I Could Have Lied -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

That last birthday that my Mother was alive, I didn't know that it would be the last. She called me at their house from the hospital. Twice. She didn't remember the first time. She had had her first chemo treatment, if I'm remembering correctly. I didn't point it out to her. I couldn't bear to.

Amy and I got ready and she drove us to Danville to go birthday shopping in the Sunburn. We hit the music store, which was going out of business and desperately selling cds at deep discounts. I got Radiohead, Rise Against, and Weezer. (I promptly opened Radiohead so we could listen to Creep and Karma Police).

We did some other shopping too, but that's not very interesting! The best part happened when we went to Baskin Robbins. You know, you get a free scoop of ice cream there on your birthday. I didn't know that little fact before we picked out an ice cream cake and took it to the counter.

"Hey, Beth, look it says you get a free scoop of ice cream on your birthday!" Amy piped up, pointing to a small sign on the counter.

"Hey! It's my birthday!" I responded, looking into the uncaring face of the teenage boy behind the counter. He looked skeptical. He exchanged a look with the other teenage boy who worked there too. I reached for my purse to dig out my wallet and prove it, mumbling as much as I moved. He shook his head, indicating I didn't need to bother.

"I don't care," the disgruntled teenaged employee told me, his face a mask of disdain. Everybody probably says that, I realized, but it was really my birthday and I wanted a fucking free scoop of ice cream. And I wanted it without the fucking attitude. Amy got one too, except he charged her for hers. No way the fucker was gonna give both of us free ice cream.

In the car, on our way back home, listening to Radiohead at an absurdly loud level, we ate our ice cream (technically mine was orange sherbet) and laughed about the rude teenage boys at Baskin Robbins who didn't give a fuck if it was my birthday or not. Amy has a way of recounting details that is much funnier than this sad and hurried description.

It was really funny, and we needed a good laugh. I wish I could go back, reach over the counter and grab that kid by his shirt collar and yell in his face that I just found out my Mom's got really fucking awful cancer and was at the hospital at that very moment, and that he better give me the goddamned ice cream because it's their policy and it really was my fucking birthday and my Mom has the fucking c-section scar to prove it. But I didn't. I was cool.

But really, if I could go back, I'd drive the hour and a half to Lexington from Dad's house and spend my birthday with my Mother, whether anyone else liked it or not. One of my biggest regrets, I suppose. I don't think that, before that year, I'd ever had a birthday that I didn't spend with my Mom, get a hug and a kiss from her, wake her up, crawl into bed with her early in the morning and wait for her to give me a gift. It's funny how the last times are never recognized as what they truly are. I never thought for a second that it would be the last birthday that my Mother was alive. I couldn't have wrapped my mind around it at that point, so I didn't stop to think that I would regret, for the rest of my life, not driving up there to see her on my birthday.

And don't try to tell me everything is going to be okay. To get over it. To move on. To stop grieving. The truth is, I'm really fucking lucky to have had my Mom for as long as I did, but something broke inside me when she died. Something that feels like it won't ever really heal. Don't get me wrong--I'm much better than I was before. And I'm not going to go slitting my wrists. Don't you worry about me being okay. But just don't expect me to get over this. Ever.

[Sorry, that's real fucking heavy, but that's your story today, take it or leave it.]

Nights In White Satin -- The Moody Blues

Seeing people die does something to you. When it's your blood on the floor, it's fucking scary.

Let me set the scene. It was 12/12/12. I was wearing my grey cashmere blend sweater pants. I was doing laundry. If you didn't know, my washer and dryer are in the kitchen in my house. Bella was crying for me to hold her, tiny little arms reaching up. I finish throwing clothes in the dryer, close it and hit the button before scooping her up. As I turn, I must navigate between the laundry baskets on the floor behind me and the box.

Let me just explain the box. I emptied a box of diapers, a big one, and it was in the kitchen next to the garbage can when I decided I should use this box for all the little baby socks that didn't fit Bella anymore. So I had this box by my laundry baskets, full of kid's socks and ominous as hell.

I stepped over a laundry basket, or tried to, and fell onto the corner of this box, on a place you don't want to fall. When it happened Bella came down with me and bumped her head. I cradled her, rubbing at her head, righted myself, took one step and cried out. Jamie's brother called out from the living room, "You okay, Beth?"

"Yeah!" No, fuck no. Ouch. I had turned Bella loose, and knelt feet, knees and forehead against the floor. A big fat drop of blood hit the carpet, and I got up and ran for the bathroom.

Blood started pouring as soon as I moved. In the bathroom I pulled my pants--my cashmere fucking pants--and tried to observe the damage. Blood was streaming. I yelled for Steven, forget that I'm a prude, it was do or die. I grabbed a huge pad from the cabinet. When he saw me standing in my blood-soaked pants, dark and wet from crotch to floor, his jaw dropped. "Wake Jamie up, somebody's got to take me to the hospital."

While he did that I tried to shower the blood off, but quickly realized that the blood was pouring out much, much too fast. The pad that I just put on was already soaked before I jumped in the tub, and the bathroom looked like a crime scene from my efforts.

I dressed, grabbing an old pair of jogging pants and a towel. Jamie burst into the bathroom, "Are you ready to go? Let's go!" And I was snapping pictures on my iPod. "What are you doing?" Exasperation. "Nobody is ever going to believe this shit," I replied, following him out.

Jamie drove like a crazy person, so I held the oh-shit handle and relived every false -labor hospital run I'd ever had. He dropped me at the doors of the emergency room and I grabbed the towel and held it to my ass and ran.

"Help! I'm bleeding profusely!" were my first words to the startled nurse behind the glass, another nurse coming from around the desk grabbed a wheelchair and helped me sit. In moments she had me in a room, on a table and was holding pressure on the wound. (awkwardness factor level: excruciating ) Doctor, nurses, phone calls, Jamie answering questions and doing paperwork. Of course I told them the story. They asked all kinds of questions, and my gynecologist, who worked in the building, would come to stitch me up.

"You hit an artery," she was stitching. They gave me shots of lidocaine beforehand, so the pain had ebbed. Pain was the least of my problems...

Well, there you have it. My incredibly awkward and horrible near death experience.

With the holidays coming up I always think of this experience and think about how lucky we are to have emergency medicine. Otherwise I'd be dead.

Family always wants to know what I've been doing, when am I going to finish my book? I hate these questions because the answers are "I don't know" and  "Eventually." But I've got to entertain them with some prospect so...if you really want to know what I've been doing, I've been surviving life, one day at a time. And I'm thankful for the opportunity.

Smile -- Pearl Jam

[Just go ahead and listen to this song, ok?]

When we buried Uncle Jim it rained. I wore a grey turtleneck sweater and grey plaid slacks and slipped my dress shoes off and my tennis shoes on before exiting the car into the rain. That much of my memory is perfectly clear.

Uncle Jim gave us the upright piano that sat in the living room at Mom and Dad's house for years. I remember lessons during which I learned scales and simple songs in the school in Middleburg. And, later, in middle school, Mrs. Tapscott taught us to play My Heart Will Go On in the music room before school each morning. I was never really that good at piano, though.

I remember wishing it would rain at Mom's funeral. I remember thinking, if only the sky would cloud up and pour the rain--thunder, lightning and all, like the tears I couldn't bear to release. We forgot the music that day, and Uncle Scott raced to Grandpa's and back in record time to retrieve their copy. I felt bad. Wasn't I supposed to grab that from Dad's before we left? Didn't I think to myself, did we get that cd, was it in the CD player or by it? And there must have been a million other things I was doing to get myself and the girls ready for the funeral, and it just slipped my mind.

I was nervous. All I could think about was what I was going to say when I got up there. I was doing okay until I realized that Homer was speaking first and was going to make me cry before it was even my turn.

When I got up there I planned to say something like, "We wanted to share a story about Mom that was funny, but then every story we could think of was wildly inappropriate (big surprise)! And since everyone knew how much we knew Mom loved to read, and we wanted to share her favorite poem.." Then, as I began reciting The Children's Hour, I got choked up, and I saw Uncle Roger get up and make his way to me, What's he doing? And then he was there, arm around my shoulders and whispering encouraging words. I took another deep breath and continued.  When I was finished, I hurried back to my seat and completely forgot about putting the framed poem on the casket, like I meant to. After everyone had come around and hugged us all, I turned to Jamie and sobbed for the first time. I reached out to gather Addison into my arms, but she wasn't having it. I pressed my face into Jamie's chest and just let the wall down for a minute. I smeared a good amount of mascara on the front of his shirt. You really just need waterproof mascara for funerals, but that's the last thing you're thinking about when you're getting ready for one.

When we went to the cemetery, after everything was over and they'd lowered the casket, I watched some of the others throw in shovels full of dirt. But not me. I was miserably pregnant and didn't shovel any dirt myself. Some funerals end and everybody leaves before the casket is even lowered. But not us.

Back at the church there was food prepared and as I made my way along the line to fix my plate, my 3rd- and 4th-grade teacher smiled at me and said, "That was a beautiful poem you shared."

And I said, "Oh, I didn't write it," like the fucking dumbass I am. Like I write so much brilliant shit that it could be mistaken for Longfellow.

"I know," accompanied by an understanding smile. I beat a hasty retreat back to our table.

Why am I such a spaz? Four years later and I'm still bothered by my inability to say something--anything--that didn't sound stupid. Like maybe thank her for coming? Something?

But I am a spaz. I never say the right thing, and I probably never will. I guess I shouldn't worry so much about what happened four years ago, especially since I had every excuse for being awkward.

For the visitation we wore summer dresses. Mine was coral. Some of my friends came, girls I'd been friends with since elementary school. When I stood up to hug them and thank them for coming they were like, "Whoa, you're pregnant!" Apparently, when sitting, I just looked fat. It had been a few years since they'd seen me. I still smile when I think about that.

I guess the hardest part of the visitation was trying to explain things to Addison--she wanted to know, "Is that GG over there?" pointing to the casket. The simple answer, "Yes," popped out, but what was churning in my mind were all the reassuring things I'd heard throughout my life, "That's just her body, her soul is in heaven."

I had to buy shoes for Mom's funeral, too. Amy drove my car, and Jessica and I rode back to Louisville to retrieve funeral attire--or in my case, buy some because I didn't have any black maternity clothes. I told the lady who helped me find some black flats that I needed a different size because I had massive toe cleavage. She thought it was funny, but I hate toe cleavage.

It's odd, the things you remember. There's more, a lot more, but remembering and recounting is painful, so you'll just have to wait until next time.

Your Song -- Ellie Goulding

When Grandma Cordia died we went to their house, just a short drive away. Seventeen minutes. That's about how long it takes to get to Grandpa's house. We knew what had happened, our Grandma had been sick for a while, with Mom splitting her time between caring for her and taking care of us and business. It was hard. We knew the day was coming, but, as a child, I remember feeling unsure about how to react to the situation. We were reluctant to go inside. Instead, when we got out of the car we went and played outside, in the trees in the front yard, the pair on the left side, if you're facing the old white farmhouse.

Later Billie took us to buy dress shoes for the funeral. Somehow I had already outgrown the dress shoes I had. I just remember being in the shoe store, sitting on the bench, and trying on shiny black patent leather shoes. I remember wearing a black skirt and a white blouse. I can't recall much more about it than that, other than everybody being upset. I was just a kid then, though. Memories when I was a child are odd. Bits and pieces of scenes and very specific things remain, and some things are just...gone, like a dream you just woke from and can't recall with perfect clarity. 

I remember Grandma teaching us to play rummy. Which really just means we played rummy with Grandma a lot, and  listened to her and Mom talk. When she and Mom got to talking...well, we laughed a lot. there was always a funny story to be recalled, and much of the time was spent talking at the kitchen table.

Going to Grandma and Grandpa's was happy fun times, with Woody the Woodpecker cartoons and oatmeal cream pies. Memories are filled with family events everyday activities, and food...giant kettles of popcorn, cornbread and milk, grapes off the vine, circus peanuts, apples and pears from the orchard, and, if you got to them before the birds, cherries from the tree in the front yard.

When I was a little older, our Aunt Sis died. It happened while I was at 4-H camp. I remember crying when I got the news, a phone call that warranted a visit to the camp office in the company of one of my counselors. I can't recall, however, if it was Mom or Dad I talked to on the phone, but I handed the phone back to the counselor and went back to my bunk and cried. I had to explain to all the other girls what was going on.

"Were you close?" someone queried, and I said yes. But how do you describe what someone really means to you? I remember cards from Sis every birthday, holiday, illness, and significant events/achievements. I remember hunting Easter eggs at Sis & Robert's house, and Daniel always finding the lucky goose egg. At their house they always had candy dishes of mints and hard candies, jars of multicolored candy canes, and glass bottles of soda in the fridge downstairs. I can't remember her funeral, what I wore or anything.

When I was a freshman in high school our Grandma Roark died. I remember being curled up in a chair at the funeral home at Grandma Roark's visitation. I wore this black velvet dress with one of Mom's blazers because it was cold. There were so many people I didn't recognize and I asked Mom who they were, "People your Grandmother helped..." And I imagined Grandma in the kitchen plating up a meal in the middle of the night--I recall homemade spaghetti-- because we were going to arrive.

We were always up to shenanigans at Grandma Roark's house. Throwing rocks at cars in the street, buying condoms and candy at the little store down the street, making crank phone calls from Grandma's phone, playing mean tricks on Uncle Mac, or playing werewolf on the waterbed with the door closed, lights off, and fan on burn-down-the-house speed. Or, my favorite family reunion memory...when Sarah and I chased the ice cream truck way down the street but never caught it and so Grandma took all of us kids to the Dairy Queen down the street and bought us ice cream. I got a chocolate-dipped vanilla cone...

My memories are not reliable, though. Sometimes my mind drags forth a scene from my memory, and springs it on me, an image rising from the depths of my mind as if to remind me they're in there somewhere.

I remember Sam fixing our hair for family weddings, and I remember her asking me if I wanted her to do my hair, even though she'd done so many others' already. She coiffed my hair along with all the other girls. Back when we were kids it was curls galore and teased up bangs. And lots of aerosol hairspray. Sam always had all the best hair stuff.

As kids, we played at Grandma and Grandpa's farm, outside in the company of their border collie, Lassie, who lived up to the name, and killed snakes in the yard. We had fun jumping on hay bails, climbing apple trees in the orchard,  playing with tobacco sticks in the barn, playing hide-and-go-seek when it got dark.

Sometimes we went up north to visit our family. On those trips we had fun spending time with our cousins. I remember, specifically, a visit during which we went with Sam down the street to pick out a movie at a lady's house. I remember a whole wall of movies. And I'm pretty sure it was Sam who thought we should watch It.

Yesterday we laid Sam to rest.

It seems like only yesterday we were together, riding through the field in the back of a pick-up truck with our own kids smiling and playing together. Cousin time.

An Open Letter to God

Dear God,

I'm asking, no, I'm begging you for a miracle here. I've been praying for you to do your will, but I'm selfish. I want a miracle. I want you to show me that you hear my prayers, I want you to spare someone's life. Please. I wasn't ready for my mother to die. If she'd been an old, old lady with a pile of great grandkids on her lap, I wouldn't have been ready. We are selfish to want them to stay, I know. But, honestly, these kids aren't ready for this. And that's what I'm worried most about. Don't take their mother from them; no one is ever ready to lose someone they love, but this...this is just unfair.

I know, I know. Life isn't fair. And what's fair for me may not be fair for others. I know. And I know what I'm asking. But I'm at a loss. I can do nothing but hope and pray at this point.

But I'm hurt and angry. At you, God, all over again. I thought I'd finally made my peace with you over losing my own mother. I decided that you knew what was best. But this? This makes me uncertain all over again.

Mom would probably tell me not to be angry with you. In fact she did tell me that once upon a time. But who should I be angry at? Why do I feel so angry, anyway? Why do I have so many blessings in my life that I most certainly don't deserve? Why? Why? Why?

But this isn't about me. I suppose it isn't about what I want, but what you want. That's tough, God. To leave it all in your hands when I feel like there should be something I can do. Perhaps questioning you isn't the right thing to do either. The one person in this world who might help me make sense of this life is already gone, and all those who were left behind are being dealt more misery as I write this.

I don't even know that I should be writing this, except that it's the one thing, my one gift from you, that makes me feel like I have some control in this chaotic world. Writing is what I'm supposed to do. Sometimes it's the only thing I can do. So I'll leave you with this one last thing...please send us a miracle. I beg of you.

Beth

Are You In? -- Incubus

This past weekend we had a task. One which we had been putting off for over four years now.

Cleaning out Mom's side of the closet. Four tubs, stacks of shoe boxes, all the hanging garments. It took us quite a while to sort through everything.

Mostly we considered what we could, would, wouldn't, couldn't wear of everything. The strangest thing was that Mom had at least one piece of clothing of ours! A pair of Amy's jeans; Daniel's Browns, Spielman jersey; my old t-shirt, and a hat of Sarah's, just to name a few.

We also found some pieces from back in the day, which Sarah and I modeled. (I came home with a very Miami Vice plaid blazer that you'd have to see to believe!) We found a zippered bag that, Dad told us, contained the dress she wore on their wedding night after they'd changed from their ceremonial attire. And just let me tell you, Mom was tiny! My thigh would have fit comfortably in the waist of that dress.

Not to mention that Dad has impeccable taste in clothing, so the closet was full of trendy suits, coats, blazers and blouses. Recounting it now makes me feel wretched. Like wearing the clothes she gave me isn't strange enough, but it was the fact that we were going through everything like each piece we kept--a scarf, a t-shirt, a nightgown--was like trying to hold onto the fleeting pieces of her. These clothes were what we had left of things inherently Mom. We were perusing the items saying, "I remember that one," and, "She wore that all the time."

We set aside things we knew her sisters might like, and allotted only a box of shoes to the give-away, but only after, of course, the Aunts went through them. A lot of things were left, really, for the Aunts to go through. But we ALL got something of hers, something we had missed that was ours too!

Some things that were iconic Mom outfits we kept to put into an acid-free box as keepsakes, like the dresses she had set aside, and a few of our own choosing. And yet another pile was dedicated to interesting t-shirts and printed pajamas she wore all the time, with which we intend to make a blanket (But first I guess I'm going to have to master the freakin sewing machine, because the tension is all off on mine and I haven't tried to use it in over a year!).

I haven't cried, if that means anything, but I've been trying to stay positive about the whole thing. It's just one more piece of letting go.

Buddy Holly -- Weezer

So I guess I just talk about Mom way too much. We were rocking out to this song and Bella said she liked it. I made the comment, "GG liked this song too."

Bella looked at me incredulously, "Yeah, but GG's already dead."

It made me laugh, honestly. "Yeah, but GG liked music when she was alive too."

Today was the first day of our Bible study about having "missing pieces," or holes, in our faith. I'm really hoping that this will help me move on with my life and accept the things I can't change.

Already I feel like I'm part of a group. Even if it's a new group, even if I'm facing all my anxieties by reaching out and participating in something new and different.

I feel a little better every day, now. After so long trudging downhill, I finally think that I'm starting to climb out of this deep, dark pit that my grief made.

I still have a long way to go. Sharing a story here and there about Mom will never cease. She will forever be nothing if not entertaining! I can't think of a time that we didn't end up laughing outrageously every time our family is together. And I always take time to share the stories about Mom with the girls, I guess to an embarrassing degree!

Just the other day I bought Steel Magnolias at the grocery store, on a whim. I busied myself with dinner and other such tasks while the girls watched it. Their reaction to it, or Anna's in particular was something to the effect of, "You said it was such a great movie, it's really sad!" Addison liked it so much she took it to her room and watched it again.

Steel Magnolias, if you didn't know, was one of Mom's favorite movies. Nearly every time we watched it together we cried during the cemetery scene. You know the one. "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."

Tool -- Reflection

I've been having strange dreams. This is not a new thing. The other night I dreamed someone was trying to take Bella, and I shot them. In the hand. I was aware that I had a handgun, so I used it. Then suddenly I was in my own RPG, like stone walls and sliding doors that opened when I approached. It felt like I was in doom. But whenever I encountered something to shoot, I felt ineffective with the weapon. I shot only to wound, disable, and move on. When I awoke I saw the news about the douchebag who went on the killing spree at UCSB. I was horrified at the thought that I'd been dreaming such things that night. But that's the thing about dreams, you never know what will happen, and most of the time it's out of your control.

Last night I dreamed of Mom. We went shopping, and it was almost as if she weren't dead. She pulled this outfit off the rack and held it up. It was a black and white polka dotted monstrosity with lots of ruffles, "I saw it last time we were here," I had replied, dismissing the outfit at once. She called to me And I turned, and voila!, she was wearing it, though she looked ridiculous. The bottoms of it looked like old time pantaloons. She was also wearing black stilettos and a wide-brimmed black hat. We laughed together, and then it was time to go.

Suddenly we were climbing out of the car at Gramps' house. And Mom.was helping me put on my grey trench coat. And I could feel her hands on my arm and shoulder as we juggled shopping bags and purses between us. And then one of her sisters arrived and Mom called out to her and she turned and waved.

And just like that, it was over, the alarm dragging me back to wakefulness. But for what felt like an eternity in my dream I was shopping with Mom again, and felt the touch of her hands, the circle of her embrace, firm and sure and alive.

Somebody That I Used to Know -- Gotye

I leveled up in my grief this year. I spent the entire day on Monday last preparing for the evening's roller skating extravaganza. I showered and got ready like any other day, drying my hair while fighting the urge to pull a Mom and just take the scissors to it. My hair. Now that's a story in and of itself! With just enough curl to it to be annoying, and not enough to be curly, it has reached the length at which it curls around my ears and the nape of my neck. No amount of flat ironing will staunch these curls.

As a girl, I remember Mom picking up the scissors and whacking off a chunk of unruly hair. And this was usually before, or even sometimes after, a trip into town for a haircut. Got a piece of hair that just won't lay right no matter what you do? Grab the scissors, go ahead.

But, on this particular Monday, death day if only I had the inclination to remember it as such, I had things to do. Like clean the house, take a trip to the library, and worry about roller skating for the first time in over a decade.

I went through the entire day completely oblivious that it was death day (level up!). Of course, I was more worried about taking three kids roller skating later, and what that would entail, than moping around all day. Which I'd already done the previous day, anyhow.

As soon as they came in the door after school they were hugging my neck and counting down until time to leave. But first there was food to prepare, and outfits to pick out. Addison had to have shorts, for some reason, so we hunted for those while Anna chose an outfit that would glow under the blacklights at the skating rink.

Suddenly it was time to go, and soon we were strapping on rental skates at the rink. Bella and Addison each had one of my hands, and Anna had already taken off. We made our way across the carpeted area to the rink and I pulled them onto the floor. Bella's feet went different directions right away, and down she went, the weight of her suddenly  jerking me off balance. I stumbled a bit, used the toe to break and pull her back to her feet while Addison struggled toward the wall and clung to the rail. We made our way, very slowly around the rink, alternating between pulling Bella and Addison to their feet and trying not to fall myself. We were nearly the whole way.around when Bella fell and her fingers slipped from my hand and as she tried to push herself to her feet my skate rolled right over her pinky. Then she cried out, and I nearly fell over as I scooped her up and onto my hip, her skate brushing my knee. It was awkward to roller skate carrying her, she's gotten so big, and harder still to make sure Addison made it off the floor of the rink with us.

Ten minutes later we were hurrying into the bathroom, me in my skates still, and lucky enough to not have yet fallen, and Bella in her sock feet, having insisted that it was NOW that she had to go to the bathroom. In the bathroom I nearly fell over, catching myself with my fingertips against the bathroom floor. That was a close one. Back out in the lounge I discovered that Bella and Addison were just as thrilled about skating some more as I was. Which was not very. I wanted to leave, but Anna's best friend had just arrived. We turned in our skates and had snacks in the lounge while Anna skated.

It wasn't until Anna fell, scraping off the scab on her knee, and bleeding profusely, that we finally left, with only ten minutes of the event left to go. For me, I was ready, but Anna protested, even though she was pressing a wad of toilet paper against her knee. It was time to go.

At home I prepared a late dinner and spent the rest of the evening in the same blissfully ignorant state in which I had spent the entire day. It wasn't until the next day, when I checked my email, that I realized that I hadn't spent death day  mourning. It was a great feeling, really. Like grief is loosening it grip on me.

Scar Tissue -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

So you want to know why I hate birds? It all boils down to their beady little eyes and their crazy antics that make me hate birds. I hadn't really considered that someone would question this, I thought that after my previous post the answer would be evident. But there are those who are wondering...

My Mom told me that when I was little, like four or five, that I would sit by the window and watch the birds and make up my own little songs to sing about them. She told me this particular anecdote when I expressed my distaste of the creatures.

"I hate birds!" I exclaimed.

"You used to love birds..." Mom said, describing what a joyful and happy child I had been. The bitter teenager that I was, I had imagined myself pressing my nose to the glass of one of the kitchen windows, fingers curled around the sill, watching the flutter of wings and peck of beaks as the birds crowded around the bird feeder. I had just been enjoying reading a book outside on the deck when bird shit splashed down from the shady branches above, landing in a white splotch on my right forearm. I had run inside to wash my arm repeatedly from fingertips to elbow immediately. I was disgusted. I felt soiled. I discarded my clothes in the dirty laundry, just in case the shit had splashed onto my tank top as well. After cleaning up, I swore my undying hatred for birds.

I went back out to finish my L.J. Smith book that I was oh-so-close to finishing, but I had a hard time getting comfortable under the shade of the tree again. I glanced around. It was too hot in the sun. But where were the birds? In the trees, and in the sky, technically I wasn't safe from birds anywhere. My suspicion of birds began...

Coming back to today, do I still feel the same hatred for birds? I'm not sure. I have a certain fascination with birds, for sure, but I have no desire--whatsoever--to be near a bird. I don't mind their singing, their incessant chirping and their flying in the sky, as long as it is far away from me. I do not like their rampant shitting. The fluttering of wings against my body during my last close encounter with a bird is making me cringe inside as I'm writing this.  

And do I even need to mention Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds again? Now there's a scary movie.

Halleluja- - Handel

In the nineties we had a snow and ice storm, and lost power at our house. When it finally came back on Mom sang the Halleluja chorus, and it went off again. It came back on, and once again, Mom sang, and off the power went again. This happened like three times before power was restored, and we were begging Mom not to sing it any more.

Well, we have weathered our own ice storm this week, bringing back that fond memory. But we didn't lose power, thank God, unlike a lot of unfortunate people out there. I stayed up half the night worrying if I'd have to prepare the fireplace for a warming fire when the ice came.

Jamie helped a homeless couple find some shelter the other day. he even bought them a few provisions before they went on their way, grateful that someone was willing to help, event if it was only a little bit.

Yesterday, as I was leaving the grocery store I saw a guy who needed a jump, so I gestured to him and pulled my car around to help. He attached the jumper cables, but only a dismal click sounded when he turned the key. His friend pulled in about that time and said that they would have to get a new battery, he guessed. I left the poor guy in the hands of his friend and said goodbye and good luck.

I tried helping. I really did. But it seems like I can't even help people effectively! Jamie was proud of me though, smiling and telling me I did the right thing.

I like to think that Mom would approve,  even though I didn't fix the problem, but I tried.

Dad said he had some refugees from the storm. The circumstances were quite different but the anecdote reminded me of my childhood. One night  a family was stranded on our road in a storm. Mom and Dad passed around warm dry towels and later helped them get on their way. I was young and don't remember all the details, but I remember being moved by that simple kindness.

After the 4+ inches of snow last weekend our neighbor got a car stuck in the edge of or yard. I tried helping, but only managed to sling mud all over my neighbor as she tried to push. It was comical really, two twenty-something women trying feebly to move a snowed-in SUV. But as soon as Jamie made it home from work, he rocked it til it came unstuck. Just like that.

Another guy slid into our yard on Monday. I peeked out of the gate to see. He was alone in his 96 Honda Civic, and stuck at the corner edge of the yard. Luckily he maneuvered around the yard and road enough to get out. But I had a brief moment where I thought I'd help him what little I could if he got stuck.

I look around and see my friends helping others too, and feel content in my place here. I may not be able  to fix everything, but I can always try to help.