Who Am I

Who Am I?

The Blogging Lounge  -  #1
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He stared at his reflection in the mirror.  It had been two years since the accident or beating or whatever had happened to him that he ended up in the hospital.  No recollection.  No idea of his original identity.  No notion of family. That scruffy  face  staring back is just as blank as his memory.

The shrink he had been assigned to encouraged him to go back to the site where he was found.  Hundreds of trips to that bend in the road and it’s still just a bend in the road that trails down a steep ravine. Hence the question of his injuries.

There really were no visible injuries other than that nasty gouge on the back of his head.  His rescuers were adamant that it was there before they dragged him up the hill.  He still teasingly accused them of bouncing his head off every rock they could, on the way up.

The shrink won’t hypnotize him.  Says it’s better for him to either go on with life as it is or recall as the healing progresses.  She says it’s too dangerous at this time, his mind could make up a past and then never know the truth. 

People would randomly ask him about his youth, these have simply been feeble attempts to jog his memory.  Initially, those questions were quite disconcerting.  Lately he’d become accustomed to their queries and no longer deemed it as hurtful prying, instead just the innocent notions of helpfulness.

When he first awakened, in the hospital, a nurse on her rounds stopped to check on him.  Her first question was, “What is your name?”  He hadn’t been able to forget the initial shock at not being able to recall his own name.  It was a physical jolt to him.

When he begins to hound the shrink about “Alternative Medicines”, she gives him her best “I don’t think so” look and ignores the rest of his diatribe.  They’ve been down that path of discussion more than once. 

“Who AM I?”, he demands often of the shrink.  To which she replies, “We are each the sum of all of our experiences, including; all physical or mental, conscious or subconscious, real or imagined.  We are the sum of our hopes, fears and dreams.  We are the sum of ever essence or spirit we have come into contact with.  We are the end result of our ability to categorically rationalize.  Today, you are you.”

leigh

Naughty or Nice

Naughty or Nice

GBE 2: Blog On  Week #135

Flopping down onto the bed, she lay on her back.  The ceiling seemed to hold her thoughts and floating between herself and the ceiling lay memories.  Floating as dust mites, wafting and waiting for recollection.

The last time she felt this wound up, this exuberant, this on edge, she had to sleep for days afterwards in recuperation.  Older and wiser, she understood the consequences of acting on this “feeling”. Plucking that memory from the air she turned onto her side and smiled.  Mona Lisa couldn't give a more mischievous smile.

“Naughty!” She heard that often while running down the hallway after chewing on the spare roll of toilet paper her human kept hidden in the cabinet.  “Naughty!” After biting the toothpaste tube and eating that glorious minty gel, then throwing it all up in the middle of the couch.  “Naughty!” When her human’s friend walked past and she grabbed a leg to trip them up.  “Naughty!” The litter box was full so she had to resort to using her human’s clothing which was strewn on the floor.  “Naughty!”  As she put her paw into her human’s drink container to have a little taste.  “Naughty!” The dead mouse got the best reaction.

Laughing, she licked her paw.  There is much to be said for Naughty! Naughty definitely gets attention.  But, then, again….there is “Nice.”

Nice is lying here on the human’s bed, breathing in the wisp of dreams left behind.  Insinuating her own so they might intertwine for tonight.  Nice is curled on the human’s lap watching “Animal Planet”, when it’s Big Cat week! Nice is being scratched in all those places she just can’t reach herself.  Nice is a shared treat from the kitchen.  Nice is sitting together on the deck in the Spring sun. 

There is much good to be said about nice. Nice gets another kind of attention.  After all, isn't that the real question?  How will you demand your attention?  Naughty or Nice?

leigh 

Anti-Bucket List

Anti-Bucket List

Week # 134 GBE 2: Blog On

Pulling my shawl a little closer around my shoulders, I hunched against the smooth cold earthen wall.  The weather simply had not let up in days.  While we had supplies for a week, two if we really stretched the water, we needed to get out of the cramped safety hull.  Jimmie had been laying stretched out next to me, I picked his feet up and slid them into my lap under my heavy shawl. 

This season of dust storms started blowing during the coldest winter on record.  The dust is so fine, it penetrates everything it comes into contact with.  With wind gusts up to 70 mph, you cannot help but breath it in.  Like breathing on the end of a sand blasting hose, it tears up your lungs.

The children have it the hardest.  Some little ones have only ever know the harsh weather patterns we now have.  I am old enough to have a vague memory of still star filled nights and hot moist afternoons laying in the grass staring at the same cloud for what seemed like hours.

Initially, GreatGran would tell stories of the dust bowl days of her youth.  The Great Depression, the dust storms, and hunger across the nation.  She would tell us how they found that Mother Earth needs her grasses to hold the soil.  She needs the prairie dog to enrich the soil.  Once again, corporate greed ignored the lessons learned by past generations.  The wind gusts, dust pounds on the outer most boards protecting the seals.  The dust pounds trying to take revenge on those of us who have persevered and lived this long. 

This is a worse drought/famine than in GreatGran’s time.  This time China, Russia and the United States have ignored the needs of our planet…all three of the “great nations” have extreme drought.  There isn't going to be a “hero” this time.  Everyone is hungry.

“It sounds like the worst of the storm is overhead now.  It should be soon and we’ll be able to go forage.” I sound far more confident that I am. “Let’s play the game.  Angela, you go first.”

We each in turn told one another of dreams we've had, whether they were night dreams or days dreams it didn't matter.  What mattered was that we talked.  We couldn't forget to talk to one another, then we would simply become objects to one another and risk our very humanity. 

When it came my turn I spoke of my memories; sun drenched days basking in the tall grass at the edge of the garden as we plucked the sweet baby corn from their stalks, still moon swept nights with the windows open watching the curtains for that first slow whisper of a breeze, lying in bed listening to the birds soft morning songs rousing the world from sleep.  I told many more stories that night than I had in the past few years, I guess I was a bit nostalgic. Coughing, I dragged on.  I wanted them all to know. 

One little cherub turned her face to me, “Why do you call this game the Anti-Bucket List?” 

I smiled and touched her face.  “It is my list for life.  My reason to fight on.  It is not the things I want to do before I die…it is my celebration of why I plan to wake up in the morning.  My Anti-Bucket List.”

leigh

Inspirations

Inspirations

GBE 2: Blog On

Week #132 (11-24-13 – 11-30-13)

I am inspired by people who do things without regard to the “heroic” accolade.

I am inspired by love in the atmosphere.

I am inspired by kindness.

I am inspired by goodwill towards ALL mankind, not just those you know personally, not just those in your immediate sphere of influence.  ALL MANKIND.

“Mom…don’t nag.  I know, I know, I should visit with Dad more.  But, our relationship is half his responsibility too!”  I could see my daughter was upset.  Visibly her eyes flashed and audibly her voice was beginning to crack.  We had, once again, touched upon the tender topic of her father.

He is currently in remission from lung cancer, stage four. 

Their relationship began tenuously.  When I confirmed I was pregnant at the age of 26, with five years of marriage under our belts, he told me he was too young to be a parent.  I became the overbearing, over protective, over indulgent Mamma Bear.  Her father became the aloof, had to work out of town, wouldn’t take her with him to the ice-cream store unless his good friend also was relegated baby-sitting his son who was the same age.  (Thanks Randy)

Disconnected, we cohabitated for many years. Holding small grudges against one another, disdain quickly permeated the household. 

The divorce was ugly.  We won’t go into that now, for this essay is about inspirations. 

My daughter was thirteen and wanted to join in a function through school.  Since those practices were to be held on the same day as her “mid-week” visit with her father, I told her we would have to make certain to get his approval.  He didn’t approve.  She couldn't participate.

She wanted desperately to be a cheerleader.  After deciding she just had to try and making the “cut”, that particular squad’s coach quit.  I volunteered to be a stand-in until they found someone.  (three years later, they found someone)  Upon meeting my diverse squad, I realized very quickly that accommodations had to be made for the emotional growth of these beautiful girls. 

  

My daughter’s biological father came to a few of the games she cheered at.  We encouraged her to go with him to dinner after the games.  We encouraged her to interact with him.  We felt a good relationship would be good for her emotional growth. 

In the public school my daughter attended, nearly every child on that cheer squad came from a broken home.  Many didn’t know one or the other of their parents.  Some wished they didn’t know the parent they lived with, coming in with bruises.  All needed loving attention.  (I was given that large family I had wanted in my youth!)  Shortly after accepting this temporary position, that paid me a whopping $68.45 per month, my daughter was moved up to the next level of cheerleaders and off my squad.

As a public school team, we used the uniforms on hand. (they were about 20 years old) Of the sixteen young ladies on the squad, two were not afraid to ask their parents for the money to buy new white tennis shoes.  My wonderful husband never said a word when I happened to buy a “few extra” pairs of shoes.  He helped me wash and alter uniforms for children we may or may not ever see again.  He cooked dinner for our gaggle of geese; sixteen Black, Hispanic, and Asian girls often spent the night with their blond haired, blue eyed coach and her equally white husband.  The girls would often play with my hair and tease me telling me I had “old white lady hair”.

My daughter now lives in her own home about a half an hour away from me.  She and her significant other have often invited her father over, to which he has declined every time.  My daughter works two jobs and her beau often works out of town.  They have a spare bedroom and have invited her biological father to spend the weekend.  He has always declined.  He has never met her beau and to the outside observer, it appears he does not want to.  He is in remission from cancer and does not want to reach out to his (to my knowledge) only child. How sadly selfish.

But, this essay isn’t about me….I was purely selfish in my indulgence.  Working with those wonderful young ladies was something I wanted to do.  They kept me young, laughing, and “in the know” about the local gossip. I was more excited to work with them than they were to have “made the squad”!

My inspiration was the quiet man who attended the games of his stepdaughter and whenever he knew about them his biological daughters, called his daughters diligently, sent money to his daughters so they could buy “themselves” something, paid his child support on time without complaint, went “without” so children he didn't know could eat the snack he provided before every game (we usually bought a peck of apples and a box of graham crackers for the players and the cheer squad to share), the man who urged me to spend time with my sister as she succumbed to cancer, the man who became more involved with his sister’s children when they lost their mother, the man who make certain I take care of myself so he will have someone to pester.  I am inspired by the man who tries to make the world a little bit less harried for those around him no matter the hardship to himself.  

leigh

Three Five-Sentence Stories

GBE 2: Blog On
WEEK #127 (10-20-13 to 10-26-13): THREE FIVE-SENTENCE NANO-FICTION STORIES 

Bradley

"Eat that pickle or I’m gonna turn the football game on”. Grampa peered at his five year old granddaughter over his glasses, watching for her reaction.  Entranced, she lovingly gazed at the television set as My Little Pony pranced across the screen. Brows knit together, lips pursed she eyeballed Grampa with determination. Her resolve put to the test, she quickly downed the pickle.

Richard

“I grew up around farms, that little Shetland pony will be good to have for the kids”.  Standing in the middle of the dirt road, the two men were surrounded by every neighborhood kid over the age of three and younger than 20.  “That pony is strong, he can carry me,” Dad hopped onto the back of Tonka, the pony looked around at us kids and proceeded to buck.  Dad when end over teakettle onto his back, sputtering he attempted again with the same results.  I always respected that pony.

Bob

Sitting in the rocking chair, television blasting a cartoon, Grampa was being “taught” how to play her games on his i-pad.  He rocked back and forth as the six year old rambled on, taking in every instruction with earnest and deliberate care.  Sipping his coffee, he smelled her hair again and drank in the joy of her presence.  “Grampa, I love you”.  The day was complete. 

Respect

GBE 2: Blog On

Week # 125

Respect

He bent over the fallen deer and thanked it for sacrificing itself for his family.  Deftly, he pulled his knife from its sheath and began the process of cleaning the venison before taking it back to his family.  Swiftly, he pulled the heart and took a bite.  The blood ran down his arm.  He grimaced.

Flaring Star did not care for eating the heart immediately, but it was expected of him.  He felt it was too soon after the animals death.  He felt to truly respect the animal, one should wait until its soul had completely left the body and even the area.  But, tradition/religion/past practice dictated that he should eat the heart immediately for all to see. The rest of the hunting party soon encircled him as he hunkered over the felled stag. They too were starving.  The sight of meat began a stomach rumbling heard throughout the thicket.  The venison was loaded onto the makeshift cart with the other carcasses; squirrels, rabbits, ducks and blue jays.

At the camp, the women divvied the meat among the families.  Times had become difficult with an early harsh winter.  Many of the hunters had come back to the camp with only tree bark of the birch to feed the tribe.  Many children and the elderly had become sickly.  The tribe’s women took care to divide what little they had among all the families.  The cook pot over the fire was mostly warm water and herbs.  Foraging daily for roots and vegetables, the women took care to stay away from the hibernating bear caves, respecting the ire they may encounter should a sow be awakened by their chatter. 

Honoring one another.  Caring enough to be grateful.  Thoughtful of others well-being.  

Respect.

leigh

Birthdays

GBE 2: Blog On

Week #124  

Birthdays

Standing at the back of the room.  Arms folded and leaning against the wall.  I wear a smile on my face to hide the emotions which have begun to roil in my torso.  My stomach churns, my heart beats a little more quickly and my palms have begun to sweat.  My mind takes me back to that fateful day. 

One of the children squealed returning me to the “here and now”.  Gala decorations adorned nearly every once empty space on the walls and ceiling.  Bright colored ribbons and wrapping paper whispered hints as to the contents they held hidden.

Children gathered around the table, expectant looks upon their faces as they turned towards the door leading into the kitchen.  Someone dimmed the lights.  The glow of the candle festooned cake as it was slowly presented to the room, lit every child’s face.  All eyes widened.  All smiles became full.  And nearly all licked their lips in anticipation.

Me, I was taken back. I was one of the children at the table that day.  I had widened my eyes and licked my lips.  I had wished.  I had squeezed my eyes shut and wished the wish. “Please let me have a thousand more birthdays”.  I said it over and over to myself.  If I had been older, or perhaps at least thought through just what I was wishing for.  I never would have put it so simplistically.  It was a simply wish with great complications. 

After eating my piece of cake a couple of my buddies and I decided to get out our skateboards and roll, at least until it was time to open presents.  I could tell my Mom was certainly ready for some of us to burn up some sugar powered energy for a few minutes and let her clean up. 

Reggie and I were best friends. He lived three houses down and across the street.  He had a fenced back yard and a dog.  I don’t know why I didn't wish for a dog, I suppose because I could play with Reggie’s dog anytime I wanted. And I sure loved his dog. 

My skateboard was yellow and green swirls.  Reggie’s was blue and gold.  We were fiercely competitive on our skateboards. Down the sidewalk, jumping broken pieces, dodging the old lady walkers, smiling with our mouths shut to keep from swallowing too many bugs. 

To say that we egged each other on would be an understatement.  Maneuvering our boards to the top of the hill, we grinned at one another in a silent challenge.  We had already been severely chastised for racing down the hill.  Reggie had been “grounded” from playing with me for a week.  I was spanked and sent to my room.  But, this was a special day which in our minds required a special celebratory challenge.   Down the hill, through the neighbor’s drive, jump the broken sidewalk near the squirrel filled oak tree and back into my house without detection. 

First to fly down the hill…first to be hit by the car.  That pain was now over 400 years ago.  The doctors operated for hours on us.  I got to keep most of my usable parts, however, there weren't many.  I’m 410 years old now.  I’m lonely for people who get my jokes. 

It’s difficult keeping abreast of all the changes, and yet, if I do not I fear I will have 600 years of greater isolation and depression.  These beautiful children are guarded by loving parents.  They have their friends nearby and a good life expectancy of around one hundred.  The medical community disbanded the experiments I underwent.  They have long passed on and out of the memory of the general public.  I don’t stay anywhere for very long, lest I create a panic at my longevity.  Wherever I am I do caution those with birthday wishes, “be careful what you wish for, as it just may come true.”

leigh