Total Pageviews

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Pandemic 5462

Pandemic 5462

“What time?” The nurse’s questions seemed to quicken the drum roll between my ears.  The pounding behind my eyes was making it difficult to comprehend.  My hair seemed to ache and my skin felt as though it were puckering.  “What time?  What time did you say your first sneeze was?”  That whining voice was beginning to penetrate the fog.

“Actually, I looked directly at the clock, knowing this would be on the test and it was precisely 8:10 am.”  Or at least that’s what I thought I said.  What actually came slurring out of my mouth, along with copious amounts of saliva and phlegm, “eighthtin.”  Nodding as she noted her file, she turned and began to leave.

My mind was racing in a thousand directions simultaneously, and then when I blinked the thoughts were wading through quick sand.  I couldn’t concentrate for the rattle under my scalp. Mostly I was relieved ‘Nurse Cratchet’ was away from my bedside.

My wonderfully caring husband had rushed me to the hospital.  Having met us at the Emergency Room door, the personnel on hand had taken one look at me, tightened their protective clothing just a little more closely and hustled me into a room.  A room!  Not the corridor filled with rows and gurneys filled with aching and injured people.  I got a room.  Silly, stupid girl.  It finally began to dawn on me, I was in quarantine. I could see Bob’s worried expression through the small window in the door. 

Bob had found me that morning.  I had awakened early.  I was meeting friends for lunch and wanted to have the a few chores done and out of the way.  I had been in the lower level laundry when I realized I was in trouble.  I couldn’t catch my breath.  He found me unconscious and sprawled across the stairs.  At least I was headed up instead of down!

My back and feet began to ache.  My skin felt “puckery” all over.  I could breathe again.  Taking in huge gulps of the oxygen hose they had under my nose I could feel the fog in my head begin to clear.  In hindsight I am still struck by my thoughts. 

It was as though my mind was performing a check on my body.  It was as though I was of two minds.  I could nearly see the secondary, new mind checking.  Extremities – check four limbs.  Gender – check female.  Head – check proportioned appropriately with ample room for all.  Unusual to say the least!

Then I got a look at my reflection in that little window.  The last thing I remember before the drugs took hold….screaming….screaming….screaming… altered state was nothing that my mind was ready for.

A year has passed since then.  Me, along with the few other survivors of this invasion.  That’s what we call it, the medical field  has a different name.  They call it Pandemic 5462.  It wiped out nearly two-thirds of the Earth’s population of humans.  All off the great apes have been wiped out.  Any primate in Africa was afflicted and perished. 

We survivors are separated from the remaining population, fear of more outbreaks is the “official” reasoning behind the move.  Fear is what I hear.  Those of us who live with the infection?  We are OF two minds.  We can USE two minds.  We WILL begin our move out of these confines……soon. 

Saturday, January 10, 2015

Are The Auld Stories True?

Are the Auld Stories True?

We were off to “who knows where”.  I was in the passenger seat idly looking out the window at my flowers.  That’s when I saw.  I was so stunned!  I sat back in the seat.  Not comprehending the conversation Bob was apparently in the middle of.  Today, changed my life.  I know what I saw.   I know that I saw!

It was a lovely morning in mid May.  The sun, while warm, was still crisp with Spring time.  Some mornings there was still a bit of a nip in the air.   The air was so clean still that distance was nearly inconceivable. 

Gazing at my hydrangea bush, he flew into my line of sight.  We locked eyes.  He knew that I saw him, and I knew I had seen him.  He was at least four feet in the air.  Flying at, what seemed to me, break neck speed straight at our car! His auburn hair was close cropped or pulled backing into some sort of tail. The wings, my brain said, are those of a dragon fly! What left an indelible mark on my memory were the startling blue eyes. He was no more than ten feet from us. In the blink of an eye, he reverse direction.  

It didn't seem to me that he had legs. Or perhaps they were tucked up under him, not unlike some birds. I did see something on his arm, a band of some sort.  I can only guess the meaning of it.  Perhaps it signified his detail at patrolling the yard. 

That very instant my life changed.  While I haven’t been so fortunate as to be a part of their confidence, I now treat my garden in a much different fashion.  I am concerned, how many in their clan?  Where is their location? How many of them are there?  What is their territory?  Are all the auld stories true?

I quit picking the strawberries from my garden, and yet they disappear.  I set out small bits of leftovers, they disappear overnight. Bob and I make certain there is daily fresh water in the bird bath and the bee bath.  Scraps of thread, yarn and material also vanish from the back yard.  The carpenter bees are gone from our yard and still I hear movement in the wood they used to inhabit.

Wondering where they spend the winter, I have peeked into nooks and crannies around the neighborhood.  It is now firmly cemented in everyone's mind, I am the crazy lady on the corner!  

We, Bob and I, are very pleased at this point.  And, yet, I am concerned. Are all the auld stories of Faeries and Elves and Trolls, and their wars true? We are a little fearful for what may come in the Spring. 


Thursday, November 27, 2014


Sense of Entitlement

Reflections of Ferguson, Missouri versus Kewadin, Michigan

Some of you may not appreciate my story, today especially.  But, as usual, I feel the need to express myself and it will probably be akin to smacking the hornets’ nest.

The disruption over Ferguson, Missouri has forced long buried memories to surface.  Go along with my tale and hopefully you will begin to see the relevance.

In my early twenties, I shared a big farm house in Kewadin, Michigan, with four other twenty something girls.  It was big and white, and on the corner of Cairn Highway and Cherry Avenue. Just around the corner from The Red Bull Oasis.

Naturally, with that many young ladies living under one roof, there was a barrage of young men there also.  None for me, of course.  I was working three jobs and seldom even there.  Just long enough to rest my head. Nearly all of us worked for Schuss Mountain in some capacity.  Most were waitresses who worked evenings.

I was the breakfast supervisor at Schuss Mountain restaurant, early in the morning.  Then I would spend a few hours in the afternoon working for Brian Cairns, the General Manager, as his administrative assistant.  In the evenings I worked either as a bartender at the Manistee Lake Lounge, in Kalkaska, or as a waitress at the Town Club, downtown Elk Rapids.

While working at the Town Club one Friday night a young man stepping into the bar through the back door.  The bartenders head swiveled, he picked up a twelve pack of beer and took it to the young man.  I was curious and asked about the situation. I was told “Indians don’t belong in here, they can come to the back door and buy beer by the twelve pack and then they leave.”   Not once, that whole summer, did I see any Native American step foot into that bar as a patron.

However, there were a couple of women, from the local Reservation, who worked the back kitchen.  Their daughters and granddaughters often came in to lend a hand on the weekends.  It was September, on a Friday night. The thirteen year old granddaughter of Rosie came in battered and crying.  She had been walking home from school when a truck load of white boys swooped down on her.  Beaten and raped, they left her lying in the field they had dragged her to.  The grandmother wiped her eyes, and chided her to forget about it and get on with her life because nothing would or could be done.  They were white boys.

Well, I got a bit angry with that attitude.  I spouted off to my boss that it was just wrong that as a business he could charge them more money at the back door for a six pack of beer than he charged white people by the bottle sitting in his bar. There is a song that was fairly popular, I hated it and still do.  “In the Summertime”.  It is the epitome of entitlement.  In The Summertime  "If her daddy's rich than take her out for a meal, if he daddy's poor just do what you feel."

The next weekend, I wasn't on the roster to work.  I was so happy to have a weekend off and to myself and be able to relax. 

They guy broke into the house about 10:30 pm.  He ripped the cream colored princess phone off the wall.  As we struggled, I kept thinking it was like something out of a movie; knocking over lamps and furniture breaking. As he punched me and kicked me, he told me no one cared what happened to me.  No one would come to help me or exact any punishment to him; not my family, not my friends, no one.  He called me nasty, nasty names and then quite obviously to make certain I knew where this originated from, threw in “Indian lover”. 

The events taking place in Ferguson, Missouri are not actually about young Mr. Michael Brown.  They are about the sense of entitlement exhibited by a cocksure white skinned police officer.  This young man’s death was tragic, it is especially tragic because it demonstrates how out of control the community has evolved.  Feeling you can do or say anything to anybody, whether here in Michigan or there in Missouri, is not an execution of your first amendment, it is a demonstration in the sense of entitlement. Full blown demonstration by a lone police officer thinking he could “take on” several larger, younger, more physically fit, young men.  Cocksure with his lineage of entitlement.
Fourteen other young black men had been shot by policemen in Ferguson, why this one?  Because enough is enough.

Did I file a police report on that incident I lived through?  No.  Why would I?  The police were many of the bars patrons.  I donate money to causes that fight against this.  I speak up when I can.  If you need that sense of entitlement, if you need to hate black people or Native Americans, or Irish, or Jewish, or Spanish, or Mexican….whomever…if you need to put someone else down to feel better about yourself, we have a dysfunctional society.


Friday, November 7, 2014


Donations – in it for the prize?

Because the town I grew up in was rather small, and the county at one point was the poorest in the state, there was quite a stigma attached to me as I applied for jobs.  “Where in the world is Kalkaska?!”  Was often the first question most  potential employers asked. 

Fighting for a level footing in the big wide world, being from Kalkaska was more of a handicap than being female in a male dominated arena!  I was, immediately, thought of as backwards and back woods. 

When I would begin to defend Kalkaska, it would sometimes slip out that I was the Senior Class President.  Too often showing my pride, “The first female senior class president in Kalkaska.”  Based on this tid-bit of knowledge, my employers tended to expect more from me.  I had to work harder than anyone else to prove myself.  I was female, blonde, and worst of all from Kalkaska.  Talk about uphill battles.

In an effort to pass along the torch, to make the lives of those who followed  a little easier, I have always donated to Kalkaska.  Not to gain a “prize”.  Not for any “publicity”.  And certainly not for a “better place in the community” for I never moved back.

But, I have wanted to help the place I learned most of life’s lessons.  I have wanted to help those helping others.  I wanted the school system to be one of the best. (there is no guarantee of quality in a larger scholastic system) When my friends, still in town, brought events to my knowledge I have made certain to participate as much as I could.

I joined a Facebook website  called “You Know You’re From Kalkaska” to keep abreast of events happening.  I tried to always share pertinent information to those who also left the community but try to stay involved.  I decided to terminate that relationship, recently.

I have subsequently gone back to the site to see if I could copy/paste to substantiate.  Thankfully, the unkind words have been taken down from the site.  Thank you.  However, my intent is not to point fingers at those involved.  But to let others know that those people who cyber attacked me only made me leave the site not end my relationship with Kalkaska. 

I donate because it’s the right thing to do, not because I might win some prize.  The prize giver had been showing drawings and pictures of the items they intended to donate.  I asked, many times, if they would promote the event and not the donation.  To this, I was hounded.  Told I must be jealous, that I am petty, and that I am mean, and just who did I think I was?! 

I’ll be happy to tell you who I am.  I am someone who grew up in Kalkaska and has been donating to the school system, among other worthy platforms, for nearly forty years.  And…I know this may come as a surprise, I know many others who have donated far more that I, who also don’t need a prize in order to want a better heritage for those who come next.

Kalkaska is my “home town”.  The local cyber-bullies haven’t run me out.  They probably do need to watch out that I do not move back.


Friday, April 11, 2014

D is for Divine Grace

D is for Divine Grace

Blogging Challenge from A to Z


The words startled her.  Looking around, curious expression on her face, she searched for the speaker.  No one was there.  Shaking her head, she thought “I have got to cut back on the coffee!”

Moments later, the words again. “You shall reap what you sow.” Jumping, in defense she grabbed the only thing near her, a flower vase.  Not a very sturdy vase at that.  However, the art-deco flowers embossed on the sides would put a sizable welt on someone’s head.  No one there.

Creeping as softly as she could, peeking around corners and behind closed doors.  She found no one there.
I guess,” she thought “at least the words aren’t telling me to do
something horrendous.”

Perched in her favorite chair, fuzzy lap blanket thrown over her knees, she began thumbing through her magazine again. 


Sitting as still as she could, she began to understand.  “Getting” the message, being able to hear the words, the gift of feeling the lesson.  She had finally reached that pinnacle.  Reached the spiritual, physical plateau where lessons from beyond were obtainable, and it seemed the knowledge simply poured forth.  Was it beyond?  Or simply beside? Or had she gone to them?


Thursday, April 3, 2014

C is for Crafts

C is for Crafts



Rising from the depths, the glowing orbs illuminated the sea as brightly as the mid-day sun.

The sea had been particularly calm that evening.  Gentle waves lapped at the side of the boat as we watched the magnificent sunset.  Bright oranges, yellows, greens and golds flared across the horizon.  It was an evening topped with good company and a flavorful bottle of wine.

Jelly Fish
We had been saving the wine for just a evening event as this.  Leaning against back in my deck chair, the warm breezes on my face, I truly felt Heaven couldn't be better.  The contented expressions on my companions faces told the same story; contentment.  We had worked hard the past few days, moving this lovely yacht to its new location for its new owner.  We had jotted down all the little “idiosyncrasies” we’d found for the new owner’s mechanic to check out.  Now we had our reward.

The sun’s last ray dipped below the horizon allowing the stars to simply pop.  Leaning back, we took turns pointing out the various constellations.  Their glittering may have been what delayed our noticing the ocean coming alive. 

Red Tide
“Waterway Transportation” is the name of our company.  We have moved everything from small sailing vessels to tankers, up and down the coast.  No, I no longer even own my own water vessel.  (have to be careful, the difference between boats and ships is considerable to my clients) If the vessel is large enough, we load our Harley’s.  If it isn’t we fly back to our base.  Each of us has a different base, it all depends on where your family lives.  That’s base.  But, I digress….
Vampire Squid

The twinkling from beneath the waves appeared to be rising faster than we anticipated and was going to surface all around us. 

Derrek was the first to notice. “Squid.” He said matter-of-factly.  We each took turns guessing at which bioluminescent creature would be rising to the surface to feed.  “Jelly fish” , “Red Tide”, “Atolla”, each of us shouted out something different.  Mind you, we certainly aren’t scientists but after a few years on the water you get so you have seen quite a bit and not too much startles us. 

After a short lull,  Lenny then hollered out, “The elusive pyrosome!”  We all looked at him.  “Just happy I remembered it’s name…”

“What?!”  We each blurted in unison.  Our boat began to rock. The waves became a stronger and higher and the gentle lapping was no longer.  They burst from the water, as a child would blow bubbles through a wand.  Dozens and dozens of them.  We each stood motionless, caught in the moment.  Filled with awe, our mouths dropped open as we watched their ascent.   

It began as a whisper, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” With each utterance it became louder and louder, until Derrek was screaming.  Screaming as he was drawn upward into the now airborne craft.


Wednesday, April 2, 2014

B is for Boo

B is for Boo

Opening my eyes with a jolt to the sound of the early morning alarm was actually a relief.  For weeks now I have been awakened, throughout my nighttime rest, by unknown noises. 

I anticipated some creaking and groaning from my newly acquired home.  I had expected the normal foundation settling could make some of the first nights restless.  Even the sounds of the roof flexing with the sun can make noises.  But these mid-night awakenings were far beyond that.

The second morning, after awakening six times during the night to loud bangs, I walked the perimeter and found a couple of places needing the attention of a handyman.  The third morning, I called a roofer.  The fourth morning I called an exterminator.  It’s now been six weeks.

Six weeks with little to no sleep.  I look like I could pack the bags under my eyes for a month long trip! Dark circles sagging skin all point to sleepless nights.  I haven’t dreamt in a very long time. 

Meeting for coffee, strong coffee, my friends comment on how much work I must be doing in my new home.  After my quizzical look, they all turned slightly away saying how tired I look. 

Jan was the first to say it. “It’s really there isn’t it.” Her words were a statement not a question.  Pursing her lips she stared accusingly at me.  “I told you the history of that house!  I told you what the previous owners said.”

I just don’t believe all that nonsense.  Ghosts, spectral beings, aliens…..come on.  Get real.  They just don’t exist anywhere but in the fantasies of the gullible.  The weak minded are generally being lead around by some “guru” for whatever money or other asset can get pumped out of them.

That being said, I allowed my friend Jan to make the call.  Jan had lived on that side of the city for a very long time.  She knew the best pizza joint, the easiest in and out coffee bistro, which salon had the best stylist.  Overall, she had this side of town down.  She knew everyone, and pretty much everyone knew her.  She could get the lowdown on any place, any thing, or on any body!  She made the call.

Our “spectral” retriever was to swing by my house the upcoming weekend.  In the meantime, I walked the perimeter of the house checking for “critter access”.  I went over the bills from the exterminator, no bugs/bees/rats or raccoons.  No trees leaning on the rooftop. 

Tired of looking at the house, I decided to calm my unreasonable nervousness with a nice cup of tea. Sitting on the front porch, sipping my herbal tea, I felt the hand touch me.  Whispers in my ear….”BOO..I know what you’ve done and it won’t stop me”.