Rooster -- Alice In Chains

When we were young we begrudgingly obeyed our Grandpa Bill and took turns reading The Constitution and The Bill of Rights aloud. Now I am thankful to him for the lessons we learned. When I say young, I mean like 10 or so. Maybe I didn't fully comprehend what we were reading at first, but we had to keep reading, and ask our questions afterward.

"I don't own 'ah' gun, let alone many guns that would necessitate such a rack." --Mike Meyers as Wayne from the movie Wayne's World.

I don't personally own any guns. But people in my family do. I know how to shoot a rifle. I know how to use a bow and arrow. My sister Sarah is the Annie Oakley of our bunch, but that's okay. I can still hit the target.

What I propose to you now is: please read, comprehend, and familiarize yourself with The Constitution and The Bill of Rights.

Let us reflect on what our forefathers set out to do in creating these documents. And pay particularly close attention to the wording of these documents.


I am including here the Bill of Rights:

The Bill of Rights: A Transcription 12/17/12 8:34 AM

www.archives.gov

December 17, 2012

The Bill of Rights: A Transcription
The Preamble to The Bill of Rights
Congress of the United States
begun and held at the City of New-York, on
Wednesday the fourth of March, one thousand seven hundred and eighty nine.
THE Conventions of a number of the States, having at the time of their adopting the Constitution, expressed a desire, in order to prevent misconstruction or abuse of its powers, that further declaratory and restrictive clauses should be added: And as extending the ground of public confidence in the Government, will best ensure the beneficent ends of its institution.
RESOLVED by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America, in Congress assembled, two thirds of both Houses concurring, that the following Articles be proposed to the Legislatures of the several States, as amendments to the Constitution of the United States, all, or any of which Articles, when ratified by three fourths of the said Legislatures, to be valid to all intents and purposes, as part of the said Constitution; viz.
ARTICLES in addition to, and Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America, proposed by Congress, and ratified by the Legislatures of the several States, pursuant to the fifth Article of the original Constitution.
Note: The following text is a transcription of the first ten amendments to the Constitution in their original form. These amendments were ratified December 15, 1791, and form what is known as the "Bill of Rights."
Amendment I
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
Amendment II
A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.
Amendment III
No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.
Amendment IV
The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.
Amendment V
No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or

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The Bill of Rights: A Transcription 12/17/12 8:34 AM

indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.
Amendment VI
In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence.
Amendment VII
In Suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise re-examined in any Court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.
Amendment VIII
Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.
Amendment IX
The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.
Amendment X

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.

Anna Begins -- The Counting Crows

[Also titled Revelry -- Kings of Leon on my WordPress blog]

Thursday evening I let Annalee  read some of my blog for the first time. [In case you start wondering if I've lost my ability to write along with my mind, Anna-Lee has told me that this is how she likes to write her name. So I'll do it her way. But I know what her name is and why it is like it is.] Anyway, we started to scroll down the page to my very first blogger post, but she stopped me when she saw her name in ""With or Without You" -- U2." So we read that first. When she reached the end we were both crying. But she said, "Some of these tears are laughing tears, and some of them are sad tears." It was the perfect laughter-through-tears moment. I scrolled down to the second post, "Uh-Oh -- King Kong," and read through to "Rearview Mirror -- Pearl Jam" before we gave it up for the night. 

Annalee said, looking at me indignantly after reading Uh-Oh, "I thought you said it was funny."

"Well, some of them are funny, but they're all about Mom dying so, there's only so much funny you can get out of all of that experience..." I told her, smiling.

It all started when I was blogging. I was changing my layout, going on to explain to Annalee what the layout was, and how to change things on your blog. Then I showed her my stats, after she asked why I only had three followers and very few comments, I explained that each time I blogged, more and more people were reading. 

Looking at the titles of each blog and its popularity she queried me about the blogs themselves. She wondered, "Are they all just songs?"

"Well, each blog post title is the name of a song, and the artist name. It is either a song that I was listening to while I was writing, or a song that ties into the meaning of the blogpost itself," I attempted to explain. "Do you want to read some? You have to start at the beginning, though."

After we were finished reading, I played "With or Without You" for her. I think she enjoyed it, especially after knowing that it was one of her GG's favorite albums ever.

Later, while this song was playing, Addison asked if I liked this song--Revelry--or if I was finished listening to it.

It reminded me of all those times I begged Dad to play anything else except NPR while we were in the car. Or when Mom begged him to not play Led Zeppelin at such a loud volume. So, now that I have lived through forced-listening (which, really, results in more people who buy Led Zeppelin albums and listen to NPR podcasts of Fresh Air and Car Talk), I can decide how this is going to go.

"My iPod, my music, my stereo. That is all," I told Addison, and that was the end of that discussion.

Of course, having The Mother's Curse, it was only minutes later that I was putting the iPod out of reach after Addison had waited until I had left the room and turned my music off.

Oh well, I still have about 16 years of this to go before they are all completely from beneath my thumb, so I'll let it slide...for now.

Later, iPod in hand, I listened to Anna Begins by The Counting Crows and thought that it would be a great title for this post. After all, Anna is beginning something--something that we probably both need to read together so that we can share our feelings about this tragedy in our lives. 

I know it hurt her too, and that is what hurts me the most.   Knowing that she can read this, process it, and learn how to express her feelings in a similar manner gives me a new goal. To teach all of them as much as I can about Mom, as soon as I can. Try to capture every memory I can for them and hold onto it, because one day they will ask me about my Mother and I want to be able to tell them what a wonderful person she was--from the very beginning of her life to the very bitter end. 

Here will be some of that record. Here there will be the stories from my life, the complications of not having my mother, and, now, an effort to share with you--and them--the great memories that make having had Reba Jean as my Mother, if only for a little while. 

Oh great...now it's playing "The World I Know" by Collective Soul. Yet another song that Mom loved. 

"...and I laughed to myself

as the tears rolled down

cause it's the world I know"

Christmas Vacation -- Mavis Staples

The subject of the day: Fruitcakes.

I might be bat-shit crazy, in my own opinion, but my doctor doesn't even really think that....

I'm sitting in her new office, settling into the chair, noticing that it is far less comfortable than it looked. She asks me to tell her how I have been. So I tell her about Thanksgiving. That I just flipped out Friday night and left, going for an hour drive while everyone worried and puzzled over my unpredictable behavior. I went back, after I had calmed down....

I sobbed out the story as best I could, telling her, "Everybody probably just thinks I'm fucking crazy!"

We exchange looks as I dab at my tears with a tissue.

"Are you seeing things or hearing things that aren't really there?" she asked.

"Well, no," I answered.

"Okay then. Not crazy. What do you think?"

I think that under-exposure to fruitcakes over the years has caused my illness.

Think about it. How many fruitcakes do you get a year? I sure as hell don't get any. Everybody hates them and now no one will give them as gifts anymore. And no one re-gifts them to their least favorite relative anymore.

What we need is more fruitcakes. We need a fruitcake in every house in America. It's both a patriotic and also a festive idea. If everyone had a fruitcake, and soon, when December 12th rolls around we can use them as weapons like that kid and David Hasselhoff in that weird Christmas movie.

Now I'd like to posit a question to you. If the world ends do you think it will be abruptly? Or do you think we will have a post-apocalypse filled with zombies and fruitcakes?

Plateau -- Nirvana

I know you've been waiting a long time for this post so...

Where did I go for about two months? I went bat-shit crazy.

No. Really. On my chart she actually put "bat-shit crazy." I looked when she wasn't in the room. I didn't know that was a real diagnosis.

But, seriously, I attempted to finish my degree this fall semester. That didn't go well. Let's just say that being bat-shit crazy and trying to take care of three kids, a home, myself, and homework did not mesh well. That is all I will say for now. Who knows who may be reading this. But if I'm being perfectly honest the straw that broke the camel's back was a hushed discussion in an empty hallway:

"You need to get your act together." Those were the words that circled my head as I cried for twenty minutes in class, wiping at my face with baby wipes because that's all I had.

I wish I could get my act together, but it's not that easy.

Someone told me to suck it up and get on with my life.

That didn't go over well either. If I could suck it up and get on with my life I would.

Maybe my Mother dying didn't break you, and I'm glad. Maybe I wasn't completely broken at first, just cracked enough that a good hard slug from reality shattered me completely. I was the strong one for so long that when I broke, I broke all the way. Every little shard hit the floor when I went down, and gluing the pieces back together requires the right kind of glue, and the right kind of people to help. I have some of those people and we're working on the glue.

But I'm here and I'm alive. Every day is a struggle. But I just keep on keepin' on because that's what Mom told me to do about nine years ago as I cried into the phone, snuggled in my bed with my history books from my first semester of college.

Plateau was Mom's favorite Nirvana song, just in case you didn't know.

"Many a hand
has scaled the grand
old face of the plateau
Some belong to strangers
and some to folks you know
Holy Ghosts and talk-show hosts
are planted in the sand
beautify the foothills
and shake the many hands

There's nothin on the top
but a bucket and a mop
and an illustrated book about birds
You see a lot up there
but don't be scared
who needs action
when you got words?..."

Head Like a Hole -- Nine Inch Nails

This is a rant, just to warn you.

I'm at a loss for trying to wrap my head around the boorish behavior of those who like to stir up shit. I have a certain respect for the readers of my blog, and the readers of all blogs. For you to take time out of your life for a few moments to read what I say means more to me than I could explain.

What I don't understand is why people bother to read my posts if they are uncouth enough to insult me on my own blog. If you don't want my opinion, my stories, my experiences in life--don't read it. If I piss you off beyond the capabilities of your etiquette, then just stop where you are reading and navigate away, to somewhere where your uncouth behavior is acceptable.

Wait a second...didn't I previously post a lesson on etiquette? Shall we have another? Just for shits and giggles?

Etiquette & Manners : A Lesson In Social Interaction

1) If you don't have anything nice to say, then come sit by me. Just kidding. Seriously, though, sometimes your opinion should be kept to yourself. Especially if it sucks.

2) If you are going to speak your opinion, expect an opposing opinion in every situation and be prepared to bite your tongue. Biting your tongue can help you save face, as well as allow someone else to freely voice their opinion.

3) Don't start conversations on taboo subjects with people who you know have an opposing view to yours. You'll just ruin relationships and look like a boorish fool.

4) Always remember that, even though others may not, you can have (or develop) the manners it takes to have polite conversation with other people.

5) Think before you speak, write, or post. Just consider how the recipient might interpret what you are saying. Just because it doesn't really sound offensive to you, always consider how others might interpret your words.

You want to spar with me, then bring it. I'm down with that. But you better bring your fucking manners with you when we do.

"...head like a hole
black as your soul
I'd rather die
than give you control...

....bow down to the one you serve
you're going to get what you deserve..."

Angel -- Jimi Hendrix

  My favorite thing, by far, is music. No matter what else is going on, music always makes it better. I prefer different music for different moods. I think that that may be true of everyone. Tool is good for any mood. Whether depressed, angry, happy, or excited, Tool is good for it all. Led Zeppelin is good for cleaning on Saturday morning. Frank Zappa when you're crazy drunk, The Cars when you're partying. I have so many favorite bands and songs that it is hard to decide...

 But if I had to pick a song as one of my favorites, it would be this one. I used to sit in my room, when I was young, and while listening to Jimi Hendrix, make elaborate collages. The rents even got me my own set of x-acto knives. Those were fun.

 I used to use Dad's supply catalogues to cut out funny phrases. You'd be surprised what you can find in machinery supply catalogues. Like this one ad:

"Turns out it does take a rocket scientist to create the perfect wheel chair."

I guess it does. I found out today that there is no amount of medication in the world that can fix me. Isn't that reassuring?


"Angel came down from heaven yesterday
She stayed maybe just long enough to rescue me
And she told me a story yesterday
About the sweet love between the moon and the deep blue sea
And then she spread her wings high over me
And said she's gonna come back tomorrow
And I said, 'Fly on by sweet angel, Fly on through the sky...'"

Go -- Pearl Jam

5/5/12

This past weekend was the bi-annual family camping trip. I haven't stayed for the weekend in a long time. I took my Grandmother and the girls with me for the day on Saturday. It was be more fun than the time I was pregnant with Arabella. That time, Dad and I took turns carrying Addison back up the big ass hill to the campsite and that sucked.

Now that the kids are bigger, maybe Arabella can do some of her own hiking. Last time it was me and Daniel that took turns carrying her, with Joe helping Addison along. On that trip the weather was cool, and not as nice, the kids ended up with each others sweaters and one of Jessica's.

This time the weather was great, hot even, and as soon as we started our Saturday hike, the kids stopped at the first creek and got in. And they didn't want to get out. So the others hiked on without us, while Daniel, Jessica, and I watched Aiden, Addison and Arabella play in the cold creek. We eventually stripped them down and let them play naked, there was so much sand in the shallow pool of the creek where we were sitting that they decided to make small sand castles with their hands. Arabella would grab the wet sand and rub it all over her. I called it her "spa exfoliation."

When we were leaving, I hated to go but couldn't stand the thought of sleeping in a tent with Addison and Arabella. That is a new experience for which I would prefer them to be older. I think Addison would be all right, as long as you were right next to her. But as soon as I might go rejoin the circle by the fire she would be screaming, "Mommy!" at the top of her lungs. No, I think that if I ever take all the kids camping, it will be me and Jamie and we will all have a good time.

I like to go to the mountains and hike through the forests that our people lived in a long time ago. I like that there is a place that we can go to get away from everything and just relax. But I find it hard to relax when I'm chasing three kids around, so I think we will just stick to the day trips for a while.

I remember when my Mother and Aunt were there when we camped at Omie's, and it was so cold that they came in and put all the extra clothing on top of us to keep us from freezing. No thank you. I have a lot of good memories of camping as a child, but to create the lasting memories that I hope to have with my children, I want to have fun, too. So if that means waiting until Arabella is a little older to do an overnight trip, then that's what I'll do.

We will go and visit with family. And one of these days we will stay and let the kids really experience camping in the woods for two nights and three days. Dirty, but fun. I'm totally looking forward to it.

Jesus Is Just Alright -- The Doobie Brothers [3]

So I have decided that reading the King James Bible is like reading Dante's Divine Comedy without the  footnotes. It makes a good story, but phrases have different meanings. While reading through my own Bible I found this:

Ecclesiastes Chapter 11 Verse 3

"If the clouds be full of rain, they empty themselves upon the earth: and if the tree fall toward the south, or toward the north, in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall be."

It reminded me of, "If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

And also a bit like, "Wherever you go, there you will be." 

I don't want to write about religion anymore. I am abandoning the issue. There are so many things that people want to argue about regarding religion. 

I will leave you with this one final thought to ponder, to study, to pass off--if need be:

How many people throughout history have been killed because of religion?

"No one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition!"--Monty Python

Jesus Is Just Alright -- The Doobie Brothers [2]

Enjoy the next installment of my rhetorical argument about religion:


Referring to my religious argument with someone statements were said, including:

"God controls everything."
"Everything happens for a reason."
"Everything is preordained by God." (Well, it's usually, "It's all part of God's plan.")

It's like what you hear after your Mother dies.

And you know what I say? Bullshit. What of the fact of free will? Can we really say that something is predetermined when, in fact, we make choices every day. Does God make those choices for us? Does he already have a script of our lives written out? Is he like, "Beth's going to get her cornea scratched....now! Ha! One smite down, seventeen gazillion to go!"

No, I don't believe that that's necessarily how things work.

What makes someone go through the choices in their lives that lead to murder, rape, pedophelia, and any other violent acts? Are we to believe that these atrocious acts are the will of God? I don't believe that. Does this mean that there are evil spirits, a yang to God's yin--Satan and his minions? Can people who perform atrocities upon others be possessed with evils spirits, or born with them? Who the hell knows.

If our lives were so preordained then why so many people have shitty ones? And why do so many people do horrific, deceitful, or violent things to others? What of free will? What of the choices we make in our lives? What of judgment and redemption? Can you be redeemed if you slaughter your own flesh and blood? Can you be redeemed if you rape a small child? Can you be redeemed if your an addict or alcoholic?

So my argument with an acquaintance over religion continues with his rebuttal. Here's a snippet of conversation in which we were discussing prayer and the fact that he thinks that God determines everything:

"If you pray God will speak to you," he said.

My hand was on the sliding door, one foot in. Turning I said, "God doesn't speak to me."

As I was stepping the rest of the way inside and closing the door he rebutted my statement, "It's that little voice in your head."

Well, if you know me, then you know what's coming. Who knew religious discussion would be a game of Bullshit? I didn't say it to him, but I was thinking, No, that little voice inside my head is me. Just ask her. 

No, that little voice inside my head talks to me in Times New Roman and in the English language.  It's me in there, talking to myself. If it was God, that little voice, then I would never have another question again.

I believe that we all have control over our fates. When I was sixteen I prayed to God every night to make me happy or take me from this world. I prayed for weeks. And I always woke from my sleep without an answer. God never spoke a word to me. But I knew then that if I was going to be happy, that I'd better make myself that way, because God wasn't going to get me out of this life or its hardships, and he wasn't going to send me a obvious message. I believe that God is much more subtle.

God doesn't speak to me. But I've learned not to listen with my ears or mind, but with my soul, but I still don't get the answers I seek. I make my life choices based on the way they make me feel in my heart. That's cool for me, 'cause I'm not a violent criminal.  

Got Me Wrong -- Alice In Chains

So I said, in my Mother's Day blog, that I had scheduled a mental breakdown at 4 PM on Saturday, and various bursts of sobs on Mother's Day. But that's not how mental breakdowns work. You can't schedule those. Those just happen.

And mine happened to be yesterday morning. I woke up late, having dismissed the alarm rather than hitting the snooze button, and immediately knew that there was no way in hell that I was going to make it to class in time. And I had to get all three girls ready--Anna-Lee always asks me to help her pick something out when I do for Addison and Arabella, but is never satisfied with the results, so I tried to refrain from doing so. I pulled the little sleeping ones from their beds and put on their clothes while they rubbed their eyes sleepily and protested.

No one wanted to get up. No one wanted to get ready to leave in a timely manner. I had all my shit together, waiting. I'm so late, and this is just too much!

[brief mental breakdown]

I wiped tears from my eyes--at least I hadn't had time to put any mascara on--as I drove the girls to their different schools. By the time I reached my school I was an hour late for class and avoided looking in the mirror before I exited the car--I knew I looked like hell. It showed on my face, it showed on my quickly-grabbed-t-shirt in the form of a previously unnoticed stain. It appeared on my feet, the sandals I had so urgently put on to fetch a pair of shoes out of the garage for Addison.

No, you can't plan those moments when the reality of life comes crashing in around you. All the hurt and pain that you've been hiding under sarcasm and witty remarks blossoms into full grief and leaves you feeling hulled out, the shell of this person you thought you were.

But, in the end, you have to suck it up and put on a smile, because your life isn't over and there are people who depend on you.

It's an endless cycle.

What A Wonderful World -- Louis Armstrong

Yesterday, just in case you didn't know, was Death Day. Last year I posted a movie quote on my Facebook status which included a repetitive string of bad words. Someone asked me what was wrong, and it irritated me to have to explain to them that it was Death Day.

Death Day, as we have come to call it, is the day our Mother, Wife, Sister and Friend, Reba Jean Roark, left this world.

I talked to Dad earlier this week and he asked me how I was doing. I said I was fine, though school and kids had been running me ragged.

"So I guess you know what this week is," he'd said.

"Yeah," was my reply, "Death Day."

He was just wondering if I was dealing with it well. I have been too busy to wallow in grief.

"I'm scheduling a mental breakdown for 4 o'clock," I told him.

"Today?" he asked. I laughed.

"No, Saturday. And then Sunday I plan to burst into uncontrollable fits of sobs at various points throughout the day," I chuckled as I spoke into the phone.

We laughed a little about it. And talked about putting flowers from the garden on her grave that day. I told him I had planned to just order something, since I wouldn't be able to come and visit, but Dad said something that makes me wonder if I learned anything at all from her:

"You know, and your Mother would tell you if she were standing right here, that if you have any extra money that you ought to spend it on those kids."

"Well, I guess we could go Death Day shopping," I said. He was right, of course.

Dad was thinking of picking flowers from the garden to take over to her grave. I asked him, if it was blooming, would he include one of the yellow English Tea roses from the bush Jamie and I bought her for Mother's Day years before? He said that he would, and Sarah sent me pictures of the beautiful bouquet they had fixed, laid by the bench that is her grave marker.

Later, I told Amy about my grieving schedule. She thought it was funny, too.

Happy Mother's Day.

"I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom, for me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world

I see skies of blue, and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, dark sacred night
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces, of people going by
I see friends shaking hands, sayin', "How do you do?"
They're really sayin', "I love you"

I hear babies cry in', I watch them grow
They'll learn much more, than I'll ever know
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world

Yes, I think to myself
What a wonderful world
Oh yeah"

This was one of Mom's favorite songs.

Speak To Me -- Pink Floyd

4/25/12


So last night on the radio they played this song. And I couldn't stand it being followed by anything but the rest of the album, Dark Side of the Moon. So I put it on and was enjoying listening to it as a lay, achy and tired, on the couch.
And what do I hear?
Bella in the kitchen
Makin a mess for me
(Think Dinosaurs' Ethel Show music)

Are You In -- Incubus

So we've been discussing taking our first family vacation together, and in doing so I have been reminded of vacations past...

Once we went to St. Augustine, Florida, the oldest city in the country. We were headed to St. Petersburg, but Dad had always wanted to go and we were in for the ride.

We didn't mind reading our books and listening to music in the cool car, but on the day we went to see historical St. Augustine it was sweltering. When we arrived, we went on our own little tour around the place and stopped across from the old jail. There were benches there, and a few of us made ourselves as comfortable as possible with sweat dripping down our faces, necks, and backs. So there we sat in this absolutely-no-shade of a place and Dad whips out a cigarette and lights it up, leaning up against the wall beside one of the benches. Some random sitting nearby walks up to Dad and informs him that his cigarette smoke is bothering her. He blew one long stream in her direction before shuffling down the paved walk.

We headed in the direction of the old fort and some big gun or something, an laughed about it. I mean, we were outside!But cigarettes are one of those hot topics like money, politics, and religion (and apparently illegal immigrants!), so I will leave it at that.

In my mind, not having perfect recall, all those different vacations coalesce into a myriad of vacation memories.

Once we stopped in Savannah, GA on our way to our Florida vacation destination. The stop was inspired by Sarah, who had just read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. I remember Savannah being one of the most beautiful cities I'd ever seen with its large old homes and We visited the Bonaventure Cemetery there and marveled at the amazing angel statues that adorned the graves.


We had a lot of good vacations when we were younger, and quite a few good ones since we've grown and started our own families. I will never forget riding down the road with Mom behind the wheel and we were all wearing our shades while singing along to our favorite music. Just us girls in one car, and Daniel and Dad in the other.

I'll also never forget the night we drove nearly straight through to Florida, and while stopping for gas, someone shut my pinky finger in the door. And the door latched! A few hours later we stopped to sleep at a rest area for a while and I woke to the throbbing pain in my finger, which, in my sleep, I had rested my head on that hand. In the uncomfortable position I was in in the car, I tossed and turned, watching the sky lighten. I tried lowering the window to find relief from the muggy inside of the car, only to let in mosquitoes with the cooler, but not much less muggy air. After the pain from my finger went away, we had a good vacation.

I also remember the time that we arrived extra early in St. Petersburg and our room wouldn't be ready for at least a few hours. We stopped by the wharf at an Ihop to eat breakfast, but as soon as we all piled out of the car the stinky smell of fish overwhelmed us, and suddenly I didn't feel like eating breakfast. But we did anyway, and smelled the smell on the way back out to the car. I don't think anyone should put a restaurant near a wharf--or anywhere else that smells like dead fish.

When we were really young we went to Kiawah Island with our Aunt, Uncle, cousins and Grandma Roark. When we arrived, we went immediately to the beach and I began hopping in the shallow tidal pools until I went into one that wasn't so shallow. I don't really know what happened, whether it was super deep, or whether I just fell into it and it seemed so deep, but I remember being pulled up, soaking wet, into the cool evening air. I was wearing my favorite sweater.

At Kiawah Island our rental came with some bikes and Dad took me for a ride that I won't soon forget. We had one of those bikes that has the kid seat on the back. Dad put me in and off we went to ride on the beach. That day there were jellyfish washed up all over the beach. We (and by we I mean Dad) decided it would be fun to run over the jellyfish. The were squishy and made a little bump when we went over them. Sure, it was fun, until we hit one that wasn't as squishy as the others and we went down, hard. After all the crying I insisted that Dad not run over any more jelly fish for the rest of the ride.

Well, that's all for now, but there are many more vacation stories to tell...

So Whatcha Want -- Beastie Boys

Addison had this terrible meltdown today about the size of her cup. It reminded me of another instance in which I was dealing with her while she was being unruly. I had the radio on, and this song was on the radio.

I turned to Addison and said, "Whatcha whatcha want?" Throwing my hands up in exasperation as she continued to chant Mommy.

And now, I suppose, I've created a monster in doing so. I heard her tell Arabaella the other day, "whatcha whatcha want?" when she was being fussy.

And she says it to Nero, our giant puppy, as she wrestles all 58 pounds of him to the floor.

Well, at least she has good taste in music.

Nothing Man -- Pearl Jam

While I was making home-made muffins for the girls one day, I was thinking about the song Nothing Man.

Back in the day my sister Sarah and I shared a room. We liked to rock out to music, and some of our favorite music to listen to was Pearl Jam.

One day, while listening to Vitalogy, the door to our room part of the way open, Mom burst in and asked, "Is he saying 'muffin man,' because that's what it sounds like he's saying from out here."

"No, Mom, he's saying 'nothing man,'" we explained, as we laughed. It was kind of one of those things that you had to be there for, I suppose.

One day she came in while I was listening to Primus' The Return of Sathington Willoughby, and said that she liked that and what was it called? I didn't know the name of the song then, but explained that it was Primus.

Mom liked music. Except most of Led Zeppelin. She hated when Dad turned up the stereo and put on a Led Zeppelin album. I thought, at the time that, wHole Lotta Love was a good title for a blog post because listening to it and the Lemon Song pissed her off so much.

But I also know that Mom did like some Led Zeppelin--particularly IV; I think that she liked a lot more of Dad's music than she let on. Like Frank Zappa. Maybe It wasn't her favorite music, but she knew the words. She also liked Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World and Nights In White Satin by the Moody Blues, and Collective Soul, which she requested I make her a CD of a long time ago. Mom liked all kinds of music, really. And I'm glad that she did, because between her and Dad, we all like a variety of music.

Except country music. There's some country music that I can tolerate and some that I just absolutely cannot. And when we were youngsters Dad would turn on country music to get us out of the bed in the morning. It was annoying, but it was better than water in your ear.

Garden -- Pearl Jam

So yesterday, while we were visiting Dad, we took a walk down the road. It was fun, and really exciting for all of the kids. On our way Jessica wanted to dig up some wildflowers for her garden. Beside the road, in large patches, were giant clovers. I found two four-leaf clovers and one five-leaf clover. We lost one four-leaf clover on our way back, but the other two are pressed between the pages of my journal (Finally! Though in retrospect, I had to go home to find a four-leaf clover).

When we first arrived at Dad's house there was a Marlboro Light butt in the ashtray and a pink cup in the sink. I immediately thought, Dad's had a lady friend over! And promptly told Jamie, pointing out the evidence. But I was wrong. It was Jessica's lipsticked cigarette in the ashtray and a pink cup Dad had found in an old car. It was kind of funny because I immediately began to think, before reality caught up to me, he's had some woman here. And she's been smoking and drinking with Dad! Well, as you can imagine, I began to look for evidence of this mystery woman I had concocted. In the television room the books, pictures, and knick knacks had been moved around. The hole sculpture (see blog post wHole Lotta Love -- Led Zeppelin) was turned so that you couldn't even really tell what it was. The Waterford crystal candy dish and vase I had bought for Mom had been moved, and there was no candy in the dish. The books were all out of order, or so it seemed. Perhaps there were just different books that hadn't been before, which must have been the case, since all the books from the shelf in the bathroom were gone.

All of these things I worried over for a while, picking away, until I told Sarah of this mystery woman. She laughed and told me that it was just Dad moving shit around and cleaning. Well, that made sense. After all, why shouldn't he have the things in his house where he wants them? And later I would discover that my initial reaction to the cigarette and cup had created this false person in my mind. Some pretty woman running her hand along the Waterford crystal, fingers dancing over the spines of the books on the book shelf. Ready to snatch up these precious things and take them to the pawn shop.

My discussion with Sarah reassured me. She told me that Dad felt like it would have to be a very special person for him to waste his time and energy courting them. I guess that's a good thing and a bad thing. The good part is that he probably--if ever--won't get serious with some douchebag who just wants all his money. The bad part is that, by comparison, Mom is unbeatable. No one will ever be able to fill the void that Mom left, not for him, or for us. I like to think that there's some really nice lady out there that will come along and be a companion for Dad, but in my heart of hearts I know that Mom and Dad were meant for each other. They were meant to share this life together.

There are good people in the world. They often come and go too quickly, but the wake of their lives still reverberates through the lives of those they loved and inspired. It seems to be a lucky thing that we get to have those good souls like shooting stars through our lives. But it would be a miracle to find the love of your life twice in one lifetime.

No Leaf Clover -- Metallica (S&M)

Yesterday, as the girls and puppy romped in the back yard, I went looking for a four-leaf clover. Needless to say I didn't find one all day.

Mom was the best at finding four leaf clovers. In fact, she found clovers with many more leaves than just four. She had a secret for finding them. She told me her secret, and when I was younger I would be able to take a walk around the yard with her and find four-leaf clovers. The field was the best place to find many-leaved clovers, or the shoulder of the narrow country road. I will not disclose the secret here, you'll have to figure that one out for yourselves, but I will say that my sister Sarah has inherited the gift of finding four-leaf clovers. I don't think that I have found one since Mom died.

The frustrating part of it all is that in our neighborhood of perfectly groomed lawns without a weed or bare patch, my yard full of clover and dandelions stands out. That's okay with me, I like to feed the bees, but I don't think some of my neighbors are too keen on my not-weeding-much-of-anything approach to gardening. I like to grow wild flowers and would like to have so many flowers that weeds wouldn't even survive there. But I guess that's not exactly how it works.

I liked growing up where we could go out and play in the front yard and not have to worry about stepping on the grass. Mom weeded things all the time I suppose, but she had this kind of organic approach to gardening. Certain areas of the yard we just chock full of flowers, sometimes surrounded by rocks, there are flowers that edged the field down the hillside, peonies nestled into a strand of bushes next to a plum tree, wisteria growing up an iron "R" topped tripod that Dad made, and the mound where an old well is covered in various flowers, bushes and sprouts another plum tree at its edge. Though Mom is gone, things around the house still look about the same.

My house isn't in a rural area, but I like to go out in the middle of the yard and plant things. What's wrong with that? I just planted a peony and a tall, straight maple tree that had begun to grow in my garden, as well as transplanted hostas and day lilies to line the fence. This year the lilac bush Mom gave me a long time ago bloomed for the first time, and I gathered the girls and Jamie to smell its irresistibly sweet fragrance.

I think that I will keep my clover and dandelions. Maybe one of these days I will find a four-leaf clover. After all, if you're familiar with my previous work, you may know already that weeds like crab grass are C4 plants, meaning that they take in only carbon dioxide, thereby increasing their growing rate and sucking more carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere than other grasses, which accept other air molecules than carbon dioxide. And dandelions feed the bees. Just saying.

Motherless Children -- Folk Song

My March 19th post (The Scientist -- Coldplay) seemed very popular; apparently people are interested in whether or not you killed your mother. I got a lot of feedback from my family about it. In response to such feedback, I dedicate this blog to my family, those who are still around to speak to me, and to those who are not.

In reflection, the responses to the aforementioned blog post led me to understand that the post was one in which I had been working toward for a long time. Because I do feel guilty, not that I was responsible, but that there must have been things, signs that I missed. Perhaps I could have known what to look for, what to do about her health care, which I felt was less than subpar. But in my heart I know that there was nothing to be done. Her death was just what it was, nothing can ever change that, and we were lucky to have her here as long as we did.   Even to this day I feel that she is with me both in my heart and in the person that I am. And when I make that perfect pan of cornbread or the perfect pancake batter I can almost taste her hand in my cooking.

On the way back from the hospital--and it's odd now that I can't remember exactly which time it was--if it was when we first found out that Mom was sick or when she had just passed away. But anyway, there wasn't much on the radio so I ended up tuning into NPR. Normally it's not my thing, but after being brought up listening to it on the radio every day of my life, I turn to it when only country music will tune in.  On this particular day, it just happened to be bluegrass music, some rendition of an old song, that had the line, "...a sister will do when the mother is gone..." And I remember thinking that, in the cars ahead of us were my sisters. And when I thought of losing my mother I was sure that my sisters would be there for me, even my father and brother, and remaining grandparents. But how could we really carry on without Mom?

I suppose that my greatest fear is that if I don't write this down here, in my journal, somewhere, people may forget what a great person she was. Even the things that we may have complained, as children do, about Mom--her brutal honesty, her moodiness, or her unmistakeable authority over all--I find myself missing those things most of all. And on occaision you just need to hear what an idiot you're being. And Mom would have told you--sometimes without being asked.

It is also hard for me to write, knowing that Dad reads this and that he is the one in all of this who has lost his wife, the mother of his children, and his best friend. I don't want to ever have to feel the feeling that he must feel when he thinks of Mom. But I also know that the longer you live, the more people that you will have to watch die. Why is it that some are just so much harder than others? I thought the death of my Grandma Roark would break my heart. But losing my mother is so much harder. In time, I guess you get used to dead people not being around anymore. Like, oh let's go see Grandma--oh yeah, that's right, she's dead. Okay so Grandpa it is! 


The last time I went to visit Dad I accidentally said, as we were preparing to leave, "Okay, let's go to Papa and GG's!" Really enthusiastically in the beginning, with my face crumbling in front of Anna-Lee into one of those oh-shit-I-just-said-the-wrong-thing cringes after I realized what had just escaped my lips.

My Grandpa Roark told my husband, after the passing of Jamie's Mother, "It only hurts when you think about it." Simple, straightforward and true, those words.


I suppose that it does only hurt when you think about it. But when there's not a day that goes by that you don't think about her, it hurts every day. I guess it will eventually get easier as time passes, but right now it's hard not to miss her.  

Bound for the Floor -- Local H

This is the "copacetic" song. Copacetic is an adjective meaning very satisfactory. The origin of the word is unknown, according to Merriam-Webster, which also states that it's first use was in 1919.

My Grandpa was born in 1919. His birthday is coming up in April. He'd be really old if he wash't playing rummy in heaven with Mom and Grandma.

Grandma and Grandpa's house is still there for family gatherings. But I remember when we were young and we used to visit them almost every day after school and all the time during the summer. They had a dog named Lassie, who didn't look exactly like the Lassie from the television show, but she was a collie like that one, only cooler. We all loved Lassie and she kept us safe. Especially from snakes. I remember her fervently shaking her head in the back yard to snap the snake's neck, and then she did it pretty much continuously until Grandpa came along and threw it in the field.

It was pretty fun at Grandma and Grandpa's house. We would watch Woody the Woodpecker and eat a variety of sugary snacks like oatmeal creme pies, circus peanuts, and sugar wafers. I also remember that at 70 or so years old Grandpa could put his feet behind his head, climb trees and roofs, and shoot like a real sharpshooter. One of the most amazing stories Grandpa told us, at the urging of our Mother (since we didn't exactly believe her story), was about him and his brothers shooting apples off the top of one another's heads and cigarettes from one another's mouths. Now not only was that some fucking trust, but that was some really good shooting. It was amazing that none of them ever got injured or killed doing such dare-devil shooting.

I guess that helped when Grandpa was in the war. The boat he was on was one of the first to hit the beaches of Normandy--Utah Beach, so I've heard. When my husband remarked that he didn't know if he could do something like that Grandpa just said, "You never know what you can do until you have to." And that was Grandpa. Sometimes a man of few words, but those words were always some kind of wisdom.

My all-time favorite story about Grandpa was when Mom was young and doing dishes in the kitchen. Grandpa came into the house furious and went to fetch a glass or something from the cabinet right next to Mom. He slammed the cabinet shut and it bounced back and hit him in the face, so he hit the cabinet and it hit him in the face again. We all laughed heartily at Mom's telling of the story and asked her if she had laughed too--to which she said absolutely not while it was happening, but as soon as he was gone again she couldn't help but to laugh.

There are many more great stories about Grandpa--and Grandma, but that's for other posts.

The Scientist -- Coldplay

Did I kill my mother? I know what you're thinking--that cancer killed my mother. But I've had this terrible thought that she might have made it a little longer if I hadn't been there for that drainage procedure (see blogpost "I Would For You -- Jane's Addiction"). When the Doctor called us back in she told us that the cancer was winning the battle, and later we learned that she had some sort of infection in addition to the cancer, possibly from the drainage procedure.

Thinking back I wonder if the unsuccessful drainage procedure that I was present for was the one that gave her the infection, thus speeding up her imminent death. What if it was? And then, thinking this, I believe it could go one of two directions: yes, the infection killed her more quickly, thus ending her suffering OR if she hadn't had the infection how much more time would we have been able to spend with her? The latter, of course, brings with it another bevy of questions. Would a little more time with her been a good thing or a bad thing? Had Mom lived a few days or weeks longer would she have been miserable? Would she have been coherent enough to tell us the things we needed to know? Would we have been focused enough to ask for her wisdom on the important things we would face in life without her?

I know I didn't have any questions when she did ask me if there was anything I wanted to talk about. At that point I was still inside this icy shell of denial, which was only made truly apparent through the constant stress I held internally which I believe caused me to have premature labor contractions months long before Arabella would arrive.

When I discussed my feelings about my mother's death with my doctor she told me she wished she could write me a prescription to have my mother back. I wish she could too, because I really need a Mom.

This loss has crushed my very heart and soul. It has torn my faith asunder, though her words echo through my head, "Don't be mad at God for this." She made me promise, which I did, but it was a broken promise before it even left my lips. I both love and hate God at the same time. I turn to prayers--to Jesus, to God, to the Goddess Mother Earth, to the cosmos, when I feel the need. Krishna would say that love and hate are two different reverberations of the same note within the heart.

I hate that my mother is dead. I hate God, Goddess, cosmos and all for it. I hate the evil people in the world who live while my own mother was torn so shockingly from our family. It might be different if I had someone to blame. I suppose I could blame people who treated her, blame her for neglecting her health, blame myself for the whole

"Oh, you're going to stay for the procedure?"

"Yeah."

thing. I could blame God, I could blame cancer. I could blame God for allowing cancer to exist. But there is no closure there. This is a never-ending thing that haunts me. I'm angry that people, good people, die of cancer every day while rapists, child molesters, and murderers roam our streets.

I want God to smite those evil fuckers in the world. And not just a little smite, a big fat smite for all the evil assholes in the world. In fact, God, I think cancer should be the plague of the evil, not the bane of the good. You should have smote those fuckers, not my Mom, dammit.

 "...no one said it was easy..."

Cumbersome -- Seven Mary Three

cumbersome- adjective; c. 1535:
1. dialect: burdensome, troublesome
2: unwieldy because of heaviness or bulk
3: slow moving: ponderous

My Advice To Youngsters:
Read the dictionary.

And not just for shits and giggles. Turns out it is a good thing to know the words , their spelling, and their meaning. It also helps on standardized tests like the SAT, the ACT, and the GRE.

When I had a mother she was my personal dictionary and encyclopedia rolled into one. She was many things, as well, but she was certainly an avid reader. Mom had an endless capacity for knowledge and a seemingly endless supply of advice--no matter what the subject. Anna-Lee asks me sometimes what a word means and I always tell her to look it up in the Merriam-Webster paperback that I gave her.

Some of the most precious memories I have of my mother are those times when, seated in the floor in front of the fireplace, our backs to the couch, crowding in to both hear the story and see the book. When we were all able to read we would take turns reading aloud, one chapter at a time. I remember most vividly the story of The Wizard of Oz. We would each read a chapter, showing the illustrations as we went along.

Our mother taught us to read with eloquence and emphasis, a trait that has served me well. It is difficult for me to listen to someone read aloud who mispronounces words, stumbles through the lines, and lacks the eloquence to tie sentences together to form a coherence within the paragraphs.

When we were old enough to read our own books, Dad saw fit to enact the after-dinner reading time in which we would listen to him read books like James Still's River of Earth and Leonard Robert's I Bought Me a Dog. There were times when we were in misery sitting at the table being read to by our father, impatiently waiting for the time when he would close the book and allow us to continue with our own evening plans. But now that we are all grown we read. We read together, especially those things that we find amusing or interesting. Dad gives us all magazine subscriptions to Smithsonian, Highlights (for the children) National Geographic, and Scientific American. We exchange books that we think the others might enjoy. We have become a family of readers. Is that rare? I certainly wish it weren't.

A great burden among American students today is learning to read being able to read aloud with others. I think a love for reading must be established within families and supportive groups, even if they can only spend a few minutes a day on one book, or one chapter per week.

I don't want to lecture; I believe that most people already know that reading is most important. But I've been thinking and I've decided that though we are in a new digital age, we should strive to provide each other, especially children, with the joys of having physical texts. And the most important of those texts to provide is a dictionary with which people can gain a greater understanding of the information they read.

That's why I will close with this bit of motherly advice, from my mother to me, and now to you:
Read the dictionary. It's totally worth it.

Gimme Shelter -- The Rolling Stones

When I listened to this song the other day it made me think, "More washboard!" Of course, that may be because Jamie and I had been watching SNL Best of Will Ferrell. One of my all-time favorite skits on SNL was the one with Will Ferrell and Christopher Walkin, "More Cowbell." Too funny! If you haven't seen this, Google it, and soon enough you'll know, too.

If you are a life-long SNL viewer you already know why I thought, "More Washboard!" And now I can't think about it while listening to "Gimme Shelter" without chuckling to myself at the thought of Mick Jagger playing the washboard very enthusiastically.

The Rolling Stones have, as you know, been around for a while. I remember watching a concert of them on television in my parent's bedroom. Sitting at the foot of the bed we watched Jagger run around the stage as if he were twenty years old and wheeze out the song lyrics as if he were fifty. Of course, this was back in the day when we only had bunny ears and three channels, one of which was PBS, the other a local channel, and the last, a local channel with good programming for which we never got sufficient reception.

No matter what the situation, like Say It Ain't So by Weezer, I will never be able to listen to this song the same way again.

Nor will I be able to listen to Paint It Black the same way after watching Stir of Echoes, but I suppose that's a story for another blog.

"Man In The Box" -- Alice In Chains

Back at Christmastime one of the kids had asked for a pedal for their guitar. Dad ended up getting the gift. Not knowing what cords were necessary to plug such an accessory in, he slipped a little money into an envelope and taped an extra phone cord to the envelope as a physical representation of the words he had scrawled on the envelope. In the end, Dad explained that he didn't know what cords to get.

This morning Jamie woke me to tell me that a box had arrived. Normally I would roll over and go back to sleep. But not today. For the past five days we have been on the phone with The Name That Won't Be Uttered trying to get internet service--and the equipment necessary for using said service. By UPS, early this morning, we received this box. After shaking the box, Jamie pulled it open and emptied the contents onto the table.

After hearing the news of said box's arrival, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and rifled through the bevy of papers and picked up two bright-colored cords wrapped neatly with twist ties.

"What the hell is this?" It was a phone cord and an ethernet cord, but I realized this though I'd already spoken. I had a whole box of such cords myself, though they weren't wrapped up so nicely. They were more like one big tangle.

What I realized then was not only that I needed more than just a green phone cord and a yellow ethernet cord, but I also realized that everyone in the world has such a plethora of these cords that The Name That Won't Be Uttered can afford to tauntingly send us such cords by UPS.

Thanks. That made my whole day--especially the part of the instructions that showed pictures of all the other equipment I needed that wasn't in the box.

Maybe I should shove that giant tangle of cords in my cord box into another box and ship it back to The Name That Won't Be Uttered. Then they can wrap them neatly in twist ties and taunt us all with them.

Then again, maybe I'll just keep my cords.

"Love Is The Answer" -- Weezer

Happy Valentine's Day!

For those of you who may hate the holiday, for those of you who love it, and for those of you who may not even acknowledge it I bring to you the reason why none of it really matters. Forget that today's marketing propaganda idea of Valentine's Day has forever changed the real story behind this day. What we must remember is that love is the answer, as Weezer says.

Love will bring you the greatest happiness, as well as the greatest sorrow you will ever experience in life. To be loved is the most precious feeling. From childhood to adulthood and beyond we seek the love and affection of others. Some are shown it all their lives. There are those who have been craving it for theirs. To have it, gain it, discover it and endure it, love is giving the purest part of yourself over completely to another, thereby opening your heart to the possiblity of the greatest sorrow imaginable. For to lose a loved one is to lose that piece of yourself that grew with their heart in love.

For me, Valentine's Day is not just about romance, but also cherishing all those people that I love and remembering those whom I have lost.

Happy Valentine's Day.