It’s a Mouse, It’s a Bug…NO! It’s a Rat!

For weeks now my dogs Cody and Casey have started barking when I put them in the kennel at night. I don’t normally let them out for barking, but being alone in the house I let them do their job and check the rooms. Every time I have let them out they run straight to the spot behind the toilet, then run madly around the house in “search” mode. I figured they had seen a mouse, or maybe even one of the rather large palmetto bugs (a nice word for a large, flying, cockroach), that share my abode.

Last night, as i settled into my bed they began again. Reluctantly I got up and let them out. They began the usual searching, and excited sniffing. I let them out the back door and sat on my bed to give them some time for a last-minute pee session. About ten minutes later, Casey had come back in, ready for bed…Cody was still outside. I turned on the light out back, and there was Cody…leaning over the body of a rather large RAT! Omgosh…I quickly got them back into their kennel, grabbed a bag and the shovel to dispose of the nasty looking rodent!

I began to wonder, rather nervously…was THIS what they had been barking at INSIDE my house??? I sure hope not. I pray they just got lucky out in the yard. EEEWWWW

Yes, the photographer in me thought for a second of snapping a photo of the deceased, but alas, NO!

Not Another New Years Post

Yup, I’m bucking against tradition. I’m such a rebel. I don’t make resolutions. I don’t care for putting that kind of pressure on myself. The end/start of another year is an imaginary line. So, on to my post!

What Would Grammy Wood Think?

  I imagine the strangest things sometimes. If you have been following me for any length of time this statement should not surprise you at all.

I often think about the every-day items we use, and that we take for granted. Microwaves ovens, cell phones, flat screen TVs, computers, and tablets are all such an integral part of our lives, we barely think about what life was like before their existence.

I sat here the other day and wondered what it would be like if my Grammy Wood came back to life for one day, and I had the opportunity to show her all that has changed since her death in the mid 70s.

When she died, the microwave was barely heard of yet. We still used the rotary phone, no touch tone, no cordless phones, and definitely no cell phones. The television in her living room was one of those huge, wooden floor models, it was “state of the art” color. (I have one like it in my living room right now) We did have a tiny black and white portable TV that us kids used. It had an antenna that had to moved to get the picture, and a pair of pliers to change the channels, all five or six channels. There were the three networks and the UHF channels, 27, 38, and 56, which we tuned in after school to watch “The Three Stooges” and “Bugs Bunny” cartoons.

Can you imagine how amazed, confused, and probably shocked Grammy would be on this tour of my home?

Let’s start with the microwave oven. Thank goodness they have gotten smaller. Remember those huge, clunky things that first graced our counter tops? Oh my. Imagine me asking Grammy if she would like some soup. She watches as I take a bowl from the cabinet, open a can of soup, pour it in the bowl and put it in this strange looking box on the counter. I push some buttons that make a beeping noise. It lights up, whirs, and spins the bowl. Then, just 2 minutes later I take a piping hot bowl of soup from the box and serve it to her. I can just imagine the look on her face. I mean, think about it! We saw something to this effect on “The Jetsons” cartoon, not in real life! I think she would be amazed, and possibly a bit frightened.

Now, lets look at the computer. At the time of her passing computers still took up entire rooms, and only at NASA and really big companies like Raytheon, where my grandfather worked. I walk over to this little, almost flat contraption on my dining room table, open the lid and show her the bright screen. I’m not even sure how I would begin to explain it’s complexities to her. I would probably show her how we can get the news or weather anytime we wish by typing in a few words. Maybe I would show her my Facebook page, and how it holds photos of her and Papa, and their old house, or how I can open a little window on it and chat with people halfway around the world!

While my stunned grandmother is being enchanted and amazed by this, she hears another noise. It is some kind of “music”. I walk over and pick up this tiny object, open it and say, “Hello”. She soon realizes I am having a conversation with someone. I turn to see her mouth agape at all I have shown her so far, and explain to her that I will be off the “phone” in a minute. A phone? That little thing? It has no cords, no wires.

After my phone conversation we move on. I take her in to see the television. I grab yet another small object from the side table, push a button, and this flat thing on my book-case turns on, showing a bright, colorful screen. She screams in delight as she realizes that this is a television! Her delight quickly turns to horror as a commercial for “feminine care” products comes on showing what appears to her to be half-dressed women, dancing around talking about tampons and modesty. The next commercial is loud and the “music” something she has never heard, and from the look on her face, would have gladly missed the opportunity. After several minutes of violence, nudity, and language that would only have appeared in her nightmares, she asks me to turn it off.

My poor grandmother. Yes, she would be amazed by most of our modern gadgets, and appreciate how they have made things “simpler”. I am grateful that she is not here to see what has become of our society though. What we consider “entertainment” would be beyond shocking to her, and I dread her seeing how most of these technological improvements have had a negative effect on so many lives. How they take up so much of our time, how our children would rather sit inside, playing with a little gadget than be outside playing in the fresh air, using their imaginations. I would hate for her to see how many marriages have been destroyed by pornography and gaming addictions, how we have become addicted to the screen.

As I sit here finishing this blog post, (what’s a blog post? Gramma would ask), I am grateful for our advances in technology. However, after taking Gramma on this grand tour I can’t help but long for the times that were truly simpler. I long for her to be in her old house, sitting at her kitchen table, sewing…Papa in his ham radio room, an amazing thing to me back then, listening to him chat with people across the world, as I sat and watched the black and white TV…the sound of clinking milk bottles coming from the porch. Crawling into my bed that night and almost swooning at the smell of sheets that had been dried on the clothesline, soaking up the sun.

Rest in peace Gramma Wood…I know you will. I will try to find some peace and quiet here as well. I might even venture outside to breathe in the fresh air. Love you.

‘Largest Massacre of Christians in Syria’ Ignored

Do you believe that Christians are just whining about being persecuted? Ask yourself why we have heard NONE of this on our news?

VOICE OF THE PERSECUTED

Nov. 21, 2013 – One of the worst Christian massacres—complete with mass graves, tortured-to-death women and children, and destroyed churches—recently took place in Syria, at the hands of the U.S.-supported jihadi “rebels”; and the U.S. government and its “mainstream media” mouthpiece are, as usual, silent (that is, when not actively trying to minimize matters).

The massacre took place in Sadad, an ancient Syriac Orthodox Christian habitation, so old as to be mentioned in the Old Testament. Most of the region’s inhabitants are poor, as Sadad is situated in the remote desert between Homs and Damascus (desert regions, till now, apparently the only places Syria’s Christians could feel secure; 600 Christian families had earlier fled there for sanctuary from the jihad, only to be followed by it).

In late October, the U.S-supported “opposition” invaded and occupied Sadad for over a week, till ousted by the nation’s military. Among other atrocities…

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Responding to Grief and Loss…What NOT to say

I want to dedicate this post to my fellow blogger  teanacious who recently lost his father.

He published a post earlier today titled “I know what you’re going through” , airing his frustration with these words from well-meaning people.  I can understand that a lot of people just don’t know what to say when someone is grieving such a loss. Maybe I can help here.

For one…when you have lost someone close to you the last thing you want to hear about is someone else’s loss. You are in so much pain and bewilderment at this loss that there is no room for anyone else’s grief, and this is okay.

Secondly…Even if you have lost your own father, or uncle or cousin…there is no way that your feelings and your friend’s are going to be exactly the same. Everyone experiences the loss of a loved one differently. We have no idea what kind of relationship they may or may not have had, and any kind of loss through death is an individual experience.

Thirdly…this “I know what you’re going through” can sometimes come off sounding like a competition, like you are trying to top the other person’s grief. I know it’s not intended, but it can feel that way to the person who is suffering the loss.

So, what do you say to someone who has just lost a dear loved one? “I’m so sorry for your loss” of course is simple, but it can be worded however you wish. It conveys your concern and sympathy. Offer to listen if they want to talk about it. Let them know you are there for them. Give to them all the comfort you can through words, but please, don’t say you understand what they are going through, because you can’t possibly. You and they are different people. Show compassion, concern, love and a willingness to listen.

And to my dear friend teanacious …I am so sorry for your loss and for the pain you are going through. I pray you and your family will find some comfort in the coming days, weeks, and years without your beloved father.

Paul Walker, Nelson Mandela, and Forrest W. Robertson

For days I have been unable to switch on the television without hearing someone talking about the horrible crash that took the life of Actor, Paul Walker. There have been interviews, news footage, thousands, maybe even millions of people in mourning over this man known the world over for his role in ” The Fast and the Furious” series of films. To be honest, I had never heard of him before his death. I have never been interested enough to watch any of those movies.

More recently the loss of the former president of South Africa, and anti-apartheid revolutionary, Nelson Mandela has flooded the newspapers, television, and internet. People all over the world have been shown celebrating his life, and mourning his passing. It has been an emotional time to say the least, and I have no complaint about all the media coverage generated by this loss. Of course I know who Nelson Mandela was, and I agree with the outpouring of emotion over his death.

I am not belittling these losses felt so deeply by so many, nor am I comparing the loss of Walker to the loss of Mandela, but it does raise a question for me. How many of us can name even one of the most recent casualties in Afghanistan or Iraq? I couldn’t. Not without looking it up on the internet, and I feel most of my readers could not either. Am I the only one who finds this somewhat shameful?

We have thousands of men and women fighting for freedoms we so often take for granted in America. Every day these soldiers are away from their families, losing life and limb for this great nation, and yet, we can’t even give them five minutes on the nightly news? We give hours and days of our media attention to the loss of a great actor, politician, world leader, and a myriad of other less news worthy topics, some of which I can only refer to as “junk news”. Why don’t we ever mention the names of those lost fighting for us? Why don’t we see their faces on the news or hear accounts of their bravery, the families they left behind, or how they died in some battle, in a country thousands of miles from home?

Okay, we might get a two-minute mention on the evening news stating that, “… 14 U.S. troops were killed in a roadside attack in Afghanistan today, when their patrol was hit by an IED…”, but we don’t often hear much more. We don’t hear their names, we don’t see their faces, we don’t see the young widow’s or the mother’s face when a military officer shows up at their door to deliver the news of this horrible loss. I understand why the cameras wouldn’t be present at this incredibly private and devastating moment in a military family’s life, but I do think we need a reminder of this reality now and then. I understand not reporting their names and details of death on the day that they occur, but shouldn’t there be a weekly or even monthly report that pays homage to these true heroes?

We need to stop thinking of these men and women as mere numbers and statistics, and remember that these are not “troops”, they are human beings, they are the fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters of real people suffering great loss. They deserve to be recognized, they deserve a name and a face. The loss of these brave men and women deserves more air time than the loss of any actor, or other famous person, because without the freedom that they are fighting and dying for every single day, we would not be able to sit in our comfortable homes mourning for anyone else.

On a last note. I want to pay homage here and now.

The most recent I could find:

In Honor of

• Sgt. 1st Class Forrest W. Robertson
• Hometown: Westmoreland, Kansas
• Branch: Army
• Unit: 6th Squadron, 8th Cavalry Regiment, 4th Brigade Combat Team, Fort Stewart, Ga.

• Incident

  • Nov 3rd, 2013: Died in Pul-E-Alam, Afghanistan, of wounds sustained when enemy forces attacked his unit with small arms fire.

I was unable to post his photo for copyright reasons, but here is the link to the site where you can read about him and many others…and where you can put a face, a human face, to the numbers.

http://apps.washingtonpost.com/national/fallen/33106/forrest-robertson/

My Mom Jan. 31,1935-Dec. 4, 1997

Just in honor of my Mother, gone 17 years today.

If I Could Go Back in Time…I Would Have Stayed that Day

If I could go back in time it would be to Thursday, November 27, 1997. Thanksgiving day.

Dear Mom, 

  This week will be 17 years since the last time we saw each other, the last time we embraced, the last time we spoke to each other. There is so much I want to tell you, so much I wish I had said that day. I guess none of us can ever know the future, or how much time we have. That last day with you was so hectic, with everyone together, us four kids in the same place for the first time in ages, your sister and niece down to visit all the way from Alaska. We hadn’t seen them since Grammy Wood died. It would have been such a joyful time, if not for the true reason we had all come together that Thanksgiving. Though we tried to pretend otherwise, it was to make plans for you to leave us, it was a time for some of us to say goodbye. None of us knew how much time you had left. At some point during that day it seemed that all the noise and people were wearing you out, so we went upstairs to let you rest, I should have stayed with you so you weren’t alone. I could have just sat and held your hand. I could have told you what a wonderful person you were, what a beautiful soul, that you were a good mother.

  There are so many things I am sorry for Mom. I’m sorry when you first got sick that I didn’t believe you. I thought you were just trying to get my attention, trying to get me to stay home with you more, like you had done in the past. I’m sorry for all those times I got angry at you, thinking you were just trying to manipulate me, when you were truly sick. I’m sorry I held so much against you, all the ways I thought you should have been different, for me. If I had only let myself see how hard your life had been, how it had made you the way you were, maybe I would have had more empathy, more compassion. I wish I had. I hope you can forgive me for those things. I’m sorry that on that last day I thought I had so many important things to do, my own life to attend to. I was so selfish Mom. I didn’t know I would never see you again. 

  When I was getting ready to leave that day, you tried to tell me, you tried to say goodbye. You knew what I didn’t. I remember you asking me to stay longer, and me saying I had to go, but that I would be back in a couple days. As I was leaving you said, “I love you Kim.” I said, “I love you too”. Then you grabbed me by the arm, with a strength that belied your illness, and you said, “Look at me!” You looked so deeply into my eyes, and said, “I mean it, I really love you”.  “I know Mom. I love you too”.

I should have known…I just should have known…you were trying to tell me “Goodbye”.

I hugged you one more time, placing my hand behind your head, feeling how thin and fragile you had become….but I left anyway. I thought I had so much to do Mom, and that there would be more time. I thought I would see you again, hold you again, hear your voice again, but I never did. I didn’t come back in a couple days as I said I would. I got the call exactly one week later…you were gone. I wasn’t there. There would never be another hug, another laugh, another chance to hear your voice, another chance to hold and be held by you, another chance to say, “I love you”. I hope you forgive me, and know how sorry I am for all my mistakes. For all the times I neglected you, and treated you badly, or just ignored you all together…for all of this I am deeply, deeply sorry. I only wish I had stayed that day. I miss you Mom.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/11/22/daily-prompt-power/

Part One…I Almost lost Her

Tomorrow it will be 12 years since the accident that almost took my 17 year old daughter.

It was a Monday night, November 19, 2001. I was just getting ready for bed around 10pm, when the phone rang. My hands began shaking and my heart pounding. It was that mother thing, I knew something was horribly wrong with one of my children. The voice on the other end was my oldest daughter, Melissa. I only recall certain words in the conversation, “Stina, accident, hospital, brain surgery”….I screamed and dropped the phone. The next thing I remember is seeing the exit signs passing as if in slow motion counting them down, as my sister drove us to the hospital. When I finally arrived, I ran down the hallway like one of those horrible nightmares where the hallway just keeps getting longer and longer. I came to the I.C.U. just as they were wheeling in my little girl. It took everything in me to stay on my feet. What I saw scared me to the deepest part of my soul. She had undergone emergency surgery to relieve pressure on her brain from a bleed. The side of her head was shaved, her eyes were swollen shut, her face black and blue, and she was unconscious. They got her settled, and informed her father and I that she might not survive the night. “No”, I argued, “She’s not going anywhere“. They said that if she did survive, the part of her brain that was damaged might leave her unable to speak, unable to recognize us, and possibly unable to walk. I denied all of these words too. I was trembling, my heart pounding out of my chest…I can’t lose her. I won’t lose her.

I stayed by her side that whole night, leaving the room only long enough to smoke and break down. I refused to break down while in there with her, knowing that she might be able to hear what was going on around her.

Tuesday morning she was still  unconscious. A nurse came in saying she needed to give her a sponge bath. “I’ll do it,” I said, “She’s my daughter”. The nurse saw from my expression that there was no use in arguing. I began to bathe my sweet girl, for the first time in many years. I washed her face, careful of her swollen eyes. I wiped her arms, the same sweet arms that had wrapped around my neck when she was little. I carefully bathed every part of her, just like when she was a baby. I dressed her in a clean hospital gown, and helped the nurse put new sheets on her bed and tucked the clean warm blanket around her. That’s when I noticed her hair, the part they hadn’t shaved. I gently began pulling the leaves from her hair, some of them stuck with blood, and untangling her hair gently with my fingers, avoiding the tube that was draining blood from her skull. She was in and out as I did this, so I talked to her the whole time, telling her she needed to get ready to go clubbing, even telling her it was lip gloss when I rubbed some vaseline on her dry lips, she tried to smile at this. I would not break down, not until I was outside the room a little later. I had to be strong for her.

That afternoon they wanted to try and get her off the ventilator. For hours we attempted to wake her enough to do that, but each time she woke, she would start struggling. Finally I had to yell at her, “Wake up, and stay still”. When the tube was finally removed, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “Mom, I want to go home”.  She could speak and she knew me! She could speak, and knew who I was! Our first miracle had come!

On Wednesday morning, they decided that she was well enough to be moved out of the I.C.U., and by the time we got her settled in her private room, I was beyond exhausted. The room was packed with family and friends, and I stood by the window for a minute and prayed. I needed so badly to get some sleep and change my clothes, but I was too afraid to leave her. I asked God to give me a sign that it would be okay for me to leave, that he wasn’t going to “take” her from me. I opened the curtains, and the sun shone down through the clouds, landing on a sign…it was the mall! I said, “Stina, do you know what’s outside your window?” She shook her head “no”. “The Mall”, I said. She smiled, well, half a smile, the other side of her face was still paralyzed. But, I took it as the sign I had asked for, gave her a hug and kiss, and headed home to recharge.

When I reached our apartment my feet felt like lead as I climbed the three flights of stairs. My husband was waiting on the landing, and I panicked when I saw him waiting for me. “What happened!” I screamed, thinking the worst. He said, “She walked.” “What do you mean she walked?” I cried. I guess after I had left the hospital my daughter had requested to use the rest room. The nurse explained to her that she had a catheter. My daughter, being the stubborn girl she is, (I don’t know where she gets that from), insisted on getting up and using the bathroom. She got up and walked there! Second miracle!

Thursday morning, Thanksgiving day, my daughter was released from the hospital, and home with her family. Like Jesus, she had been in the tomb, but on the third day she rose again. The struggles from her accident continue today. The brain damage has left her with some anger management issues, depression, and of course P.T.S.D., but she is alive. She gave birth to a daughter four years later. And tomorrow as she struggles with remembering that horrible day, I hope she remembers how blessed she was to survive, and how blessed this world is to have her in it, and that no one is more grateful for that fact than me.

Fear the Number 13?

Triskaidekaphobia (from Greek tris meaning “3”, kai meaning “and”, deka meaning “10” and phobos meaning “fear” or “morbid fear”) is fear of the number 13 and avoidance to use it; it is a superstition and related to a specific fear of Friday the 13th, called paraskevidekatriaphobia (from Παρασκευή Paraskevi, Greek for Friday) or friggatriskaidekaphobia (after Frigg, the Norse goddess Friday is named after in English). The term was first used by Isador Coriat in Abnormal Psychology.^[1]

Okay, now that we are done with the educational part of the program, I will give you my personal feelings about this number.

I love the number thirteen. It has played a significant role in my life, and as it turns out, after a little research last night, has done so in more ways than I ever knew.

I was born Tuesday December 13, 1960, at 8:02 P.M.  I don’t know a lot about the day I was born, but these are the parts I got from my mother. She always told me about how she ate dinner that evening, even though she knew she was in labor. It took years before I understood that part of the story. What did eating dinner have to do with anything? Well, I learned that most women at the time were given ether as an anesthetic during childbirth, and eating beforehand could cause severe nausea and vomiting. How lovely. Mom told me how it was snowing so heavily that my father had to shovel the driveway several times before they could leave for the hospital, and that I almost died that night. As Mama tells the story, I was just emerging into this world when they slapped the ether mask over her face, and she knew that something was wrong as she slipped into unconsciousness. It turns out that the umbilical cord had torn during delivery, and I lost almost 2/3 of my blood. I’m not sure how they managed back in 1960, but somehow they saved my little life.  My mother having passed away back in 1997, and wanting to know more, I decided to look up any information I could about the date of my birth.

I looked up the weather in S.E. Massachusetts 12/13/60 and here’s what I found. I was born during a Nor’Easter. My life having been one storm after another, this seems fitting.  Not only had there been significant snowfall, but here’s the “cool” part. The storm had traveled up the East coast, and by the time it hit our area the barometric pressure for the storm was recorded at its lowest on, you guessed it,  December 13! I also found out that it was the coldest day of that year. Can you guess what that temp was? Yup, it was 13 degrees Fahrenheit.  Here’s the Wiki report on it.

The December 1960 nor’easter was a significant winter storm that impacted the Mid-Atlantic and New England regions of the United States. The storm ranked as Category 3, or “major”, on the Northeast Snowfall Impact Scale, and its snowfall extended from Virginia to Maine.^[1] One of three severe storms during the 1960–1961 winter, the nor’easter dropped over 20 in (510 mm) of snowfall in parts of northern New Jersey and eastern Massachusetts. The initial low pressure system developed on December 10 in the Gulf of Mexico. It moved northward, then eastward, and a secondary low formed over South Carolina. It tracked northeastward and deepened to reach a minimum barometric pressure of 966 millibars by December 13. High winds and cold temperatures accompanied the storm, leading to blizzard conditions.^[2]

So, the number thirteen seems to have permeated the day of my birth, and even though it sounds like it did so in a negative way, well, here I am writing this story!

My love for the number thirteen has continued to grow. I gave birth to my first child on March 13, 1978. She in turn gave birth to her first-born child on January 13, 2005. She was two weeks past her delivery date, and I kept telling her that the baby would arrive on the thirteenth. “It’s tradition” I said.

I grew up with a Grandmother that was all about the superstitions, and I find myself to this day remembering some of them. I never put new shoes on the table. When I drop a piece of silverware I know that company is coming. I never give anyone a new wallet or purse without a penny in it, and so on. But, when it comes to the number 13, I am all for it!

Here is Mama holding me when I was just a week old.

Veteran’s Day Post, “Thank You”!

A heartfelt and sincere thank you to all those who have served, and continue to serve our country and protect our freedom! This is my father, I believe it was Korea, but unsure of the date.