I said I'd write on Monday, and it is Monday. This will be short. My little dog Angie has one side of her face swollen. She looks like she has a marshmallow in one cheek. She seemed fine earlier but now has swelled up. I am taking her to vet at 2:30PM to see what is wrong. The poor little thing. She is so sweet and innocent. She looks at me with those big brown eyes saying "what is wrong"?
It breaks my heart to see an animal suffer in any way. We have lost so many good friends in the animal world in the past, which always makes the current one even more precious.
This little girl is spoiled rotten. She refuses to come when she is called and if walking, just continues on her way, ignoring us completely. She will come if called for food, but only in her own timing. She has a new fun game of running away when we try to pick her up to go for her walk. She will run up to us as she loves her walk, but then run away and force us to chase her. She will then go submissive and tremble as we pick her up but she is wiggling her tail. We could obedience train her and force her to do our bidding, but why is it so important that the human win? She is only 7 lbs and everything is a little game to her. She never does anything wrong except maintain her little alpha girl independence.
Just because a pet lives with us does not mean they need to submit their very being to us. Some think that because the pet (or even child), is different from us that we have to absolutely rule our lives. Even as our God allows us freedom on choice, we should allow the pets who honor us with their presence, the same. This doesn't mean they should destroy things or bite; there are some rules we all should follow. This does not mean we should be tyrannical in the homes we share. Like Srini says when Angie wants an extra treat, "who will give her if we don't? She can't get her own snack like we do when we are hungry". I think this says it all. We restrict their freedom to hunt and get their own goodies so we should honor their little wants and needs.
That is it. See you guys Friday.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Going mad with anger and sadness
I do not know anymore how to react with people whom I dearly love and have long term relationships. Precious friends, beloved family members, church members, neighbors, etc.etc.
I just do not know how to handle the fact that people that I love and respect in so many ways can have such hurtful and mean attitudes towards others.
I remember one of the first lessons I learned at home was not to argue about religion or politics. My grandfather was a Democrat and my grandmother was a Republican. They each went to vote and canceled each other's votes. One year they agreed not to vote, but grandma saw my grandfather slip away from the house. She followed him to the election hall, and she too cast her vote. So much for agreements. Some of my friends seem to just accept their partners divergent views and seem to go along happily doing their own thing. Some people just have good will about their differences, laugh about it and accept each other just the way they are. It is like some people have cats and others have dogs and some have both, but it never leads to contention. Most of our differences can be accepted with good will continuing to others who feel or like or even love differently.
Then there are the differences which cause sorrow, hurt, pain, conflict, wars and eventually death. Respect dies, values die, people die, animals die and species become extinct; nature and even the environment changes. All over are differences which we just seem unable to resolve.
We have free will, whether one believes in evolution, or a God view, or both. This free will and our culture, genes, family etc. allow our differences to separate us and make each of us unique. Alone, however, we are just too alone, so we want to bond with others who appear to be most like us, either physically or mentally. We form gangs, groups, bands of brothers, sororities, fraternities, and communities with others who are like us. Most groups have a special separation ritual with those who disagree with them, or really are different than them inside, or with those who break the rules. There are rituals for excommunication, shunning, segregation, exportation, and then there is the plain old bullying, cold shouldering, ignoring, etc which leads to ostracizing and other punishments.
There is constant, hideous discrimination against difference and opposition within each culture, civilization, country, even states and cities, villages and townships.
What to do, what to do? How can one live, grow, enjoy the moment and even experience contentment within a world filled with such hatred and separation. It is a lot more then just not talking about religion or politics, although both occupy so much of the American energy today. It is like trying to surmount immovable objects between individuals and others. Sexual identity, economic theories, social movements, fashion, music, cultural norms, arts and books, and so many, many other things we live with and through everyday; and differ on our values and beliefs about.. There is a magazine, or publication, or app for every interest or situation, prurient or other. Anything can be found on the web and beamed one way or the other into our brains and our being. Instead of just learning from and enjoying our differences we become locked or fixed into just a few and reject anything that differs.
I am just as guilty of this as anyone else. I pray to my creator for forgiveness for not just appreciating each and everything he has likewise created, but for actively resisting and even hating the parts and thoughts of others who differ from me. I too, get fixed in my own mindset and beliefs and get very angry and push back when challenged in anyway. I want to run or escape from friends, and society, and civility goes out the window when I feel strongly about something and someone else does not agree. I visualize becoming a hermit, or a mad woman on a hill screaming about injustices. Why am I the only person who can see the right action or path? What is wrong with those on the other side?
I think of all the martyrs who have stood up and died for their ideas and belief. From Socrates, to Jesus, to King and to Gandhi and so many more.(how come so few women?) There are many others(now we see the women) who just live for their beliefs: Mother Theresa, Susan B. Anthony, Harriet Tubman, Eleanor Roosevelt, and so forth.
I neither live not die for my beliefs, I just get angry, nasty and sarcastic.
If I can only realize internally and take to heart all that which I have stated above. In the midst of confusion, anger, fear and even death I must retain my central core of who I believe I am. I am gentle, loving and caring and concerned for my fellow beings. I want to cast out evil and feel only love or concern for my neighbor and my enemy(or those who feel or think differently than I). To quote Jesus:
“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor[a] and hate your enemy.’ 44 But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, 45 that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. 46 If you love those who love you, what reward will you get?
I just do not know how to handle the fact that people that I love and respect in so many ways can have such hurtful and mean attitudes towards others.
I remember one of the first lessons I learned at home was not to argue about religion or politics. My grandfather was a Democrat and my grandmother was a Republican. They each went to vote and canceled each other's votes. One year they agreed not to vote, but grandma saw my grandfather slip away from the house. She followed him to the election hall, and she too cast her vote. So much for agreements. Some of my friends seem to just accept their partners divergent views and seem to go along happily doing their own thing. Some people just have good will about their differences, laugh about it and accept each other just the way they are. It is like some people have cats and others have dogs and some have both, but it never leads to contention. Most of our differences can be accepted with good will continuing to others who feel or like or even love differently.
Then there are the differences which cause sorrow, hurt, pain, conflict, wars and eventually death. Respect dies, values die, people die, animals die and species become extinct; nature and even the environment changes. All over are differences which we just seem unable to resolve.
We have free will, whether one believes in evolution, or a God view, or both. This free will and our culture, genes, family etc. allow our differences to separate us and make each of us unique. Alone, however, we are just too alone, so we want to bond with others who appear to be most like us, either physically or mentally. We form gangs, groups, bands of brothers, sororities, fraternities, and communities with others who are like us. Most groups have a special separation ritual with those who disagree with them, or really are different than them inside, or with those who break the rules. There are rituals for excommunication, shunning, segregation, exportation, and then there is the plain old bullying, cold shouldering, ignoring, etc which leads to ostracizing and other punishments.
There is constant, hideous discrimination against difference and opposition within each culture, civilization, country, even states and cities, villages and townships.
What to do, what to do? How can one live, grow, enjoy the moment and even experience contentment within a world filled with such hatred and separation. It is a lot more then just not talking about religion or politics, although both occupy so much of the American energy today. It is like trying to surmount immovable objects between individuals and others. Sexual identity, economic theories, social movements, fashion, music, cultural norms, arts and books, and so many, many other things we live with and through everyday; and differ on our values and beliefs about.. There is a magazine, or publication, or app for every interest or situation, prurient or other. Anything can be found on the web and beamed one way or the other into our brains and our being. Instead of just learning from and enjoying our differences we become locked or fixed into just a few and reject anything that differs.
I am just as guilty of this as anyone else. I pray to my creator for forgiveness for not just appreciating each and everything he has likewise created, but for actively resisting and even hating the parts and thoughts of others who differ from me. I too, get fixed in my own mindset and beliefs and get very angry and push back when challenged in anyway. I want to run or escape from friends, and society, and civility goes out the window when I feel strongly about something and someone else does not agree. I visualize becoming a hermit, or a mad woman on a hill screaming about injustices. Why am I the only person who can see the right action or path? What is wrong with those on the other side?
I think of all the martyrs who have stood up and died for their ideas and belief. From Socrates, to Jesus, to King and to Gandhi and so many more.(how come so few women?) There are many others(now we see the women) who just live for their beliefs: Mother Theresa, Susan B. Anthony, Harriet Tubman, Eleanor Roosevelt, and so forth.
I neither live not die for my beliefs, I just get angry, nasty and sarcastic.
If I can only realize internally and take to heart all that which I have stated above. In the midst of confusion, anger, fear and even death I must retain my central core of who I believe I am. I am gentle, loving and caring and concerned for my fellow beings. I want to cast out evil and feel only love or concern for my neighbor and my enemy(or those who feel or think differently than I). To quote Jesus:
“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor[a] and hate your enemy.’ 44 But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, 45 that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. 46 If you love those who love you, what reward will you get?
Monday, October 7, 2013
Diet and insanity
I have been on a diet from September 9th, 2013 and I am beginning to lose my enthusiasm. When I was young I could lose 5lbs the first week and 2 lbs a week thereafter. All I had to do was stay on the diet. By the way, have you like me tried every diet under the sun?
The first diet I remember was my mom sending me to school with cottage cheese and canned fruit in a little container for my lunch. I was still in grammar school then. The next diet I remember was the fat and protein diet. My mom included my sister and me in her diet and it was butter, bacon, sour cream, whole milk , eggs, meat/meat/meat, and lots of tuna fish. When you could not have carbs to go with the butter all the fat became old very fast. I loved tuna fish but I preferred it in a sandwich rather than a can with the oil coating it. None of us could maintain that diet very long. Later, after I left home, mama found the weight watchers diet. It became her diet of choice for the rest of her life. She tried to engage me in the diet and I did try several times over the next 50 years but I never got into it. It was just too much food, and boring. I wanted quick results like when I first arrived in NYC.
I stayed at the Webster Hotel for Women, on 34th street and 9th avenue. I want to tell you all about those days later but for now: breakfast and dinner were included in the weekly rate and I stayed there for 3 months. In that 3 months I lost 30 lbs. I was the thinnest I ever remember being. The food was so bad at the Webster you couldn't pay rats to eat it. Breakfast would seem easy but...... The toast was always cold and stacked in trays. They served our good friend Marge, with it(colored oleo). They had a pot of over cooked gluey oatmeal and a pitcher of milk and a bowl of white sugar next to it. There was a tray of poached eggs swimming in lukewarm water, and a large bowl of hard boiled eggs.(sometimes they were undercooked and still soft in the middle. They had pitchers of watered down orange juice, weak coffee, and tea bags with barely hot water. All I can think was they must have really tried hard to make it as bad as it was. This was the first I knew of institution food and I was not happy. I would go to the dining room and grab an apple and a hard boiled egg to take for lunch and run out the door. There was always a monitor there who made sure you didn't take more than one of each thing.
Dinner was even worse. I can't remember all the fabulous dishes but they ranged from greasy meatloaf, to poached fish, to heaven only knows what casseroles, to occasional stringy beef or fatty pork, served with bland and lumpy mashed potatoes and warmed over, tasteless vegetables like string beans, peas, carrots, and wilted salads.
I was very poor the first 3 months because out of my $63.00 a week I had to pay the agency fee that found me my first job, and pay for my hotel room and board.
I used to eat practically nothing. I could not afford to buy extra food, though I could manage to pay for cigarettes and coffee. Fortunately or not both were cheap at the time. I walked to work and back and it was about 25 blocks each way. One day, early in my enforced diet, I will never forget. I had bought a salt pretzel from a vendor and covered it with mustard. As I was walking and munching a man stopped me and said "what is a fat girl like you doing eating pretzels?" I was so hurt, even as I was also so hungry, and I bawled all the way back to the hotel. After that experience I no longer ate anything on the street, but would take it instead to my room.
The weight came off so easy when I was slowly starving and later I was so happy I seldom had any desire to eat. Finally, when I got an apartment with my first roommate, I could still not afford much for food. I would buy elbow noodles and tuna fish and butter and cheap white bread. I would eat the noodles with butter, salt and pepper for supper and carry tuna sandwiches for lunch. I also had peanut butter and jelly. I just had coffee for breakfast.
I was able to maintain my weight loss, except for a few lbs either way until after I married, went to India, and came home to a dead mother.( again, more about that later ).
I ate to comfort myself and also went up to 3 packs of cigarettes a day. The six months after mama died were the worst months of my lie. I loved her so. I would wake up with nightmares, and crying for a year after her death and poor Srini really didn't know how to handle me. He was just quietly always there to hold and comfort me and we eventually got through it.
Then the constant rounds of dieting began again in earnest. Up and down I would go. the cabbage soup diet, fasting every other day, Weight Watchers, the Woman's Day diet, the Family Circle diet, the Atkins's diet, The low carb diet, the high fat and protein diet, diet pills, lemon juice and water, vinegar and water. You name it, I have tried it. It became a little more difficult after 1976 when I became a vegetarian. I would have to tweak each diet to find non-meat proteins to substitute.
I have found through my vast experience that a 1000-1200 calorie a day diet works best for my eating habits and restrictions.
So I am at it again. I get tired of jumping on the scale and seeing it not move.(it must be broken or stuck), but alas, it is not. The older you get, the harder it is to lose weight as everything seeks it's own level and stays there. I have however, a very firm commitment to lose 20 lbs. I will still be too heavy but this time I am not doing it for vanity, but to breathe easier. Since I am at my limit for medications all I can do is try to improve the rest of myself. Now that autumn is here I can walk more and at least get some exercise. So wish me well my friends. It is a long haul and a heavy load to carry, but carry on I must. We will discuss this again after 13 more lbs.
The first diet I remember was my mom sending me to school with cottage cheese and canned fruit in a little container for my lunch. I was still in grammar school then. The next diet I remember was the fat and protein diet. My mom included my sister and me in her diet and it was butter, bacon, sour cream, whole milk , eggs, meat/meat/meat, and lots of tuna fish. When you could not have carbs to go with the butter all the fat became old very fast. I loved tuna fish but I preferred it in a sandwich rather than a can with the oil coating it. None of us could maintain that diet very long. Later, after I left home, mama found the weight watchers diet. It became her diet of choice for the rest of her life. She tried to engage me in the diet and I did try several times over the next 50 years but I never got into it. It was just too much food, and boring. I wanted quick results like when I first arrived in NYC.
I stayed at the Webster Hotel for Women, on 34th street and 9th avenue. I want to tell you all about those days later but for now: breakfast and dinner were included in the weekly rate and I stayed there for 3 months. In that 3 months I lost 30 lbs. I was the thinnest I ever remember being. The food was so bad at the Webster you couldn't pay rats to eat it. Breakfast would seem easy but...... The toast was always cold and stacked in trays. They served our good friend Marge, with it(colored oleo). They had a pot of over cooked gluey oatmeal and a pitcher of milk and a bowl of white sugar next to it. There was a tray of poached eggs swimming in lukewarm water, and a large bowl of hard boiled eggs.(sometimes they were undercooked and still soft in the middle. They had pitchers of watered down orange juice, weak coffee, and tea bags with barely hot water. All I can think was they must have really tried hard to make it as bad as it was. This was the first I knew of institution food and I was not happy. I would go to the dining room and grab an apple and a hard boiled egg to take for lunch and run out the door. There was always a monitor there who made sure you didn't take more than one of each thing.
Dinner was even worse. I can't remember all the fabulous dishes but they ranged from greasy meatloaf, to poached fish, to heaven only knows what casseroles, to occasional stringy beef or fatty pork, served with bland and lumpy mashed potatoes and warmed over, tasteless vegetables like string beans, peas, carrots, and wilted salads.
I was very poor the first 3 months because out of my $63.00 a week I had to pay the agency fee that found me my first job, and pay for my hotel room and board.
I used to eat practically nothing. I could not afford to buy extra food, though I could manage to pay for cigarettes and coffee. Fortunately or not both were cheap at the time. I walked to work and back and it was about 25 blocks each way. One day, early in my enforced diet, I will never forget. I had bought a salt pretzel from a vendor and covered it with mustard. As I was walking and munching a man stopped me and said "what is a fat girl like you doing eating pretzels?" I was so hurt, even as I was also so hungry, and I bawled all the way back to the hotel. After that experience I no longer ate anything on the street, but would take it instead to my room.
The weight came off so easy when I was slowly starving and later I was so happy I seldom had any desire to eat. Finally, when I got an apartment with my first roommate, I could still not afford much for food. I would buy elbow noodles and tuna fish and butter and cheap white bread. I would eat the noodles with butter, salt and pepper for supper and carry tuna sandwiches for lunch. I also had peanut butter and jelly. I just had coffee for breakfast.
I was able to maintain my weight loss, except for a few lbs either way until after I married, went to India, and came home to a dead mother.( again, more about that later ).
I ate to comfort myself and also went up to 3 packs of cigarettes a day. The six months after mama died were the worst months of my lie. I loved her so. I would wake up with nightmares, and crying for a year after her death and poor Srini really didn't know how to handle me. He was just quietly always there to hold and comfort me and we eventually got through it.
Then the constant rounds of dieting began again in earnest. Up and down I would go. the cabbage soup diet, fasting every other day, Weight Watchers, the Woman's Day diet, the Family Circle diet, the Atkins's diet, The low carb diet, the high fat and protein diet, diet pills, lemon juice and water, vinegar and water. You name it, I have tried it. It became a little more difficult after 1976 when I became a vegetarian. I would have to tweak each diet to find non-meat proteins to substitute.
I have found through my vast experience that a 1000-1200 calorie a day diet works best for my eating habits and restrictions.
So I am at it again. I get tired of jumping on the scale and seeing it not move.(it must be broken or stuck), but alas, it is not. The older you get, the harder it is to lose weight as everything seeks it's own level and stays there. I have however, a very firm commitment to lose 20 lbs. I will still be too heavy but this time I am not doing it for vanity, but to breathe easier. Since I am at my limit for medications all I can do is try to improve the rest of myself. Now that autumn is here I can walk more and at least get some exercise. So wish me well my friends. It is a long haul and a heavy load to carry, but carry on I must. We will discuss this again after 13 more lbs.
Friday, October 4, 2013
My Father myself
This one is hard. I have always had a love/hate relationship with my father. Dad was an outdoors man and used to love to hunt, fish, camp out and chase women.
He built his own canoe, and it was a real beauty. He and his friends also built a hunting camp out of logs from trees they downed on their hunting property in upstate N.Y. in the foothills of the Adirondacks. They cut down the trees, measured them to length, cut notches in the ends so they would fit together, and then put up the camp. Women and children gathered moss. The gaps between the logs were chinked with the moss until there were no openings. It ended up a large square building with a wood stove just off center, and built in full size bunk beds. There was also a built in table and benches along one wall and another bed along the side facing the bunk beds. There was a small kitchen area at the foot of the bunks. There was a little stove that worked off propane gas which they carried in, in large tanks, each season. There was no fridge but it was cold enough to keep things fresh outside or wedged in the small pond made from the spring 100' below the camp. We carried drinking water from the spring and heated water to wash dishes in the small sink. Of course the bathroom facilities were in a two hole shed at the rear of the camp. There was a quarter moon cut in the door.
My father was a master carpenter but as I remember it he earned money for the family working at Alcoa, and later at a lumber yard called Putnam and Hawley. He worked on the St Lawrence Seaway, and had no fear of the awesome heights he was called to work on. One day he was on a high scaffold when his buddy slipped. Dad reached out with his left hand and grabbed the guy's hoody as he fell past .Daddy held on and his arm was wrenched out of his shoulder as he caught the guy and swung him back onto the scaffold. His friend was unhurt but Dad's arm had to be popped back into his shoulder and he was out of work for weeks with his arm in a sling.
Dad always seemed to attract accidents. They were never it seemed, his fault, but he was always laid up with something for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. When he worked at Putnam Hawley we lived right across the road and at the time I was 7, and recovering from Rheumatic Fever. I had been in bed for a year and was just beginning to ride my tricycle in the front yard. I heard the terrible sound of breaks squealing loudly from a long distance and then watched in wonder as a car crashed into the plate windows and building showroom across the road. My dad appeared from nowhere and scooped me up, and ran into the house telling my mother to call for an ambulance. As I watched from the window he fought his way through the collapsed masonry and glass and managed to open the cars door. In a minute he was puking on the grass outside the building. The driver was the only one in the car and his head had been severed from his body by the plate glass. The activity continued with firetrucks, ambulances and police cars but in my little heart all I understood was my dad was my hero.
Dad had a series of incidents in my early adolescence involving angina and subsequently 2 or 3 hospitalizations for heart problems. On the last one he was confined to a hospital bed, rigged up in the dining room of our house. By this time I was well into my I hate my father phase and having him around all the time was too close for comfort. Nonetheless, we were now living at the 4 corners of Slab City just west of, and a little up from the bridge which crossed the creek. Our barn which was at the bottom of our acre was feet from the creek. One night there was again a terrible screeching of breaks and a loud crash right next, (it seemed), to our house. Daddy jumped up from his hospital bed and pulled on his trousers. He ran from the house with mama and me running after him. Mama was yelling " Kenny, you should stay in bed".
When we reached the creek we found a small truck had gone over the embankment and was hanging by it's rear wheel, in a very precarious position. I watched as my dad managed to wedge himself between a tree and the truck, near the door, and he carefully opened the door on the passenger side. Several other men, including my uncle Jerry had gathered, as well as other women and children. Dad somehow reached in the truck and pulled a very drunk and scared man out of the truck and handed him up the chain of neighbors to safety on the bridge. He then reached in and dragged out the other man. As soon as the drunk man was exited from the truck, it plunged into the creek bed, head first.
Everyone stood and slapped daddy on the back and hooted with pleasure. Uncle Jerry grabbed his arm and he and mama escorted daddy back to his hospital bed. Again, at least for a night and day, dad was my hero.
When I was about 14 daddy became a partner with Bill Kobel and they bought/leased a Marina on the St Lawrence river. Cap't Bill put up the money for the lease and the boats they had in inventory and was the managing partner. Cap't Ken did most of the work and maintained and leased and sold boats. He also knew the St Lawrence and was able to guide tenants to good fishing. Dad found his "duties" kept him later and later at work and it was necessary to carouse and party with the other boat people; both on their boats and in the nearby clubs and bars. Mama always seemed to believe him and told me he worked so hard and that was why he needed some company and a drink or two at night to relax. Until I left for college I remember my mom sitting alone or with me, night after night, watching TV and eating maple walnut ice cream. It used to break my heart to see her and I used to beg her to leave my father and come to me to NYC. She could get a job there and I could finish school. She would just chuckle and say" but I can't leave him, I love your father". During this time dad had two boats that he loved. The Jet boat and the Baltic. The Baltic was a lovely craftman formed small cruiser which had shiny brass fixtures and beautiful wood everywhere. The Jet boat was the first in the north country and was hell on wheels. Dad ended up crashing the Jet boat one evening at dusk as he piled into some rocks hidden by the twilight. Said crash again ended with him hospitalized and out of work for some weeks.
Sometime again and I just can't remember the years, but dad again crashed his car, very close to home. I think it was into a tree but this time his lungs were collapsed and his color bone broken. I understand he was under the influence. This is I think the last time he was hospitalized for an accident and it was before I finished high school. I do not know if dad had a death wish or not, but there were many times I wished him dead. This is not to my credit, but there were several times I just wished he would die in the hospital and never come home to harass me and my mother. I just hated him, and yet I loved him. This duality continued for years after I was supposedly mature.
I have learned now, with wisdom and years, and God, and observation of myself and others, that you can hate the actions and words and yet love the man. My father had many excellent qualities and I will show them off in future pieces. He could be loving and kind and caring but he was also a "Man's Man" with all that entails. He was crude, selfish, driven, genius in many ways, funny, considerate, and lovable. He held charisma for both men and women and was totally unpredictable. He was brutal and frank and unafraid of consequences
What he was, is deep inside me and I carry almost all of his traits. Beware those of you who think you know me. I am indeed my father's daughter and I will not deny who I came from and who I am. I honor my father's essence and try to overcome his existential defects.
I am also my mother, more about that later.
He built his own canoe, and it was a real beauty. He and his friends also built a hunting camp out of logs from trees they downed on their hunting property in upstate N.Y. in the foothills of the Adirondacks. They cut down the trees, measured them to length, cut notches in the ends so they would fit together, and then put up the camp. Women and children gathered moss. The gaps between the logs were chinked with the moss until there were no openings. It ended up a large square building with a wood stove just off center, and built in full size bunk beds. There was also a built in table and benches along one wall and another bed along the side facing the bunk beds. There was a small kitchen area at the foot of the bunks. There was a little stove that worked off propane gas which they carried in, in large tanks, each season. There was no fridge but it was cold enough to keep things fresh outside or wedged in the small pond made from the spring 100' below the camp. We carried drinking water from the spring and heated water to wash dishes in the small sink. Of course the bathroom facilities were in a two hole shed at the rear of the camp. There was a quarter moon cut in the door.
My father was a master carpenter but as I remember it he earned money for the family working at Alcoa, and later at a lumber yard called Putnam and Hawley. He worked on the St Lawrence Seaway, and had no fear of the awesome heights he was called to work on. One day he was on a high scaffold when his buddy slipped. Dad reached out with his left hand and grabbed the guy's hoody as he fell past .Daddy held on and his arm was wrenched out of his shoulder as he caught the guy and swung him back onto the scaffold. His friend was unhurt but Dad's arm had to be popped back into his shoulder and he was out of work for weeks with his arm in a sling.
Dad always seemed to attract accidents. They were never it seemed, his fault, but he was always laid up with something for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. When he worked at Putnam Hawley we lived right across the road and at the time I was 7, and recovering from Rheumatic Fever. I had been in bed for a year and was just beginning to ride my tricycle in the front yard. I heard the terrible sound of breaks squealing loudly from a long distance and then watched in wonder as a car crashed into the plate windows and building showroom across the road. My dad appeared from nowhere and scooped me up, and ran into the house telling my mother to call for an ambulance. As I watched from the window he fought his way through the collapsed masonry and glass and managed to open the cars door. In a minute he was puking on the grass outside the building. The driver was the only one in the car and his head had been severed from his body by the plate glass. The activity continued with firetrucks, ambulances and police cars but in my little heart all I understood was my dad was my hero.
Dad had a series of incidents in my early adolescence involving angina and subsequently 2 or 3 hospitalizations for heart problems. On the last one he was confined to a hospital bed, rigged up in the dining room of our house. By this time I was well into my I hate my father phase and having him around all the time was too close for comfort. Nonetheless, we were now living at the 4 corners of Slab City just west of, and a little up from the bridge which crossed the creek. Our barn which was at the bottom of our acre was feet from the creek. One night there was again a terrible screeching of breaks and a loud crash right next, (it seemed), to our house. Daddy jumped up from his hospital bed and pulled on his trousers. He ran from the house with mama and me running after him. Mama was yelling " Kenny, you should stay in bed".
When we reached the creek we found a small truck had gone over the embankment and was hanging by it's rear wheel, in a very precarious position. I watched as my dad managed to wedge himself between a tree and the truck, near the door, and he carefully opened the door on the passenger side. Several other men, including my uncle Jerry had gathered, as well as other women and children. Dad somehow reached in the truck and pulled a very drunk and scared man out of the truck and handed him up the chain of neighbors to safety on the bridge. He then reached in and dragged out the other man. As soon as the drunk man was exited from the truck, it plunged into the creek bed, head first.
Everyone stood and slapped daddy on the back and hooted with pleasure. Uncle Jerry grabbed his arm and he and mama escorted daddy back to his hospital bed. Again, at least for a night and day, dad was my hero.
When I was about 14 daddy became a partner with Bill Kobel and they bought/leased a Marina on the St Lawrence river. Cap't Bill put up the money for the lease and the boats they had in inventory and was the managing partner. Cap't Ken did most of the work and maintained and leased and sold boats. He also knew the St Lawrence and was able to guide tenants to good fishing. Dad found his "duties" kept him later and later at work and it was necessary to carouse and party with the other boat people; both on their boats and in the nearby clubs and bars. Mama always seemed to believe him and told me he worked so hard and that was why he needed some company and a drink or two at night to relax. Until I left for college I remember my mom sitting alone or with me, night after night, watching TV and eating maple walnut ice cream. It used to break my heart to see her and I used to beg her to leave my father and come to me to NYC. She could get a job there and I could finish school. She would just chuckle and say" but I can't leave him, I love your father". During this time dad had two boats that he loved. The Jet boat and the Baltic. The Baltic was a lovely craftman formed small cruiser which had shiny brass fixtures and beautiful wood everywhere. The Jet boat was the first in the north country and was hell on wheels. Dad ended up crashing the Jet boat one evening at dusk as he piled into some rocks hidden by the twilight. Said crash again ended with him hospitalized and out of work for some weeks.
Sometime again and I just can't remember the years, but dad again crashed his car, very close to home. I think it was into a tree but this time his lungs were collapsed and his color bone broken. I understand he was under the influence. This is I think the last time he was hospitalized for an accident and it was before I finished high school. I do not know if dad had a death wish or not, but there were many times I wished him dead. This is not to my credit, but there were several times I just wished he would die in the hospital and never come home to harass me and my mother. I just hated him, and yet I loved him. This duality continued for years after I was supposedly mature.
I have learned now, with wisdom and years, and God, and observation of myself and others, that you can hate the actions and words and yet love the man. My father had many excellent qualities and I will show them off in future pieces. He could be loving and kind and caring but he was also a "Man's Man" with all that entails. He was crude, selfish, driven, genius in many ways, funny, considerate, and lovable. He held charisma for both men and women and was totally unpredictable. He was brutal and frank and unafraid of consequences
What he was, is deep inside me and I carry almost all of his traits. Beware those of you who think you know me. I am indeed my father's daughter and I will not deny who I came from and who I am. I honor my father's essence and try to overcome his existential defects.
I am also my mother, more about that later.
Monday, September 30, 2013
So What?...you say
I dreamed about high heels last night and how I used to love them. I used to wear them 3-4 inches high and absolutely loved my shoes. I wore them on the subway and on the concrete streets of NYC. I wore them at work and dancing. I honestly could not understand when the phase of wearing sneakers and walking shoes on the subway and to work began.
My heels were thin and high and in many different colors. I had a pair of brown stacked leather heels I loved. I had spectators, open toed, leather, black patent leather, woven, everything but vinyl or plastic.
I did try Earth Shoes when they first came out, but hated their unglamourous looks. Later, when my feet first started bothering me I lowered the height of my everyday shoes to 2 inches and wore open toes. I began to see a podiatrist every six weeks in the 80's. My insurance paid and I was still a happy camper. When I left my company, moved and could no longer afford the podiatrist I switched to pair after pair of shoes I thought might be comfortable, but none worked. By this time I had corns on the top of my hammertoes, corns on the bottom of the ball of my foot and bunions on both feet: also ingrown toenails. My feet had callouses and were a real mess and hurt all the time. It was about this time I started on a collection of Birkenstock. They were much better but I still couldn't get rid of the corns on the ball of my feet.
Finally, I discovered Crocs, and life has never been the same since. I love these ugly shoes and own them in many colors to go with my outfits. I have silver, gold, several pairs of black, 2 pair of sandals, as well as brown, green, and dark green crockskin. My feet are now comfortable and I can walk again without pain. Friends of mine have said they would never wear such ugly shoes, but do you think I care?
As I mentioned at the beginning I have ever had a love affair with shoes. Now it is pocketbooks. I collect them but have been trying to restrain myself, and have not bought one in over a year.
In my dream last night it was very real, like a dialogue with shoe designers. I was telling them that while people always say women's legs look better in heels it isn't necessarily so. If you got fat ugly ankles or calves, or god forbid crankles, high heels make you look no better. Wear long pants and do not worry about it. Design beautiful flat shoes with wider toe boxes and that women should never wear any kind of heels with long pants or jeans. It is just silly. If you have lovely long legs guys will notice them in flat shoes, and again, heels are not necessary.
I told this to the designers in my dream but it is up to women to smarten up for themselves. Think about it! It is just advertising. Most cultures didn't show the female leg and those that did had them barefoot in short African, Hawaiian or batik dress. We do not need to ruin our feet like they did when they bound and deformed the foot for an idea of beauty.
My heels were thin and high and in many different colors. I had a pair of brown stacked leather heels I loved. I had spectators, open toed, leather, black patent leather, woven, everything but vinyl or plastic.
I did try Earth Shoes when they first came out, but hated their unglamourous looks. Later, when my feet first started bothering me I lowered the height of my everyday shoes to 2 inches and wore open toes. I began to see a podiatrist every six weeks in the 80's. My insurance paid and I was still a happy camper. When I left my company, moved and could no longer afford the podiatrist I switched to pair after pair of shoes I thought might be comfortable, but none worked. By this time I had corns on the top of my hammertoes, corns on the bottom of the ball of my foot and bunions on both feet: also ingrown toenails. My feet had callouses and were a real mess and hurt all the time. It was about this time I started on a collection of Birkenstock. They were much better but I still couldn't get rid of the corns on the ball of my feet.
Finally, I discovered Crocs, and life has never been the same since. I love these ugly shoes and own them in many colors to go with my outfits. I have silver, gold, several pairs of black, 2 pair of sandals, as well as brown, green, and dark green crockskin. My feet are now comfortable and I can walk again without pain. Friends of mine have said they would never wear such ugly shoes, but do you think I care?
As I mentioned at the beginning I have ever had a love affair with shoes. Now it is pocketbooks. I collect them but have been trying to restrain myself, and have not bought one in over a year.
In my dream last night it was very real, like a dialogue with shoe designers. I was telling them that while people always say women's legs look better in heels it isn't necessarily so. If you got fat ugly ankles or calves, or god forbid crankles, high heels make you look no better. Wear long pants and do not worry about it. Design beautiful flat shoes with wider toe boxes and that women should never wear any kind of heels with long pants or jeans. It is just silly. If you have lovely long legs guys will notice them in flat shoes, and again, heels are not necessary.
I told this to the designers in my dream but it is up to women to smarten up for themselves. Think about it! It is just advertising. Most cultures didn't show the female leg and those that did had them barefoot in short African, Hawaiian or batik dress. We do not need to ruin our feet like they did when they bound and deformed the foot for an idea of beauty.
Friday, September 27, 2013
BloggertyBlue and India too
Hail to thee blyth spirits!! Join me in a journey about the land which has enchanted me for as long as I remember. I think I had mentioned how I subscribed as a little girl, to a program which sent me a little soft cover book each month on a country or group of countries (like England/Scotland/Ireland and Wales). These little books were sent with a page or pages of stamps about 2×2". We were to find the chapter or page which related to the stamps and paste the stamp onto that page. Similar to the sticker books kids have today. Anyway, one of the books was on India and I was complete enthralled with the colors of the sari's and outfits worn by the Maharajah's and Maharani's, as well as the ordinary people. I loved the landscapes, temples, scenery and animals in the stories and pictures. The jewelry too, oh my! what wonderful images. I loved the elephants and camels and monkeys and big cats of every type. I loved the crafts and cottage industries shown. I went again and again to the little book. I used to have a little black rubber baby doll I had begged my folks for one Christmas. I loved that little doll more than any other because I could use him in my adventures. I would pretend he was a Maharajah and I would create clothes for him from my collection of neckerchiefs, and drape necklaces and bracelets around his head. We would go off on elephants to hunt Tigers in the jungles, etc.
Later, when I went to Camp Alders gate, summer camp, we had a Christian minister who was from India. He had dark skin and was handsome and he told us stories about India and the development of Christianity there. I was more interested in him and the stories about India than I was about Christianity but I was spellbound each night at the campfire and he regaled us with tales of India. My next exposure to the culture that I remember was the book "Caravans", by James Michener. I adored the book when I first read it in High school, and subsequently read it several times more. I always knew I would someday visit India and explore it for myself. I never in my wildest dreams thought I would marry man from India.
Things came to pass when I had been NYC just over a year that I met and fell in love with my husband Srinivasan. This is a story which I will tell at another time, but suffice it to say that through him all my dreams were fulfilled,
I remember the first time Srini met my dad after we were secretly married in NYC(I had told just my mom and dad). We flew upstate for Christmas and Dad was hospitalized at that time with heart problems. Mom, Srini and I went to the hospital and daddy was very gracious when he met Srini and seemed pleased with my choice. He did laughingly say "I always suspected when you were a little girl and always carrying around that little black baby doll, that someday you might have a little black baby of your own". This prophesy did not come to pass because I never had children of my own. We did however, always support little dark babies in India and Africa through Christian Children's Fund and now a sponsorship project run by Bibles For The World, Inc.
The following year I first saw India and I knew my heart had come home. I can't put the feeling into words but while I prefer to call the US my home now; India will always be the home of my heart.
Go figure, I must have been reincarnated or something, but who cares. There are some things and feelings I will never understand but I am so happy I have these experiences and adventures in my life.
Later, when I went to Camp Alders gate, summer camp, we had a Christian minister who was from India. He had dark skin and was handsome and he told us stories about India and the development of Christianity there. I was more interested in him and the stories about India than I was about Christianity but I was spellbound each night at the campfire and he regaled us with tales of India. My next exposure to the culture that I remember was the book "Caravans", by James Michener. I adored the book when I first read it in High school, and subsequently read it several times more. I always knew I would someday visit India and explore it for myself. I never in my wildest dreams thought I would marry man from India.
Things came to pass when I had been NYC just over a year that I met and fell in love with my husband Srinivasan. This is a story which I will tell at another time, but suffice it to say that through him all my dreams were fulfilled,
I remember the first time Srini met my dad after we were secretly married in NYC(I had told just my mom and dad). We flew upstate for Christmas and Dad was hospitalized at that time with heart problems. Mom, Srini and I went to the hospital and daddy was very gracious when he met Srini and seemed pleased with my choice. He did laughingly say "I always suspected when you were a little girl and always carrying around that little black baby doll, that someday you might have a little black baby of your own". This prophesy did not come to pass because I never had children of my own. We did however, always support little dark babies in India and Africa through Christian Children's Fund and now a sponsorship project run by Bibles For The World, Inc.
The following year I first saw India and I knew my heart had come home. I can't put the feeling into words but while I prefer to call the US my home now; India will always be the home of my heart.
Go figure, I must have been reincarnated or something, but who cares. There are some things and feelings I will never understand but I am so happy I have these experiences and adventures in my life.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Horses I have owned and loved
I was thinking a lot about horses. I love them, have always loved them, will always love them. I cannot remember when my love for them began but it seems like it has been with me forever.
My absolutely best moment as a child was when my father gave me a horse.
I was a chubby, nine year old, horse loving little girl who at first read only horse stories. Black Beauty, the Black Stallion, the Stallion series and every other horse book I could find. I loved western movies because of the horses and knew all of the famous horse's names. Trigger, Champion, Silver, Buttermilk, and Fury to name a few. We didn't have a TV yet so I had to content myself with the movies and horses I saw in the fields around where I grew up. I remember the farm a few miles away had a pinto pony and I looked for him whenever we went to Potsdam for shopping. I begged my parents for a pony/horse every time I could. Birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, whatever. I just wanted a horse; any horse.
My parents kept telling me all the reasons I did not want a horse. I would have to take care of the horse completely by myself. I would have to fetch the bucket of water from the outside pump on the hill near the house to the barn/garage at the foot of our property(we had one acre). I would have to feed and water the horse daily and bring him out of the barn and tie him to graze on our lawn during the day. The property was not fenced. I would have to shovel the manure and the hay bedding out of his stall onto the pile at the rear of the barn. This meant daily I would have to carry shovels full of the stuff about 10 feet from the stall to the small door at the rear of the barn, and fling it out the door. I was to curry and groom the horse and, co-incidentally I would have to learn how to ride.
All of this I agreed to and more if I could only, please, please have a horse. I was continually told no, especially by my mother.
Then one mystical, magical evening, nearing the end of spring, something wonderful happened. My dad had gone out and I was working on my homework in the dining room with my mother. This was always traumatic because I always had trouble and this drove my mom, who was a teacher, nuts. We heard my dad drive in and heard men's voices outside but I thought it was just my dad and uncle. A few minutes later, it was just at dusk, I heard my father calling me and my mother and sister to come outside. There, tethered to the little old apple tree in the front yard was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. A huge bay horse stood with his head turned toward me. I yelled and ran to him with tears streaming down my cheeks. I simply could not believe what I saw. I threw my arms up high around his neck and hugged him then patted and stroked his neck, all the time blubbering. My father stood holding the halter to be sure I didn't get hurt. He told me laughingly, that the horse's name was Pete and he was a gelding who was a retired pacer.(a kind of racehorse). He was 13 years old and was now MINE. I absolutely could not believe it. I stood with the horse for hours, refusing to come in and go to bed. I will never forget the wonder of that first night with my friend. My chest swells and I sigh just remembering it.
Later of course reality had to set in. I had to do by myself all that was mentioned above and additionally I had to do the feeding, watering, and tethering before getting on school bus in the morning. It was just a few short weeks before summer vacation, but it all began again in the fall.
I developed a reputation for smelling like horse even though I washed and changed clothes before getting on the bus. I should mention I was the only country kid below 7th grade who went into the town school. The other country kids went to the country school where everyone smelled the same. I was still a little ripe for the townies.
I learned to ride but I was not allowed to ride alone on the roads. Pete wanted to race every car that passed, and he was just too big for an amateur little girl to handle. Later my dad, without my permission, traded Pete for another brown horse named, Pinocchio, as he was a bit long in the nose. I didn't care how he looked I loved him anyway.
He too, had been a race horse(a trotter), but he was a bit older and didn't thrill to the sport like Pete had. He too, I was not allowed to ride alone, until I was older. The fall was fine but it was a long cold winter. Pinocchio was in the barn all winter because it was just too snowy and cold to tether him outside. It was really hard for a 10 year old girl to prime the pump; pump and then carry the bucket to the barn in the freezing weather. My father absolutely refused to help me with anything but Mama would feel sorry for me and sometimes help, and the two of us would carry the sloshing bucket through the snowdrifts to the barn. In Daddy's defense he had to get up at 4:30 AM and get his car started in below O degree weather and drive 25 miles to work in Massena each morning. Mama was not working then because she didn't drive yet but she got up with him to get his breakfast and pack his lunch box.
At the end of the following summer my mom began to work on me before school began. She reminded me how the kids teased me in school about my smell and called me Clara, the horsey girl. She reminded me that winter was coming again and how the Farmer's Almanac predicted a worse than usual winter. (It was always worse in upstate N.Y., but anyway...) She reminded me about the carrying water and the manure and played on my emotions saying Pinocchio would get lonely by himself again, in the barn all winter, waiting for his little girl to come home from school.
Her coup de gras was, that the farm that had the pinto pony had, several other horses and a teenage girl, who was quite a young horsewoman. She gradually convinced me that I should give Pinocchio to Maryellen. My dad had talked to the family and they said I could come and visit and ride my horse anytime I wanted. I finally bowed to all the pressure and my horse became a lovely memory to me.
To this day I wish I had held out. Of course everything else would also be different and we can only go back and imagine the what it might have been. I have always felt a yet unfulfilled yearning to have a horse again and board it on one of the horse properties we live near. Every time I go out I try to take either 43rd or 51st Avenues so I can look at the horses in the pastures. One of the things I love about living where I do in Phoenix is that within the town limits you have all these wonderful horse properties just a minute away. You can take the girl out of the country but you can't take the horse out of the girl.
My absolutely best moment as a child was when my father gave me a horse.
I was a chubby, nine year old, horse loving little girl who at first read only horse stories. Black Beauty, the Black Stallion, the Stallion series and every other horse book I could find. I loved western movies because of the horses and knew all of the famous horse's names. Trigger, Champion, Silver, Buttermilk, and Fury to name a few. We didn't have a TV yet so I had to content myself with the movies and horses I saw in the fields around where I grew up. I remember the farm a few miles away had a pinto pony and I looked for him whenever we went to Potsdam for shopping. I begged my parents for a pony/horse every time I could. Birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, whatever. I just wanted a horse; any horse.
My parents kept telling me all the reasons I did not want a horse. I would have to take care of the horse completely by myself. I would have to fetch the bucket of water from the outside pump on the hill near the house to the barn/garage at the foot of our property(we had one acre). I would have to feed and water the horse daily and bring him out of the barn and tie him to graze on our lawn during the day. The property was not fenced. I would have to shovel the manure and the hay bedding out of his stall onto the pile at the rear of the barn. This meant daily I would have to carry shovels full of the stuff about 10 feet from the stall to the small door at the rear of the barn, and fling it out the door. I was to curry and groom the horse and, co-incidentally I would have to learn how to ride.
All of this I agreed to and more if I could only, please, please have a horse. I was continually told no, especially by my mother.
Then one mystical, magical evening, nearing the end of spring, something wonderful happened. My dad had gone out and I was working on my homework in the dining room with my mother. This was always traumatic because I always had trouble and this drove my mom, who was a teacher, nuts. We heard my dad drive in and heard men's voices outside but I thought it was just my dad and uncle. A few minutes later, it was just at dusk, I heard my father calling me and my mother and sister to come outside. There, tethered to the little old apple tree in the front yard was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. A huge bay horse stood with his head turned toward me. I yelled and ran to him with tears streaming down my cheeks. I simply could not believe what I saw. I threw my arms up high around his neck and hugged him then patted and stroked his neck, all the time blubbering. My father stood holding the halter to be sure I didn't get hurt. He told me laughingly, that the horse's name was Pete and he was a gelding who was a retired pacer.(a kind of racehorse). He was 13 years old and was now MINE. I absolutely could not believe it. I stood with the horse for hours, refusing to come in and go to bed. I will never forget the wonder of that first night with my friend. My chest swells and I sigh just remembering it.
Later of course reality had to set in. I had to do by myself all that was mentioned above and additionally I had to do the feeding, watering, and tethering before getting on school bus in the morning. It was just a few short weeks before summer vacation, but it all began again in the fall.
I developed a reputation for smelling like horse even though I washed and changed clothes before getting on the bus. I should mention I was the only country kid below 7th grade who went into the town school. The other country kids went to the country school where everyone smelled the same. I was still a little ripe for the townies.
I learned to ride but I was not allowed to ride alone on the roads. Pete wanted to race every car that passed, and he was just too big for an amateur little girl to handle. Later my dad, without my permission, traded Pete for another brown horse named, Pinocchio, as he was a bit long in the nose. I didn't care how he looked I loved him anyway.
He too, had been a race horse(a trotter), but he was a bit older and didn't thrill to the sport like Pete had. He too, I was not allowed to ride alone, until I was older. The fall was fine but it was a long cold winter. Pinocchio was in the barn all winter because it was just too snowy and cold to tether him outside. It was really hard for a 10 year old girl to prime the pump; pump and then carry the bucket to the barn in the freezing weather. My father absolutely refused to help me with anything but Mama would feel sorry for me and sometimes help, and the two of us would carry the sloshing bucket through the snowdrifts to the barn. In Daddy's defense he had to get up at 4:30 AM and get his car started in below O degree weather and drive 25 miles to work in Massena each morning. Mama was not working then because she didn't drive yet but she got up with him to get his breakfast and pack his lunch box.
At the end of the following summer my mom began to work on me before school began. She reminded me how the kids teased me in school about my smell and called me Clara, the horsey girl. She reminded me that winter was coming again and how the Farmer's Almanac predicted a worse than usual winter. (It was always worse in upstate N.Y., but anyway...) She reminded me about the carrying water and the manure and played on my emotions saying Pinocchio would get lonely by himself again, in the barn all winter, waiting for his little girl to come home from school.
Her coup de gras was, that the farm that had the pinto pony had, several other horses and a teenage girl, who was quite a young horsewoman. She gradually convinced me that I should give Pinocchio to Maryellen. My dad had talked to the family and they said I could come and visit and ride my horse anytime I wanted. I finally bowed to all the pressure and my horse became a lovely memory to me.
To this day I wish I had held out. Of course everything else would also be different and we can only go back and imagine the what it might have been. I have always felt a yet unfulfilled yearning to have a horse again and board it on one of the horse properties we live near. Every time I go out I try to take either 43rd or 51st Avenues so I can look at the horses in the pastures. One of the things I love about living where I do in Phoenix is that within the town limits you have all these wonderful horse properties just a minute away. You can take the girl out of the country but you can't take the horse out of the girl.
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