Now

I’m trying to live in the Now. Not past, not future, just now. You know, like a dog. It’s difficult.

It’s also pretty tough to come up with blog fodder when all the living in Now is mostly in my head. But… here’s what’s happening in my life.

Started: Jana DeLeon’s Miss Fortune series. Currently on book 13: Swamp Spook.

Saying: Christ the King Novena, thanks to Pray More Novenas dot com.

Accomplished: Finally finished painting and cleaning the living/dining room! Now on to the hall.

Recommend: Sr. Mary Martha’s Pause for Prayer on Facebook live every morning. One of the Daughters of St. Paul, she is also singing with their choir.

Looking forward to: Advent and my new Memento Mori Advent companion.

Now: Listening to my sister in law bitch.

Next: Yard cleanup.

Earlier this week: My view from the sofa…

Feted and Ensconced

I loathe funerals. The entire circus: viewing, service, graveyard sobbing while the casket lowers.

Not all people feel this way of course. Funerals tend to be great family reunions. Folks take pictures of the body in the coffin, selfies of themselves with the body and gather in groups for photos that resemble a cheerful event such as a fish fry or church picnic. I can’t count the number of times I asked my mom to identify a group of black and white people (yeah, I’m old) only to hear her reply “Oh, that was taken at Uncle Ollie’s funeral”. To name only one.

My (adopted) father’s funeral in 1978 was about as surreal an event as I’d ever encountered. The body in the coffin didn’t resemble the man I knew in the least and the Baptist preacher pressed into service had a speech impediment and called my father ‘Johnny’, which might have earned him a punch in the nose had the man himself not been dead as a doornail. The graveside service was where I finally woke to the fact that we were going to leave my father there, in the ground. I was the last to leave; the hardest thing I’d done so far in my short life.

I’ve not attended a funeral since and don’t intend to do so. When the inevitable happens I want a Viking send off – well, the cheap redneck version. Put me in a rowboat and push it off into the water armed with an explosive on a timer. Then forget about me because I’m long gone.

While I type this my birth father, whom I’ve had the pleasure of knowing and loving these last three years, is having his funeral in another state. Hope they take good pictures of each other.

Gone

Mac
1972

My Dad is gone. At least I was able to meet him and have a loving relationship with him for a few years.

Remember: Rust never sleeps.

Escape

Martin Grelle

The man and I hadn’t been to a proper sit down restaurant since before covid started… and six months before that. I don’t like eating out anymore. The tables seem closer together these days and people are loud, especially children. One of my favorite sounds is kids playing out in the yard or street… but transfer those cries and screams to a booth behind me and food is the last thing I want. Escape becomes a priority.

Continue reading “Escape”

Emerging

I’m coming out of a hole. Digging up. While in one I never comprehend the walls and floor are dirt. That the light is low. That communication is muffled at best. There’s no love, no laughter. Numb to everything else, I bury myself in ancient reruns and audio books and the rest of the world, myself included, is shut out.

It’s not until I stick my nose above the dirt that I recognize there is a world and it’s alight with living. Because whatever I was doing was not living.

Don’t think I’m bi-polar, since this didn’t start until sometime around or after age 55. Some holes are very bad and I can’t find my way out for a month or more. Others are short, as I believe this to be. How would I know, really, since there are no timepieces in holes. I almost wrote hell. Don’t know when I dig in or how long I languish therein.

Luckily, this wasn’t a sinkhole.

I bought paint. And new drapes. Clawing my way out, one purchase at a time. I buy, therefore I am.

Night

The Brindleton Bay docks at night.

Sims 4.

I dunno; my brain is stuck therefore I cannot think of anything else. Oh, not sims. Another sister popped up, a lovely person who will probably visit this summer. Well, you know the Cracker Box. I’m mentally rebuilding the thing; painting, new rugs, some plants…. a new master bath redo would be grand, since I took a sledgehammer to the original and it sits… like a demented shell of the room it was… with a toilet. I would never take out a toilet willy-nilly.

What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Sims.

Bree Bear

This looks like any other crafted bear, right? It’s not. O.D. makes special occasion/bereavement bears so she made one for Breagha, who passed on August 5, 2019.

The outside is made from Bree’s favorite bandannas and inside Tonie put her favorite pink Wooba toy and some of her hair.

Yes, I broke down when she handed the bear to me; Bree is finally home again. And now, after not dreaming about her, she’s there when I sleep. I’ll cherish this little bit of Bree as long as I live.

Thank you, O.D.

The Aftermath

…of Wilma.

As I wrote in the last post, I put this here not for anything or anyone other than myself. It’s what happened after a Cat 3 ran over us in 2005. Nothing like Andrew, but still…

Thank God it’s cool!! If this had happened in August we’d be miserable. Even a normal October day is usually warm and humid. Two colds fronts equal another miracle! Before she left for home Tonie and I went to Publix for staples and of course she left for home with one of my bags. A heartfelt thank you to Publix for opening their doors! Without power they may have been trying to get shed of some perishables, I don’t know. That’s what I’d do, anyway.

The line outside Home Depot is long, considering the generators haven’t arrived. We need a generator and a new gas grill (not to worry, we have two generators now). Cleaning the fridge and freezer out.

Dammit, Tonie left with my trail shoes!

Continue reading “The Aftermath”

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