It has been a hard winter, not so much due to snow and cold as to this depression. My mother passed away a year ago March 10th,
2012 and still I am bogged down with this sadness.

Spring is close now, so close I can smell its promise and just as it renews life in our gardens it seems to be lifting my spirits as
well.

My friend, Cheryl has started her ghost hunting again. You can see her exciting ghost hunts at www.ceesghosthunting.blogspot.com. She has been instrumental in keeping me alive this winter. Friends have the power to do that - keep you going when all you want to do is stop feeling pain.

I am looking forward to getting into my garden! I’m trying not to do too much because spring can surprise you with a quick moving storm. I know from experience that a surprise storm can ruin your garden hopes. About four years ago an ice storm came through at the end of March and killed my Japanese Lilly bulbs. That was a beautiful flower and each year it came up it bore an addition to the original flower. I was so excited to see how many blooms would appear that year, but I was caught off-guard and uncovered.

This time of the year, I do some cleanup of leaves, and limbs but not too much. I call it piddling around the garden. I like to pull some of the leaves away to see if the Tulips are starting to come up, but then I cover them back so the weather won’t get them.

It’s just great to be outside in the sunlight and warm air, but it won’t be long, not now.

Here’s to spring, warmth, sunshine and flowers.

Why pretend to be something or someone that you are not? Children pretend all the time. It is a form of play, an expression of their
imagination. They have learned pieces of stories, let’s say after watching a movie little Johnnie pretends to be a pirate, or Zorro, or even a zombie. We think little to nothing of this child play, at times we encourage the expansion of such pretend play as a way to assist in our child’s growth. Pretending to be Zorro is a way for little Johnnie to learn about himself. During that session of play he experiences the thrill of being brave, imagining himself as he fights against injustice and evil and more importantly; visualizing himself as the hero.

What about adult play? Recently I made a trip to the Renaissance Fair in Kansas City, where I encountered a number of adults dressed as various characters from the past and it made me wonder about their performances and why they wanted to give
up their weekends to be what they were not. I couldn’t help but also think about those dressing up to reenact the civil war, old west town shoot-outs require cowboys and sheriffs.  Surely, these pretenders are not seeking a development of their imaginations? Are they unhappy with being who they are and seek to become someone else? Are they crazy? I mean, really, are they? Not only do they dress the part, but they focus on details of the character they portray.  

At the Renaissance Fair the actors were careful to use the language of the period, and many managed a good accent to match; they go to a lot of trouble to perfect their pretend image. It matters to them and it matters to me. I enjoyed walking into history. The lay-out of the fair ran through a forest, and structures were built to create an effect of what it must have been like to live during that time period. Using my imagination I was able to really enjoy stepping into that time frame.

I don’t think it’s crazy to pretend, to expand our imaginations, and thus expand our appreciation of a particular time period.

I mentioned the loss of my mother in the blog entry, The Gravel Road of Grieving, and now I have a puzzle that is disturbing to me. Perhaps you can help me find an answer. This morning as I woke I had a strong image, something I’ve never seen before and yet so powerful that it lingered with me all day until I finally sat down at the computer and tried to recreate the image.

It’s close to what I saw, enough so that we can discuss it. I can’t figure out what it means, if it means anything at all.  

Part of my grieving process has been delayed to a nagging doubt that I did not act properly after my mother’s death. Everyone reacts differently to a traumatic occurrence, but my reaction is one that brings me great shame and guilt. 

I was sitting by her side, watching her when I realized that she was no longer breathing. I stared at her beautiful face for a long time
before I announced to others in the room that she was gone, and then I calmly rose, went to the window and opened it, breathed deeply and went home.  

I didn’t realize that I was in shock, denial, refusing to recognize the truth of the matter. I’ve heard of denial, but I honestly didn’t
believe that the mind was that powerful; strong enough to wipe away reality.  It was several months later when the truth started filtering into my mind and the sobbing, crying and total desperation of truth came through. My precious, wonderful mother was gone but what was worse was the knowledge that I did not react properly. I didn’t say a prayer. I didn’t insure that she made her way to heaven. She was so confused and lost in life suffering from Alzheimer’s, and I wasn’t sure that she found her way. I had horrible thoughts that she was wandering the halls of that hospice house looking for me. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t stop crying and I didn’t feel good about myself at all.

I toyed with the idea of finding a psychic who could tell me for sure that she found her way home. I tried to convince myself that anyone as faithful and religious as she would have had a personal escort, surely God sent her an angel to guide her way. But, then I’d remember how confused she was finding her way from the bedroom to her chair in the living room.

In between sobs, cursing myself for being such a derelict daughter, and praying that God would find her and take her on—if she was indeed lost and wandering the halls, I had this dream. This is all I remember of it. As I woke I saw a spiral of circles all in pink, and in the center of the circle was a glittering sparkle, like what is given off children’s sparklers on the 4^th of July.

What does it mean? 

Plenty of people might say, it means nothing, you were simply waking up and light was filtering through sleepy eyes. Ghost Hunters
might say, it was your mother’s spirit reaching out with a message that she went into the spiral circle of light. Dream analysts might say, it’s your subconscious mind’s way of describing the stress you are under.

I have prayed strongly for a confirmation thats she's okay, at the same time rebuffing myself for not having faith that she was indeed
taken care of; was this the sign that I prayed to find?

I’m writing a book about my mother and the aftermath of losing such an important part of me, with a strong emphasis on what to do when you lose a loved one; especially a parent suffering from confusion.  (Remember to say your prayers before walking out of that room.)  That led to my wondering about the new generations of children who will face the alarming rise in Alzheimer’s. When their parents start passing away will they know how to pray?

We (society as a whole) have taken God out of every step of our lives that we can possible enforce. I grew up saying the Lord’s Prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance in school—that is no longer allowed.  I grew up a very altruistic person with little focus on possessions (we were very poor, and we didn’t have the pressure of owning a particular pair of shoes, or a necessary outfit in order to feel positive about ourselves).  I never stood in the middle of a mall crying because I couldn’t have something I thought I needed.

I grew up with strong values of home, family and the importance of God, yet at the crucial moment I flaked out—so what is this
generation of children going to do?  Without that foundation of beliefs how will they manage? 

Then I thought about the pending end of the world scenario relating to our destruction due to the collapse of morals in our society. We
are an evil society and must be cleansed as in the time of Noah and the flood, when mankind was wiped off the face of the earth for a new beginning. That brought me back to the circles in my head. I seem to be going in circles. Maybe that’s all the dream meant; circles upon circles in a never-ending spiral of pink. And why pink?  The dream book says to dream in color means total happiness, but I’m not happy at all, so does it mean that Mom is happy? She’s okay, she’s made her way home and the pink represents her happiness now.

I won’t know the answer to any of these questions until I cross over myself, and I don’t expect you to have the answer. I just wondered what you thought. 

The heat has been so bad lately I feel I’m trapped in the air conditioning. Finally, we had a little rain and a cold front come through
dropping the temperature to only 98, making the mornings bearable. That’s when I grabbed my camera and took a drive.

I was visiting a friend’s office one day last month when I saw one of their co-workers art project; a collection of staples formed into a crude dog shape. It was enough to spur my interest in finding other art oddities.  

And I found some good ones: trees with delicate carvings, this one sits in front of a lawyer’s office.

At the entrance to a cemetery

In my town someone came up with a great idea to the abandoned houses problem. We have a lot of houses that are out-of-state owned. They are usually purchased as rentals and used until they become unlivable. Until the city can make contact with those out-of-state owners and secure rights to tear them down they board up the doors and windows to keep out those who would use it for criminal activities. Instead of using plywood, they turn unsightly abandoned houses into works of art.

Whenever that heat drops get out of the house! You might surprise yourself at what you find in your own backyard field trip. 

My husband took the rest of the July 4^th week off for vacation. We decided to go to the zoo to see the much advertised Penguin
exhibit. I was so disappointed. It was 91 degrees at 10 in the morning, but the Penguin exhibit would be cold, right? It wasn’t. Penguins live on snow and ice, right? Not necessarily.  Admittedly I was expecting something a lot different than what I found.

The exhibit was a small glass window peering into a black box of rock, a small pool of water against the glass to see them swim, and five bored Penguins who appeared to be as confused as I was. I felt so sorry for them. Children were gathered around the window watching, waiting, hoping to see something they have never seen before, but the Penguins did not get the memo saying entertain above all costs.  They looked scared. The hesitation to jump into the water was evident in their approach and retreat from the edge of the rocks. They could see those faces peering at them and they just weren’t sure it was safe. Finally one brave soul ventured out far enough that he either took the plunge or slipped in, but there he was swimming around to the children’s ahs. Then it was over. The magic was complete and the crowd moved on. 

My husband complained about the cost of admission just to watch a swim routine, so we decided to give a once around the park walk. I became more and more depressed with each animal exhibit.

They looked miserable lying in their spaces. The attempt to create a natural environment is a nice thought but is it enough?  They
still looked like convicted prisoners to me. Eagles sitting on perches instead of flying to the top of trees and soaring across vast open fields in search of their prey.  A beautifully manned lion lay alone in a corner instead of stalking in high grass on an African plane.

I guess I’m confused as to why we still have zoos? It’s not like we can’t look them up on the internet and watch video’s in their real natural habitats or tune into National Geographic or Animal Planet to watch. The world is too open and available to necessitate the need for a zoo.  What benefit is there to capturing animals and condemning them to a life of confinement?  We can’t touch them; we rarely catch them doing anything other than sleeping or walking to a new spot to sleep.

I think it’s time for zoos to go the route of the drive-in theater and the scarecrow. We could use the money for research in protecting and helping the endangered species of the world.  

I am a hard-headed person. I know that because my parents told me so. My husband tends to agree with them; probably a couple of my old teachers are nodding their heads with agreement. I think my children would say I was stubborn. So what’s the difference between stubborn and hard-headed?

Stubborn is a person who knows their fight is impossible, yet they refuse to give up. They refuse to acknowledge defeat of any kind. I’m not sure how this guy would measure up—stubborn that he refuses to admit he needs brakes or hard-headed that gravity will pull objects down a hill.  

Hard-headed is a person who runs full blast into a brick wall to see if it’s brick. They will stick a slice of pizza fresh from the oven, even after someone sitting next to them says, “careful, it’s hot”, into their mouths burning their tongues. 

Both my parents are gone now, but their legacy of helpful teachings lingers. I still hear their voices in my head warning me that I am
being hard-headed.  Most recently it happened when I was gardening. I do my work early in the morning before that horrible heat sets in. Lately, the horrible heat is setting in earlier than I’m getting out there to work. I should have waited for the heat wave to pass, but oh no, I went out anyway and did my hour of gardening.

In that short period of time I managed to make myself very sick. Too much heat can really take a toll on the human body and cooling
yourself down is something else to be careful about. You don’t take a glass dish out of an oven and set it in the refrigerator without expecting an explosion.  The worst thing I could do would be to try to cool down too fast.  I sat down with a cool washrag and wiped down my arms and the back of my neck.

Be careful out there in this terrible heat wave, even with early morning hours comes complex heat issues. And Have a HAPPY 4^th! HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA!

And THANK YOU to all the service men and women, Thank You for your service.

Two of my girlfriends decided it was time to get me out of the house. If it were the eighties they would have taken me to Bingo, but being that one of my friends is a professional ghost hunter they decided to take me on an investigation. 

We went to one of the remaining buildings on the old State Hospital grounds. My friend, Cheryl, the ghost hunter is from out of town so we didn’t have the contacts for permission to go inside. Instead we walked around the outside and took photos of the windows. That was fine with me. It was a lovely afternoon, the weather was perfect and there were plenty of birds in the trees just singing up a storm. I dutifully walked, pointed my camera at the windows and took photos; secretly hoping that no one would peer out from inside. I’m not sure how I feel about ghosts.

I believe there are such things as ghosts, because I believe that we are spirits when we pass over, but I have trouble believing that they just hang around waiting for someone to come visit and take their pictures.  I like watching them on TV and gape open-mouthed when the investigators capture recordings or video of their actions. 

Here are some of my photos.  

Do you see anything in the windows?  Perhaps, it is the breaking of sunlight by tree branches creating shadows.  Perhaps, it is a lost soul peering out for the camera.

Everyone who looks at the photos see something different. Some see the face of an old man peering out from the left side and some say it is just shadow play from the trees. It sure is interesting that shadow play could form into the appearance of an old man's face.

Whatever you believe is okay with me, I had fun being out of the house with my girlfriends. Next ghost hunt we are going to a Ghost Night at the famous Ward Meade Planatation in Topeka, Kansas. I am excited about that one because before the ghost hunt they serve wine; that should help us see the spirits!

Be careful out there in whatever you are doing! 

Ah, exercise, don’t you just love it; fresh air, the countryside, being with your loved ones and burning calories—just like it looks on the commercials. At least that’s what I thought.  My husband wanted to go bike riding and purchased us matching bikes, his with a bunch of gears, of course mine had no gears just push your pedal backwards to brake. That’s the way it was when I was a little girl; of course, that gave me confidence that this was a good idea.

All the odds were against me. I just wasn’t paying attention to the signs. I was wrapped up in the excitement of the commercials where the couple goes bike riding with their picnic basket, wine, a leisurely lunch, and then friends join them on the trip; it all looks so wonderful. I also want to state that I was influenced by the old adage, “It’s just like riding a bike.”  That means you never forget how to ride a bike, right?

It’s not true! They lie! They find actors who can actually ride a bike, probably use stunt people who don’t mind falling off of buildings, and they tricked me into believing I could do it.

It was a beautiful day; the temperature in the seventies, the sun shinning, and the sky was blue with big white puffy clouds, perfect day. I was nervous, but excited and we were just going to ride around the neighborhood to get used to the bikes. No sense packing a basket for a short run around the block-- that would come later. So off we go. I started off a little shaky, but quickly gained confidence in the wheels gliding along the pavement.  I remember this, push your feet down, the wheel goes around, no problems. The air felt good hitting my face. I could remember days as a child spent riding and how much fun it was, but that was over fifty years ago. (It hurts to say anything was fifty years ago).  Then came the hill.

My husband swears it was a slight incline, but let me assure you, it was a hill with an enormous slope downwards with a curve at the bottom and lots of parked cars. As soon as I topped the hill I was picking up speed.  That’s when confusion swept across me.

I pushed slowly back on the brakes to slow down a little and suddenly I thought, ‘not too hard or you’ll fly over the handle-bars’.

I could hear my husband yelling behind me, but I couldn’t distinguish what he was saying because I was fighting the growing panic that I was going too fast. The gentle breeze rippling through my hair and stirring childhood memories was quickly becoming a torrent of wind in the face stealing my breath. As I pushed back on the brakes the bike wobbled, naturally I thought I must be pushing too hard, better to go slow at it. The bottom was looming large and the curve looked sharp. I tried to turn the bike but pushing back on the brake, the wobbling wheel, the curve, I wasn’t sure what to do.

I thought I’d fly over the handle bars, or crash into the pavement, what should I do? That’s when the brilliant idea flooded my mind. I’ve seen kids get off their bikes. They just step off, the bike falls into the grass and they run up the steps to their house. I’ve seen that done a million times in movies, on commercials, even in real life. I thought I could do it too. That way I wouldn’t fly over the handle bars. I couldn’t do it.

My feet got tangled up, (old legs) the bike was going too fast, and that parked car was jumping right into my space—blam! I stepped off the bike at the same time I hit the parked SUV.  I fell over the handle bars with my face smashing into the bumper of the parked car, my feet were kind of on the pavement and they drug against the road and my hip hit the curve.

Two people across the street witness this horrific crash and ran from their house to check on me. I was crumpled on the ground with the bike tangled around me, my legs still wrapped in the metal. I got up. I’m still alive. I’m okay, I’m okay. No, I’m not okay. The pain reached my brain. My cheek was the part of my face that smashed into the bumper and now it was throbbing and stinging at the same time. My knee and hip hit the curve about the same time and now were screaming with pain, at the same time. My elbow was bleeding, the palms of my hands were burning from the pressure of holding onto those handle bars and my feet were feeling very odd after dragging along the pavement.

There I was, a crumpled, bleeding mass of an old woman sitting on the curve, crying my eyes out, when my husband pulled up on his bike laughing. What’s wrong with men?

“Man, I wish I’d had a camera. That was a $100,000 video if ever there was one!”

The unknown couple who came to my rescue was far more sympathetic to my plight then he was. It must have been terrible for them, sitting in their living room watching TV when they hear some man screaming, “You’re going to hit that car!” They look outside just in time to witness an elderly, fat woman, riding a bike straight into a parked car.

The moral of this story is; don’t believe the commercials! It’s not as much fun as it looks and it’s not just like riding a bike.

I limped home, crying most of the way, pushing that stupid bike and glaring hatefully at my husband. He of course, tried to cover his tracks from the previous enjoyment over my mishap by asking me every four steps if I was okay and telling me he was so sorry that I had wrecked.

I’m back home now, sitting in my favorite chair, watching stupid commercials about exercising, with ice packs on my cheek, heating packs on my hip and band-aids on everything else. The bike is sitting out front with a sign on it—For Sale, Cheap. 

When you are grieving the loss of someone very special to you, it’s beyond hard. I recently lost my mother so I am familiar with the "Steps of Grieving" information bulletin. There are steps-levels-phases, however you want to describe it, there are steps in the grieving process, but the one they don’t tell you about is the Gravel Road of Grieving. I had to discover it on my own. 

You know, you never know what you might find at the end of that gravel road, but it sure is bumpy, and if you are driving a 4-wheeler, it’s a lot of fun. The gravel road I’m referring to is the one that surprises you at every turn.

I’m doing pretty well in my recovery process, but there are times when I have a bad day, where I don’t want to get out of bed. I avoid people on those days, I know I’m not functioning well and could at any time explode into sobs. It’s an embarrassing process to go through in public. Heart wrenching sobs, snot running down your face, and a burning pain in the heart. That’s private stuff that shouldn’t be shared with the average Joe. It really puts them on the spot. They don’t know what to do about it, and I’m in such a state I can’t explain what is happening. 

I walked into a McDonalds one morning for a breakfast sandwich. It was a glorious day, the sun was shinning, the temperature was
perfect, and I felt great. I had an interview for a job the day before and that went really well, I might actually be hired soon. It was just a great day and I was feeling perfectly fine. I was watching this young mother with her two children at a nearby table. She was opening their juices and they were chattering away with excitement at the outing. The little girl had a pink dress on. You don’t see that much these days, usually little girls are wearing jeans or shorts. I thought it was nice.

The customer in front me was still ordering so I looked around the counter area and spied the glass globe of available toys for the
Happy Meal choice. They have such cute things for kids nowadays. The man in front of me finished his order and I stepped forward to face a cute little high-schooler with heavy braces on her teeth. She smiled at me and inquired what she could get for me, that’s when I turned off the paved road of contentment and hit the gravel road of grieving. 

I opened my mouth to order, and instead a loud, crumbly sob spilled out. It sounded like a moose call. It startled the girl, she stepped back, and it embarrassed me but there was no stopping it. Once you hit that gravel road, you can only ride it out. I did the only thing I could do, I ran for a pit stop.

I was throwing water on my face when the young mother I had witnessed taking care of her two children walked in. She didn’t bring the children with her, so she wasn’t there for a potty break, and I couldn’t imagine that she would leave them at the table to come see about me, but she had. She was familiar with the gravel road, and she wanted to help. 

Let me tell you right now, telling someone about your loss really doesn’t help at that particular moment. I know everybody loses someone they love. I know we all have to die. I know all of that, telling me about your losses does not help me off the gravel road.

“It happens to me at the worst times too,” she started softly. 

Oh God, please spare me this conversation. 

“Don’t let it bother you, just clean your face, and march right back out there and order your breakfast like nothing happened. They don’t know, they don’t need to know, as far as they are concerned, you swallowed a bug.”

Now that struck me as funny, and I started laughing—hysterically. Oh my God, I’m losing my mind. 

She smiled at me, it was a silly crooked smile and I could image her doing it for her children after making a joke to them. She patted my shoulder and left the room. 

There’s a lot to be said about strangers with that kind of strength. I admire their ability to walk up and offer a hand, what beautiful
hearts they must process. I did as she said, cleaned my face, put my head up and walked right back to that counter to order my breakfast.  Unfortunately, the line was longer and I didn’t trust my ability to be as strong as she, so I made a quick u-turn toward the door and left. 

I decided to take a drive, and that’s when I found this photo opportunity. Two trees growing through silos, it’s kind of inspiring, don’t you think?  I’m not sure if I want to be the trees, protected all the way around by concrete blocks—no squirrels on my
limbs—or, if I feel sorry that the trees can’t be free to stretch out. 

I’ll probably be on this gravel road for awhile, but I carry my camera so I can capture the inspiring bumps along the way.

I mentioned before that I am semi-retired; basically that means I’m old and unemployed. Instead of fighting for a full-time employment with a company against the high school and college graduates, I decided to take a job with a temp agency, that
way I could have more time to devote to my writing, gardening and field trips, you know, something extra to back up the social security checks and get me out of the house once in awhile. 

The last time I worked with a temp agency was in 1987 when I first moved to the midwest. At that time, I thought it was a good way to find out what company I wanted to seek full-time employment with before committing to a placement. I remember it
well. I walked in, smiled, filled out an application, took a typing test and was assigned a placement. 

This time was more involved. First I had to fill out the application online, then I went to the agency, filled out the application again in person, smiled, took a test on keyboarding skills, an aptitude test regarding how I would respond in certain situations with co-workers, watched a video on harassments of various kinds, a video on safety in the work place, interviewed, provided my social security card, driver’s license and a birth certificate (to prove I am who I say I am), submitted to a drug test, and hopefully after the credit and background checks come in I’ll be assigned a job next week—stay by the phone.

I celebrated this Memorial Day with the usual parades, visiting the cemetery, flying the flag at my home, and shaking soldier’s hands with a grateful ‘thank you for all you do’.  I believe in America, I believe in personal freedoms, and I am humbled by those who give so much to keep it that way, but at times it does seem like we are giving some of our freedoms away. Just to have a part-time, temporary position I had to prove my ability to do the job, my understanding of the job, my dedication to living clean; my right to work. 

To the young workers who are not familiar with the hand-shake approach, and your word is your bond, these procedures must seem perfectly normal. I wonder what normal will be ten years from now. 

As a young student, I lived in Virginia and field trips at that time meant a day in Washington D.C. visiting the museums. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun. Anytime you get out of class to spend the day somewhere else, it’s fun, and we saw a lot of interesting things in those museums. I liked the Natural History the best, because of the dinosaurs (yes, even back in the old days before dinosaurs became cool, I liked them).

Now that I live in the Midwest and I am semi-retired, my field trips can involve various excursions in the country.

I love spending the day driving around the countryside investigating what is happening in my own backyard. I keep searching for scarecrows, but the fields these days don’t display the stick figures that once graced a corn field with pride. I’ve also noticed that there are not as many weather vanes to crown old red barns as there used to be.  Change, everything has to change, and when some of the old favorites disappear, new ones pop up.  I am referring to the art of mailboxes.

Throughout my search for the scarecrow, I noticed that some folks get real creative with their mailboxes. If you have something old lying around, don’t throw it away, use it to hold up your mailbox. I have seen the graceful art of mailbox designs as a challenge to find the most inventive creations. I carry my camera everywhere I go, just in case I see a winner.

Some mailboxes are covered with designs and surrounded by flowers.

Mailbox decorated with flowers. 

Others are encased in stone to protect their valuables from vandals.

Mailbox encased in brickwork. 

I appreciate the effort homeowners put into their mailboxes creating a statement of pride for the neighborhood to enjoy. 

Mailbox with water-pump stand. 

Mailbox using disks stand. 

Check out your neighborhood for outstanding mailboxes and leave me a comment about what you find. I know I’m going to keep searching for the ultimate in mailbox expression. Next Field Trip: Random Acts of Patriotism.