GOOD Advice

Unsolicited, ill advised, life-saving. Who hasn’t received advice from every direction, from every person, and in every period of your life? If you believe life is a journey, then you, too, have probably heard well meaning voices whispering in your ear at every fork in the road.
Many times I recall my dad saying, “Do something, even if it’s wrong!” I believe he equated idle time with laziness. Watching cartoons on Saturday morning in your pajamas was not appreciated nor allowed. I can only imagine what he would think of today’s emphasis on meditation and mindfulness. So I guess that was bad advice. I will give him credit for lots of good advice too. The good outweighs the bad if I could just slow down long enough to appreciate his words!
Anyway, thank you, Dad, for suggesting I go play on railroad tracks. This advice inspired the title to my first book - Playing On Railroad Tracks.

Where did your best/worst advice come from?
What advice was it?

Between the lines....

Excerpt from my book entitled: Playing On Railroad Tracks

     Sometimes we only hear half the story because the storytellers choose to only tell that part. The tale of a sad little girl and her doll came to mind. It was the story of my sister’s short-lived career as a hairdresser…

      I was in first grade and too young to recognize how this selective storytelling practice applied to the adults in our family. They made preemptive attempts at hiding the details of sorted human affairs they believed were beyond our comprehension. In truth, although we were children, the half-truths darted in and out of our peripheral consciousness like dust bunnies that travel from one corner to the next – not quite in the open but never fully outing themselves. We were just kids, but we sensed the dishonesty.  For us it morphed into mystery and insecurity when one night a dust bunny showed his real face and it was not a pretty sight.

      I was so proud of my pajamas with the feet attached. They were soft, pink fleece and covered in sock monkey images. All the monkeys were wearing red hats. I was not a happy camper on nights I had to wear anything else.

    I was awakened by the sound of my mother’s voice and her hand gently rubbing on my arm. She said, “Get up girls. We’re going to Grandpa’s house. We’ve got to go get Daddy.”

     I didn’t know what time it was but I knew it wasn’t time to get up for school. It was still dark outside and the house was so quiet.

     Mom didn’t even make us put on our clothes. She gathered us up and the next thing I knew, we were in the car heading somewhere. My sister had her favorite doll tucked right underneath her arm, exactly the way she slept with her at night. She had named her doll, “Seetsie.” We had no idea how she came up with that name but she talked about and to Seetsie all the time.

     The chilly night air gave me goose bumps and I was grateful for my sock monkey pajamas. My sister and I huddled together in the back seat and it wasn’t long before we were sound asleep again, our earlier sudden awakening forgotten and the circumstances of our journey lost to slumber and the adolescent ability to fall asleep anywhere.

     When I awoke, it was to voices – angry voices. The light streaming through the car window caused me to squint. The car’s engine was still running. The light was coming from my grandfather’s porch where he and my mother were talking. My mom was waving her arms in the air. She looked angry. I noticed she was wearing no shoes. I wondered if her feet were cold. Why were we at grandpas and where was Dad? The adults disappeared into the house.

       Left alone, my sister and I got out of the car and headed into the house. We passed through the darkened living room walking toward the kitchen where there was light.  As we stood in the kitchen door, every face in the room turned to look at us. There was the sound of a gasp and then the room turned frenetic with attempts to rush us out.

     But they were too late. We had already seen the unimaginable for a child’s eyes. Dad’s was the only face that hadn’t looked our way. He was still in his work clothes lying face-up on the kitchen floor. His whole head was bloody and so swollen I could only see one eye. The front of his shirt was torn open exposing the white undershirt I always saw him put on during cold weather. The undershirt was bloody too. I noticed his fingernails were trimmed short. I don’t why I noticed this. I realized I had never really looked at them before.

     He didn’t move. I thought maybe it wasn’t really my dad. I felt light-headed and nauseous like we did on playful summer afternoons when we would spin around in the yard until we were so dizzy we would fall down laughing.

     “Oh my God. Come on girls. Back to the car,” Mom barked, as she grabbed our hands and practically dragged us to the back door.

     “You were supposed to stay in the car. Now get back in there and stay this time. I’ll be out in a few minutes.” Her voice was rough and heavy. I’d never heard that voice before.

     “But Mom, what about Dad? What happened to him?” I asked.

     “Don’t worry about it, honey. He’ll be alright.” The old voice had returned. It was softer.

     My sister and I sat in the backseat in silence as we watched Mom go back in. A little while later, she came outside again, and this time took us back into Grandpa’s house. The kitchen had been cleared of body and debris and I could smell coffee brewing. Usually this smell early in the morning made me sick to my stomach, but for some reason the familiarity of the routine was comforting to me right now. Maybe I was unconsciously looking for normal and right now, coffee brewing in the morning was the only normal I could find.

     Mom took us to one of grandpa’s bedrooms and tried to make us comfortable enough to go back to sleep. My sister asked for her doll. Mom rubbed Julie’s forehead and said, “I think you dropped her by the front door, honey. I’ll look for her and bring her back to you in a little while. Now go back to sleep. OK?”

     Sleep? I couldn’t even close my eyes. I listened for voices or any sounds coming from the other rooms. The rest of the night and the next day, none of the adults spoke of my father. It was as if the image of him prostrate on the floor had been a scene from a bad movie or a fleeting nightmare. I was afraid to ask questions and my sister was probably too young to even put things together, although it did have an impact on her, as we would soon realize.

     Later that morning, we stumbled upon the fate of my sister’s doll, the one she was almost never separated from - the one with blue eyes, curly blonde hair, and tiny pink lips. She had been abandoned behind the sofa.  Red marker scribbles, a perfect shade of blood red, marred her eyes and the rest of her little face, and all over her head were bare spots where big chunks of hair were missing.

     We all looked over at Julie. Mom picked up the doll gingerly and held it in her arms like a mother would hold a real baby.

     “Julie. What happened to Seetsie?” Mom asked.

     My sister didn’t say a word. She looked down at the floor and crossed her arms over her chest like she did when she was angry or pouting.

     “Honey, what happened to your doll?” mom asked gently.

     My sister dropped her head to her chest and started to sob. Then she bolted out of the room as fast as her chubby little legs would take her. Mom followed her and the remaining adults began their futile attempts to restore Seetsie’s face.    

     We found out later in the day that Julie had put the doll’s head into a large, commercial can-opener grandpa had mounted on the wall in the kitchen. She had given her a haircut and a face that looked like Daddy’s.

     Despite the adults’ attempts, the ink on Seetsie’s face turned out to be indelible, just like the memories of that night. Seetsie would never be the same and I doubted that my sister and I ever would be the same either.

Rural white voters....

I'm white and I grew up in the rural areas of our Country.

I don't understand what has the folks of my childhood so pissed off at the government, the Democratic party, and the whole damn world it seems.

Many of these voters do not have any higher education so their jobs bring menial wages. This was a path choice. Many shop at Walmart. where they claim employee abuse of social welfare handouts is rampant. But they still shop there. That's a choice. They're fed up with government interfering in their lives and yet they count on social security for retirement, they take government subsidies for their crops. They drive on county roads built and maintained by the government. They place their money in the trust of banks where their deposits are secured by the government. Their lives are surrounded by programs and laws and incentives produced and maintained by the VERY government they seem to hate so vehemently. Are they starving? Are they being persecuted? Is the government knocking on their doors and taking away their firearms? Are they being denied opportunities that are due them? The answer to all these question is undeniably NO.

What am I missing here? A fellow rural dweller is puzzled.

I can understand a resentment toward  the one percent that controls all the wealth. Then why elect a man who is part of that one percent? A man who has taken advantage of tax breaks for the wealthy and multiple bankruptcies for unsuccessful adventures? That's a government program, by the way. Do they abhor lobbyists and deep pocket donors that are looking for givebacks from their elected officials? Do they believe this man who has run riot on the commercial real estate industry, who has stiffed hundreds of workers on his projects, who has threatened to bully and sue anyone who says or does anything that doesn't suit his mood - do these kind, hardworking rural white folks really believe this billionaire who has deliberately insulted every minority group in the world, is going to get out of his Mercedes, listen to their woes of poor me, poor me, and then with the empathy of Mother Theresa, pull a magic rabbit out of his hat and fix all their problems?

HELLO? HELLO? Is there any common sense out there in the cornfields of the Midwest? This man couldn't care less whether you have a job, or food on the table, or the possibility of going to school to better yourself. He has never lived like you. He has never seen it, felt it, and certainly has no idea how to better it. He has proved he can better only one thing. Himself. That's the ONLY person he has ever thought of and that's not likely to change, folks.

If you are a woman, or a mother, or a proclaimed Christian, or someone who tries not to be prejudiced against everyone who is different than yourself - if you are one of these and you cast a vote for Trump - you voted for hate. He incited it. He encouraged it. He participated in it. The sadness and disappointment that has descended upon our country is not about politics or party. The sorrow is about selling out on our country's values. The principles the country was founded on and the ones that have made us a leader among nations and one of the most admired populations in the world. We've sold those values and we sold them at Walmart prices to a con man.

Rural and white doesn't mean you have to be ignorant and narrow-sighted. Those are not Midwest values. At least not the ones I grew up with in rural, white America.

Self-Love

Self-Love. Today I’m thinking the world is separated into three categories.

The first group – Those who innately experience self-love. Love of self is part of their DNA, their core belief system. They’ve never questioned if they have it, or why, because they’ve never known themselves without it. They are the blessed. Born with it. Explaining the search for self-love to this group is like describing childbirth to a male, or describing the mindset of an alcoholic to a social drinker. No words nor new pair of glasses can change the perspective when one can’t relate.

The second group – Those who don’t have it, don’t need it, and have never felt the need to seek it out. They don’t know what they don’t know. Perhaps fortunate in their lack of struggle to find an ethereal element that can’t be GPSed like the nearest Starbucks or 7-11. How did we survive before all the digital maps? In my case, all who wander are lost.

This group doesn’t wonder because they don’t feel lost. I think about a few politicians and their followers who are on the news every night. There is a difference between narcissism and self-love. Narcissism is ego driven and we witness its ugliness in every word and in each of his rallies.

And then there’s the group that I belong to. You’ll recognize us because we’re often restless, irritable, and discontent. We’re suffering from a lack of self-love. We know this kind of love exists. We see it in others, but we don’t get it. Well, some of us get it, but we don’t know how to GET it. Can’t buy it with our debit cards, can’t borrow it from someone else, Google doesn’t have the answers, and even Siri is stumped when asked about this concept.

“Self-love? I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, Lee Ann,” replies Siri.

Some in this later group never saw self-love growing up. Does a mother filled with self-love and respect stay for decades in a marriage with an abusive husband? Can a child’s love for self flourish while overcoming a father’s ridicule and verbal terrorism? Doubtful.

What is born is self-deprecation, missing self-esteem, and a negative outlook that takes daily attitude reparation and adjustment. This group may often find themselves starting their day over, because not to, would be to slide into a dark hole of depression and hopelessness.

As I walk here in Denver, Colorado, today, I am reminded that I walked this same sidewalk on a beautiful spring day last year. I remember the air was crisp and cool. The brightly shining sun warmed the soft, green spring grass. I took off my shoes and walked in the soft, emerald carpet. It was the grass of my childhood unlike the coarse weeds we call grass in Florida. Two bunnies were patient with me as I bent down and photographed them where they played under a group of evergreens. It was a beautiful moment. I was actually ‘in the moment,’ I think. But I ask myself, am I a better person than I was a year ago when I walked here? Am I in a better place? Maybe. But I also realize the elusive gift of self-love is still missing.

In my search for spirituality and peace, I have been reading about Buddhist beliefs. There’s a lot of self-love in their principles. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to them. In contrast, being accused of sin and needing to seek forgiveness, has never done much for me. For many years, I put a dollar in the plate when it was passed, but I never found any solace in the organized gathering of believers in churches. Maybe they weren’t offering up love for oneself. Maybe that is why I still bristle at the word god when it is capitalized.

So I pledge today to my group, to my fellow self-doubters, we will find our way out. We won’t give up. We will learn. We will look inside with our hearts instead of our heads. For only between our ears, live our mistakes, regrets, and deficiencies. The void where self-love and all love should live.

Today we will treat ourselves like we treat our best friends. We will heal the child within that cries and guide the weary adult within, who starts their day over.

I will love me. I hope she loves me back. I think she will.  J

Pee in the Pool

What a month it has been!

The Supreme Court has rocked our boats by relieving worries about affordable health care and bringing joy to same sex couples giving them the opportunity for marriage and divorce like the rest of us have so long endured!
The Confederate flag is about to assume a new place in history with an overdue and very graceless removal.
And most important, as they read the bible in their place of worship, nine lives were slain in the name of....the name of what? White supremacy, godlessness, racism?

I guess it's folklore or urban legend, as social media would call it, but I've heard that there is a chemical that can be placed in a swimming pool to detect the presence of urine. Come on. Be honest. How many of us have never peed in a pool.

I believe our country is the swimming pool. And guess what? President Obama's election was the chemical released into that pool. Except in this case, it was not urine that was discovered. No. The election of a black man to govern our country, brought racism to the surface. It's just like the pee. We hoped it wasn't, but we suspected racism was there all along.And we were right. It was just lying dormant, like a virus. Add the black man, and the virus of racism came right to the surface - in our attitudes, in our media, in our actions.

I so remember the day of Barack Obama's inauguration. The optimistic among us truly felt we were witnessing the beginning of new era - an era of love, compassion for one another, and a coming together like our nation had never felt before. Our new President sincerely believed his words and we enthusiastically joined in the joy and prospect of change and peace.

The derogatory and hateful comments aimed at our President have turned my stomach and saddened my heart. Some disagreement has been politically and ideologically construed, but many more have their roots in the color of his skin. The gains we thought had been made in race relations, seem to have dropped into quick sand.

The racial slurs, and inflammatory cartoons and articles toward minorities, have made me angry, hurt, and bewildered. The conscious and vocal attitude of bigotry have moved me to anger and insult. I've wanted to scream, more than once - Everybody out of the pool! It's dirty water, it's tainted, it's full of hatred, and yes, urine.

On the days when I believe in prayer, I pray that the end does justify the means. That the turmoil we are witnessing now is necessary to real change - that the horrible attitudes and hateful actions of the few, will open the hearts and minds of the learned, the lowly, the elderly, the poor, the rich, the white, the black - all Americans, all humans.

I'm barely able to handle one emotion at a time and so the events of the last few weeks have my brain about to burst. Juggling anger and sadness at racism, confusion with the marriage equality laws, the Confederate flag's removal, and the prospect of health insurance being yanked from millions, has had the committee in my head all participating in a filibuster, simultaneously.

But once I shushed the committee, I have, with much gratitude, found again a deep pride and hope for a nation that is so new and free that it can experience and adapt to monumental change, just as the minds and hearts of our people can and will, accept and expand. THIS is my prayer and my dream. I hope you share it too.

What I know for SURE...

Oprah pens what she 'knows for sure' on the last page of her magazine. I admire this lady for many reasons and especially because each month she arrives at and shares with her readers, some new, and often grand, awareness of her world and how she fits into it. It is what 'she knows for sure.'

And so today, after splurging on the purchase of and the time to read her latest issue, I ask myself, "What do I know for sure?"

The answer I find is sad, self-deprecating, funny, and predictable. I know absolutely NOTHING for sure. Like the honesty of politicians, the chances of winning the lottery, and the absolute certainty that it will rain if I wash my car, nothing in my world is written 'in stone.' The only thing I'm sure of is that I'm not sure of anything. 

Today may be the day when I start exercising, but the chances are slim. The yearning I have to become more spiritual may take root this month, but I'm already thinking of excuses why I can't go to a meditation meeting this week. The search for spirituality has no specific timeline, right? God, or Buddha, or my higher power surely know I'm trying to work them into my busy schedule. I pencil them in. I erase them. Just like my new year's resolutions. Intentions are sincere but time management is a thief. I've learned in recovery to put down the baseball bat that I beat myself up with but it's hard to lose that bat when it feels like it follows you everywhere you go. I've even thought of buying a real bat and just leaving it at home, but that's been on my to-do list for nearly a year now!

I tape pictures on my walls of the things I'm sure I'd like to add to my bucket list - flowers, animals, significant others, beautiful homes, best selling books. And when I've finished hanging them all, I step back, take a closer look and realize the man is too young, the flowers would require a full time gardener, the home is too expensive, and who would ever want to read MY book. Once again the bat has taken aim at what I know for sure. 

My favorite author, Anne Lamott, says, 'There is almost nothing outside of you, that will help you in any kind of lasting way, unless you are waiting for an organ. You can’t buy, achieve or date it. This is the most horrible truth.'

I'm gratefully not waiting on an organ donation, and the love, the garden, and the book deal seem out of reach at this moment. Perhaps my search for surety is aimed in the wrong direction. Maybe Oprah's stash of things she knows for sure, originate from inside herself.

So I will begin with the few things I do know for sure.

Life starts again every morning. No matter how dark the night before, the sun rises and the birds start to sing again. I know the tears will dry if I don't let them flood the space I occupy. I know for sure that regardless of the number of times I write down a task or a dream and don't follow through, life gives me another day and another chance to accomplish and cross it off my list. I know for sure that each painful memory will fade as it is nudged out by an unexpected joy, a new love, another unearned blessing.

I know for sure, that if I reach out, and step out, of my own way, all the things I need to know for sure, I will eventually know for sure. 

Until then.....progress, not perfection. 

Between the lines,

An Unfamiliar View

This is my first post since starting my new/old career of flight attendant. It is a prize I consider hard won. One full year since applying, the job brings with it excitement, pride, and a sense of direction. A sense of direction? Well, almost. The new job has brought me back to a city I swore I would not return to. I was so convinced of this that I sold all my personal belongings rather than store them because I was NOT going to return. Then again, I was not going to consume any more energy drinks, and I have. I was also not going to ignore the low tire light on the dashboard of my car, and I have. There must be something very true about that adage of teaching old dogs new tricks. I am proof.


My flight this morning was very light and so on descent I took a passenger seat and looked out the window for quite awhile. What a beautiful creation someone or something has put together. The fall colors, although probably a few days past their prime, glistened in the sunlight. Perfect little bundles of color surrounding lakes and roadways, and monstrously large homes. For a moment, I felt very small in a big world. Knowing that inside each neighborhood, inside each home in that neighborhood, there is a story. A family made up of people and those people each with their own story and beliefs.


I quietly thought of the analogy of life being like a quilt - top side all pretty with colors and perfect stitching, and the underneath part where all the workings are. The enormity of the view made me understand why we seek for something greater than ourselves. It's hard to look out at such a perfect masterpiece and not question how it all got that way. I can hardly organize my purse. How did our Country, our continent, the world...how did it all get organized and put together so well? I ask that question often, but usually in silence. I don't say it out loud because it makes me feel weak and queasy inside. Who knows...maybe I'm afraid of the answer, if there is an answer.

For the days when I feel really alone, I try to find comfort in the idea of the quilt. It seldom works, but that's because in an odd way I have become accustomed to a melancholy that I fight against constantly. It's not a great space to occupy. It's much like a seat in the last row on the airplane. No one really wants it but someone always gets it! And I know I am not alone in this 'aloneness'. Like people in recovery, those of us who fit into this category of looking for answers - we have our own secret language. We drop hints about the darkness and the unknowing, and those like-minded folks
pick up our hints and nod their heads in recognition. We know who we are. There are lots of us, but
it's still a lonely place to be.

I am, after all is said and done, and the tears have gone away... I am, an optimist at heart. For that I am grateful. I will continue to gaze out the window and look for the answer. Perhaps I will find you sitting next to me and gazing out there too.

My propensity toward motherhood was minimal.

It's not that I didn't want mothering to come naturally. It just didn't. The creative element was easy. Heart shaped lunch sandwiches. Elaborate birthdays parties and favor bags. Travel agent for trips to the zoo and circus. All of these tasks I considered fun. They were a piece of cake. But, sitting down to play a game, establishing a healthy routine, exercising patience - I struggled and admired those mothers who seemed to have it together with no effort at all. They had the nurturing element I lacked. Sigh.

As my girls got older, and the challenges more complicated, I pondered my role in their lives. How does one begin to set boundaries after they've reached their teens? Ahhh. A creative solution was what I sought. A visual to guide me and them. It turned out to be, of all things, a bowling alley.

With an elaborately painted picture of a bowling lane, I described that my job was to act as their 'gutter bumpers.' Their job was a straight path down the lane. If they veered off into unacceptable behavior and/or danger (aka - the gutters), the bumper, also known as mom, would be there to guide them back into the middle of the lane and to safety.

This image worked for me. I thought it ingenious. Now years later, I realize I never even asked them if it worked for them. Maternal instincts gone awry again!

Today, I am in need of my own bumpers. Daily I find myself bouncing from one side to the other of the lane. Truth is, my body should be bruised from the constant crisscrossing. If I weren't so defiant, I might find it embarrassing to be adrift in indecision, homelessness, and a soul, searching for what ails it. Stubbornness and a judgemental nature are my achilles' heels. This, is no new revelation for me, and unfortunately, for those closest to me.

Many years ago, a beautiful man said soon after meeting me, "The solution to all of your problems is a spiritual one." If only my head and heart had been open to that suggestion. Perhaps I would not find myself so lost and searching desperately for my authentic self.

Well, most of us know about hindsight. It's repulsive in it's accuracy. I am where I am and my only choice is to move forward. I'll admit it. I need spiritual bumpers. Something to believe in. Something to make the 'roll' down the lane to better things, better people, and a better me. I'm tired of gutter balls and zero scores.

A power greater than myself - be it nature, or a god, or a creative spirit of the universe...to act as my gutter bumpers. This is my long ignored, fervently denied, deficit. So, I'm sending out a message into the great beyond. Here I am. Guide me. Use me. Show me the way to peace and happiness before I throw in the towel and burn my bowling shoes.

PS...If I promise not to cheat the next time I'm the scorekeeper, could I talk you out of one or two strikes? Thanks.

between the lines,
me

6 years have passed and it's still all true...

2008 in review and revamp-

Good year, Bad year.

Have discovered a few things at my ripe ol' age!

-Finding a good hairdresser is almost as important as finding a good spouse.
-If you tweeze your eyebrows everyday they always look good and you're less likely to over-tweeze.
-Tank tops. How did I ever live without them...in every color. Beautiful to wear under oversized shirts to hide muffin top.
-Lip liner is for more than lining lips. Fill in the whole lip and lipstick stays on, or just wear the lipliner filled in instead of lipstick.
-Texting isn't as hard as it looks. Learned didn't have to wait secs before moving on to the next letter. Wow!
-Learned that blogs are free.
-Learned that oldsters have discovered Facebook. Sorry kids.
-Realized that returning unwanted or deficient retail items is a right and not a character defect.
-Learned that correctly described meds can change your life.
-Learned that programs like Alanon can reshape control freaks.
-Learned that spare bedrooms that contain beds attract grown children like sugar attracts ants.
-Discovered store brands taste the same as top selling brands.
-Acknowledged that Starbucks is addictive.
-Acknowledged that like the old people of my past, now I are one and caffiene keeps me awake at night.
-Realized I talk like my mother and think like my dad. Pray for me!
-Understood that when a friend's loved one dies, it helps to continue to talk with them about it long after the loss. Knowing you remember and talking about it, makes the pain lessen.
-Learned that most people will read any thing...maybe that's why you're reading this.

Thank you and good riddance President Bush and 2008.

Home. Sweet home.

 

"I know they say you can't go home again. I thought if I could touch this place or feel it,
this brokenness inside me might start healing. Out here it's like I'm someone else, I thought that maybe I could find myself.  You leave home, you move on and you do the best you can.
- I got lost in this whole world and forgot who I am."  - Miranda Lambert

 

One can see forever on the back roads. The fields all look the same. Planted corn in perfect rows. A vibrant green blanket of a soy bean crop. No need to worry when a crossroad has no marked name.

You just keep driving and the road will lead to an recognizable spot. The familiar rocks are in the same place. And although grown, the trees as well.

 

There's Martin Place. I was ten. The home of my first piano and our dog, Cubbie, who died. The kitchen fire was frightening and the news one day was very sad. Instead of lunch, we listened and heard that our President had died.

 

We reveled in carmel apples on a stick from the five and dime, and nothing impressed us more than Santa's house on the courthouse square. Movies at the Artcraft theater where the fat lady sold the corn. And Providence Park and the community pool where we took swimming lessons against our will.

 

There's an answer here on the back roads, on a two lane road. That answer's as soft as Indiana grass and as strong as Indiana people.

It's still here.

It never left.

I did.

 

Between the lines,

 

 

  

 

 

 



Every country road leads to a memory.

I'm finding myself in a time warp. I'm not there (Florida) and I'm not here (Indiana). I'm floating somewhere back in childhood.

It's fifth grade as I pass by the corner with the little white farm house and huge, brown silo in the back. It's Mrs. Coy's house. It's the house where we bought our eggs - white or brown and sometimes still warm since they had come directly from the chickens in the backyard. She left them on her screened-in porch. We went in, made our choice and participated in the 'honor system' as we dropped our 50 cents into the basket.

It's a crossroad named 75W and I'm in high school. Socially immature and inept, I find myself one night on this dark road where teens park to 'makeout'. The road's infamous reputation was alive and well even during my dad's high school years. I recall the awkwardness and laughter as my dad described the night he got busted by the local police, doing his thing with his girl. I recall with horror and laughter, the night some guy tried to do his thing with me on that road. I cried. He cringed. My maiden name was Limp. It was an appropriate name for his ride home, I'm sure. Did I make up for lost time after that? Here, my memory gets fuzzy. Ha.

Two-lane roads. I've forgotten how to us the passing lane which is essential in rural areas. Farmers drive big machinery. They move slowly. As I try not to tailgate the combine in front of me, I realize I am passing 'the barn.' It's red and most importantly, it's round. Each time we passed it, Dad never failed to tell us the story. The story about the man who went crazy in there. He couldn't find a corner to pee in. I can hear Dad's laughter as if it was yesterday and not almost 50 years ago.

I met a fellow Hoosier recently when I was visiting in Texas. He was familiar with the 'S curve' in our county. I never doubted that it's a small world, but he knew about the 'S curve' ? Yep. I drove the S curve yesterday.  Other than being a dangerous road, it holds a special memory. It's the spot where Dad released our wild rabbits. We raised five babies when their mother was killed by the blades of our lawnmower. We fed them with eyedroppers. And despite the naysayers who said you'll never keep them alive, they lived and thrived. Dad released them into the field by the curve when he thought they were old enough to take care of themselves. We cried until we thought we spotted them near the S curve several times after that. We decided they looked happy and healthy.

Every road. Almost every corner. They all hold a memory. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe these bits of the past will help erase the scars of the past year. Maybe they will move me forward in some strange way. Perhaps they will encourage me to finish the book I started writing nine years ago. After all, the manuscript is about this neck of the woods. It's about the events and the people that make up these memories. It's about the country roads.

Between the lines somewhere in the boonies,

me.

Que Sera Sera

A couple of moves back, (yes, I'm a serial mover) I watched with horror and disbelief as a wardrobe box containing my clothing flew out of the back of Ted's pickup truck. My underwear and other personal undergarments flew into the air and scattered across both lanes of the New River Tunnel!

Today I experienced a similar incident. Different undies. Same embarrassment.

Most  women will understand my next  statement, so listen up men! Women who are are not in a relationship or actively dating, often do not shave their legs. It's just a nasty fact. We also tend to hide, ignore, or burn any lingerie we have, cause there's not even a slim chance it's gonna be worn.
All of mine was stuffed in a box and staying in storage indefinately in light of the dating drought forecast for my future.

In the process of taking my last load to the storage unit before getting the hell of dodge, the bottom of a moving box (cheap-ass tape!) gave out, and once again, history repeated itself, and all my intimate garments strewed to the ground. The pile of lacy and satin pieces provided quite a contrast to the rough blacktop pavement they had ungraciously landed upon. I thought it was perhaps a visual of what my life had been and what it was now.

Two homeless men drinking beverages from small brown paper bags and one cigarette smoking gas station attendant witnessed my debacle but appeared to be only mildly interested, so I scooped up my stuff and quickly moved on.

Later as I as I was driving out of the parking lot, I looked over one more time at my audience. One of
the toothless men smiled and raised his paperbag high above his head in a salute to me, while the other one gave me a thumbs up.

Interesting. It crossed my mind that perhaps this was a good sign regarding my future. At this point I'd take any indicator of a change in karma.

I headed toward home with new hope and a plan to think about actually shaving my legs!

Between the lines and until next time.
Adios Florida!