Today

 A friend of mine who 

Wade is not completely sure of yet

Approached.

And as he did, Wade

retreated

Retreated back to my side. 

Pressing into my leg.

Holding my pants.

And in that moment, everything

that ever happened to me

disappeared

And all that remained 

was knowing I am 

This sweet soul's Safe Place

Top Hats

Al typically wears cargo pants or shorts. Says the pockets are his purse. One for his reading glasses. Another for his driving glasses. A pocket for his cell and another for his wallet. Since his back surgery, he has changed from wearing cargo pants to wearing coveralls. As he has to wear a back brace wherever he goes right now, adding that to a pair of cargo pants and belt was just too much. 

Coveralls were the perfect solution. All of the pockets that cargo pants provide, with no need for a belt.

Then Ayla tells me that Abraham Lincoln favored top hats as he could carry stuff in it, under his hat. She said Al didn't need cargo pants or coveralls. 

What he needed was a top hat.

 "I'm in serious trouble if Duluth Trading Company ever comes up with cargo top hats," I said.

A few hours later, Ayla says she entered this idea into ChatGPT. This was Chat's response:

Introducing the Duluth Cargo Top Hat – where rugged style meets functionality! Crafted with durable materials, this hat seamlessly combines the classic top hat elegance with the practicality of cargo pockets. Perfect for those who demand both sophistication and utility, it features multiple pockets for stashing essentials on the go. From outdoor adventures to urban exploration, conquer every terrain with the perfect blend of fashion and function.

 I worry I may have created a market where there previously was none.

Nancy: The Fixer

For reasons I don't know, thoughts of my oldest sister, Nancy, have flooded my mind these past several days. Nancy was thirteen years older than me.  Nancy was pregnant with my first niece, Terri, only weeks after Mom delivered my younger sister, Lydia.  Despite the near constant upheaval and turmoil that dominated Nancy's life, she was always regarded as, "The Fixer," by the immediate family in times of crises.

I considered this role of Nancy's. Why oh why did we seek her counsel during those darkest of times? I may never learn the answer to that question. Regardless, in times of crises, Nancy ALWAYS rose to the occasion. 

She knew what to do. She directed. She delegated. She networked. She always said yes.  How many nights did I spend as a teen at her place when Mom and Dad were their most violent?  Who did Lydia go to when she needed to leave a marriage? Who did Susan send Ray to when he needed a new home? Who did Bill call when he lost his job? Who did Mom lean on when Grandma died?

Yet, Nancy was, by far, the most troubled of us all. The one with  the most heartache and hardship. Drama filled Nancy's life.  

Nancy was a prodigy. A genius. She was morbidly obese and a chain smoker. 

She read Heidi out loud to me when I was in elementary school. She took me to see Rosemary's Baby at the drive-in when I was 13. She let me sleep on her couch so many times in my life. 

All of us knew: You can always stay with Nancy.

So, yeah. I've been thinking a lot about Nancy in recent days. Not sure why. Probably an old age thing.  

If any of you reading this have some similar Reflections of Nancy, please share!

Nancy, w Terri on her lap. Mom (l) Grandma (r)

The Hard Goodbyes are the Hardest

I don't know where to start, so I'll just dive in... Early Wednesday morning July 5, Marzipan was attacked by another animal(s) in our driveway. I found him a short while after the attack quite dead from the injuries he sustained. 

All day long, I kept him inside away from the fireworks and in a separate part of the house, away from the dogs I was caring for. Cats were on one side of the house. Dogs in another. After dark and after several hours of lots and lots of fireworks, things seemed to quiet down. What I did next I will always regret. After begging for whole minutes to go outside, in a moment of poor judgement, I opened the front door and let him out. I intended it to be for only a ten, maybe fifteen, minute break. But, Marzipan never returned.  Several hours later, when I found him, he was stiff, and chewed up by what appears to have been some loose dogs who cornered him in his own damn driveway. 

I'm numb. I'm sick. I'm in a state of disbelief. Given his age, I knew sometime would be his last time, which made me wonder what a Marzipan-less life might be like. How will I walk the dogs knowing he isn't anywhere behind? How will I get to sleep without his warm, purring body against mine? What will it be like to pull up in the driveway and not have him greet me? These all felt like such esoteric questions for "someday". 

But, this day is now. Now starts my life without Marzipan. And I'm not ready.

If you knew Marzipan you maybe understand how his death leaves such a void. He was such a huge personality. When he looks at you, "He looks right into your soul," Tori once said about him. The stories about him are seemingly endless. Like, the time he hitched a ride home in a low-rider. Or, the time the neighbor found Marz inside his house and sleeping on his bed. Or, how willingly he rode in a car. He accompanied me when I walked the dogs as if it was his job. Once, he followed me all the way around Sloans Lake. More than once he followed me to Loretto Heights Park and back. He would follow me anywhere, if I let him. 

But, ever since his death, I continue to see him out of the corner of my eye. Everywhere. In the doorway. On the couch. Outside on the porch.  Crossing the street.... Maybe he isn't all the way gone, yet? I plan to set up an offrenda/shrine like thingy in my front yard, behind the bush where he liked to watch the world go by. I need something tangible.

This grief will come in waves for while and catch me off guard with sweet memories and endless tears. It's just something I have to get thru. No shortcuts allowed. Meanwhile, please know how grateful I am for the kindness each of you showed my cat these many years. So very grateful. 

A guy dressed as a woman was locked up in my neighbor's garage...

I have some very weird next door neighbors. They are the house on the block that the police visit a couple of times a year.  A sea of people come and go all hours of day and night. There is something clearly nefarious going on there. 

Four years ago, the man's wife was found dead when paramedics arrived. This is what the police officer said when he knocked on my door. He wondered if I ever heard any domestic disturbances? 

After she died, the partner she left behind became unmoored. This is when the number of people who came and went dramatically increased. Late night parties happened more frequently. Then, the garage caught fire. The garage that sits a mere eighteen inches from my fence, 36 inches from my house, in flames.  Firefighters, with axes unfurled, raced across my front lawn that cold January and chopped down the double doors of the structure, causing a large flame to issue forth. But it was summarily extinguished with a brigade of fire extinguishers and a fire hose. 

The list is long of unsavory events and questionable house guests that have transpired since.

But what happened today was, by far, the weirdest most unexpected event, EVER.

My newest little foster dog was clearly upset by the people she could hear but not see that were on the other side of the fence. I listened from the back room to hear someone trying to pry and loosen the big garage door open. I heard a woman outside the garage yell, "I think there is a lever to your left that will open it."

Then I hear a voice inside the garage reply.

I decide to go stand next to the fence both to hear better and to maybe see something. The woman continues talking to someone inside the garage. A man with a limp joins her. He pulls a heavy trailer away from the door then uses a crowbar to get the door open. After a bit more pushing and prying, the door finally opens. I hear the guy with limp ask the person inside if they're ok. 

The man and woman step back and a man emerges. He is wearing black sweat pants that sag halfway down his ass. I recognize him as one the quasi street type people that frequent next door. But it is the rest of his outfit that stuns me. He's wearing a wife-beater type white tshirt and on top of that a bright pink fishnet sexy blouse. His hair is done up in pigtails and his face is painted to look like a woman. 

He talks gruff to the other two, directing them how to breakdown whatever had been set up inside.

A large box of items goes into the back of a pick up truck.

A flat panel is stored to the right of the garage. Something else is placed in a pile of junk.

Eventually I quit peering between the slats of the fence and went back inside. 

I have been trying to process ever since what it was that I just saw. 

The Essence of Who I Once Knew

A relative died this week. I wanted to write, “a relative of mine…” then decided that was redundant. But, just to be clear, a relative of mine died this week.  Terri died. My oldest niece. At 58, Terri is just a few months younger than my little sister. In fact, for many years, Terri and said sister, Lydia, were like having two younger sisters. It was framing my relationship to Terri in these terms that I realized the disconnect I feel between the space that Terri once held in my life, to the distant impression that she holds now. How is it that someone once so prominent in your life, can fade into something less than a shadow?

I saw Terri this past fall while traveling thru West Virginia. We met for maybe two hours on a park bench outside her apartment. She didn’t look well then, so her dying this week wasn’t a total shock. Terri was one who enjoyed poor health, my mother would say. She said the same about Terri’s mother, my oldest sister Nancy. Nancy was also afflicted with a host of ailments requiring a myriad of medications. Until she died ten years ago. Terri has been the grieving daughter ever since. 

When Nancy gave birth to Terri back in 1964, I was seven years old. Terri’s father was a married man named Tony C. Nancy was sure Tony would leave his wife for her, but he never did. Terri was born into this world labeled, “illegitimate” to her “unwed mother,” Nancy. 

Terri had a deficit balance in Life from Day One. 

When Terry was still a baby, Nancy married a boy from the neighborhood, Doug Dickerson. Everyone knew the Dickersons. And everyone knew that Doug Dickerson suffered a traumatic brain injury when he was twelve and was run over on Pecos Street by a Safeway truck. He suffered from seizures and was considered a bit slow. Nevertheless, he and Nancy married and Doug took to parenting Terri in a much more responsible manner than many of us expected.

But Doug wasn’t emotionally mature enough to handle the pressures of married life, especially married life to my sister Nancy. He found a way to resolve some of their arguments was to stop taking his epilepsy medicine. The inevitable seizure distracted Nancy from whatever issue they were having and the problem was solved. Or so Doug believed. Three or four years later, Doug had had so many self- induced seizures that in a meeting with the family doctor and clergy, a divorce was recommended. They divorced amicably and Doug continued seeing Terri on weekends as her dad.

A few years passed and Nancy found love again. This time to Don Mitchell. Nancy was over the moon smitten with this man. When Terri visited Doug he told her that,her “if your mother marries that man, I will kill myself.” Terri begged her mother not to marry Don. Nancy reassured Terri that her daddy was hurt but he would get over it.  A few weeks later, Don and Nancy are married. Soon after, Doug has a seizure. This time, when he falls, he hits his head wrong. He dies five days later.

It was under these circumstances that Terri was to start a relationship with her new step dad, Don Mitchell.

The next several years were very tumultuous. Don was a recovered alcoholic. Two more children were born, Ed and Rob. Somewhere between Ed and Rob’s birth, Don fell off the wagon. I want to add, “and resumed drinking,” then realized that would be redundant. But if you aren’t sure which wagon Don fell off, it was the drinking wagon. The family moved from Denver to Omaha to Des Moines back to Denver. Don lost his job. Don got violent so Nancy left with the kids. Don apologized so Nancy moved back with the kids. Repeat. At one point, Nancy flees Don and goes to West Virginia to the safe harbor of her old high school best friend. Don follows them there, gets sober - - for good, this time - - and they resume their marriage. During this time, Terri grows from tomboy to butchy teen, to full on lesbian young adult. She acuses Don of sexually molesting her. The truth was never determined one way or another. 

In her early twenties and living with one of her first serious girlfriends is Houston, Terri is grabbed late at night from a 7-11 parking lot and taken to the bare bones apartment of two brothers and repeatedly raped by these two men for hours. They removed her clothes and carved on her stomach with a knife. Terri still had these scars many years later of this night. She tried to escape but they caught her and abused her even more violently. In her testimony in court she said she remembers lying on the carpet in the room without furniture. On the wall over her head was a picture of Jesus and on the other wall, looking straight at her, was a picture of a young girl in pigtails. A school photo, maybe.

Terri was eventually able to escape. She ran and ran in the dark, totally naked. A man on his way into work spied her clutching a dumpster and called out for her to stay there. He did not try to approach. He called the police and she soon was rescued. But she was never the same. She slept for whole weeks on my mother’s couch. Head under a blanket. Sometimes we’d stare at the blanket checking for breathfalls. She slowly worked her way out from under the blanket, and back into the world. But she was never able to have a healthy relationship. She wasn't able to hold a job. She was always getting hurt on the job. A Worker’s Compensation claim. And doctor visit after doctor visit wouldn’t be able to treat her pain. Eventually, and more than once, she convinced a surgeon to remove the nerve in question. A handful of years later, Terri was too disabled to work. She qualified for Social Security. She’s been in the system ever since. 

In more recent years, I saw Terri in 2003 when I visited Nancy one afternoon in West Virginia. Terri was there for the visit. Then I saw her again when Terri surprised us all by coming to Colorado for my mother/her grandmother's 90th birthday. I saw Terri again, and for the last time, in late September of ‘21.  I wrestled mightily if I wanted to even do that visit. I wish I could explain why. I’m super glad now I decided to visit her. I kept our conversation upbeat. I tried to find the positive in every hurt Terri brought to surface. I glossed over her words. I didn’t reveal anything deep and personal about me. All elevator stories.

But we visited. And when I left, I was sure to tell her that I loved her. 

What I wish I could say to Terri is, how sad her sad life makes me. She never was given a fair shake. Never once.  And I will always wonder why. 

Hoping you’ve got it easier now, sweet Terri. I love you.

Touching the Nightmare

I've spent an unprecedented and unexpected amount of time alone in recent months.

Pandemic aside, travelling for 122 days with only my dog and cat as traveling

companions (no offense Zoey and Marz), provided seemingly endless hours for

me to get inside my own head.  The thoughts and memories that revealed themselves when given the time and space to surface, were too often, terrifying and ugly. Yet it is these memories that so deeply define who I am and how I see the world. I tried to be brave and allow myself to remember what I have pushed so deeply inside.

    

I considered how I intend to euthanize myself rather than linger. Will I recognize when that time is?

I regretted that I didn't do more to find a way for Mom to keep her cat. 

I more fully realize, now, how the smaller our world becomes, the more important our

pets are.The only form of physical touch I receive on a regular basis anymore is from my animals.

I took that one tangible comfort away from Mom when I removed Gus.

I bravely allowed myself to recall how she would scream from the other room for us to come help when Dad was beating her. Why did I remain frozen in the bedroom? Never once did I come to her aid. Never once did I stand between her and Dad. Instead, I always did as he said: I took Lydia to our room, closed the door, turned on the TV and made "damn sure" we stayed there.

Every time.

I remembered how, once the physical fighting stopped, he'd hide her glasses and teeth. He was constantly afraid of her leaving him. She would stay in bed all day the next day. Often with her head under the pillow. Toothless and blind.

I forgot this little tidbit about their fights until this summer, when one stretch of road, or tree, or overlook, or something, brought it all back in technicolor. The furniture. The smells. Bowman Biscuit (later, Keebler) was a short walk from home. Every afternoon my ramshackle, blue collar neighborhood was filled with the luscious scent of baking bread and cookies. But I digress…     

I remembered her screams. The sounds of breaking glass, chairs falling, Mom being shoved against the wall, or thrown to the floor. The light and shadow filling our darkened bedroom from the old black and white TV. Lydia on the bunk below me, silent. Me in the bunk above, feeling my insides turn a little sick.  

These are the sorts of memories that come back to me when I’m left inside my own head.