I was forewarned by my daughter she might be visiting my mom’s grave in Denver on her recent holiday. But I was not prepared for the journey she took me on to visit “Granny Pat” and my uncle’s graves. Yes, the rosebushes are still alive, if bedraggled, and after saying goodbye to my mom from across the digital bites, we moved to my grandparents around the corner, where their rosebush is also still alive near their headstone which is flanked by etched roses on each side, their names and dates inscribed.

The last time I visited was the last time I am ever likely to visit as part of the old family which is somehow gone. Is this my fault? Perhaps I identify more with the dead than the living. My nature and values echo the old generations, the Great Society that promised much and delivered much. So many of our fragile safety nets were put in place by that generation.

Anyway, in early 2020 I took my kids to see their grandmother’s grave which was important for me —mostly I guess to prove to my children that I had a mother and family in Colorado that existed beyond the myriad of stories and family lore I tried to impart since my children grew up without knowing my family. It was hopeless, I suppose, to imagine how we might remain close when the distance is great and the funds are low. I tried as I could to go home, but they were unable to harbor me and my three children. So the visits became infrequent and time and distance persisted in eroding the living ties. The importance of place remains for me however, and a feeling of belonging out west which I never lost.

Again I digress. In any case, we went to the gravesites and it was far more emotional than I thought possible. There my mom was buried, next to her brother, their parents close by. So my children could see and feel something of a kinship with their bodies on earth. And for me to be there with my children pulled my emotions in every direction. I saw a “for sale” sign near my mom’s plot and knew that was where I would be buried. (Which I hope and pray is years and years and years from now). It is paid for— and my children can find it by checking their locations app in iPhoto.

If it were not for the astonishing aid for communication, I am certain my mother would never approve of this most unorthodox visitation to her grave. I am certain neither she nor my grandparents would be able to fathom the changes in technology since they died in the 70/80s.

The more I have been thinking about this event the more strongly I feel about its importance in the scheme of things, in my life. The crushing of time and space that is within our scope here in our ever changing techno-land. An actual time/space continuum of sorts. Whatever spiritual paths are taken or anticipated, this actual breach of reality, one that could be unfathomable to previous generations…in the same vein as moving pictures were a miracle…Suddenly available for human beings in their every day life! How long until Scottie will “beam us up”. I guess we truly can not conceive of the future and what intentions and conventions will overtake the already unbelievable ability to shift time and space, and our perceptions there of.

I am thankful I was grounded literally by experiencing my mother’s graveside visit, though brief, and it was also much enjoyed over Facetime. Oddly enough and thanks to the next generation for this experience.

I remember saying as I introduced myself to strangers in the 80s, “I’m a hugger”. I remember well when the other person, upon the hug said, “I’m a hugger too”.

So, why am I definitely no longer a “hugger”? To put it simply:

#metoo

And the times have changed even if the fashions have not.

So, how do we approach kindl…

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Did I feed the dog?

I honestly can’t remember so I fed her, perhaps, again. Oh well. Who doesn’t love unexpected seconds? Especially if you only get two meals a day.

But this does not bother me much actually, because my deep mind that focusses on important things like, what did actually get rid of the ants circling my kit…

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I got in here and started to read Rebecca S. who said “she was still in her bathrobe and started writing”. So I decided (still in my bathrobe myself), “why am I reading when I sat down to write!” What am I thinking about? AI, and neighbors, and willful ignorance, and of course the ong…

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This photo of me is from the times of The Maladjusted: 1981. I see posts on social media from women my age trying to explain our generation. We were basically free-range kids. You might have heard stories about being put outside until it got dark or the dinner bell rang. Heard from everyone’s TV: “It’s 10 O’clock, do you know where your children are?” Still, there were neighbors who made sure you got home.

Across the board, we witnessed our parents’ heavy drinking, smoking, and a notable lack of involvement with our growing up. If you were smart, assumed you would get good grades, and have a good future; pretty, you would marry well; strong, you would do the heavy lifting. My mom did give me what she felt was necessary for polite society: french, piano lessons, Symphony Debs, and, of course, ballet classes.

I understand now it was a shattered generation. Shattered from all the loss in world wars, the flu epidemic, and the effects of the Depression. This was the first modern generation to deal with fractured families and globalization. There was a directive to get kids out on their own two feet. The moms had to look and act like Traditional Barbie and the dads couldn’t cry. Or hug, or say “I love you”. The generation gap was palpable. The old “stiff upper lip” and “tough it out” were incongruent with the ways the world was changing. Even if you were lucky enough to have enlightened parenting, society was way behind the progressive vanguard.

Despite everything, I tried to raise my children exactly like my mom raised me. My children had french lessons and ballet. There was classical music on the radio 24/7. But here’s a big difference: I didn’t die at age 54 like my mother (who barely accepted answering machines—much less able to fathom our current milieux.) The world is exponentially changed.

But, systemic racism and sexism, our everyday gauntlet, has been replaced with the youthful push for multiculturalism and egalitarianism. As a parent, I worked to instill my grandparents code which was instilled into my mother, then into my own soul—always providing my moral compass. This code was derived from the suffering, deprivation, and loss that Great Generation experienced. This was how that generation survived those hardships when one’s character was the tangible help offered to neighbors. These ethics are fast disappearing from our society. I believe this code defined what it meant to be “American” way past when it was actually working in our society.

Truth, honor, loyalty, helping your neighbor, humility, doing the right thing “because it was the right thing to do”…are all part of that code. But how can we believe any of this nowadays? Try instilling this code into a young person. He will laugh at you. Our society seems bound by lies and subterfuge. From politics to marketing to entertainment. That character and honesty are rewarded is absurd to our younger generations. They have witnessed both online and in real life how deception and self-serving practices make a person successful.

But when we bear witness to these young peoples’ open-minded pragmatism and the general acceptance of differences, despite political turmoil and the perversity of the old guard, (protected by status quo). It is easy to imagine a new code developed by this unflinching younger generation,

(who have been through a few things themselves—not least of which is the loss of that 5th act in story structure which should include a denouement, but instead only offers environmental collapse.)

It’s a good thing that some of my parent’s generation is dying off. Not because they are bad, but because they disregarded their own parents code in their drive for money and power. They allowed this code to slip away to make room for insatiable greed and unjustifiable nonchalance. You could say that they are not culpable for the loss of this set of values, (instead adapting: “do what I say not what I do”.) I guess those guys made it through the best they could on the tight-wire from 50s society to now. I can’t help wish there was more from them to support and encourage truth and justice which defined the Great Generation, that swath of people who characterized what it meant to be admired as a morally superior American.

What does this mean now, in our little town, in our time on earth? Though I can’t forecast the future, it appears neighborliness is a thing of the past and virtual connections are the preferred mode of communication. What does this do when coupled with old-school societal norms? Is it possible we are living in the last era with live conversations? Hopefully not, so some of us grandchildren from the 60s-80s can share our values in order to influence the new code which is in the hands of our kids. Children that we raised right here in our little town. Kids who had the benefit of their grandparents (who allowed us to exist on our own two feet) and what they shared. Our children could be raised with a constant care, outdoor living, art, and of course ballet lessons.

We shall see what happens when our children’s children come along and solidify the new code—hopefully… if we can all live so long.

Somehow there is no explaining to certain people that appearances can be deceiving. What you see is usually not what you get. Take for example, a democratic socialist. You might very well not even notice one walking down the street, or shopping next to you in the grocery store. This seemingly average citizen might have exactly the same items in their…

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But occasionally I am given a poem that I must quickly write down or it will be gone. I have been given two poems recently but will only share one that uplifts. The other one is too dark to share.

The Harkening of the Spirit

Rising just when all was thought lost, all but the vaguest hope had been forsaken. Suddenly, yea, a phoenix,…

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This time is different, though I do continue to smell the gardenia which infused the air from the taxi, the boulevard, and the narrow cobblest…

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This year it snuck up on me. Memorial Day, the day mom died. Never forgotten. How does grief look like more than 30 years anon? Is it less intense? The shock has worn off long ago, but the intensity?

I guess to speak to that I need to address the general lack of intensity that dims as the years tumble along. The crazy passion that seemed to acc…

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Well it’s true, little Patchers isn’t the brightest cat in the colony. She, in fact, seems quite dumb. She looks at you dead in the eyes and meows loudly. Put her down, she meows. She walks around the house and gives a pointed meow every so often. Turning her tiny head at you and screaming her demand. But there is nothing she wants but to be subsu…

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There is a dreamscape that erupts in the early hours of my rest twice a year. Just before the start of a new semester. It is the same seedy locale, industrial-looking, with shabby shops nearby and a labyrinth of rooms that lead seemingly nowhere. It is filled with a multitude of students w…

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I was noodling around on the AI google video tool (yes look in your waffle)—and wished to see if I could replicate an internal film which I experienced playing inside my vision during my recent cataract surgery.

Click here for that post.

I was able to get fairly close …

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Ok, so usually you have a final posting after a 7 pound tumor is removed from a 12- pound cat. But this time, what can I say but life has many unexpected twists and turns…even as one navigates the final days, weeks, months, years? of one’s beloved cat.

Buddy was not having it. He brandished his big tumor like a badge of honor, meowing at me to go in, go out, eat, eat something else, and so on. He was insistent upon living life on his own terms. How does a cat get to be in charge? With Buddy there was no question. From the very beginning he did what he wanted. He fragged whomever he pleased, wandered wherever he wanted, even making new homes at the neighbor’s house if he felt like it. So I anticipated that the ending of Buddy’s story would be much the same.

After the tumor was removed he got up and ate the dog’s food, meowed to go out, then came back in, had a couple more helpings, and sacked out. It took him a day or two to start walking normally (as if there was a ghost tumor hindering his gate), but soon his leg and foot began to expand —filling with tumor blood (the technical term). I took him back to the vet who drained it and told me he could do no more.

We went home and his leg filled back up with fluid so quickly. I took him back to the vet. He again told me that he could do nothing further. Instructions were to take him home and wait for the tumor to pop.

You read that correctly.

So that is what I did— and then on Easter, it popped.

It was heart-breaking but expected. I nursed Buddy with as much care as I could. He was still getting up and eating. He wanted to go outside again, so I let him wander around the yard (leaking fluid) and lick the fireplace and eat blades of grass. I think he wanted to keep going and not come back. But instead he laid down in his bed the next day and never got back up.

I could tell he was ready to go with his mew that was more like the sound of a bird trilling. He looked at me and told me he was done. Buddy was so far from the cat he was just a few months ago. With everything he’d been through in evidence, it was still hard to let him go. My friend told me I would know when he was ready to die, that he would tell me. And he did.

I hardly even know why I am writing this. Who wants to read details about a dying cat? It has taken me weeks to try writing again here, and I am stymied how to go forward. Now his story is finished.

When I started this blog three years ago my goal was to shine light into the corners of life in a small town. As a single mother, school teacher, with strong ideas about truth and justice, my desire to somehow thwart the progress of gentrification in our little town. Instead I end up here, describing the last days of my beloved Buddy the Intrepid.

As the spring progresses and peonies, iris, and roses make way for lilies and more deer food, I imagine Buddy’s grave, now covered with dirt, will be food for next spring’s flowers. That is what one of my kids told me. And I suppose that is the correct way to conceive of this thing called life, the circle of life…But also to hell with that!

I miss my Buddy!

I am grateful for all my memories and hold out hope for meaning, despite death and all that entails. What did Buddy’s life mean? What about his death?

I guess what I can think about now is how everyone that loves their pets has to practice this goodbye…the love that is shared with our furry friends can be practice for love that we can share with humans. Maybe that is what Buddy taught me somehow, despite his fragging and quick attacks. We love him because of his idiosyncrasies (or in spite of)…I will practice this ability on people now that Buddy is gone. Or maybe I need more practice of the four-legged variety. I still have my doggie and “the kittens”.

Perhaps the lesson is this: As hard as it is to say goodbye to someone you love, it is “better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”. Is that it?

Soon I will be back in this space, more functional, and with new plans going forward. I am grateful for you, my readers. Thank you so much for taking the time to support my creative efforts.

Love, Buddy’s Mom

How can you call out a liar? How is it one becomes characterized as a liar in our post-truth society? If I call you a liar and you call me a liar who is telling the truth? How is the truth achieved? This is a wacky upside-down world of documentary melding with fiction…is that how blithely we describe the shifting narrative environment. I…

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I mean, what else is there there to make from misfortune? I came to this conclusion at the end of a long think.

What else can be made from misfortune, really? I know it’s possible to look for a silver lining, to make the best of it, to look on the bright side. But really, when misfortune strikes, those options seem qui…

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Lots of talk about tribalism these day and how it effects our society. Who is my tribe? What is my tribe? I wish I was that cast-off character who slips in and out of town unnoticed, but the truth is: I am tribal like most of us. I want to hang with the artists and rebels who shake down the status quo and bring a jolt of the unknown into every day life. My people are probably the ones who don’t join in and likely not maybe playing by the rules.

But this does not mean I want to trash democratic norms. How is it that my outsider tribe was not included in the big ugly tent of hate that brought all the worst human tendencies together to elect one rapist/felon?

How does one become the type of tribal member who would kill for the chief?

Or look the other way when members of the tribe are neglected or abused?

When does the tribe become merely a pack of wild animals where chaos rules and order is based upon power instead of the law.

Tribal customs mean what? Tradition? In the name of tradition will we trash the customs by which community operates? Apparently this is how our society now rolls. We give into our base instincts and promote values which fuel the willfully ignorant. This is not actually an easy task.

How have the willfully ignorant become torch-bearers? These are shadow people who prefer the darkness. This clan-clad clown car is rolling down Main Street. Somehow they figured out how to entice those reluctant citizens into the public square. And now they are able to act with impunity, allowed to drag the rest of us behind them in the frantic push towards chaos.

Are they part of my tribe? We are all living in the same country, where tribalism was actually squashed in the 19th century as indigenous communities were crushed. The society based upon tribalism was wiped out— with nothing left but artifacts in museums and on reservations.

What tribe would I be part of? Hunters/gatherers? Farmers? I am not entirely sure how I would have fit in to that society. However, I would have been doomed along with the rest.

Afterwards it was the American Dream for everybody. Right….

So who is my tribe?

I remember my mother and father, both in their own ways, adding to the pressure I felt to change the world. It was not enough to have work, family, home…for special children, how it got translated, the goal was to change the world or fail at life’s mission.

I am not exactly sure how this edict was proclaimed, how I carried that for so many ye…

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I was thinking about various stances of my early 20s friends in NYC, the “punk” era, and realize why this life view is unacceptable in modern parlance. The mocking construction of pretty much all communication is untenable these days.

Everywhere except, I think, with the Irish. I feel that deep within that cultur…

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My outrage has simmered down to what I can only call lukewarm interest. This covers most of what I once held as true. My convictions of truth and justice, and what was right-thinking, integrity, etc. This sad state of the body politic has brought me to my knees when it comes to expecting anything but to be disappointed— in leader…

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