:002023-12-30T20:48:46.510-05:00Reflections on being contrary. I'm sixty years old. I'm not rich or famous or even what most consider to be educated. What I am is, simply said, a nobody. I dabble in a lot of things, but have mastered none. In the greater view of the world, I'm nothing. There's not a thing in the world to mark my existence having been a reality after I'm gone. <div><br></div><div>Yes, I have Ehlers-Danlos. Nobody cares. Now, not even me. I see people around me every day who also have it—and who aren't diagnosed. Just like I wasn't, for over fifty-eight years. For all of us, the ACA and social services, et al, are largely useless. Particularly in Kentucky. </div><div><br></div><div>I've pretty much given up on finding adequate health care. I'm too exhausted and broke to make it to all the appointments, anyway. Social Security is, to put it mildly, a joke. </div><div><br></div><div>And so I took up a neglected manuscript and began to edit it. I have nothing else to do to keep myself from going bonkers from boredom when I can't get up and move around. I doubt it will ever make it to publishing.</div><div><br></div><div>To be honest, I don't know why I've bothered hanging on this long. If it offends anyone or not, my tangle of creativity is no more or less than hobby. Every dime I get from it sets life backwards instead forward, in terms of "disability aid." </div><div><br></div><div>And life goes on. Politics and social values circle the drain. It doesn't matter. </div><div><br></div><div>But I'm still going to finish this novel. And maybe another or three. For myself.</div><div><br></div><div>The stories I write tend to be about PTSD, an indirect form of horror. Which explains a lot of things, I guess. </div><div><br></div><div>Hang onto life. It's sometimes all we have. Live it. Respect it. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div></div>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-18123380458244040772023-07-16T14:39:00.001-04:002023-07-16T16:10:30.371-04:00Updates? What updates? Nothing changes.<p dir="ltr"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>After I was discovered quietly running general maintenance and check on a mostly-defunct (and unhappy-making, thanks to those practitioners of cognitive dissonance) F/B page, a few old friends asked me to "stay and give [everyone] an update. There really isn't any, though. I'm still here and stuck right where I was before. (Read the next blog post for details, please.)<p></p>
<p dir="ltr">To be specific, no, I am <i>not</i> writing again. I am so sick of badly edited (both traditionally and indie published–not casting shade on either side) books, I could chew tenpenny nails. I can't afford to properly [re-]edit my older books, nor do I foresee being able to do future books. Personally, I'm not an editor; I'm just as blind to my own errors as most people. It's a spot I don't need to go dance in. Personal choice.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The fact is, I need a survival-level job. I have multiple full body health issues, not directly lethal, but highly limiting. I don't mind working, but I'd have to do it at my own pace. Not negotiable. I wish it was. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Nor do I have socially acceptable education; nine hours of pre-veterinary studies done mostly by mail augmented by self-provided doesn't fly. Basically, it's a case of "no registration papers exist for this 'gelding' for sale". </p>
<p dir="ltr">I'll be 60 years old next month, and no, I will <i>not</i> be taking out student loans to go back to school. Sure, my family is graced with longevity, but in my case, it's a bad gamble. Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome is progressive: my body, plagued with poor genetic collagen management, is aging faster than "normal". </p>
<p dir="ltr">No, there's no cure. Treatment at best is palliative: braces; preventatives; things like heat/cold, Tiger Balm™️, and so on. The [full body–every tissue is affected] pain, according to the research message board I contribute information on, meets or possibly exceeds that of cancer (I don't want to know for sure, thanks). <i>This</i><i> is my genetic 'normal'.</i> I have to live with it, if I live at all–which I am and do, leaving little energy for petty arguments. I have 29 individual body bracings, to date, not all of which I must wear at any one time, and [expensive] compression garments are a huge help.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It took me 58 years to get a diagnosis <i>out of state and out of pocket</i>. Medicaid doesn't pay out of state (or for expensive genetic testing); since my primary care says Cleveland and Toledo, Ohio, are the nearest places for adult genetic medicine "care", that neatly lets me and every other person with similar problems out of options. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Insurance companies are every bit as ignorant as Kentucky's medical community in general. I've tried to get in to see the state's sole neuro-opthalmologist** <i>for</i> <i>two years</i>; they're taking appointments by triage only, with a huge waiting list. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I stay out of emergency rooms if at all possible: NSAIDs, steroids, quinoline medications are all generally forbidden, as they mess with collagen. Narcotics? There's not enough anti-nausea medication in the world to stop me from projectile vomiting. Bad idea.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I missed a great writer's workshop because of complications. Not all of us are bendy (no, it's not growing pains and I'm not "double jointed"). There are 13 decidedly overlapping types. My mother was the kyphoscoliosis variety, or kEDS; cause of death might be directly attributed to a lifetime of misdiagnosis. My sister had heart problems listed as cause of death–on the list of comorbidities–and "Fibromyalgia Syndrome"*. And so it goes. I simply dug deeper into my symptoms and family history than the average person.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The geneticist I saw said "Fibromyalgia Syndrome" * <i>is</i> Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome–with Dysautonomia and Mast Cell Activation making up a "trifecta" (there's a long list of rather nasty comorbidities). I now have a sacroiliac joint brace; I had to ask for it from a sceptical orthopedic doctor (he was thoroughly embarrassed and did apologize after I gave him a gentle but unadorned talking-to). It helps. I didn't have it then. A long road trip wasn't possible.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Many have pointed out that I could resume writing. Yes, I could. Sure, I have a come-and-go blurry left eye**, but I'm doing what I can to work around it on a nearly invisible budget (using an [obsolete] cell phone, mostly). Sure, I could... and I'd still have no advertising budget. Disability income for a married woman (forget the Americans with Disabilities Act and Equal Opportunity laws–they don't legally apply) is extremely minimal, especially if you lost your Social Security points due to long term misdiagnosis. Medical and social services PTSD is, I assure you, quite real.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I have an extremely limited diet now. It's expensive. A half-size loaf of Schär bread is around $6. No wheat, barley, rye, or even oats. Limited legumes. Almost entirely fresh food, which is actually a good thing if costly. Dairy had to go, too. Additives like xanthan gum, some food dyes... nope. I had to add salt to my diet with steady fluids, a direct opposite to standard and long term <i>incorrect </i>medical advice: POTS (a form of dysautonomia) isn't forgiving, and I must function at least minimally. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I lost a <i>lot </i>of weight gathered mostly due to undiagnosed food sensitivities and intolerances that do not show up on allergy tests. Elimination dieting works! The paraspinal muscle spasms and other neuropathy symptoms were apparently gluten intolerant neuropathy; I no longer get them [unless I encounter cross-contamination]. (Sharing a meal at someone's home or just any restaurant is problematic at best.) I don't complain, except when I pay for food... </p>
<p dir="ltr">Whoever promoted the 8.7% Social Security raise was worse at math than I am. Prices are up, and pandemic food aid was shut down. I can no longer access highly helpful medical massage, after Medicaid dropped it. It's costly to be poor.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Thank goodness for a merciful, fast, and understanding chiropractor (thank you, Dr. Allen!), who puts my routinely subluxated joints back for me [it's partial dislocation]. ERs aren't able to help, though I've learned how to manage some of it on my own, mostly wrist and finger joints. Popping larger joints back (try it on a subluxated floating rib! not for sissies) is awkward sometimes.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I applied to the Kentucky Department of Vocational Rehabilitation for job assistance, and after an obscenely long wait, was told what I already knew: "You have multiple and complex disabilities." No help there. </p>
<p dir="ltr">The OVR folks tried to set me up as a work from home customer service employee! I wouldn't last long; one day of brain fog plus severe pain, and I'd alienate customers quite handily. Also, no flexibility of schedule exists when there's a regular paycheck.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Not to mention "AW" phone service that's a dead loss after the LTE/5G "upgrades"–I'm trying to change companies. No internet access beyond cell data is not good. Our area, along with being an unsupervised playground for petty theft, is not politically profitable. </p>
<p dir="ltr">[NOTE: We can't really afford to live elsewhere. Also, no apartments or housing projects need apply; I can't handle that much human interaction.]</p>
<p dir="ltr">I've gotten dirty letters from various social services offices (gotta eat, kids), over 1¢ USD monthly dividends paid out on a prior bank account (that's a whole 12¢ a year!), been yelled at, and told I was a liar over $6 book royalty payouts.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm not even kidding. Nope. I'm too tired to wool with jokes. </p>
<p dir="ltr">We had a home once, built to our needs. It went away because of greed, plain and simple. Everything we had, poof. Requests for Reasonable Accomodation? "We don't have to." And they didn't, thanks to an Obama-era bankruptcy law. We checked and rechecked. </p>
<p dir="ltr">My faith in a "good" humanity is thin and narrowed by experience. Watching the sheer b*llsh*it blithely pandered about on social media doesn't help. I miss a good many of you, our discussions and exchanges. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Unfortunately, greed is real, and the myths of "trickle down" prosperity or justice in a world set to "let's flush away everyone who doesn't fit the standard" are more influential. Money can buy a measure of happiness, but it only works right if it's a shared happiness.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I got nothin', y'all. It's beyond my ken. Putting one foot in front of the other is about as good as it gets. I choose my battles these days. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Miracles aren't tangible. Going <i>home</i> is better than any heaven preached up by the holier-than-thou tribe. I'd be happier working at the things I _can_ still do, at my own pace, to stay reasonably fed.</p>
<p dir="ltr">⭐ Please don't offer platitudes and clichés. I've tried many things, some I wasn't ever comfortable with, like GoFundMe. They were all long-term useless. Not interested now. Thoughts and prayers are also intangible. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Here's my one suggested working cliché: <i><b>"Be the change you want to see." </b></i></p>
<p dir="ltr">Stay safe, friends<i><b>. </b></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b>
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</b></i></div><p></p>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-92119119837877583082022-08-26T16:42:00.001-04:002022-08-26T16:42:10.530-04:00It's been a rough summer for many people.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9VlGhxVTzdadbcLMpOIawh6o_bNkqS5ZUQKdZo2h36oPsnKep5qTGbj9l_WfT16K6U7_M1LVdSla1KEsRSxdXHgfABjXByTclp3GdpJ8QP5SMlt7Qq9Id9GNybhwDgzBrAcWL5H52oBFr--uQyPcEi8KrmP5MfVnYP55uMFOISZL6m7dvID3bVD62g/s1080/Into%20every%20life,%20a%20little%20rain%20must%20fall....jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9VlGhxVTzdadbcLMpOIawh6o_bNkqS5ZUQKdZo2h36oPsnKep5qTGbj9l_WfT16K6U7_M1LVdSla1KEsRSxdXHgfABjXByTclp3GdpJ8QP5SMlt7Qq9Id9GNybhwDgzBrAcWL5H52oBFr--uQyPcEi8KrmP5MfVnYP55uMFOISZL6m7dvID3bVD62g/s320/Into%20every%20life,%20a%20little%20rain%20must%20fall....jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Hello there, dear reader. I apologize for abandoning my books and blogs, social media and email contact having shrunk to the bare minimum. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I cannot see well now, one eye blurry, and other parts of my face affected. So far, I haven't been able to get any medical care whatsoever in regards to that. Supposedly, a neurologist is sending me to a neuro-ophthalmologist. My regular ophthalmologist didn't think it necessary, apparently, though I asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I'm what others deem as a lost cause, juggling health problems for most of my life, trying to get a reasonable diagnosis. I got a basic diagnosis a year ago this September. It's not good, but it's not lethal (in my case), and for that, I'm grateful. I had to travel out of state to get it, since my state health care is largely useless. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Unfortunately, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome comes with a whole host of comorbidities. I landed a doozy in the genetic inheritance arena. One of the worst aspects is that the medical "miracles" pharmaceuticals can claim in others don't apply to me. I can't use them majority of drugs others take for granted, including analgesics. That means the full body potential for injury goes without much pain relief. Headache? I can't take acetamenophen or ibuprofen. Chronic tendonitis? Again, no OTC or prescription anti-inflammatories. Steroids and certain other collagen-affecting drugs are blacklisted. EDS patients <i>are</i> patient. Adaptability is a keyword; most of us have learned to adjust both outlook and expectations accordingly. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Every day, I see and hear ableist commentary. The sad part is, unless you have EDS or know someone who does, we all appear "normal" at a glance. Most doctors don't have a clue what to look for, either. It's hard getting medical support. Telling someone "It's just fibromyalgia!", "You're just lazy.", "Have you seen a therapist about your pain control expectations, or have you gone to a pain management clinic yet?" is the same as accusing someone of being a hypochondriac. It's verbal and emotional abuse, and completely wrong. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The pain is brutally real. Collagen is the glue that holds body tissues together. It's in every body tissue. As such, there are currently 13 <i>overlapping</i> types of EDS; every patient is different, often wildly so. I have a hypermobile type (hEDS), and as such, I have body bracings for about every braceable joint. None of my joints are unaffected. Nor is this the worst type: Vascular Ehlers-Danlos (vEDS) can be and often is, deadly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I've dealt with aspects of this illness for nearly 59 years. I was told my pain was "normal" and so walked on subluxated (partly dislocated) feet from the start. That's a long path of pain. When my left knee subluxated walking down my hallway at home, I lay down, jammed it into the spokes of our bed's footboard, and yanked hard on the headboard... and painfully popped it back in place. No one was there but me, no phone, no help. I had no insurance and no medical care. My knees don't look alike, and now they never will. That was about 35 years ago. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Nor will comments like "Eat more fish. You'll feel better" or "Lose some weight. It'll help your arthritis." or "Just push your plate back." fix anything. Sure, I'm overweight. One of my comorbidities is being the next best thing to a Celiac patient, with sensitivities to wheat, barley, and rye, and a complete intolerance to gluten. Food sensitivites cause edema and weight gain. I have multiple food sensitivities and intolerances, and must eat something. It's a catch-22.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">My old lifelong primary care told me, "You don't have edema. You're just fat." I lost 17 pounds the first weekend, when I went on a Celiac-safe diet. 35 pounds, total. I no longer believe the for-profit medical industry in terms of my own health. I do listen to serious healers among them. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Those "miracle" drugs have introduced me to new worlds and new words, among them a hard-earned pharmacophobia, presumably medical PTSD, along with dysautonomia, mast cell activation, and a lot more. The blowers of smoke get what they deserve verbally and when I don't return to fill their pockets, not because it's right, but because self-defense is legal. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I'd love to resume writing. As it is, I struggle to see my phone screen, a scant 3 inches in front of my nose. It will have taken several sessions for me to get this written. I don't own a printer, and we're struggling to get into better, more viable housing. Our dreams of off-grid life went down the drains with the inability to work or attend college. There are more problems than solutions. In short, supporting other writers has been a priority for a long time, my own ability to function pushing other efforts aside. I rarely do visual artwork or photography (can't see).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Please don't be that person who thinks "there's always a way", says so, and then shuts the door on opportunity for the disabled. That's what state and federal government have done from even before the Covid-19 era started. (Both wings!) It's difficult for fit people to live on poverty level income; if you have to buy almost everything (special/mandatory/expensive foods, certain clothing items, extra braces, alternative remedies, etc.) out of pocket, it's downright impossible. Doing it without doctors fully conversant in your condition is murderous. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I'd love to return to work as a farm worker... or pretty much anything else not requiring technological, environmental, or other adaption. I'm a client of the state Department of Vocational Rehabilitation, which fobbed me off on the Department for the Blind, then went dead silent. I need income, and would far prefer to work for it, as I did before. Instead, what I have is a donations link. At least it's not GoFundMe or Kickstarter, like so many disabled authors and artists must use. I am ashamed, nonetheless, to be using a state-run version. That shouldn't be necessary.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">If you can help, <a href="https://www.sumday.com/gift/stable/uWgMDo8iT0_etTvkjSsN6A">here's the link</a>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Thank you for caring. If you choose not to help me, then help someone else, if it's just the little old lady who lives across from you who can't get groceries. I know how she feels. Please. Just be a good person to someone out there. Pay it forward. It doesn't have to be for me, ever.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-18188700254081332032022-04-19T17:06:00.006-04:002023-04-09T13:12:17.297-04:00I've been out of contact for months. A little context is in order, I believe. (UPDATED 4/9/2023.)<p><br></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLY81psmnFyRUWfYjreH3cg-qC2xLbEBzSbfgxchaAou1-dfziqnM0L8-UKqJZipCzHgIQvkWERDNZV-nPjfiHTcNXhRNkPeVvcyt5URVVaNKqzqPR6_ntym8pDKI8LIo6lMoTuK48UxRxMs6x_5PLRheYdiCV_oredrltfxJ260G-utaiZ5R6AGnXKg/s1080/Whomever%20it%20was%20that%20said,%20If%20you%20hear%20hoofbeats,%20expect%20horses,%20not%20ZEBRAS!.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLY81psmnFyRUWfYjreH3cg-qC2xLbEBzSbfgxchaAou1-dfziqnM0L8-UKqJZipCzHgIQvkWERDNZV-nPjfiHTcNXhRNkPeVvcyt5URVVaNKqzqPR6_ntym8pDKI8LIo6lMoTuK48UxRxMs6x_5PLRheYdiCV_oredrltfxJ260G-utaiZ5R6AGnXKg/s320/Whomever%20it%20was%20that%20said,%20If%20you%20hear%20hoofbeats,%20expect%20horses,%20not%20ZEBRAS!.jpg" width="320"></a></div><br><p></p><p><br></p><p>Hello there, dear reader. I've missed you. Quite a lot. There are reasons, and not even one excuse.</p><p>I'm officially disabled. It's genetic, so this happened before I was born. It's progressive, which means for decades, I thought I was "normal" (whatever that is). I worked and played hard, living life as best I could. I had limits that kept me from doing many things I'd dreamed of doing, and as time passes, I'm able to do much less. </p><p>Sadly, I have to fight for a decent life. Like almost every other non-privileged disabled person in the [allegedly] United States, in fact. I am not special. I don't claim to be. For every time I've had to find a work-around for basic survival, others have had less opportunity. Nonetheless, I've lost my home (greed and law are a bad combination) and almost everything else as a direct result of my disability. </p><p>My husband is disabled, too. We struggle with a discompassionate system of national insurance (I assure you, it isn't "care", as profit is their sole motivation), Medicaid (thin to nothing "charity"), a backup of "glory hole" charities (the "Look at that! I did a nice thing. Thank me." types, in large part), native wit, and sheer, desperate, and often cockeyed adaptive strategies. It's never easy. Because we're married and have no children, we get less help, instead of more. That's the law.</p><p>Add to the illness, stress. Thieves targeting our neighborhood... the poor, the disabled, the elderly. They should be ashamed, but aren't. Ditto the community, really. We rarely see any law enforcement in the area. That's mostly for evictions, sometimes for drugs, almost always brief incursions. No real investigations. (One call to a state police detective got me the advice, "We're spread too thin. These type of people have no respect for anyone, even themselves. If you have big dogs, turn them loose. If you have weapons, be prepared to use them to stop intruders. I say 'stop', not 'threaten'... it doesn't work." When I only said, "Yes, sir.", the man was speechless before finally laughing out loud. "Yes, ma'am. I like you. If everyone took orders this well, we'd have no problems like this. Good luck!" The thieves came, encountered big dogs and barriers ready, and left. They hit our neighbors instead.)</p><p>Medically, we're going backward, thanks to the counterintuitive thinking of the able folks. From a wide array of specialists, in my case, to hoping to find a primary care physician who is willing to learn something the American Medical Association promotes as useless information ("If you hear hoofbeats, expect to see horses, not zebras."?). Why? Well, there's less profit in genetics than in pharmaceuticals, and I, among the many, cannot use those fancy designer versions of medicines and remedies in use for thousands of years. It's against the law. Why? Again, money. </p><p>Public outcry is a lovely thing. It can make or break lives, and it does so regularly. Truth in those outcries is hard to find most of the time. But ask a disabled person how they make it, and you'll get some version of my story. </p><p>I got so exhausted by certain "social media" that I shut it down. More stress? Make less. And so I did. I have. </p><p>Today I sit here with my nose virtually mashed against a computer screen, trying to see what I'm typing. I have an appointment with a neurologist that may offer answers as to why. Most of those possible answers are rooted in the genetic illness, #EhlersDanlosSyndrome. It's a faulty collagen issue, incurable, that affects the entire body in wildly varying ways. (I'm reasonably sure I watched my mother and sister die as the result of complications from being undiagnosed/misdiagnosed for the same thing.) I have multiple body-bracing in use; the assortment can change within moments, let alone over days or weeks. My sole pain relief at present is a good chiropractor and some skilled massage therapists (update 4/9/2023: medical massage is no longer accessible, though our governor is trying to legalize medical marijuana... where there is corporate profit... which doesn't do much for me). It's something. The pain is reputedly worse than that of cancer, so I'll take what I can get, sans "poison" pills (no commercial analgesics work for me). </p><p>At any rate, I have blurry vision, mostly in one eye, and a host of other complications. I'm using a cell phone for internet access, almost exclusively, due to economic stress. It's a conflict, hah.</p><p>I've put in my two cents for retraining as a voiceover/voice acting artist (update 4/9/2023: it was discovered that I "have multiple and complex barriers to employment"... I already knew that... case dropped). I used to write books and do visual art as a hobby. Surely there is some way I can do better. I'm trying. That's all there is. </p><p>So if you miss me, too, know I'm still here, still plugging onward, and hoping. Keep your own hopes alive. It's worth the struggle. </p><p>Thanks for listening. Have a great week. I look forward to getting back in the swing of things if/when the health issues resolve. I'll see you there! </p><p><br></p><p><a href="https://www.sumday.com/gift/stable/uWgMDo8iT0_etTvkjSsN6A">https://www.sumday.com/gift/stable/uWgMDo8iT0_etTvkjSsN6A</a></p><p><span style="color: #0000ee;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><u><br></u></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0000ee;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><u><br></u></span></span><a href="https://www.sumday.com/gift/stable/uWgMDo8iT0_etTvkjSsN6A"></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.sumday.com/gift/stable/uWgMDo8iT0_etTvkjSsN6A"><br></a></div><p></p>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-19361946303800103022021-07-09T17:11:00.004-04:002021-07-09T17:11:57.691-04:00Culture and observations: Meeting Becky. <p>Life has been difficult for us for most of the last decade. We're starting to see a glimmer of daylight, and yet old habits die hard. We take a little time for ourselves, but we have to remind ourselves to do it. Last week, we chose to reward ourselves by having a moderate meal in a decent buffet-type restaurant. It turned into something a little more interesting, along with the delicious food.</p><p>We found an unused table and prepared to sit down. Immediately, a tiny dark-haired woman whizzed up to the table, popped a card on it, and chirruped in a lovely accented voice, "Hi, my name is Becky, and I'll be your server tonight!" </p><p>Serve, she did. Our southern-style sweet tea was never permitted to run dry. Halfway empty glasses? A little motherly clucking noise preceded Becky placing a second, fresh glass for each of us. She was precise, swift, attentive, and without fail, I noted, she served to my left and removed items from my right. My husband, she generally avoided altogether, preferring not to meet his eyes or speak directly to him. My own smile and greeting, a casual thanks, these she latched onto with a delighted passion. From time to time, I was gifted with a gentle, motherly pat to the shoulder. </p><p>I don't know if she saw my braces, cane, and taped up hands as a comfort, my disabilities offering a suggestion of weakness, or if she had suffered some violence from a strange man or men in the past, but as gentle as my husband was and is with women, she could not bring herself to communicate directly with him even when taking our modest, heartfelt tip. </p><p>At last, I suggested, "I love the music in your voice. May I ask where it is from?" </p><p>At first, she looked at me guardedly, startled, then she said softly, "Korea." The hurt, homesickness, and sorrow in her entire body language barely balanced the delight and happiness that someone appreciated the sound of that native language. For the first time, I got a full-on smile from her. "Korea," she said again, sighing.</p><p>"You must miss it very much."</p><p>"Yes," she said. "And no." This time her smile was no more than a sad, poignant curl at the corners of her lips. Bleak memory drew the lines of her face harsher than the mask she habitually wore. It was a glimpse of the real person. </p><p>"It's very beautiful, your language." It was, touched with a sing-song lilt beneath the harsher Americanized English speech. I always wished I could learn a second language, but I've also been glad I haven't been forced into it by circumstance alone. </p><p>"I do not forget it." She stood straight in a body no longer young, but strong in spirit regardless. </p><p>I shook my head slightly. "I would never ask you to forget it. It makes you who you are, and brings depth to a world often tired beyond knowing." </p><p>She grinned. "Thank you." A quick pat on my shoulder, and she was off to take fresh drinks to another table. </p><p>I watched her working. The sheer efficiency was amazing. When she came back to our table, I asked her, "You have worked in very large, very nice restaurants before now, haven't you?" </p><p>She stared. "I have. How..." Shaking her head, she shrugged. </p><p>Waving my hands to illustrate, I showed her. "You serve from this side, remove from that side. It's something you do naturally, without thinking about it." </p><p>Shivering slightly, she blinked. "You watch me?"</p><p>I laughed a little. "I can't help it. I watch everyone!" I mimed writing. "I write stories sometimes. It's a thing I like to do. I like to listen to voices." Flipping a hand in her direction, I explained. "You teach me. I am learning about waitresses working as you work. I watch, and I learn. It's better than only learning from books." </p><p>"Ah!" Becky was almost bouncing. "I teach, you learn. You are smart." </p><p>"I'm not very smart, but I can see you're a hard worker and a good person, Becky. I want to thank you for helping me." </p><p>"You are welcome!" She beamed a smile at me, then whirled away to come back with two glasses of fresh tea. "Tonight is my first night here. I am excited!"</p><p>"So am I, Becky. Thank you for everything. We will hope to see you again sometime. Stay well." </p><p>On our way out the door, she slipped up behind me and gave me a hug, as petite as a child next to my comparatively heavy, braced-up shape. She looked up at me with a second genuine smile. </p><p>"Please stay safe, and come back here to visit with me sometime. I will think of you often."</p><p>I was still hearing the gentle ring and chime of that lilting voice hours later, preparing to sleep. What dreams may come, indeed. It's a rare old world, and all any of us wants is a better life. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-17717438101202691282021-06-17T20:54:00.001-04:002021-06-20T21:05:33.231-04:00Another very short-short, from a writer's prompt. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div>Another writer's prompt. 😳 (Image from unknown source. Accreditation welcome!)</div><div><br></div><div>...</div><div><br></div><div>Every day at the lighthouse fell into a pattern of illusory normalcy. They ate, walked on the rocky beaches, slept, each of them unwilling to admit what they had seen. </div><div><br></div><div>It was the Atlantic ocean, not Loch Ness. Such things could not happen, anyway. Sea monsters and mermaids did not exist. Imaginations had taken a leave from regular senses, that was all.</div><div><br></div><div>Salt breezes and sea birds went about their ordinary lives, whirling through patterns too complex to chart. Nightly bonfires ceased; the darkness had its realm, and the television screen was no part of it. </div><div><br></div><div>Let Gilligan and the crew of the S.S. Minnow soothe the psychic collective, it went without saying among them. And let no one speak of the reeking carnage caught in the shifting tides at the edge of the north cove. </div><div><br></div><div>Scratching idly around the bandages on his left arm, Sim cursed under his breath. Maybe the rest of them could forget, but he could never unsee her face. Nor could he deny the scars he would carry the rest of his life. </div><div><br></div><div>He pulled the carved bone sliver from his pocket, staring at the intricate design for the millionth time. Sea wrack, it was not. </div><div><br></div><div>Sera pulled it out of his arm that night, her eyes wide and dark, pressing it silently into his good hand. "I'd tell you to forget her, except you won't," she said. Her voice was low, sad. </div><div><br></div><div>When he awakened next, Sera was gone. She would survive on the mainland.</div><div><br></div><div>He could not go back. The sea held a part of him forever, blood, and bone. His heart, too. </div><div><br></div><div><i>In Davey Jones' locker lived a warrior maiden fair.</i> It was a thought too bitter for laughter, too sweet for tears. </div><div><br></div><div>Tonight, he would write the song. Perhaps he might live long enough to hear her sing it for his mortal ears just one time.</div><div><br></div><div>Clenching chilled fingers around the bit of blade, he ignored the tickle of dripping blood. An offering to the sea was well within what he would pay to spend an hour with her just once more.</div>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-38055754198515579382021-06-05T14:24:00.001-04:002021-06-20T21:05:50.355-04:00From a writing prompt... a very short-short Sea Tale.<div>I did a writing prompt yesterday, liking the results more than I'd thought I would<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>. I'll paste the results below, along with the originating image. (Artist unknown--I'd be happy to give credit!) Genre: fantasy/speculative.</div><div><br></div><div>______________</div><div><br></div><div> Surfacing, she sheathed the forked fishing blade, freeing both hands to wipe the goor's inky slime and sand off the strange object. The goor was a particularly nasty creature; it did not deserve the respect of a true sea leviathan, and could rot for all she cared. This glimmering, shimmering bit of sea wrack held her attention. </div><div> </div><div>Freed of dimming substances, it seemed to echo the glow of moonlight, a faint vibration, almost a pulse, sending her scales a-ripple. Despite the seasonal chill, the thing was decidedly warm to touch. </div><div><br></div><div>No wonder the goor was guarding it so fiercely. To her reckoning, what she held was an egg, a living bit of opalescent beauty, something rare and beyond her ken. </div><div><br></div><div>The Counsel of Twelve Elders must know of this, and soon. If it might be a legendary Sea Egg, as she thought it must, the End Time approached. Seers claimed the waters would boil, and monsters walk on land.</div><div><br></div><div>She shivered. Feeling humble and small, heart beating heavy, she knew the Tide of Tides had changed against the knowing of the People. The position of Harbinger was never one she had willingly sought, yet here it was, a burden she could never deny.</div><div><br></div><div>Wrapping the orb in a fold of loose garment, she again drew the carved bone weapon. Time was no friend to life. </div><div><br></div><div>...</div><div><br></div><div>©️ June 4, 2021, by RLMT.</div><div><br></div><div>______________________</div>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-30788640303886957782021-05-28T12:27:00.001-04:002021-05-28T12:27:43.330-04:00Seven Sisters springtime.<div>Yesterday, a steamy "summer" day, albeit scented with the heavy, seductive odor of honeysuckle. Today, the miasma of spring is again upon us, a cooling rain drawing its veil across these hills. </div><div><br></div><div>There are buds forming on the feral pink Seven Sisters roses sprawling through the untidy regrowth. They will soon bloom, a growing reminder of hands long gone to dust. Sweet, delicate, and enduring.</div><div><br></div><div>Someone set the door stones, someone shaped up the foundations. Someone planted the roses and flower starts stubbornly persisting so many decades later.</div><div><br></div><div>We build our towers. Aesthetic joys not withstanding. Each year, we live a little brighter, a little wider, looking for a worthy purpose and its gratification. </div><div><br></div><div>Each year, the towers crumble. Foundations sink into soil, rich moss growing jade and emerald over the evidence. Ferns rise, reveling in the infinitesimal, inevitable return of forest primeval. Honeysuckle vines tangle, binding blackberry canes, redbud trees, and juniper berries into artful arrangements.</div><div><br></div><div>And when the time is right, Seven Sisters rise up, ghostly in the shady edges where memory clashes with nature, wear their naked thorns with pride, and sprawl, pale faces rosy beneath an unconcerned moon. </div><div><br></div><div>...</div><div><br></div><div>Photo: Seven Sisters pink rose, growing wild on an old house site. ©️ May 28, 2021, by @_RLMT/R.L.M. Tipton<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>The scent of honeysuckle and wild roses, of the green and growing seeds summer will one day call its own, the flicker of songbird wings sailing late spring breezes. It's time to turn the rich earth and touch it, bringing it --in reverent hands--to make contact with things of beauty. It's time for kittens and puppies and children, time for scuffed knees and smiling faces with sunburned noses, time for long walks down shade-sheltered lanes or to play in the soft warm rains. For those things, there must always be time.RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-72165873360628226582021-04-28T19:24:00.001-04:002021-04-28T19:25:45.970-04:00April's [Independent] Showers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>Into every life a little rain must fall. In that microcosm of fluidity, it's difficult to see the naturally occurring rainbows. As a flood, a fisheye lens of distortion begs the question even more. <div><br></div><div>Where, then, is the creative mind in the moments after early dawn, when a molten sun lifts shrouds of mist once more to ungrateful skies? Shedding salty tears of grief and confusion, stroking grimly for a distant shore, a miasma of pseudo-reality bent on wringing every last droplet of hope into an overfull waste basket. </div><div><br></div><div>The scent of damp earth on a spring morning, the haunting touch of forest cobwebs, the taste of water from a familiar spring, the distinctive, haunting song of wild birds. The depth of grounding echoes through a sparkling, shattered soul, leaving silence in its wake.</div><div><br></div><div>Into that, a single raindrop makes its way, and the story is thus written. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>.</div><div><br></div><div>4-28-2021 ©️by @_RLMT.</div>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-7641718208840630852021-04-10T15:15:00.001-04:002021-04-10T15:15:53.954-04:00Eulogy. (Fiction fragment.)<p>Look there. Do you see the place you called home? There are things in it, the little comforts and comforting items laden with memories. The indescribably ugly afghan your aunt crocheted for you when you graduated high school with big plans to live happily ever after with your sweetheart. <br /><br />The coffee table is overflowing with pizza boxes, disposable food containers, empty cans and bottles. A few have emptied out on the floor, where a thread of ants is practicing thrift on your behalf. They're steadily carrying every morsel out, working their way through the crack under the door you created when you passed out last Hallowe'en and the devil's tail on your costume hung in the door sill. You never fixed it, though you cursed the rat that managed to squeeze inside through it to escape winter snow. <br /><br />It seems so minor now. There was that party, and someone who wasn't passed out stole your high school sweetheart. They left you facedown in a spill of mud on their way home, because you wanted to fight so much you dared sucker punch the senior quarterback. When you got up, you drank from the lawn hose, sprayed yourself off, and took the wooded route home, staggering through blackberry thickets and ditches reeking of leaky sewage, hoping to elude your parents long enough to get a shower. <br /><br />You were so proud of yourself for putting a half pound of sugar in the gas tanks of both your sweetie's date and the infamous nice guy quarterback at the next party. No one caught you, though you were the top suspect. You left no proof. <br /></p>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-20634947471955259812021-02-10T18:35:00.000-05:002021-02-10T18:35:28.072-05:00The show goes on, if slowly.<p>This is just a brief update. I'll pay for it later, no doubt. </p><p>I'm using two fingers on my right hand to type, my left thumb, index finger, and "pinky" out of commission. My left hand is impaired, too. I never expected this to happen, but the last year, well, it's been rough. There have been loses, but also a few gains. If I expected this to be a better year than 2020, it's as if 2021 gave me a wicked grin and said, "Hey, somebody hold my beer!" </p><p>It wasn't an accident. It will not "feel better soon"; it's for life. There's no cure, only palliative care. If treated correctly, it's not directly (or immediately?) life threatening. It's not cancer, either. It's probably genetic; I'll have answers to that question later this month, I hope. </p><p>What is it? It's something rated as rare, something doctors don't look for, just as they've been taught. "If you hear hoofbeats, expect horses, not zebras, " they say. They're wrong, in my estimation. I've had this collection of progressively problematic illness ("syndrome"?) since I was born. In over 57+ years, no one "educated" caught it, leaving me to cope on my own, often with so much insufficient information that it did damage. As in, "damned if you do, and damned if you don't" grade of neglect. It's called Ehrlers-Danlos Syndrome, a long string of comorbidities and complications coming with it. </p><p>No, it's not autoimmune. Bracing of loose joints is done to prevent chronic re-damage of vulnerable connective tissues. Injury, not merely inflammation. (Age adds arthritis, of course, and it's possible to have an AI disorder with EDS.) One keeps in mind, "If it hurts, don't do it." And yet, movement is life. Carefully.</p><p>To present, it's lost me everything I ever had or needed, long term. Home, security, income. I know I'm not alone in that, or in suffering what I thought was "normal" pain. Every single day of my life. </p><p>Adding insult to it, I can't use the drugs commonly handed out, including those for pain relief. I had to stop eating ordinary food and go to an expensive Celiac diet (a common comorbidity), and I wear multiple orthotic braces just to keep functioning, even at a low level. I'm exhausted all the time: chronic fatigue is quite real, I discovered. A trip to the emergency room could be dangerous for me, so I just don't go unless it's beyond my own scope of experience. Small injuries, pfft. Ignored. </p><p>I have about nine unfinished manuscripts. If I could unpack my art supplies, I'd have an endless list of projects I want to finish, as well. As it is, I'm just going to be happy to finish this one story. </p><p>After that, I don't know... I really don't. I can't guess where a collagen-error illness will take me next. Joints, bones, organs, circulatory or nervous systems? EDS patients must be patient. Our lives are both painful and unpredictable. </p><p>Finishing what I'm working on is a start. It's a rewrite of an unfinished novel I call <b>de Oro. </b>A mixed genre work of sorts, falling into the literary speculative or literary science fiction area. It's a romance; most stories are, after all. I'm very near the ending, bringing it to a new level of interest, I hope. I may have ruined it, but I'm sure my trusty beta-reader club (just trusted every-reader friends who make comments to help me improve it) will tell me what's wrong. </p><p>I'm glad I have friends. They keep me going when nothing else does. </p><p>If all goes well, next month, I may publish a new novel. No promises. But I have hope. That's something. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63bQH_QfjuQedVP5cSnCl6eJA7RsL18Pul5ZpmOOvDL6Vkkx0bkJCljmfbGl-0dkvQgChsmhllL81LI3DNlQ0S9KfdCmHnwMpQE3EKW5kMQ9oKv3olG0mwkRuOYL2Zr1JPPw5r-NG0Mib/s4608/IMG_20210129_164742887_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brace #1." border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj63bQH_QfjuQedVP5cSnCl6eJA7RsL18Pul5ZpmOOvDL6Vkkx0bkJCljmfbGl-0dkvQgChsmhllL81LI3DNlQ0S9KfdCmHnwMpQE3EKW5kMQ9oKv3olG0mwkRuOYL2Zr1JPPw5r-NG0Mib/w200-h150/IMG_20210129_164742887_HDR.jpg" title="Brace #1, right hand." width="200" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTFBKOROLts1EsiX9C7N4Vcgnxn9US9lNEQXVdgjs5-16a18h3zGps_x69k_FtARFkTb-Xy77aP4PT6IACbc8jSOt-VsfHty3FEH5-jsuE0lOtRB7JbqA6tn2pY-McV32jQy3EmJ1Zv8-/s4608/IMG_20210204_160822098_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brace #2." border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTFBKOROLts1EsiX9C7N4Vcgnxn9US9lNEQXVdgjs5-16a18h3zGps_x69k_FtARFkTb-Xy77aP4PT6IACbc8jSOt-VsfHty3FEH5-jsuE0lOtRB7JbqA6tn2pY-McV32jQy3EmJ1Zv8-/w150-h200/IMG_20210204_160822098_HDR.jpg" title="Brace #2, right "pinky" finger." width="150" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNpEqw31p-zzgzxDH_eLLZZZWyHWNlqwNtGD-to-KzpKI2JeOSBhrQOMxoOlBoUsmyoZ3HYS25jWA5PHTBtqim_F7GAKEb8YfLStJ8qwSLFbVvquoBarUmmIK4wmHJciGXL5EQyKCHOIs9/s4608/IMG_20210204_160749951_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Brace #3." border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNpEqw31p-zzgzxDH_eLLZZZWyHWNlqwNtGD-to-KzpKI2JeOSBhrQOMxoOlBoUsmyoZ3HYS25jWA5PHTBtqim_F7GAKEb8YfLStJ8qwSLFbVvquoBarUmmIK4wmHJciGXL5EQyKCHOIs9/w150-h200/IMG_20210204_160749951_HDR.jpg" title="Brace #3, left hand." width="150" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-90315812812593175282020-11-05T16:46:00.004-05:002020-11-05T16:46:33.450-05:00Update: Find joy. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBaff7xoPUVUN1YTAWJxnBHTnXYhKsSiWnsHH3hHniBqwW5HK5wFIrNgcQc2CeQizhGjWHzQlOgEViOFOXFSLmoQW7tOBRMQ0oaiHrHzacDEm8DMIFiiJ6c9io0gwl1Vnr8VZmjFQea0m7/s1920/R.L.M.+Tipton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBaff7xoPUVUN1YTAWJxnBHTnXYhKsSiWnsHH3hHniBqwW5HK5wFIrNgcQc2CeQizhGjWHzQlOgEViOFOXFSLmoQW7tOBRMQ0oaiHrHzacDEm8DMIFiiJ6c9io0gwl1Vnr8VZmjFQea0m7/w400-h225/R.L.M.+Tipton.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>This has been a difficult year for many people. For some, it's been a difficult decade. That's where I am. It's the reason my blog is rarely updated: the old saying suggests "if you can't say anything good, then say nothing." I have said very little, and that, I think, says more than I need to give details on here. </p><p>Suffice it to say that thanks to some very kind people, I am at work on a novel again. The tentative (in-progress, really) cover is shown above, inset in a desktop wallpaper I made to keep myself motivated. </p><p>This manuscript has been with me a long time. I wanted to do a good job on it, but needed to get some distance. To that end, being unable to work did me no lasting harm. I've recently been able to make some hard decisions. </p><p>First of all, the publishing market is insanely complicated. It always has been. COVID-19 only made that worse. Good, established editors and acquisitions people lost jobs. Many changed positions in the business and kept going. Some opted out. It's harder than ever to know what's going on, and how to address it.</p><p>Book sales are way down, indie or traditional, and the movie industry began to reel, concern over safety of everyone's safety throwing the old funding patterns awry. Take away the storytellers, and the entertainment industry, et al, is a mess. </p><p>Ho-hum. No news? Well, not to me. I'm just summing it up.</p><p>Personally, I have a whole other set of problems. Apparently, disability conditions I could never have ducked out on. That tops the list. It set off an avalanche of peripheral problems, thanks to the antiquated medical and associated systems where I live. (To be honest, we would relocate, if we could. It would be a practical decision.) We're working on that, but don't have a lot of hope for change anytime soon. </p><p>There's no way to change the medical issues. There's no cure. There's only living with it, and doing something to feel productive. Facing those facts cost me. </p><p>Being honest with myself, well, that conflicts with some people who have little understanding of what it's like. I am a person who was once physically active (I worked with animals, on farms, and in rural areas), and who cannot be now. I don't know even day to day how my health will go. Good days are getting farther apart. Things, my joints and connective tissue, go wrong overnight. Braces help rest the damage (not autoimmune), but are no viable replacement for a healthy body. </p><p>The decision to ignore all the "you should sell" advice and simply enjoy the art for what it is, as I have chosen to do, is very freeing. In future, I will not actively seek agents or editors, or other venues outside my social loops. I expect to get no money for what I do, because it's a bad gamble. </p><p>I want to tell great stories. I want to do an excellent job of it, because I enjoy the art form, and because it's within my means to do. </p><p>Photography is outside my realm; I don't have the equipment. Painting had gotten painful; I was making three paintings a year when I had to stop. I don't have the space to work, even if I could maintain it at a competitive rate. I doodle with graphic arts, mostly online, but there again, I don't have the equipment or software. </p><p>This is where I am. I make up stories. I like to see a copy sitting on a shelf, a solid copy. Not an ebook, stored on someone else's device (I don't read ebooks, myself... eye issues). I don't expect to make a profit; past history proves it unlikely. </p><p>There are those who like my stories. Friends, mostly. Family, no. Few. I intend to finish the <b>de Oro</b> manuscript, which I am editing and revising at present. I'll cobble up some kind of cover, set everything up myself, and get a printed copy, eventually, for the satisfaction of it. </p><p>Life goes on. Look for some way to have fun. COVID-19 won't last forever, and neither will we. Life is a gift... it shines the more you use it. </p><p>Be happy. Shine on. </p><p><br /></p><p>R.L.M. Tipton, artist and author (for the joy of it)</p>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-78839087737280660092020-04-04T18:12:00.001-04:002020-04-09T16:33:38.383-04:00Find my books on Amazon!Fiction or nonfiction. I enjoy writing in a variety of genres, just as I enjoy a variety of visual art mediums.<br /><br />Find me on Twitter... @_RLMT.<br />
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RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-75547085840844478972020-02-24T14:47:00.001-05:002020-02-24T14:47:37.291-05:00The Voices Make Me Do it. [Writing sample and commentary.]<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />The Appalachia, specifically Kentucky, that I knew in my childhood is fading fast. People were different back then, more down to earth and practical. That doesn't mean they were or are lacking compassion; the opposite is true. The proof is in the music and arts made popular by their ease of use on front porches, where swatting summer mosquitoes and singing off key while frogs sang all night out at the pond was the usual evening entertainment. Cold ice tea, beer, fried chicken, and biscuits. Home. To remember is to carry forward the battle, a blended culture based on story telling. A region respecting the art of bards.<br /><br /><br />There are few songs in Appalachian music to rival the bittersweet beauty of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_N._Mitchell" target="_blank">Put My Little Shoes Away. </a>In the song, a dying child asks its mother to put away its most treasured belongings, a pair of little shoes. <a href="https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/norahjones/putmylittleshoesaway.html" target="_blank">"Give them all my toys, Mother, but put my little shoes away..."</a> It's tragic and vivid. It cries out to our heritage, the strength of generations of immigrants, poverty and struggle versus hard work and honest profit. <br /><br /><br />From time to time, fragments of the past float up in my brain, creating voices where none existed, almost as if time and experience have created spirits that refuse to lie down and rest. When that happens, I have to let it flow. Open the valve, let it flow. Otherwise, the pain of silence is unbearable. <br /><br />The following is what became of one such inner episode: <br /><br /><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Momma
says I shouldn't talk to strangers, but you're a neighbor, so it should
be ah'ight. Them's right purty flow'rs you got there; I bet my granny
would like 'em. She grows all kinds o' flow'rs. Momma says hit's a waste
o' time, a waste of good sleepin' hours. Momma's at work down at the
rest'rant right now. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yesterday
hit rained, I know. Got a lot o' mud puddles in th' road. I like to
ride my bike through 'em, but Momma gits mad when I git m' good clothes
dirty. She says she reckons warshin' clothes hain't a good pass-time
when you're tired. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Lookee,
I got me a candy-bar. Momma just got the food-stamps; they call that
"SNAP Benefits" now, she said, but hit's the same thing. 'Long 'bout the
end of the month, won't be no candy, cause the money and the food
stamps done run out. So's I make 'em last, the two candy-bars I git. Got
a Pay-Day so there wouldn't be choc'late to melt in my pockets. Purty
smart, eh? Well, I miss the choc'late. But not as much as I like the
sweet lastin'. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yessum,
I know that, an' I brush my teeth. When Momma can get some toothpaste.
Some of the bristles is gone outta m' toothbrush, but I still use it.
Hain't got 'nother'n. Just the one. But it still works. Momma says soap
an' soda's about all she can handle paying for, an' toilet paper. Gotta
have gas t' git t' work, an' hit's precious to buy. Can't waste ary
dollar on frippery, Granny says. Momma says 'yes ma'am'. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Momma
sleeps a lot. I gots a key to the house, see? Granny sleeps a lot too;
she says she's just restin' her eyes. Granny's supposed to watch me, but
I wake her up before Momma gits home and we sit an' eat sammidges in
front of the TV with ice-tea. Gotta knock that dang cat outta the way,
ever' time. Sits on the footstool and scratches them fleas like hit was a
preacher poundin' on the pulpit a-Sunday. Granny calls 'at cat names,
then tells me not to say 'em. Not fair, I call it. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yesterday
I helped weed the garden an' pulled up some plants I wasn't s'posed to.
That's where 'at bruise come from. Momma said she's sorry, just so
tired she can't think straight. Worrit, I reckon, 'bout Granny an' me
an' the 'lectric bill. We all gotta drain on Momma. I split out a pair
of jeans an' ripped a shirt last month when some kid called me a welfare
bastard, whatever that is, an' I pounded his head some. Momma was still
upset over bein' woke up by the school an' replacin' my clothes, so the
garden thing hurt more. I didn't mean to harm, hit just happened while
the sweat was runnin' in my eyes. Reckon the bruise'll heal. Usually
does. </span><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Well,
I gotta run now. 'Bout time to feed Granny an' git me a bolony sammidge
too. Momma'll be home soon. Work t' do. 'Bye, now. <br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">.......................................<br /></span></span></span><br /><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span>This is a work of fiction (social commentary, a story told by a
storyteller) based on composite fact, told in the voice of a child
living in the hills of Appalachia, dealing with the problems of his
youth as has every one of his ancestors has done before him. Times
change, problems remain, yet the people endure and adapt as they must,
and go on.
<br /><br />
Copyright: author R.L.M.Tipton
(Home page http://songoftheraincrow.blogspot.com)</span></span></span></span></i><br /><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-20699283169114361802020-02-12T13:12:00.001-05:002020-04-28T14:19:45.966-04:00A brief glimpse into The Glimmerings. (Novel excerpt.)<i> An excerpt from an older novel series: fantasy of the magical realism flavor. <br /> - RLMT. </i><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="WW-Default" style="margin-bottom: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">~*~</span></span></div>
<div class="WW-Default" style="margin-bottom: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /><span style="font-size: small;"> Something
about the shape of that elderly female face worried him momentarily. She
flipped something dusty at him, a substance with a delicate scent of herbs and
something else held in the cloud of its passing. It glimmered, a faint glow
suffusing the powdery stuff as it left her hands. When it hit him, he staggered
as if slammed into by a large, heavy object. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span></span></span><br />
<div class="WW-Default" style="margin-bottom: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> He heard
the person say in a voice shimmering like delicate silver, yet hard as tempered
steel, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">May
your body reflect the size of your functional soul, and may only the scent of your
haven release you to be whole and fulfilled. Once, twice, thrice, by the truths
of the veils, so mote it be.</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">” </i></span></span></span></span></div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="WW-Default" style="margin-bottom: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> A
roaring wave of violent, rushing nausea swept over Logan. He aimed with sudden
precision for the men’s loo door, the light around him somehow seeming to have
turned a spring-leaf-green. In the bathroom, he was thoroughly sick. He wiped
his dripping face with a damp paper towel, aching shudders racking his body. A
slick of sweat coated him and Logan yearned for a place to rest where the cool air
might soothe his misery.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="WW-Default" style="margin-bottom: .25in; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">~*~ </span></span></span></div>
</div>
</blockquote>
</div>
</blockquote>
RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-43230791810844497422020-01-28T14:57:00.001-05:002020-01-28T14:57:15.490-05:00Starting over. Established readers of this blog will notice that I've removed the past postings from it. I'm changing my life to focus on things that make me happy. I'm exhausted with the whole anxiety-for-pseudofun-and-profit game. This is my life. I intend to make the most of what's left. <br /><br />Stay tuned for changes.<br />
<br />
RLMTRLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-90951541679536003532017-04-27T15:50:00.002-04:002020-04-09T16:56:53.293-04:00This isn't just horsing around. It's a day out of my own life. (Memoir.)<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-weight: bold;">ROUGHING IT</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">_________<br /><br /></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLbYhp88GCmpTWkcfV6X-36RrrBng-gqL1wDliX4SQtr9rN8INoOvZ78JUMBGFVB7GBJz7-ZTZuwYCrsHIZaCjqI71x0wRBVVoxb5cF4L7-dTn2CM1fJ_Hs-ELlcLkc9UZoJvQn2km5uRp/s1600/Cold+gallop+graphic+4-2020+RLMT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="560" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLbYhp88GCmpTWkcfV6X-36RrrBng-gqL1wDliX4SQtr9rN8INoOvZ78JUMBGFVB7GBJz7-ZTZuwYCrsHIZaCjqI71x0wRBVVoxb5cF4L7-dTn2CM1fJ_Hs-ELlcLkc9UZoJvQn2km5uRp/s400/Cold+gallop+graphic+4-2020+RLMT.jpg" width="400" /> </a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">_________</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-style: italic;">A
writer and visual artist, R. L. M. Tipton</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-style: italic;"> is descended from Scots-Irish,
German, English, </span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-style: italic;">and Cherokee ancestors who first came into Powell
County, Kentucky, </span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-style: italic;">as early as the early 1880s, </span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-style: italic;">about four generations ago. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-style: italic;">She is no stranger to living off grid.</span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">_________________________________</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> Every winter, responsible people worry about the roads, often wondering if they can scrape up enough cash to pay the heating bill before
the pipes freeze up. It's cold, and while Kentucky is at risk for more
ice storms than blizzards, it can be uncomfortable. It's hard to see the
beauty in something that makes your bones ache and your wallet suffer.
That's understandable. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> When
we were kids, all we saw was a day off from school on occasion. It
seemed a fine time to go make some snow cream or slide down a nearby
hill on sled of some sort. When you're young and the cocoa's being made
by someone who loves you while you deliberately turn into a human
Popsicle, getting cold is a lark. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> I
was the same. It's been many years since I was young and sassy, yet I
have my memories of fun. I've slipped and slid using greased cardboard,
real metal-runner equipped sleds, inner tubes from a big truck or
tractor, or even a sheet of heavy plastic. But my most favorite activity
in the winter was to ride a horse on the coldest of days, to take a
wild, chilling trip around the lake and into the woods where there was
no human to share that priceless experience. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /></span></i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> I remember one day in particular, from those years past:</span></i> <br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> The
day dawned bitterly cold; the air seemed to freeze around a breath,
like the words or a sigh might fall tinkling to the ground in an
instant. The snow was, for once, several inches deep and powder dry.
Under it all was a thin skim of ice atop the long-frozen ground.
Everything seemed white and ice blue, cold to look at, even, and bright
enough to be painful to the eye. I'd been stuck in the house for what
seemed like ages, but had only been overnight. And I had my mind made
up: today, I would ride. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> The
crackling cold was only a minor irritation compared to the need to be
in the woods, old Bess carrying me along like a feather on the wind, the
sharp smells of pine and frozen lake water wrapping chilly fingers
around us. The woods were calling. I would have bet every dime my
teenage hands could gather that old Bess was just as restless as I;
kindred souls speak the same language. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> When
I left the house, I had on so many layers of clothing that I waddled.
The snow was slippery beneath my feet, and hiking boots took care of
that nicely. In deference to the bitter cold and the wind chill of
traveling horseback, I intended to skip the saddle and use Bess's warmth
to aid in preventing frostbite. In the edge of the barn, I stopped to
wipe my eyes. The wind was sharp, though the sunlight had turned
everything in its path to cold fire. My barely-exposed cheeks were numb,
my nose the same. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> I
began to doubt the wisdom of my decision to ride, and had almost made
up my mind to go back home when a golden head thrust over the stall
wall, huffing and whickering eager welcome. Cold as I was, I melted. Who
could say no to a face like that? </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> The
bridle was on in a trice, and I scrambled, clumsy in my many layers,
onto her back. She jigged in place, trying to take the bit and go. I
stayed with her, wrapping my legs in the saddle blanket I'd tossed up
across her neck. The ends of it fluttered slightly in the stiff breeze
at the edge of the clearing, and she reared onto her hinders for long
seconds, dancing in the icy slickness with borium-enforced steel shoes. A
handful of dark red mane held me up; her winter coat was sleek and
full, slippery against my jeans. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> We
stepped out onto the blacktop road and made our way to the far end of
my parent's loop driveway. It was a steep hill, but missed the greater
length of icy blacktop base to walk on. I could circle Bess around and
go straight to the creek-rocked road to the lake and hill trails. The
question, at that point, was not if my sassy old mare would act up, but
rather when. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> Near
the top of the hill, almost to the house, it happened. She began her
ritual telegraph of action. Right ear flickers. Left ear. Head turns to
the right, then the left. I was breathless... and she wrung her tail
just as I grabbed a fierce handful of thick mane. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> One more stride....</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> At
the top of the road there, on a level with the house, she thrust her
compact, meaty rump skyward, trying to get her head down and buck. Then
she quickly recovered and attempted to bolt. I compensated, laughed
wildly, and stayed put. She stretched into a lope around the back of the
house with both short ears perked up and forward. To the hills with us,
she seemed to cry; I feel wonderful and we need to run! If I had come
off on the frozen ground, it would have probably meant more than a
slight injury. The ground, so uneven, was filled with saplings and
stumps all around, and rough stones beneath us. I was young enough not
to care, reckless enough to glory in it. The old mare was never old in
heart. A fine pair we were, it was often said -- wild eyed and moving
like a centaur into battle. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> The
wind off the lake was razored and so cold it burned. We made it to the
tree line and the hills broke the back of the killer wind for us, though
the ridge-line trails were blown almost clear of snow. Here and there,
tracks of deer or dog showed briefly, the wind keeping secrets in its
transparent path. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> Bess took the bit in her teeth and I let her. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> Blood-dark
tail a-flag, she blew hot steam from her nostrils as she pounded the
ground with hard hooves. The swing of her gallop up a slight rise
reached fever pitch, those short, perfect ears flattened back angrily,
furious at not being able to take full flight. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /> <br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> At the top of the ridge, she slowed up, snorting steam and dancing
sideways from a cardinal that blew past us. Ears up again, she collected
herself into a prancing running-walk, smooth as silk and a joy to sit. I
glimpsed a fox in the distance; it went out of sight with something
feathered still fluttering in its mouth. A crash of brushy stuff over
the hill told tales of a whitetail doe and her fawn startled by Bess's
charge up the hillside. A murder of crows cursed us from the treetops,
unafraid of the horse where a person on foot would have made all things
silent within a few footfalls. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> We
traveled the whole trail, coming down the backside where a slide had
long ago broken the original logging trail, a path set there before the
region was ripped of all the primordial forest that once grew on it. The
original path makers were the woodland bison, a creature extinct for
over a hundred years, perhaps more. The slide was a place best walked on
a good day with a stout staff of hickory or sassafras; a horse had to
travel it sitting on hind feet and haunches, and it was not for the
faint-hearted or inexperienced to attempt while on horseback. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> At
the bottom, we cut back up into the gap of the Chaney Orchard, long
abandoned and grown up. At the ridge again, we caught up with the
original trail, headed east and a bit north, back toward the house.
About 300 yards shy of the turn to go to the house via the kennels, I
turned Bess down a small path, passing the comical "two-seater" outhouse
in the woods that Dad built. We slid down the hard-clay path, a coating
of white making it all but impassable by dry lubrication. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> Back
on the road around the lake, we walked sedately, listening to the riot
of life alive in the woods when a storm has well and truly passed us by.
Woodpeckers pounded, crows cawed, Dad's Beagles tried to raise the roof
because an opinionated squirrel hung over them on a dangling branch,
scolding the foolish creatures for merely existing. Bess's feet echoed
my heartbeat on the snow. A one and a two and a one and a two... as if
we were made to think and move as one. The bit jingled and occasionally a
steely shoe hit on an exposed stone. I was no longer cold. Neither of
us had broken a sweat, but we were warm and happy and calm at soul and
in the flesh. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> Perfect.
It was a beautiful day in Kentucky. A day I will not forget. A day like
none the children of today are likely to experience in their lifetimes.
A priceless memory to me, a curiosity to someone else. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">When I
think back, I remember a fine old mare who was also my friend. </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "comic sans ms";">~R.</span>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-11959767761796824702017-04-18T15:48:00.004-04:002020-04-28T14:14:55.445-04:00Springtime in Kentucky, rambling for memories. <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The forests are blushing a beautiful green, the color of new life almost
humming against rainy skies. Dogwood "winter" has risen on the hills of
eastern Kentucky, and we await the chill to follow the blackberry
thickets' show of white. Though the nights may be stormy, playful
breezes tickle the ridge tops by day, running invisible fingers through
forgotten growths of daffodil and iris. Old homes fade away, but the
earth and her children always remember. </i></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> ~*~</span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr align="center"><td><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf4cCq43rKeuekrCvVLQdLlRE3W8PWE-g34I6RyBcCqPh-hgqcj1aoQKcTPrrYSprpys6haEFhSUayPUgoHt29Wuhcp_ffQirXNvpTj_iqjscsjFKrc-sP8oHXTN4nqhUaJky9y90pBlyr/s400/Kinser+home+place+on+Spaus+Creek.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>My mother's old home-place on Spaus Creek, near the Red River Gorge of eastern Kentucky. <br />It was burned down by firebug vandals several years ago. </b><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Copyright 1995 by R. Lee Tipton, author/artist.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span></span></b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf4cCq43rKeuekrCvVLQdLlRE3W8PWE-g34I6RyBcCqPh-hgqcj1aoQKcTPrrYSprpys6haEFhSUayPUgoHt29Wuhcp_ffQirXNvpTj_iqjscsjFKrc-sP8oHXTN4nqhUaJky9y90pBlyr/s1600/Kinser+home+place+on+Spaus+Creek.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a><br />
<br />
<br />
Behind where we're camping, there's an old house site. Not a board remains of the original structure, just a few stones used for the foundations. The main signs of a once-beloved human habitation are the wide green blades of someone's spring flower patch. Iris, daffodil, and other blooming beauties have held the faith, though the hands that planted them have long gone to dust beneath cold stone markers. <br />
<br />
It's not unusual to find things like these in Kentucky's woodlands. Sometimes it's a pink Seven Sisters climbing rose gone wild among low-growing redbud or similar trees, other times, a rainstorm will wash the soil away from the base stones of a chimney, revealing the carefully laid hearth. I've found them while out riding horses along rough hillside trails, and never fail to step out of the saddle and offer a moment of quiet reverence for memories I don't share with the founders. I will wander and visit the surviving flower patches, seek out the spring or well, treading carefully so as not to fall into a hole no longer guarded by a wooden box. <br />
<br />
These sites are the ultimate museums. Anthropologists hum and sparkle over a bit of rusty knife blade or a hand-axe made of stone by native hands. There are no treasures of gold and silver, and one is extremely lucky if some bright bead can be located; those who lived on these hills either moved on or passed on, and the result is the same. <br />
<br />
Empty dooryards, a scattering of bright flowers, and time make for a quilt of patches on a patch of earth that has endured glacial formation, the changing of immigrant life since long before European influence. <br />
<br />
I stand leaning on my walking stick, the good sense to keep watch for wakening serpents in a remote portion of my mind, and wonder at all the stories time has filed away for the earth to store. Children. Born, raised, married, and the cycle re-beginning, some simply moving away in the name of change. The urge for bright things after a long winter sending someone to grub in the soil, planting, like as not, some flower with a history all its own. All of it for the forest to re-enfold, transform, and give peace to in the way of nature's own patience. <br />
<br />
Yesterdays are still tomorrows. We should all learn to plant flowers. The beauty of today is the ability to dream. The ability to look forward through hardship and sorrow sends us into worlds we alone can and do create.<br />
<br />
Every old house-site makes me want to take off the cap I wear to shade my eyes, lift up a handful of living forest soil, sniff it carefully, and run it through my fingers as if it were some holy relic to count prayers on. These hills are green cathedrals, every leaf of its living guardian green recording truth and endurance. <br />
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<br />RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-11994338713523255442017-04-14T16:15:00.001-04:002020-02-12T13:05:10.918-05:00Adventures come in all sizes. (A nonfiction story.)<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><br /><i>Living off-grid can be an advent</i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><i>ure. The wildlife can be large or small, but conflicts occur regardless of size. </i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><i>Or so I found... <br /><br />Note: We now use mint oil and bay leaves to repel mice. I've never liked having to kill anything without good reason. At the time this was written, the woodland rodent population had decided to overtake our residence. They were making havoc in everything, even the big packrats finding a way in (I'm still missing some socks!) to carry things off, especially soft or shiny items. The cat, poor little girlie, was delighted with all the live toys; she was raised in-town, and had no idea about killing anything. She learned fast. From me.<br /><br /></i></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><b> B-Movie Mouse</b></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><br /><br /><br /><br />Tossing
and turning all night, dreaming repetitive dreams of visiting and
helping to cook a huge meal in someone else's kitchen, waking up sweaty
over and over, the air not moving at all. Nothing making a move except
with the whine of a hunting mosquito. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">Finally
the alarm clock went off, just the buzzer on my cell phone (I'm almost
always awake before the ringing actually starts) vibrating the headboard
of the bed. I turn it off fast, lie still in the tangled, damp summer
sheets, and pray for strength to rise and at least fake shining. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">A
trip to the bathroom. I hear a mousy squeak on the other side of the
wall, and think, "Yeah, Lucy Jo finally got that damned mouse again!
Finally." She'd played with it about a week ago, and I hadn't seen or
heard it since then, though I knew she'd been watching it off and on. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">I
stump stiff-footed back to get dressed by the light of my clip-on
flashlight. Just the basics. Fill my pockets with phone, a tiny spare
flashlight, a small pocketknife, and clip my watch onto a belt loop. A
pair of soft, comfortable cushion-y shoes made of foam-plastic of some
sort. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">Back
to the bathroom to wash up a bit prior to making coffee and breakfast, a
wet washcloth to clear the sweaty-face and the sandman's leavings from
the corners of my eyes. I bite back a cracking yawn; bugs like to flit
about under the flashlight, and I don't care for the taste of
adventurous bug much. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">I
start to turn away from my tiny mirror, and then I hear it, realizing
at last that the squeaking is a lot closer than it had been. When I look
down as I turn, I see why: Lucy Jo is at my feet, looking up at me with
big, joyous eyes.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">"Look, Mom! I found that great toy again. Wanna play?" She seemed to indicate, looking happily from me to the mouse. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">The
mouse. Ah, the mouse. It was sitting less than the width of my hand<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">, </span>perhaps three inches<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">,</span> from the cat's nose, squeaking at the top of its
lungs. Obviously, it was giving a mouse-to-cat cussin' that went beyond
the average rodential rant. It ignored me totally. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">It hopped at <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">the <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">cat</span></span>, seeming to
rav<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">e </span>madly in its tiny, tinny voice. <i>"Put up your dukes, you damned
feline! I swear by the Great Cheese, I'll tan your hide to nest in! Go
on, y' great fool! You couldn't keep me caught last time, so why should I
be afraid now? COME AND GET ME, CAT!" </i></span><i><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /></i><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">I
shook my head. I wasn't hearing the words, I swore to myself, I wasn't.
It was merely an early morning, before the first cup of my beloved,
acid-strength coffee. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">Just
then, Lucy Jo peeked at me again, and did a small, delicate cat-squeak
of delight. <i>"Oooh, look, Mommy! It wants to play. Play with us,
please-please-please!" </i></span><i><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /></i><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">The
deer-footed field mouse never let up once. It was giving the cat pure
hell and hopping around in a purely pugilistic manner. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">I
squeezed my eyes shut and reopened them, hoping the illusions would go
away and I'd wake up to see that it was too early for the alarm to go
off after all... but when I opened my eyes, they were still there, and I
could clearly hear Ronnie snoring from his prone position on the big,
soft bed. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">"Lucy, please tell me you're going to go ahead and kill that thing. It's way past time." I mumbled aloud. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">Inwardly snarling, I considered: foam-plastic shoes. What were the odds...? Oh, well. Here goes.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">The
mouse had maneuvered to between me and the cat, back to me. Ignoring me
still. Lucy Jo was starting to look puzzled, wondering no doubt why I
wasn't playing with her wonderful mouse, er, toy. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">So I stomped the mouse. Foam-plastic shoes and all. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">Sometimes one just has to stand up and protect the resident cat.</span></span></span></span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">When
I stepped back, by the light of the clip-on, I saw the mouse standing
still. Stunned, at least. I waited. It slowly slumped forward, sneezed
out a tiny blast of blood, and spasmed once. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">Ahhhhh, no more mouse dancing a challenge to the resident cat<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">.</span> <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">O</span>r me.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">Lucy
looked first confused, then insulted. I quickly pulled over a box half
full of clean litter and propped it over the little carcass. No way I
was going to let her eat it after it acted so crazy!</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">Ronnie,
hearing the noises, managed to ask me what was going on. I told him to
go back to sleep, that it was all a bad dream, and any rate I hadn't had
my coffee yet. He was snoring again before I got through speaking. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">Oh,
but that coffee tasted so good. I sat and sipped it quietly in the dark
of morning, by the usual candle-light, while watching Lucy Jo wander
about the house. She kept calling to the mouse as if it were a kitten: <i>
"B'ahw? B'ahw?"</i> But her search was in vain. </span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">Ahh, coffee.<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">.. maybe it was all a bad dream, after all.</span></span></span></span>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-49160192752310879372017-04-08T13:25:00.000-04:002020-07-01T12:19:19.163-04:00This Appalachia, this Kentucky, is not the rest of the world. (FREE STORY.)<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A country funeral <br />-- "adopted" family. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , "lucida"; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , "lucida"; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica";">...</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , "lucida"; font-style: italic;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , "lucida"; font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "lucida sans unicode" , "lucida"; font-style: italic;"> T<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">his is a little piece of the hills I love. <br />It's not really a story, more of a journal entry, <br />a memory noted down in detail. <br />It's a tale, yes, of a single aspect of our Appalachian, <br />if you will so label it, lives here, <br />and the way we're all so much like people from other places ... and the way we're infinitely different</span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">...</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br style="font-family: times,times new roman,serif;" /></span></span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> It's hot today, but raining periodically, thunderstorms rumbling in and out of the neighborhood.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
The reason for this is that I wanted to tell you all a little something
about my little corner of the world before I take off for No Internet
Connection Land, and this seemed to be the best, most vivid and recent
option. I hope to post it before the storms swing back into this
direction, and from there... well, I'm back to packing up the last bits.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Weather permitting, we'll haul some stuff in and set it up tonight. By
the truckload if we can (only two wheel drive), and by the much smaller
Jeep load if we can't. I still need more clean, strong boxes, too, and
will have to get some this evening.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> Yesterday was also busy....</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Ronnie took the entire day off from work yesterday; he was designated
as honorary pall bearer for a funeral. He'd have been a pall bearer, but
the family was unable to find him in time to get it into the newspaper
in time. Our telephone number is unlisted, our cell phones are prepaid.
He was upset about the way the arrangements had to work out, and a
little confused, but also very heartbroken.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Many years ago, Ronnie lived with a local family. They not only took
him in and kept a roof over his head and food for him, but they also
took him into their family completely. Not on paper, not in any
computer, but in a place that matters far more: in their hearts. Monroe
and Darleen treated Ronnie like their own children of the flesh, making
room for a fourth with no discrimination between them.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
As in most families, there was a certain amount of "sibling" conflict,
and in the end, to keep the peace, Ronnie left the family and moved back
in with his maternal grandmother. She was happy to have him, as was his
grandfather.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
I have been lucky enough to know all of these people from Ronnie's
past. Of them, only my Ronnie, Darleen (who has fought various forms of
cancer for many years now) and her three blood children remain alive.
Ronnie's grandfather died first, eaten alive by cancer. His grandmother
died many years later, several years ago, the 'Old Timer's disease'
combined with arthritis, a worn-out heart, and numerous other problems
associated with old age. Monroe (pronounced "MON-roe") died on Monday,
of cancer he hadn't fought for more than a few months.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
We didn't sleep well the night before, which is normal for us. But that
we both were tired when we got up was unusual. Ronnie usually hits the
floor in full charge, all steam ahead and damn the torpedos! I, ahem, am
far more ... decorous (limpy, drabbled in leftover sleep, and more than
a shade grumpy prior to strong coffee). I checked the forecast on the
radio, and was surprised to hear that the long-awaited rains had been
taken out of the listings for the day. Odd. The humidity was heavy
enough to float your hat on, and the tree leaves were all turned upside
down on the water-trees across the driveway, each leaf quivering
independently with the changes in the atmosphere.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
When the fog burned off, the day turned seriously hot. By 10:00 am, it
was already in the mid-80s F., and the humidity was if anything
stronger. Yet the sun was brassy-hot in the sky, the sky itself faded
from a pleasant blue to a washy white.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
The funeral was at 11:00 am, in a small-town chapel in Clay City, a
neighboring town in the same county we live in. We went in a shade late
-- the ceremonies had already begun -- so we snuck down the hallway of
the old converted house and into a seat in the back of the family
section, as we'd been instructed to do. Several smiles met us along the
way, some faces that we knew, some that we didn't. More than one face
was surprised to see us there at all, as we were of them in turn.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
As usual in such a place, the folding seats had cushions that were as
hard as the wood itself, and would have done the Spanish Inquisition for
torture instruments. The whole place was done up in an insipid,
slightly off-key shade of fleshy pink, even the carpet. Every curtain at
the numerous windows was drawn tight shut, the bright daylight filtered
through this sickly rose and promptly gave me a headache, something I
almost never get. Every incandescent lightbulb in the place was lit,
obviously by someone who had the inclinations of an anemic Anne Rice
vampire.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Honestly, I don't like pink. It's a personal thing. I think the
headache was the pressure of a sheer desire to get up and paint the
place a nice soothing blue-gray or something, just to get rid of the
wide pinkish pinstripes and fluttery flower patterned wallpaper. Some of
the local florists had tried to combat the sickly color by sending
large, bright yellow and white flowers. The effect was worse than ever.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> There were three preachers. I was in hell.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
After a bit, I dropped into a meditative state, getting rid of the
headache, the pukey pink decor, and the droning voices crying out in
loud enthusiasm periodically. "PRAISE the LORD!" The occasional bout of
music, not live as many of these occasions bring out, poured crackling
from inadequate speakers thankfully located in the hallway we'd come in
through, and thus was less than direct in damage to my ears. Ronnie
curled an arm around me, and I eased over against his side. He patted my
shoulder, more to comfort himself than to comfort me, though I'm sure
he knew I wasn't comfortable with things.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Through this meditative filter, I was able to listen objectively to the
men who spoke (no women at all spoke) about the deceased. They told
little stories about Monroe's skill as a carpenter, his joy in helping
friends, his unspoken kindnesses, and his unflagging spirit.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
They spoke of his sneaky, harmless sense of humor and the pranks he
loved to play on those he cared most about. One man, a brother-in-law
told of a mule that Monroe worked for a long time, a mule belonging to a
good neighbor.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
It seems that Darleen had noticed that Monroe would sometimes ride the
mule home for 'dinner' (lunch), and sometimes Monroe would arrive on
foot, leading the mule instead. So she asked him about it one day. He
told her, "Well, you know when I go back out after dinner, and bend one
o' them ears of that mule down?" She hadn't seen him do this, but
nodded, thinking she'd only missed something. "I ask that mule if I can
ride. Sometimes he'll let me, sometimes he won't." So after he ate lunch
that day, and every day thereafter while he worked the mule, he would
go out and bend down one of those long, expressive ears, and pretend to
whisper into it, then listen for a reply. After that, as often as not,
he rode the mule away. The rest of the time, he led it.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Monroe had let the brother-in-law, also a good friend, into the secret
joke. The punchline of this was that Darleen had never caught on to the
gag.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
The hard-working mule was a "telegrapher" -- he would tell on himself
by certain repeated actions if he was in a mood to act up and misbehave.
In this case, the mule communicated his displeasure by lowering both
ears. If those ears went down, Monroe stayed safely on the ground. The
mule would work in harness, but not tolerate being ridden on those days.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
This story brought every person in the funeral home to a smile, and
most of us to outright laughter. There was, in the crowd, an
accumulation of horse and mule enthusiasts that outnumbered the others
by a huge margin. Every one of us in the majority got the joke, because
we'd all been in his place: most horses or mules have a tell-tale like
that. My old Bess was a classic, which was why I could ride her when I
was only sixten, when grown men couldn't stay on her for any amount of
time. This story brought kinship, it brought understanding of the
person, Monroe, who was gone from this life.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
After an hour of laughter and tears, of hearing countless "PRAISE the
LORD!" outbreaks, and of pink miseries, the funeral broke up and the
mourners were allowed to view the deceased for one last time.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> "He looks good."</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> "They did a good job on him, didn't they?"</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> "Ay, Gods. I'm a-gonna miss him."</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> "He was a good soul, and a good carpenter. Why, he built my barn! Did I ever tell you...."</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> "Bless you, sister. Bless you, child. He's watching you, and he knows your love is dear."</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
The smell of flowers in the close place, with the air conditioning
laboring to catch up with the day, was overpowering. Ronnie patted
Monroe's hand one last time, I had a look (and said my piece under my
breath so as not to offend anyone with my own beliefs). We dodged
through the throng on the wide, long porch to a location light on
colognes and perfumes and body heat. Ronnie hopped off the edge of the
porch after a while to go see Darleen and her (adult) children for a few
minutes. I stood my ground on sore feet -- not having a good day with
the pain -- and watched the crowd for signs of the pall bearers carrying
the coffin.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Children romped in the small yard, parents and grandparents of every
description chasing after them while all wore their Sunday best. There
were more smiles and tears all around. I felt like an outside observer,
leaning on a porch post alone, wondering at the unique combinations of
interaction.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
When the pall bearers came out, loud wails also split the air. My
headache hit apex, and I quickly shut it down again. The humidity was
more pressing than any personal preferences, and contributed a lot to my
discomfort. I wasn't the only one in distress; I saw many people fade
off the edges of the crowd immediately.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
When the vehicles (all kinds, from beat-up old farm trucks and SUVs to a
glossy BMW and both a new and a Classic Corvette) were all lined up to
the funeral director's satisfaction, the procession began. All through
town they took Monroe on his last ride, swinging onto a main side road
just inside the other edge of the town's limits. We rolled slowly along,
looking down on Red River, where wild cane grew in blotches among other
tall weeds. Houses on the other side of the stream had beautiful, rich
gardens all along the way. The soil is strong where the river feeds the
land. A patch of dried thistle stalks stood tall, strung out on a narrow
steep bank alongside the road for most of a mile. I saw birds take
flight after a hawk who had intruded on their territory.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Ronnie wiped the sweat from his face, letting the open windows do the
work of our long-forgotten (to recharge) air conditioning system in the
Jeep Cherokee. He too was watching the land along the road. A rock bluff
on our left, the river on the right. The road lay just above flood
level, a main artery to the next county.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Just a couple of miles out, the procession of mourners turned into a
hidden driveway entrance surrounded by weeds and neighbored by cluttery
little houses perched on what passes for high ground along that stretch.
Every vehicle, regardless of make and model, drove along the gravel
road and through a cowpasture. Where the creek crossing had to be made,
we all lurched across a water-fissured slab of solid stone, splashing
the water flowing over it into little fountains, rooster-tails of sunlit
liquid spraying and squirting up to sparkle and fall back, passing
along on its way to the distant sea.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
The graveyard, when we arrived, sat perched on a little knoll, a brief
island that the floodwaters probably never touch. It wasn't much to look
at; the whole area enclosed by the woven wire farm fencing was smaller
than what an average sized brick veneer ranch house would occupy.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Every low-slung car in front of us was searching for a place to park,
and I indicated to Ronnie that he take our Jeep up on the bank beside
the road proper, nosing it into the fence near the gate. He concurred
with my assessment: not too far to walk, and it would let others have
better places to park cars that had their limits in efficiency.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
We got out and stepped carefully around the Jeep, dress shoes not being
the weapon of choice for combatting fresh cow pies. Someone had already
stepped in one, I pointed out the slick smear to Ronnie and he grinned.
We swung wide and arrived at the open gate with clean footwear. Others
weren't so lucky -- or careful. Several people took time to stop at the
gate post to prop up and check their shoes, then some wandered away from
the crowd into the thicker grass, hoping to wipe away some of the
evidence on the pasture itself.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Dresses. Jeans. Suits. Jewelry. Tattooes. Hats, caps. Bib overalls. All
clean, all respectful, all quiet. It was a swirl of hot faces, hot
tears, hot sun, and it all centered on one green canvas canopy over a
neatly dug hole, covered with plywood and a piece of green
indoor-outdoor carpet. One large metal box, tightly sealed.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
In a short while, the service was over. All goodbyes had been said
ceremoniously, and the mass of mourners began to talk in little clumps,
some of the family carrying away a rose from the spray atop the coffin
for a souvenir of love and memories.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Darleen came to Ronnie like a moth to flame, patting him on the arm,
hugging him, teasing him about her "poor" cooking and how he was the
"only-est one who ever liked it!" Ronnie gave her a hug and responded in
kind.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
After the hugging session, Darleen reared back and looked at Ronnie
with suddenly ancient eyes. "Do you think he'd have been proud of me,
Ronnie? This is the first funeral I ever sat the whole way through. Sick
or not. Whether I loved the person or not -- family, friends, all of
them. I went, said my piece of goodbye, and left. Not this time." She
swallowed hard. "This time, I wanted to be here through it all. I'd...
I'd follered him for so long, I reckon I just wanted to foller him as
far as I could go right now."</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
There were no tears in her eyes, only in her voice, so I made the
offering for her. One of her grandchildren hugged me tight, patted
Darleen on the shoulder and let me walk away alone. Ronnie followed me
after a while.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> "Why'd you do that?" He asked curiously.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> "Because she couldn't. Not now, not this soon."</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> "She will."</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
"But not right now. She can't. She's the strong one for all of them." I
indicated the family and extended family all bunched up once again
around the coffin. "So I did it for her. I just know how I'd feel if it
was me in her place."</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
He fell silent, thinking. There was no more conversation as we dodged
back among the cow pies to the Jeep. It was hot, the sun seeming to hold
back all the cool for fear that it would rain on a solemn occasion.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
We'd been asked to come to the house and eat, as is our custom in this
region. When we got there, we were taken in, both of us, with complete
acceptance and affection, as if Ronnie had never left them and I had
been there all along. Heaps of food awaited us, but my appetite had fled
with the heat.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Monroe's tiny little Chihuahua dog, a pet he'd bought for his beloved
wife Darleen but ended up being claimed by himself, took up with Ronnie
and I, begging for food from our plates, which she got. Poor little
thing, she wandered in and out, watching every person who came in the
gate, listening to every vehicle that passed on the road beyond the
fenced yard, looking for someone who would never come home again.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
I claimed a thin ham sandwich, wishing for a thick, messy slab of
garden tomato from the house, and followed it up with some dead-ripe
slices of cantalope. A Pepsi washed it down. Ronnie gorged himself, as
he usually does, cracking jokes with first this person and that. I
simply sat, my left foot aching so badly that I was almost sick from it.
I wanted to go lie down, but put it off, keeping to a polite joking
tone with everyone who spoke to me, saying nothing about being
uncomfortable in any way. They'd had enough. Monroe's daughter was so
jittery and lost without "Daddy" that her grown daughter took over the
hostess duties and made her mother go out on the porch for a while.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
As soon as we had eaten, and escaped the house to step outside, one of
Monroe and Darleen's sons grabbed us for a tour of the menagerie. It was
as always, even though they had moved house since I'd last visited with
them.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
A Boer goat, a wether, naa-naaaa-naaaa'd constantly from a pen it
shared with a fat nanny. Chickens and turkeys, geese, pidgeons -- many a
fowl creature lurked in the narrow acreage between the house and a
mobile home belonging to a neighbor. All of them healthy and clean. One
caught my eye right away.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
It was a white goose with four wings! The tour guide, the oldest son,
explained to us that the bird had been born that way, two normal wings
and two turned upside down below the main ones. "It ain't never bothered
it none. Mommy wouldn't take a farm in Georgia for that bird!" He
wondered aloud if they'd have to get rid of some of the animals, or all
of them. The younger son replied that she'd said to sell some, just a
little while ago. I nodded, as did Ronnie. We'd been there when she told
him.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
"Well, I reckon somebody's gonna get screwed when they get that
noisy-assed damn goat! It ain't shut up once since Daddy brought it
home." Ray snorted in disgust. The goat chimed in with a particularly
long naaaaaaaaaaaa. "See what I mean?"</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
We had to laugh. Flowers, critters, and children in this place met with
equal care, all they had to give. These people weren't rich, just
average folks with an adequate retirement, happy to make the adjustments
that meant something beyond survival. They loved life, both Monroe and
Darleen.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
Now Darleen is alone, Monroe having passed on this week, but for her
grown-up children and a mess of grandchildren adult to still in diapers.
She'll miss her dear Monroe for the rest of her life, however long she
can fight the cancer. Her thin, chemical-shorn locks of gray are battle
scars from a life never easy, yet always full of joy.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;">
It was the hardest thing I've ever done, keeping a dry eye when she
held up a fluffy red teddy bear with "KISS ME!" sewn into a heart on its
chest, and said, "This was my last Valentine's present from Monroe.
Ain't it a pretty? Feel how soft it is. I could just hold it forever."
At this juncture, her youngest grandson toddled up, grabbed the
sentimental toy and jogged off to the kitchen to show it to MeMe
(Mommy). Darleen laughed, watching, and said not a word. Monroe would
have loved to see that baby with the bright bear, just one more time.
Her face was lit with memories.</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> ...</span><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><br style="font-family: georgia,times new roman,times,serif;" /><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> (c.) 7-27-2007, by Rhonda L. M. Tipton</span></span></span></span>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-48025638148630769192017-03-29T14:25:00.002-04:002021-04-10T15:13:45.492-04:00Seeking words, for a long-term relationship with dreams. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSfFCNk_xqKuao8PUs5wsov12zqZ9r-Hifo_evPEAXqvh4KReUWvNyXpA0tAbt9E7HsZHBuEGeYLLh2UYus84e_r-fNt7PR44Cvw3yfxsswnDoLTYq0TukSVuuYxD2br6mHQXSp_XcIIY/s1600/Traveling+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSfFCNk_xqKuao8PUs5wsov12zqZ9r-Hifo_evPEAXqvh4KReUWvNyXpA0tAbt9E7HsZHBuEGeYLLh2UYus84e_r-fNt7PR44Cvw3yfxsswnDoLTYq0TukSVuuYxD2br6mHQXSp_XcIIY/s400/Traveling+2.jpg" title="An Amish buggy on the road in Casey County, Ky. Copyright, R.Lee Tipton 2016" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Amish buggy on the road in Casey County, Ky. Copyright, R. Lee Tipton 2016.</td></tr>
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It's funny how place can affect one's mind. Some people like to hang out in coffee shops or bars, depending on their preferences, and others prefer parties. Others, a group I claim (safely at a distance), prefer distance from all things human. For the sociable folks, it's necessary to watch people for extended periods of time, letting little fragments of life absorb almost by osmosis. For the hermit types, it's a lot different. <br /><br />We hermits tend to absorb too much, too fast. It's a sensory overload. An hour in public is often too much, and we retreat safely into our bubble of simple distance as a nearly-drowned person might seek dry land. Sanctuary is the sound-proofed space where the experiences of the perhaps overly-sensitive brain can go to attempt sorting things out.<br />
<br />
I note that a good many of the hermit types also harbor some sort of chronic illness that escalates the sand-in-one's-underwear-at-the-beach emotional equivalent. If there is already pain and discomfort, <a href="http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/" target="_blank">human interaction can quickly become torture</a>. It does make sense that adding an itch to an already painful condition would make things worse.<br />
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Growing up in Appalachia was a gift. It was a school of hard knocks that kept giving, and now it's imploding, more or less, from being unable to expand into a better place. The state I live in, in particular (in my opinion, for what it's worth), is a hard place to love. I grieve for its demise and for the narrow, unloving minds with their intolerant ways who made it what it is today. Until I can accept that, the grief will not pass. And so I do accept it. <br /><br />It is time for us to move on. The past is buried in soil abused by generations of misuse and short-term profiteering. The people have become disconnected from one another, adopting a dog-eat-dog attitude where the biggest, baddest dog gets the biggest bone, and the rest are out of luck. That's not acceptable for anyone seeking a future. This place is like a mother that doesn't love her children, a place that can't let go of what it was, because it was so much more long ago.<br />
<br />
Looking into the words I now find haunt me day and night, I see that while the fountain cannot be turned off once it begins, the flow of the fountain does change. It can gush or trickle, be hot or cold, sparkling or muddy. The fountain becomes a reflection of one's self and one's place. It's unavoidable. While the fountain may run slowly at times, to encourage that flow, it may help to change place. Location does matter. Place, too, is haunting.<br />
<br />
Looking for a place where the spirit feels at home has become a major focus. I remember listening to the songs of trees, of spring's choir of urgent reproductive activity. The sound of owls and coyotes once punctuated the night, where loud motors and human voices now echo in my mind. It's a bar fight I want no part of, as intoxicating as the words are, without fail. <br /><br />The sole consolation is a nearby band of shaggy little asses, a small herd of domesticated donkeys who raise their melancholy song along with a local rain crow and distant whippoorwill. The owl population is much reduced, going from great horned owls to a pair of tiny, skittish screech owls. <br /><br />Looking for the song of one's self is a lonely hunt. It cannot be denied. <br /><br />RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-88020393468631560032014-10-15T18:58:00.003-04:002021-04-10T15:06:30.333-04:00To light the fire..<div style="text-align: left;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The hills have gone the colors of fire. (c) RLMT</b></td></tr>
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This autumn, this fine autumn, comes treading heavily, awash with rains and morning mist, and it has turned our beloved hills to the colors of fire. Each day that passes brings winter closer, and the scent of woodsmoke in the air rivals the odor of apples and cinnamon, the defiant orange of pumpkins, and a coat of many colors laid chill upon a land. A dragon's hoard of jewels could be no more beautiful than the forests I've called home since childhood.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGrLMt6PnmczYoKoyvyJzpT5ZnHy7A_7QF64XWTjzpiUq0JlPXej4jRn3cf4K6sip23nxEw76qIHEzW0-3nloy6vGxRl-QQmiFN_m7q7-Vb-7YdwoYYoOLDRVdZClKhutcNRaK2MvPOcD/s1600/20141002_172340.jpg" height="225" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A roadside shop, selling all manner of country-produced goods. (c) RLMT</b></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGrLMt6PnmczYoKoyvyJzpT5ZnHy7A_7QF64XWTjzpiUq0JlPXej4jRn3cf4K6sip23nxEw76qIHEzW0-3nloy6vGxRl-QQmiFN_m7q7-Vb-7YdwoYYoOLDRVdZClKhutcNRaK2MvPOcD/s1600/20141002_172340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">.</a></div>
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It is my favorite time of year. Harvest moon, howling thunderstorms,
children playing among heaps of leaves, and granny-women stewing up pots
of steaming, delicious soup, hot, fresh cornbread, and sweet wonders
concocted of pumpkin or apple, and spiced just so. These are the
memories of Appalachia, of the Kentucky hills. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTFqzMmAIHj91HqCopdPBChV79C_PXaceb8oTrOp_thrrBSX5Ln0pVnyi73nwr1EhCw5asgLX-RQDj1Rzy_MYpQ6ksfFd4vyAqXHy4pVnouKP0rShccEYwDW1a-Xj1L0alLgpPs-rYPnuW/s1600/20141002_172406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTFqzMmAIHj91HqCopdPBChV79C_PXaceb8oTrOp_thrrBSX5Ln0pVnyi73nwr1EhCw5asgLX-RQDj1Rzy_MYpQ6ksfFd4vyAqXHy4pVnouKP0rShccEYwDW1a-Xj1L0alLgpPs-rYPnuW/s1600/20141002_172406.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>An assortment of autumn produce: pumpkins, squash, gourds, and so on. (c) RLMT</b></td></tr>
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Corn fodder shocks still stand for real use in some parts of the country, stuffed with field-grown cushaws, pumpkins, and other squash, as well as gourds. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebz8-oqYyqN3VdS8_WNv1GqxK-YAQgjP6lcF2AGOrfrDKwGbrUa8hEsQYxCubVNWBQSp3ohFGs6IC5SwUT-pYJoG8g-v-dRLsdkMqwQPWXLuJA-OvrGppZ45pdDLbKfIUYZHRoHBhkf9e/s1600/20141002_180728.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebz8-oqYyqN3VdS8_WNv1GqxK-YAQgjP6lcF2AGOrfrDKwGbrUa8hEsQYxCubVNWBQSp3ohFGs6IC5SwUT-pYJoG8g-v-dRLsdkMqwQPWXLuJA-OvrGppZ45pdDLbKfIUYZHRoHBhkf9e/s1600/20141002_180728.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The once-busy front porch of an abandoned Mom and Pop type store. (c) RLMT</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>“That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.”<br />― <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Ray Bradbury</span></i></span></blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpRSOyoKTnAK2Jc8SrH4R_pEI5zzL244S9DQ_utcwK0X0qnjCcmQRO8lhbYy0fsfEduP9LMu3C_aU4uBeCESoPqcJFCDhe7hWeprW7Wuz8XENKfN3lX8JTYj42GOtkCM_cRDUR8uk7C1M/s1600/20141010_111555.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpRSOyoKTnAK2Jc8SrH4R_pEI5zzL244S9DQ_utcwK0X0qnjCcmQRO8lhbYy0fsfEduP9LMu3C_aU4uBeCESoPqcJFCDhe7hWeprW7Wuz8XENKfN3lX8JTYj42GOtkCM_cRDUR8uk7C1M/s1600/20141010_111555.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>In the center of this woodland road scene is the the shadowy outline of a female Great Horned Owl. (c) RLMT/RLT</b></td></tr>
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The forests are awash with mist, silent wings at work among the trees in the low light telling of survival stories still to come, for the Great Horned Owl is our neighbor. Hard times come and go, and the land stays. Days follow days, nights hallowed nights, and the between times are earthy magic, life and death, blood and feathers on the ground. <br />
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This is my home. My homeland. Beleaguered by greed and thoughtless action, it is still my home, and I will defend it as best I can while I may, for I am a part of it. And when I am gone, it will do well to defend itself against all comers, with my blessing. <br />
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<dt><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A small bird will drop frozen dead</span></span></i>
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<dt><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">From a bough</span></span></i>
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<dt><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Without ever having felt sorry for itself. <br /><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">- D.H. LAWRENCE, Self-Pity</span></span></b></span></span></i></dt>
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<br />RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-16589185393601849372013-06-09T16:53:00.007-04:002020-02-11T15:45:57.292-05:00Into every life a little rain must fall. Pray for wildflowers to grow. (My world.)<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The woodlands of Kentucky are green, green, green. Early summer is upon us in our peaceful hermitage residence. The gardens we started putting in as soon as the snows had passed are coming to fruition. They too are green, green, green. We eat fresh food, a blessing the earth provides if given a good change, and we eat it without the involvement of chemicals or heavily science-forced forms of life. Every day is a new day, nature-welcomed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Blackberries already bend their canes, though the season is far yet from their ripening. We are preparing to make cherry jelly and preserves from fresh-picked, chemical-free fruit. The promise of clean-grown peaches and quince awaits, with apples for the late season. We've located a persimmon tree with uncommonly large fruit, and when the summer is gone, we'll be visiting there...with luck, before the opossums find the frost-kissed goodies. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Work is where you find it. If you can't make cash, make food. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Cabbage: sauerkraut. Broccoli, cauliflower, peppers, onions: mixed pickle. Beets: fresh leaves for salad and sweet-pickled treats. Sweet potatoes and 'Irish' potatoes: winter filler. Pimiento peppers: salads, stored in brine. Green beans: canned in jars, very valuable winter fare. Corn: canned, frozen, dried and ground into meal. Bell peppers: pickled, frozen, served stuffed with rice and other vegetables and topped with cheese? Onions: fresh and green, pickled, stored with potatoes for winter use. Spaghetti squash: keeps well all winter in a cool dim place for baking. Sugar snap peas: salads, cooked whole with potatoes and cornbread? Herbs! Sage. Rosemary. Mints. Kitchen flavorings of all kinds: include cilantro, from which the seeds are coriander. Basil. Jalapeno peppers, cayenne peppers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> We do not labor over food production, but work within its needs and abilities. Wide-row gardening does not require rototilling, constant disturbance of the earth, nor a great deal of water. Hoe work, chopping out the rows? It doesn't happen; there is no need. Given a chance, the plants themselves will do most of the work. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Weeds? A weed is a plant you don't know the use of ... yet. Weeds proliferate at the edges of our garden, but the bug populations do not: the insects who invade gardens prefer a wide selection of their native plants, which are not available in 'traditional', high-labor gardening. Given feast or famine, a bug will eat a plant it doesn't care for normally, just as a truly hungry child will. We do not use noxious chemicals to aid our work, but let the plants themselves have a chance through more natural means. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Consider companion planting: many plants benefit one another. Certain combinations can be wonderfully cooperative, or dismally dissatisfied to the 'Green People' (plants). Aphids on your roses? Plant some chives in a pot and set it near the roses. Chives repel aphids!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> A man by the name of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masanobu_Fukuoka" target="_blank">Fukuoka</a> came up with some very efficient and creative methods as well. Natural farming! Do-Nothing Farming! But real and a serious way to combat hunger. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Gardening-By-The-Square-Foot falls right into place alongside these methods. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I refuse to fear Nature, for she is me. Together, we breathe the same air, drink the same waters, set our feet to the same earth, and stumble over the same hardships and stones along the way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Living with green things, gardening, is not a mathematical undertaking. It is a Zen kind of Way, a method or philosophy of growth and well-being carried into the needs of the future. Gardening IS.<br /><br /> In this little piece of the world, life is precious. Pain is a blessing, for it tells you something is wrong. It can be endured but not ignored. Nor should it permit life to be perceived as any less precious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> It is well known, across many faiths, that for every thing, there is a reason and a season for its being. For every ill, there is some form of peace to be found. Every wildflower, every living thing, is holy in its own being. For the serpent of the dim places, the gnawing of their prey, rodents, for the bugs, the arachnids who can and do poison either through some gift of evolution on their own or by chance. Every thing. Every part of the whole need not be a thing of beauty to every other part. It need only be. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> We, poor stumbling learners, must find our own Way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> I pray for wildflowers to grow. I walk slowly in the gift of summer rain, and touch the earth with seeds whenever possible, looking for a way to make the world a little better. I am an imperfect vessel seeking any glimpse of the perfection of the whole. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Grow. Love the rain. Be. Life IS.</span>RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9087474548404099112.post-22852145196779808002013-05-10T19:22:00.004-04:002020-02-11T15:50:06.024-05:00A Mystery (poem)<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in; page-break-before: always;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Tb7p9Owe8oiAexthO0xpT9tHhQgULIOl0LLJXQIcg8oMPbKRJ1ctFc4a9SBCMHYlJ-gHQTUFNRW3qBQLbP7T48Jeozy8NkjDZfivvJlPvFciEoVBnjwPvyKSk2G9zodf82h96ovx6828/s1600/There+will+be+respect+in+this+herd+ART.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Tb7p9Owe8oiAexthO0xpT9tHhQgULIOl0LLJXQIcg8oMPbKRJ1ctFc4a9SBCMHYlJ-gHQTUFNRW3qBQLbP7T48Jeozy8NkjDZfivvJlPvFciEoVBnjwPvyKSk2G9zodf82h96ovx6828/s400/There+will+be+respect+in+this+herd+ART.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Original digital art from an original photo, "Pony Romp". Copyright 2012 by RLMT/blog-author.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>A Mystery</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Do Bumblebees</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Sleep in the rain?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Do they shower and snore</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> With a rainbow before</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Pulling petals
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Up tight beneath chins?
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The rainbow is sure</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> To share its colors anew</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Each time the flowers
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Dance under summer showers</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The music all played
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> In wind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">While the impossible wings</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> No longer hum</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To carry the impossible aloft,
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> From city to croft</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The children all sing</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Of the bumblebee's love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">From the wilds of the barnyard</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Comes a dancing mambo string</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of pony hooves lacing the air</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> No gypsy's fine fair</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Could parade with such sparkle</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Nor could racers do more to display.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The impossible horse
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> On impossible feet</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Waltzing without mathematical design</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Makes the scientist resign</span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To see magic alive on the hoof</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> In the form of the horse.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A field of daisies and timothy grass</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> A haven, a heaven to know</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Where the bumblebee may sleep</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The birds of the field do cheep</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And glorious horses run</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> On impossibly tiny quick feet</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I look for impossible clues</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Amid beauty and color,</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The impossible blooms,
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> The mystery resumes,
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And all of nature's design</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Is genius true in its grace.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A ride on the horse is impossible yet</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> It makes my heart play tunes</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Seeking one chance</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> To visit in trance,
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One solitary creature asleep.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> ...Do bumblebees sleep in the rain?</span></div>
RLMThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00332092032368975641noreply@blogger.com0