There simply are not enough hours in the day...or the night, for that matter. So much to do, to experience, to enjoy and accomplish...and the approach of Autumn fills my senses with startling fresh air and beauty. Sometimes, I think I am about to enter a state of sensory overload, and then, I just try to ride with it.

Once upon a time, when my mother spoke in structured sentences, she told me that as I grew older that I would require less sleep. That remains to be seen, but I really do not feel especially rough this morning, considering gnawing muscle cramps in my legs prevented me from easy slumber, and at the most, I only got 4 hours of sleep last night.

Yesterday, with great effort and moderately severe stabbing pains in the aforementioned legs, I successfully completed my goal of 5 miles of treadheading. Yestermorning was filled with excitement & pleasure, much as this morning is, as I started the day downloading the gift of music from my on line Blogstream bud, Petey. Ever since I visited "Petey's Music Place," on the Stream, well over a year ago, out of the kindness of his heart, Petey has been sending me wonderful music through cyberspace. I have no clue as to what I have done to deserve such heart lifting gestures, but I must have done something well. "I Put A Spell On You" starts my day with Joe Cocker. Can it get any better than this? Sensory overload, indeed, here I come, complete with shit eating grin of delightful anticipation on my face. Three Dog Night, "Never Been to Spain" and The Beatles, "Rocky Racoon." Thursday was an array of Hank William's Sr. classics...roots, that grew to rock n' roll's fruition. So many days start out on so many glorious notes, random acts of kindness from a sweet young man who belongs on your favorite radio station, spinning platters that you never knew that you loved until you heard them in the here and now. His youthful, yet deeply insightful perceptions start my days magnificently, and I am inadequate to reciprocate due to sadly limited knowledge of this wonder, the computer age. Perhaps, one day, I will learn how to do something to repay his kindnesses over almost the past two years...rarely a word or a phrase from Petey, the Giftster, just soulful, tender, beautiful, soaring music every day or so in my mailbox. I try to write to him to thank him, but I feel sorely lacking, in comparison to the unspoken wisdom of his musical selections that he send my way. "Mad World" now...Petey lists the artist as "Unknown", but I will find the song via google or something akin to it, later today...I vividly recall hearing it on the radio, awestruck, related, heartfelt...and, perhaps if I can tell Petety who recorded this sad and real tune for us to, for a change, to do something nice to him. Thank you, my as yet unmet friend, thank you for making so many of my days so much more profound and magical.

I try to re-gift Petey's music...send it to friends and family, but no one other than myself will ever know the full signifigence of these almost daily insights of the selector, Petey. I know he is in pain, and yet borne of his pain are these presents of his heart to a strange lady he met on line who babbles incessantly about her little life and knows next to nothing about his life...other than his generosity, and the intenseness of his experiences described only in the music that he sends to me. Yes...it is a "Mad World," Petey-Friend, but you make mine, so very much better. You ease my pain, and I thank you with all of my heart. I know that there is hope for this "Mad World," when there are people as giving, thoughtful and kind as you are..you lift me up, and you give me hope, and again, and again, I have only praise and thanks for your efforts...heartfelt praise and thanks.

I have a lot that I want to blog about-my little life has been so full of late.

It was not possible for me to blog on 9/11, nor to browse the Stream for painful insight from others. I know no one who died on that infamous day, but I was watching "Good Morning America" when things began to happen. A puzzled, unsure Dianne Sawyer interrupted what ditties had been planned to report that a plane had been reported crashing into one on the Twin Towers and that they were going to cut away to a live shot of the incident. How could anyone have yet realized the full implications resulting from the first crash, let alone expect the fallout of the second? I like to believe that the television show was in shock and denial after the first plane or the would not have cut away to show it to us, thereby catching the second impact with the resulting dark figures of human beings leaping from the Towers to escape the blasts. I have difficulty thinking that they knew what they were showing before they acted on a journalist's impulse. Even to see it on the tube, in Nowhere, Indiana, live from New York City...Dianne and I screamed in unison. Shock and awe-we were being attacked and droves were downward airborne people left no room for denial. If I had not seen it, perhaps, for a few hours, I could have denied it, but I did, and it was so very horrible.

I remember forcing myself to leave the house and start the drive to work. I was already late when I saw it happen, and so much the later getting out of the door, longing for the ability to deny. I drove to home of my co-worker, the young and beautiful Myra, to find her still asleep. lightly hung over from a 21-year old's night before the morning after. She could not grasp the signifigance of what I was trying to tell her had happened and she was annoyed at my rude awakening. We had jobs feeding, watering and perfecting interior landscapings in our town's motels, hotels and well-moneyed business offices. We didn't have to punch a time clock...just complete our jobs and make everything pretty and shiny.It was a great job, and as I was still in shock started the day at the Holiday Inn where I could do busy work and talk about what I had seen and try to come to terms with it. I was barely hanging in, robotically visiting one peaceful mini-jungle to the next, when someone told us that a third plane had crashed in a field, and yet another, into the Pentagon.

"The Pentagon?" I repeated, "The Pentagon?" I sat down hard in the midst of the interior tiny golf course where we were working.

"Oh no, Myra... I can't work today...they can fire me. I can't work. This is too much." It was a sensory overload of a different color, a sudden impact to my soul.

I was still drinking then,just starting to wind down the ugly habit, I guess, as I voiced my desire to go have a drink at my favorite bar where we could watch the television.Thankfully Myra, the young, the innocent and the beautiful and the already slightly hung over Myra, was to smart to allow me to indulge in my shattered state.

"You don't need a bar, you need your friends. We're going to Debbie's"

Deb is still one of my best friends, and her sage counsel, I agreed, is exactly what was needed. I was trying to quit drinking then, and Myra knew that, so she kindly spared me the temptation of the hour.

We went to Debbie's house, and due to her love of work, found her busy in her home office unaware of the proceedings.

"We have to go in the house to watch your television," I rudely insisted when she indicated that she was too busy to stop her business. This was not the norm for me to contradict Deb, and she told me to wait until it was time for the noon news, and then, we would go from her office to her house.

"We have to go watch it now, Deb. We've been attacked. This is big time. It will be on the air now, there won't be any scheduled programming. I have to go see it, now"

In her little world, she was still allowed denial, "For this?" she challenged me, incredulous that a plane crash would interrupt "The View".

"For this. Now. Please. Or I have to go to a bar," I re-insisted. Deb knew I was trying not to drink in order to be a better me. In my own way, I was threating her, as she was intent on assisting me on my quest to improve. I forced her hand, and she set aside her business day.

The rest of the day was an unreal blur. Even now, years later, the rushes of emotion are just too intense. It is why I could not blog in remembrance on 9/11/07. Still, a sensory overload, and even now, I have to take a break from writing. It is still too intense, and too real.

There is so much more I wanted to post today. Good and bad things over my last week. But 9/11...it still takes precedence. I only watched "GMA" and "Oprah" last Tuesday, and when Bubba came home from work & flipped on "World News Tonight," my head was hit with a double intangible ice picks...Wham! Wham! Sudden onset migraine...and I had to go to our darkened bedroom to encase my head with multiple packs of ice. I still cannot entirely contain my emotions, even with the passing of time, and the fact that I only watched a part of it from afar. I did not mean to write so long on such sadness & madness...it just kind of came forth...I have to take a break and rearrange my head space, as it is not healthy to continue, even at this late date. It is still, too profoundly disturbing, and I must strive to keep things in proper prospective. If there can ever be such a thing about that horrible day...I have to try to handle the event from a place somehow, more removed.

I hope to post another entry soon. I am woefully inadequate to even touch on the pain from that day...and I did try to avoid it, but, still, it would not be controlled.

"Mad World," Artist...unknown...

This Friday, some of my family plan to embark upon a trip back to our native Illinois to visit cousins, aunts, and uncles. Cousins that we barely know, and now, hope to know better. And to spend time with our favorites, Aunt Gretta and Uncle Merle. I am really looking forward to seeing all of our relatives, but especially this aunt and uncle. Since childhood they have stood the tests of time and change, retaining the ability to spark love and warm the hearts of all of Larry and Doris' children with, but a word. From as far back as I can remember they have been the favorites of all of my siblings and myself, and I get teary eyed, with a happy lump in my throat just to think of seeing them again.

Uncle Merle is my mother's brother, and his wife, Aunt Gretta has always held the key to all our hearts and souls, seemingly without trying, just by being the wonderful person that she just is. She has always been a joy to be around, and we cannot wait to see her once again. A tall, blond Scandanaivian beauty, she is and always has been humble, caring and kind...always going the extra mile to treat the five of us with TLC. She is only 15 years my senior, but each time I have seen her of late, I always felt myself the worse for wear, time and tribulation do nothing to detract from her beauty inside or out.

Uncle Merle is a few years my mother's junior, with an acerbic wit, a highway engineer of near genius proportion and an uncanny ability to talk like Donald Duck. As I age, more long term memories flood my brain...I can remember him home on leave, visiting us when I was, but a child, Merle in his sailor's Dress Blues...bell bottoms and a white sailor's hat, quacking his way into our hearts...my memories are made of this, and so much more...

And then, time marches on.

Much as my mother suffers today from Alzheimer's, sweet Uncle Merle suffers from Post-Polio Syndrome, an affliction of his youth that once he fought and won, that has now come back to prematurely haunt him in his "Golden Years". When Aunt Gretta brought this brother and sister together a few years ago for my step-dad, Daddy Don's funeral, Merle and Doris met with we 3 girls and Aunt Gretta in attendance in Mom's nursing home's Day Room. As they faced each other, speechless in their individual afflictions, we had all hoped for so much more. Hearts were breaking all around me as an overload of sensory input confounded their abilities to communicate. Each knew that we all wanted more from them, but so many thoughts, emotions, and so much confusion crowded their brains, that the best that they could come up, with when prompted, was Merle saying a faint, "Hello" and Mom saying "You're too skinny!" As I recall, it was the total sum of their conversation, and as frustrating to them, as it was to all of us who love them, gathered around, hoping in vain for more.

Merle took a tumble last month and some of his abilities were improved and sharpened as a consequence. I have worked in nursing homes, and seen similar good results follow bad falls. The theory I was told was that the brain excreted a rush of chemicals to defend the patient following those falls. In the nursing homes, the improvements were fleeting, transient and as the body returned to normal, so did the diseases return, same as it ever was. I hope Merle's improvements are still in full gear when we arrive for our visit, but I am prepared to see him as he was, speechless at the reunion with his sister, each gazing into space during a time of grief. You'd think medicine would have been able to seize upon this course of events and re-establish that rush of chemicals at will. I have seen a similar miracle, more than 20 years ago with a patient named Lula Belle, who all of a sudden after breaking her hip, could hold conversations and answer questions and express her love to her devoted sons and husband. It lasted slightly less than 2 months. Perhaps Merle's will last longer. These are reasons for hope and prayers, tempered with the harsh reality that what will be will be, and we must take each day as it is, and live it fully, to the best of our abilities and enjoy what we've got for as long as it lasts.

My sister Kathy will drive us, with Angel sister Jan riding shot gun, and Kind Kathy tells me that she has installed a DVD player for me riding in the back. She has given me strict instructions that I am to relax and enjoy myself, and I plan to do my best to comply. Kathy & Jan are smokers, but with adequate ventilation, I forsee no problems for the ride. I've ridden with the both of them many times, and they take special care to ensure that their habits do not rain on my ride, as I take special care not to be overly sensitive. I gave a ride to a friend recently who reeked of smoke, and in all likelihood poor hygiene in my junkyard errand car and was retching from the smells and the poor ventilation. I believe it to be just one bad instance, that will not repeat itself on our sister-bonding family adventure. We plan to swing by the home of our brother Mark, his wife Kim and sweet son, Ken enroute to Illinois & hope that they are packed and ready to hit the road right behind us without delay. 2 smokers there, as well, with a wise no-smoking Ken either helping to drive or kicking back in the back, as I will be. This should be quite the adventure, and I am really looking forward to it. Kind and thoughtful Kathy has reserved a motel room w/an indoor pool, and we hope to squeeze in a few hours to visit our childhood home town, Galesburg, about an hour away from where we will be staying. It's a pretty packed agenda for 4 days and 3 nights, but with Kathy planning the routes and events, I have no doubt, all will go smoothly. She has an born power to lead, coordinate and organize. Just as I have an inborn power to kick back & enjoy the ride,and go with the flow as directed. This will be so cool.

And the biggest attraction of all will be coming home to Bubba and my K-9 kids on Monday evening. He plans to drop me off at Kathy's Friday A.M. & pick me up in the evening, Monday P.M. We plan to miss each other a great deal, but will not whine to any one about it. He is so good to me, so very good for me, indeed, I am blessed.

I fear that with my aging brain chemistry certain unpleasant chemicals are being excreted with more abundance than in my youth, and am finding this a bit difficult to deal with. I read Mark's Blog yesterday, about his hopes
that Bush will be impeached and his fears for his son who plans to volunteer for the military to fight for his country, and the steps Ken has already started taking towards that end. That end. He is only 16, but he is determined to do what he sees as his duty after his 18th birthday. Whoa! There goes that going with the flow thing-right out the window! I spent over 2 hours in a frenzy, dashing off what I felt to be political realities and my fear for young Ken's life. I barely slept last night fearing for my beloved nephew's future, and when I did sleep, there were nightmares of this gentle soul being caught in dire straits. My politics, like my religion are my own, and I choose for them not to be shared or debated in this, my memoirs on line. Everybody has a good argument about whatever, but I can get so involved, too involved...I spent all this day trying to lighten up, and beat this headache borne of sleep deprivation, and fear for yet another loved one. Ken's choices are his own. I can do nothing, but hope and pray for his welfare. And that is what I do, and yet today, I bordered for hours in my own private hysteria...Once again, I need to get a grip, and all too slowly, I am relaxing and letting things be what they may. All I can do is get a migraine over falling prey to my emotions. If Ken wants to talk this coming weekend, I will keep my cool, and softly say what I feel and think, and if he does not want to talk, I will let it be.

I have failed to mention some marked improvement in my own Mother's behavior, of late. When Daddy was dying, of course, all attention and time was spent with him. Now that he has passed, and some healing has haltingly begun, my sisters and I are spending more time and attention with our Mother. The other day, she shouted "It's Cher!" down the hall to me as Jan was pushing her wheelchair towards me. My heart fluttered like a bird with unexpected joy. It has been well over a year since she has said my name, and I thank the Lord for that one glorious instant. We have made remarkable progress by taking her to private room, closing the door, playing a little music, speaking softly, letting her attention wander at will, with only gentle reminders when her behavior flirts with being less than appropriate. Talking without necessitating her to make any decisions, as the simplest of answers tend to escape her bewildered mind. But yet, she retains her sense of humor. And when we remind her of past events, she claims more often than not, to remember, and at this time, we usually can tell if she is shining us on, as she has tried and failed to do so often in the past. The key is the controlled environment, as devoid of distractions as possible, with soft voices, lots of smiles and lots of love. And music. We had almost forgotten her love for music-a passion she once shared with my father in their earlier years before things began to crumble. We sing a little Patsy Cline, "Walking After Midnight, and remain silent during piano compositions that do not require lyrics from memory. Jan is working with her mother-in-law to make a CD of Mom's favorite tunes that she used to sing around the house, or request that we girls sing, while we did dishes after the evening meal. It is a very tender journey and we have been blessed with 5 good visits in a row, working it out this way. We know that this minor success is for a limited time only, but then again, what isn't?

My life is full of promise, many colors, many flavors, many memories and each day is a new adventure should I choose to view it as such. When I can remember to look at it thus, the adventure continues.

Dog days of summer...so hot, humid, unforgiving, unrelenting.
Dental Insurance that dosen't help pay for crowns...crowns that last 5-7 yrs., if you are lucky for a Bill Large, and I'm going to lose them all eventually, so what is all this for?

Why do I bother...with anything?

Why am I so mad at everything?

Why do I hate alcohol & all that it stands for & all that is destroys, but still want to escape this angry summer with a sip of forgetfulness? I will not bend...I will not allow myself to break...but, I only want to feel better than I do.

Paying my dues to sing the blues, knowing it don't come easy, knowing it won't get prettier with time...nothing does.

I treadheaded another 4 miles today with some temporary relief, but it has dissapated with the day.

Petey started my day, nearly saved it, sending me a Yes! tune that gave me thrills and chills and jubilation, but it faded as the outside temperatures of reality rose to unbearable.

Is this heat, this day after day of hiding in the A/C my problem? Is this why I whine like a spoiled child when I have all that I need in my grasp?

I have a long weekend planned with my sisters the wkend of 9/7. I am looking forward to it, but time drags towards it at an unbearably slow pace...Wait a minute...wait

I just went to sit on the back porch and breathe deeply, when it came to me. All these funerals, sick friends, drunken loved ones, friends who used to seem OK, but are actually truly suffering from mental disorders, divorces, fights...what I am feeling is the ANGER stage of grieving...Awwww geezz-no wonder I couldn't recognize it for what it was. All of my life, all of my anger has always felt best when I suppressed it, kept it inside, ignored it, felt guilty about. The way so many people need anger management counseling for obvious irrational outburst are the same reasons, I need to understand my need to express my anger because it is perfectly normal for me to feel it, although for me, it is perfectly normal to bottle it up. This is potentially, no healthier than those who periodically explode with rage...just a different flavor of anger...my own personal flavor, and one that I have almost always kept hidden within. The few times that it has simmered to a boil and overflowed, the guilt and the pain I felt and feared I had caused by expressing my anger never felt worth the release...I can see it more clearly now. I am angry. Not at any one thing, any one person, any many reasons...I am just going through a perfectly natural phase that eventually will pass. Awww geeez, the relief! In just knowing, in just realizing, in just admitting the obvious to myself.

No matter how often I am told that it is OK for me to feel angry, I never really believe it to be so. I don't know why, but it truly is a part of who I am. Definitely not my best part, but integral, nonetheless.

And suddenly, I am breathing better, relaxing just a lil more, feeling just a lil better.

No, I do not want a drink. Or a smoke. Or a pill. I want this mood to pass, and I know now, that soon, it will. Who are we if we are not the sum of our experiences, the ever-changing mobile total of all of the emotions that combine to make us the complete being that we are...such as we are?

Man, I am so glad I started to write about it, think about it, breathe about it, and hopefully, to learn from it. All of a sudden, I do feel better about it. It is an aspect of my personality that I usually do not allow to rear it's ugly head. This is what was making me feel so bad when I started this post. Now that I recognize it for what is is (almost was) I can heal from it, and with any luck, better prepare myself for the inevitable repeat performance. Few and far between, with any luck, the mood will undoubtedly return, and if memory will serve, I will beat it back once again. I dislike this necessary emotion, but I am what I am, and I cannot live with out occasional flaring sunspots erupting from my nerves.

And now, I've finally got better things to do...

Grim summer. Really will be glad to see it pass on through.

And I have lost some one else that I love who still lives. Lost that someone to the bottle. Because I cannot control anyone but myself, and the person I love wants to drink and forget this grim summer.

I am not special because I quit. With or without help, it just happened that I could and so, I did. The one I love sees no problem with nightly drinking to relax and unwind from a tough adult world. Does not see the dubious role model that is being set. Though the loved one's entire family sees the problem the one in question, of course, does not. Drinking is solace, escape, reward, and more understanding than the sober family that does see the problems, thus eased.

There is not a damn thing that I can do. I was so overwhelmed with all of my losses at Friday's "Viewing" for my ex brother -in-law, that I had to leave the church, uncontrollably crying, my head throbbing...over the loss of so many. And the person I love that still lives does not know, and very possibly does not care that I mourn. And if my sorrow is realized by this person, it will not be admitted to even unto the loved one, himself. My loved one just keeps building walls, and defenses, and excuses, and places all blame elsewhere, anywhere, but from within. And there is nothing I can do, except to try and get over it.

Folks advise me to let this person go...if you love somebody, set them free...so,yeah, I must try. If ties are desired to be cut, so be it. Let it be. Get over it. Go On.

All right, buddy, withdraw from everyone who loves you as certainly only you know what you feel, and only you know what is best for you. If you ever want me to love you again, you know that I will. I just wish it did not have to be so ugly for everyone around you, and you would not remain so very blind to the pain that you are inflicting in the meantime.

There are many more funerals in my future, many more seasons of sadness...I was kinda hoping we could be a source of strength for one another through the many hard times to come. I hope that you come out the other side of this isolation that you are choosing. I'll be waiting.

Thanks, Ron. I often can not see the forest for the trees. I was talking only yesterday to my best friend about her spouse's love for liquor, about her circle of friends & their passions for the bottle, keg & can. About how she remains sober and thus, is always designated driver, is always sent out to buy more liquor when the party runs dry, & still has to deal kindly with the circle's short tempers when her return is deemed not quick enough for them. About how the bottle brings out the worst in all of them, and they all find it jolly good fun to puke, heave, be mean and be surly, cuss and swear and behave in a manner that would embarrass them should they ever see the forest for their trees. I asked her, could she not just tell her spouse she didn't want any more liquor in her life than she has already been stuck with, and her answer was, "Oh, no. That is how they all are, and how they always have been."

I told her, then, that she was right. She could not change them or him, and she finished my sentence before I could, saying, "I can only change myself..." a phrase that I have worn thin over the last few years trying to deal with other people, places & things, similar in nature.

Now, some folks would say that my friends were really not my friends at all, if I were to (& do) say that "I have lost almost all of my friends since I quit drinking." One of the old gang remains true to me, but most of them don't have the time or the patience to deal with me since the glory & the wonder of liquor has lost it's appeal to me. They are still friends, but we no longer share time together as the common bond of drinking to excess, and acting the fool fails to amuse me anymore. So we just do not see each other like we used to, as I have no use for bars or drinking parties. I am happiest at home, with Bubba and our dogs. Watching movies, reading, tread heading with my ipod, watching the sunset, emailing old & new friends & acquaintances, early to bed, and early to rise...being sober.

That I beat my drinking problem without the benefit of rehab or AA, is something to be proud of, my therapist Cecile reminds me. OK, I can be proud of that, but I could not and would not have done it if I didn't have a good reason to be sober. In finding the love of my life, Bubba, I have found the inspiration to let me be me.

"I never made you stop drinking," he said, defensively a couple of days ago. We are in our 14th year of being together, and indeed, I drank for the first 9, quite self-righteously, as all drinkers that I have ever known do. But I quit, quite on my own to be worthy of his company, and his affection and his love. I saw myself through what I immagined to be his eyes, and I did not like the woman he spent his days and nights with at all. So I changed her.

One learns how to drink liquids early in life-there is no special talent involved. Yet, when one learns to consume spirits, there appears to be a bright and shining false sense of accomplishment that comes with it. I just do get it anymore. Not at all...

"Look at me. I can chug this. I can do 3 shots of that. I can drink 8 beers, and not feel a thing. Look at me. I am brighter, wittier, more articulate, more loving, sexy, and charismatic just by pouring this vile liquid down my throat. Look at me. I can get dry heaves, puke in your car, drive under the influence, relax, reward myself, etc. all by falling prey to the liquor establishment's lie that life is somehow better when I've have had a few. Look at me, look at me, please, somebody, look at me."

With the benefit of hindsight, that is how I view drinking at this point in my life.

It destroys families, it destroys lives. It ruins relationships and self-respect. One always must pay the piper. There's always has to be the morning after to contend with...and it is never, ever a cheap hobby, any way you look at it.

In my early twenties, I taught myself to drink Scotch, in the hopes that I could one day be my father's favorite drinking buddy. But he always had a favorite drinking buddy-who ever he was drinking with at the time. Until, he found himself drinking at age 80, and falling off his bar stool, cracking his head on the ground resulting in a sub dural hematoma, that eventually lead to his death. You wouldn't think that things could get any worse after that, but, then you would be underestimating the power of alcohol. I hate it. I don't want it in my life any more, ever.

And yet, there it is. In those I love, all around me. Even in my fellow sober friends and family. We have to deal with our friends & family who claim that drinking is their right, their reward, their whatever excuse they feel like using at the time...

But Ron reminds me, no one else is my problem. I cannot change any one but myself. I cannot make some one love me when they only see through a glass darkly, and keep me at more than arm's length, as we no longer are in the same sinking, stinking boat. I cannot see their lives as they see it. I do not feel their pain. I cannot fight their battles nor reward them or console them on the winning or losing of said battles. I can only continue to grieve...for my father, and for every one else that I have lost to drinking in one form or another, and go on with my life, doing the best that I know how to do at the time. I have to concentrate on my blessings, on what I believe that I have learned over the last half century, and be the best person that I know how to be.

It is not an easy thing to do, yet it must be done. I am working constantly on being a better me. Those that I have love and lost must work constantly on improving their own situations. Or not. They cannot help me. I cannot help them. To help someone, you have to change them, and no one can change them, thus help them, but themselves...and they so rarely see that any help or change is needed.

From time to time, I just need to be reminded. Thanks, Ron.