This Old House

The paint had peeled and faded. But, it still captured the eye whenever driving by on the highway. The Anderson Place in Fluvanna, New York near Chautauqua Lake. Living inside was like being caught in a time warp. It was once an eighteen room mansion. I rented half of it for $65 a month in 1970.

Why was the other side of the house so carefully bolted? Had those hand crocheted lace curtains really been hanging there for 100 years? I thought so. So many things in my side of the place were very old. I could tell that the kitchen was probably the original settlers house, built in 1810, before less than eight families occupied that part of Western New York. The extra-wide floorboards ‘neath the fifty year old linoleum showed that they were hand-hewn.
The Anderson family had been successful enough that the rest of the place built up very fast. Ceilings loomed 15 feet above, in the dining area, living room and upstairs bedrooms which made the thirty foot entry hall and staircase a magnificent imposing welcome, if you entered through the double main doorways. But, no-one ever came in that way anymore. There wasn’t even the hint of a walkway to the entrance. The eastside porch was my entry. The westside was to the other side, no walkway on that side either.

One day, I came home to discover the little old ladies I had rented from were inside of my house. They had let themselves in with a key in order to access the basement in preparation for winter. We chatted a while before they left. I asked whether they would consider renting the other side. No they wouldn’t That was “Mother’s side” of the place. Mother had been dead 47 years by that time. They didn’t reveal much except that they had lived on the newer side since becoming adult and married, raising their children there and moving on to other quarters in retirement.

After they left, I noticed they had accidentally left the door bolt unlocked between my kitchen and the other side.

Curiosity got the best of me and I opened the door. Much to my amazement, I stepped back into 1923. A kitchen with old wood stove, filled with time worn cooking utensils. The dining room and parlor with its ancient curtains still remained as they were, yellowed roller shades at half-mast beneath them. Why was there no accumulation of dust? Had these women kept a shrine to their dead mother all these years? Had they just spent the day cleaning every cobweb, every dust bunny as well as preparing the furnace for winter? It was a mystery to me.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: Since that old home was demolished after I moved away, I have no pictures of it. The photo I have taken and placed here is representative. This is the Mark Twain house located in Hartford Connecticut. Similar in style, but not as old as the home I lived in. The kitchen appliances are also representative.

Thought

Our thought processes

encourage wonder,

give opportunity

for consideration

of what will be,

or what once was,

to infinite possibilities

of fantasy and reality.

We are all capable

of thinking

no matter our intellect.

It is measurable

in all living creatures.

We are not alone 

in cognition.

Who is to say

it is not possible

in all species

until it can verified?

Thinking is the inevitable

background experience

no matter what we do.

"I think therefore I am".

Yet, It is the one thing

to be eradicated

in meditation

within certain sects

of spiritual practice.

Think of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: Digital art and Buddha photo by Elizabeth Munroz

Capturing

The stories smolder
beneath my thoughts.
I search for my notes,
my misplaced
outlines and plans.
I want to write with
with cohesiveness and flow.

Like a river with the boat
carrying the readers
as though watching
the intricacies of shoreline,
both beauty and muddy,
trees and shadows
capturing smiles, tears,
and that sensation of
"I know what that's like.
I know, and I understand."

I want the reader
to absorb the book with their heart,
because it is my heart I have written,
my heart on the pages.
I want to give away my heart
with my words,
so you know me.


~~~~~~~~
Note: Digital art by Elizabeth Munroz

Aging Pain

Looking to the future

I wonder if pain will continue

throughout the next thirty years.

I wonder if doctors

will proliferate in my life.

I wonder if coping will be

my everyday strategy,

if the enemy shall wake me,

accompany me each moment

throughout the hours

like it did the generation before me.

Are genes my destiny?

How will I break free

of the pattern

that's already begun?

~~~~~~~~~

Note: Digital art by Elizabeth Munroz

Listen

Indian chants

Arabic belly dance music 

Exotic... 

red n gold
carpet...
cross cultural
noise
in my brain

life can be fun!

I know there's a dance for that!

Curve in the Road

When life throws you a curve
and you cannot fathom why...
Why is this happening?
What can possibly be the purpose?

Remember...
it is what we all have to face
in one way or another.

No matter how threatening it feels,
inner strength you didn't know you had,
will come forth and surprise you.

The valiant soul you are
will surpass you and uphold you
when you are feeling overcome.

So hang on....
all things pass.

And, when your heart is thrilled with new results, celebrate.
Celebrate with all your heart.

Savor the gifts that life offers.
Cherish the things you hadn't noticed before;
the air you breathe,
the water slapping at the shore,
the soft cloud in the sky,
the little kids playing in the park,
purring of a kitten.
the sound of a quietly strummed guitar,
laughter,
crying,
and yes, the neighbors dog

There’s something in it all you missed before.
Now you have the chance.

Take it moment to moment.

You know now the foolishness
the folly, the petty ways you'll leave behind.

You have struggled to come out of your cocoon.
You have worked hard,
You have released yourself
from the things that kept you locked up.
You have traveled beyond that curve...

Now free yourself,
and fly into that new zest for life you rightfully earned.

Have some peace of mind...
Remember you have triumphed.
You are stronger than before.

You have gained appreciation
for those things of which you were unaware
and cherish the challenges that brought you to this new place.

Elizabeth Munroz
Aug 29 2006

Sunset at Capitola Beach

I invoke the powers that be to provide me with a parking space and... Voila! There it is! I ease my car into it and discover an hour left on the meter. The gods are generous today! Because of the chilly air, I find that I have my choice of benches. I wrap my blanket around me and prepare my meal.

The seagulls have already called it a day and stand huddled together on the sand one-legged with their heads shrugged down into their shoulders. A lone female dares to walk directly to me begging to be fed.

Of course, I will not feed her! It is against the law!

But then my stomach does a turn as I look at her. I notice a fishing line trailing behind her and a hook caught in the side of her beak. She walks up to my feet and stands there looking up directly into my eyes, never making a sound. I cannot look away from her.

My heart overtakes my hand as I pull apart my sandwich. She stays close by me to feed on the sourdough, hold the avocado, please.

I thought she would swallow more gently, considering the hook. But, I'm amazed to see her maneuver the pieces of bread over to the other side of her beak and painfully swallow. She must really be hungry. She chases off an Alpha male when he takes note of our encounter. Then, she comes back towards me.

I think she has had enough snack. Besides what if other people see me and disapprove? There are so many good sensible reasons not to feed the wildlife. I decide I am just adding to her pain by feeding her. So, I hold back, and look away, hoping she will give up on me. But now, she is spreading her wings and lowering her head in an odd position. She begins softly crooning and whining a sing song tone at me, begging to be fed.

Oh, my God, I cannot resist! I feed her until she turns and walks away content.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Photo is of an adult male seagull

Mystery

 I look at the mess outside my back door the birds have made of the sunflower seed shells.  I'm responsible for some of that mess. I've been feeding them. But the possum has contributed too, trying to get to the bird seed, tipping over pots and stools and other garden paraphernalia. Not to mention his...  poop. Possum's poop a lot, and not just in one place but everywhere they go!

I'm sad. This mess is sad. It's a sorry excuse for a memorial ceremony location. I should clean it up.

Last year at this time, I was beside myself in shock. I had all the symptoms, rapid pulse, cold skin, perspiration, tightness in the chest, and an overwhelming sense of horror.

Who knew that loving someone so much for twenty years could bring upon such intensity?

I couldn't comprehend the possibility that I would remain sane. I sure didn't feel sane. That first six months was the most difficult. I went to bed at night and all I could think about was her. Not the good times we had. No. All I could think about was her death, and the things that led up to it.  I awoke in the same thought pattern day after day, night after night. I couldn't stop myself.

As clear as the moment it happened, I see her now, slipping out the door as I reach for the mail. She's plodding across the yard where her favorite plant grows... has been growing for years. Due to my recent surgery, I'm hobbling behind her. I liked to watch as she pads around her cat mint, and sniffs selectively until she finds that one perfectly formed leaf for her enjoyment. She nibbles. She lingers, waiting for my approach.

If only she hadn't.

I wasn't fast enough. The neighbor had let her dog out. He headed toward my house. I saw it coming. I tried, but couldn't run. There was no way I could have stopped it. It was instantaneous.

I heard a blood curdling scream as the dog's body slammed my little eight pound girl. It was me who screamed, but it sounded like it came from outside myself, as if the whole neighborhood had screamed. I saw her hurled away across the sidewalk.

It happened so fast.

I kept obsessively going over that in my mind, trying to re-capture that moment. It seemed she simply disappeared. Certainly she was suddenly not there.

My scream had startled the dog and his owner so much that everything shifted. For a moment the dog stood stock still and did not give her chase, but ran away. The neighbor and I had harsh words.

Since the door was still open, Keli made her way back inside before I got there. I examined her. No blood. She seemed herself. She seemed okay sitting there on her rocking chair, as usual.

It took two weeks as her life began to fade. I took her to the Vet, not relating the episode with the dog to her demise, because she was so old. It was the Vet who wrote in her chart about a mass in her adomen, the lack of bowel sounds. He asked if she'd been injured. Then, it all clicked.

It was too late to save her, he said. I could pay a thousand dollars and they would do everything they could, but he didn't feel there would be much hope at her advanced age, the fact she was dehydrated, etc. etc. I needed to let her go.

NEVER, NEVER, NEVER take your very sick pet to the vet without having a friend go with you!!! Driving home is extremely dangerous, for other drivers, as well as yourself. Several times, I had to pull over just to breathe. I was convinced I would pass out, but not within my senses enough to just stop driving entirely. Very dangerous.

Every night before I slept I re-lived the vet office visit, her looking into my eyes with such clarity that last moment. Every morning the same thing. I thought I would die from the grief.

So here I am a year later, and her resting place beside the back door is a mess with seed hulls and possum poop. Naturally, I got busy and started cleaning. I decided to go out to her favorite plant, her cat mint, dig it up and transplant it. Put it beside her. It gets such beautiful blue flowers on it.

Much to my surprise, I can't even call it surprise.

Just imagine ..... I find the location of Keli's cat mint and discover instead, a four foot circle of dead plant. All the living flowers and grasses surround that circle. But, nothing invades the space that once was the living plant my cat loved.

A Letter to My Muse

Dear Muse

They say you are fickle

and when you call upon me

I must be prepared.

I don't wish

to appear ungrateful.

But, dear Muse

why do you have to inspire me

on the freeway when traffic

is thick and I can't pull over?


I don't mind

if you come to me

while I'm on hold.

But, I might not

get through to them again.

And is it really fair

to give me two subjects at once?

How can I write about

that dark tragic day

at the same time you want me

to write about the fun

when Gertrude changed

her name to Anastasia?


Do you really have

to nudge me the moment

when the doctor

walks in the room

after I've waited an hour?


It's perfectly acceptable

if you wake me

in the middle of the night.

I 'll have pen and paper at hand.

I can reach the light.

But you know

I'll have to pee.

E Pluribus Unim

a tree has many branches

a river has many bends

a sleeper tosses and turns

a wheel has many spokes

most refuse to believe

we all have more than one path

Queen of Horse

This picture has been altered in the spirit of fun in photoshop. I hope the Queen won't mind.

NaNoWriMo Excitement!

I saw the odd word posted in my friend's facebook update last year. NaNoWriMo. Immediately I googled it.... National Novel Writer's Month. I was impressed. My friend, (and his mother) had signed up to participate. All they had to do was write their 50,000 word novel in one month! Knowing them both to be intelligent, creative people, I wished them well.

I knew, of course, that I could never complete a novel. But, I felt inspired by the emails sent out by the authors who had succeeded. If nothing else, I would develop a stronger commitment to my writing. I would gain knowledge in how to organize my life around my writing instead of allowing myself moments of luxury for writing.

I added up the days in November. I divided them into 50,000 just to have an idea of how many words those other writers would be completed, on average, per day. That comes out to 1667 words a day. Wow, I was impressed!

But, wait a minute. Wasn't I already writing that much every day? Emails to friends far away, journal entries of my daily life, blog postings to my too many blogs, messages to the patients in my Chondrosarcoma Support Group. I was online a lot! So, I began to re-think the possibilities. I calculated further. If one were to write at 50 words a minute, my average, one could complete 3,000 words in an hour. Of course, I realized that the words might not flow into my mind that quickly, so I figured if I were to average 30 words a minute I could manage 1800 words a day, providing the creative juices were flowing and my muse was on my side. I realized wouldn't have to sit for a straight hour to do this. I could break it down to four sessions of 15 minutes each. That would give me time to think about my story line, in the time in between work sessions. So, I signed up!

I suspended all the automatic emails I recieve from various sites. I announced to my facebook friends I would be lost to them for the month. I posted a lot of November's blog ahead of time, so they would be automatic. I even stopped myself from dropping into my support group ten times a day.

On the third week, I went into a slump. I avoided the computer. Upon questioning, I printed out what I had created and asked a friend to read it. She was so enthusiatic that I went back to my writing. Lo and behold, by the end of the month, I had written a little over the "required" 50,000 words.

It was in no way, "a novel". Of course, it would need revision. I took a break in December and let my New Year's resolution be to work on it further. As time went by, I began to slide. I got involved in a poetry writing group, then a few months later, a memoirs writing group. The revisions to my novel? Forgotten.

So, here we are again. A new idea has inspired me. This time, I've worked on an outline, made notes of ideas, and worked out some scenes and timelines before I started.

It's NaNoWriMo time!

Gift of Cremation

Something that cremation provides that burial does not, is the opportunity for the bereaved to have a part of the person they loved to be with them. Though the "remains" must be buried or the ashes spread over water, or some other method of dispersal, the bereaved can have a part of the ashes in a small urn, or in my mother's case, she was able to have a small necklace with a sealed container of Dad's ashes. She could have a sense that he was with her. She died a little over a year later. This time, as a family, we were able to respect the original wish of cremation without "all the fuss". But something unexpected and quite miraculous, in my opinion occurred with her death.

All her life my mother wanted to leave her body to science. She had a rare medical condition. She hoped it would help to provide an opportunity for research, perhaps make a new inroad of knowledge about her condition that might help future generations who might be affected by the same condition.

Since we had spent so much money on Dad's funeral, we were strapped to afford Mom's cremation, even though the cost was less. We learned through Hospice of an organization which will provide the cremation free, if the body is donated for scientific research.

Though Mom died and we were grieved, it was incredibly comforting to know Mom's lifelong wish had come true. It actually gave us much happiness, and now that she was gone too, final closure. We still had grief, and still miss her and Dad, the circumstances provided us with comfort. In our case, we had lavished flowers throughout life. And so, we did not need them. The beauty was in our love for each other as a family.

Black Cat Daring

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

Bereaved Comforts

I once had a dear friend who died many years ago. Her family lavished flowers everywhere you looked. Her husband went into debt for her coffin, made of fine wood and brass handles. Perhaps for him, this was his subconscious way to substitute for how he would have lavished his love upon her if she had continued to live. That is the only reason I could come up with at the time. I guess I don't really understand this part of our American death rituals very much.

Do we put the deceased in a strong, sealed coffin because of the idea of the creatures that might eventually desecrate the body? What is it about the coffin? Is it a way to preserve the body, a way to feel like the person is still intact, safe, in a location we know we can go to and be with them, even though underground? What in the world is the purpose?

I keep wondering about the flowers, the ones I, in the past, vehemently stated I wanted no one to give me after my death. How foolish of me to think they would be for me! How oblivious to not realize Linda's flowers were not for her. I've realized the flowers are for the living.

We want to clean up death. We want to find ways to make it prettier, more acceptable, and flowers can do that. The natural beauty of flowers have a powerful effect on the psyche. Why not place flowers around the coffin, on the coffin, for the viewing? Why not have them at the grave site? Without them, the dismal effect of the whole situation would be more painful. We, the bereaved need comfort too. Flowers can bring upliftment of the spirit and that's a great comfort in our time of mourning.

I think now I understand a little bit more about this whole process that I once thought was barbaric.