The Scar

See the scar? Appendectomy. Three years ago, next week.

I remember being scared. Eight thousand miles away from home, I waited in a hospital ward with no sheets on the bed until my Peace Corps host Mother brought some from home. Cat roaming down the halls. No air conditioning. An orange M&M under the adjacent bed. Hard to believe that much time has passed. That day, I wanted to tell Mom and Dad, but couldn’t— fourteen time zones and urgency of getting me into the operating room. If it happened today, I couldn’t tell Mom.

Today, as I stared at the scar I reflected on the past three years. These thoughts came to me.

What was the most significant event? I had been in the Peace Corps, I sailed across the Pacific in the Cosmic Muffin, fell in love, wrote a book titled The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin and got it published. Had my heart broke. I remodeled a kitchen, fixed a roof, painted a porch, all alone. I went on the road in my parents’ RV to promote my book, had a radio spot on Camping in the Zone,an RV program, moved to Tarpon Springs, Florida. None of that. It was the death of my mother. A year ago, just last year was the last time I saw her, heard her voice.

Thought some more about this. I asked what about my closer relationship with God? I dismissed that. Because that is like saying breathing is the most significant event. It is an essential part of living. Truly, my relationship has enriched the life. His gift to me, my life. My gift to Him, what I became.

I am grateful for his blessing and mercy. More than I deserve. His acknowledged presence in my life is recent. I have had many milestones with Him during the last three years. Mom’s death is one. Like a blanket, my Lord has covered me, secured me and comforted me through these events.

I asked if I would have done anything different if I had known three years ago that my mother would not be here today. Only one thing. I would have picked her a bouquet of wild flowers last July.

Cold Front

Not in Florida. Not in July, when air comes from the south. The water temperatures in the gulf are 90 plus degrees. The heat indexes reach the three digit mark.

Weather originating from the shores of West Africa. It arrives either as a tropical depression or a category 5 hurricane. Fortunately, not this the first of June.

Usually we get rocking thunderstorms. During the last three weeks, Pinellas County has missed out on most of the afternoon thunderstorms. They have popped up in the north by mid-morning, to the west in the late afternoon. In the south and east towering columns of clouds have pushed skyward, like mounds of termite nests growing out of the African Serengeti. Pinellas County has avoided the massive storms, their torrential rain and ramparts accompanied by thunder. Whatever the cause, I hope it keeps the tropical storms away.

The heat has caused me to crack. I broke down. I have turned on the air in the evening taking the heat and humidity out of the condo before going to bed. Helps hot flashes be a little more bearable. The condo, without a full southern exposure and being on the first floor, has temperatures 15-20 degrees cooler than the outside. Eighty-four feels okay with ceiling fans. But, I mean I really broke down and I am going to blame the cats.

I’m New York bound for August. Traveling north with Phoenix and Diablo (Gee, I just realized how hot those names are!). The Jeep’s air conditioning hasn’t worked since 1993. I drove across Tennessee in August for a job interview in Knoxville. Windows open sweating all the way, wind blowing trucker dirt into my teeth. I unexpectedly ran in to Al Pirie, the company’s HR Manager who had been assigned to check me out. I wasn’t able to get to my room to clean up because there was a room reservation mishap. First impressions are every lasting. I didn’t get that job. Instead, I got another job with the same company and became Al’s boss. That is how I got to Florida, the first time.

The first time and five years in the state without air. Each week, my job put me on the road about 25 miles, but in the air for 3000. So I tolerated the heat. Hated the flying. Although I had the money in those days, I rebelled when the dealer estimated, “About $1000.” After all, it had OLD refrigerant in it. It had to be converted. And I must have looked like a sucker.

This week, fretting about frying my feline brains out, I decided to look into the cost of fixing the system. I figured $1000, about the same worth of the 1989 Jeep with 316,000 miles. But first thing was to get an evaluation. A good investment of $35. Then a final decision.

Imagine my pleasure when I was told that back in the old days of the last century the Jeep’s air system, all of the systems in fact, were well made. To fix the air con and retro fit it for the NEW Freon – which is now old Freon, much like Class Coke is just Coke to everyone born after 1985. (Or was that 1984?)—would cost $309.30. I didn’t want to appear overly relieved with the price, so I frowned and hesitated, as if I had to make some great financial sacrifice—a new dress for my 35th high school reunion or cooling my cats.

So I am headed north next weekend. My faithful Jeep, topped off with a bright yellow kayak, my mountain bike, two cats, a litter box and a new dress for the reunion. I feel a cold front moving in.

International Toad Day

Today is International Toad Day. Also known as Toaday, not to be confused with Toady.

To mark this occasion which is particularly celebrated in Santa Cruz, California for no apparent reason, go kiss one. Or better yet, barbeque one. With beer. Delicious.

The past few of mornings, while running in the predawn around the bayou, I almost stepped on a couple of toads. That would be a good idea too, except they make such a squishy mess. Envision the double X’d eyes and the little pink tongue extending from the grimaced lips. Do toads have lips? Dead, dead, dead.

This message was not environmental approved by Live Earth, Al Gore or Robert Kennedy Jr. To anyone who gets the joke, CHEERS. And if you took it personally, TOAD on U.

Greeks

I got my hair cut today and almost lost an ear when the stylist told me a little secret about Greeks. When Greeks do business with Greeks (and she is Greek) neither are happy until they give each other a headache. Since I just wrote a story about my encounter with a Greek and I called the story Bad Commerce, I couldn't help but bust out laughing. If you want to read the story, email me and I'll send it to you.

It’s Not Again, It is Always.

A year in reflection. The first half of 2007. The resolutions.

The Not’s

1. Snickering about global warming. I never think of it when I have the ignition switch on my Jeep between my forefinger and thumb and I smell burnt flesh.
   
2. Over throw the government of some small country – mainly Micronesia - and declare myself queen. Haven’t left the country this year.
   
3. Declare a Christian-crusade on Muslims every time they declare Jihad on a Christian. Ooooh, this one has been sooo hard.
   
4. Adopt another cat. Just Phoenix and Diablo
   
5. Either buy more than ten new t-shirts, or a sailboat. One T-Shirt to proclaim the Tennessee Women’s Basketball Team champs. I have subscribed to Sail and drooled over the ads in the back of the magazine.

The Do’s

1. Pitch The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin to Oprah. Nope
   
2. Sell 700 more books. More like 18
   
3. Write the first draft of Beyond the Sail (Working title).Working on the Great Mexican Novel called The Kayak
   
4. Learn to sail. Am I crazy?
5. Drink more milk. Doing Soy.

Under Consideration but Waffling on the Commitment

1. Get a job…Considered applying as a weekend dock hand. And thank God for the stock market...13861!!

How are you doing on yours? Can you even remember them?

The blog: Started a year ago as a marketing means for The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. I have six devoted fans…A friend in Hawaii, Dad, my aunt and uncle, my two sisters and a childhood friend in Alaska. Thanks.

Return of the Critter

There was another critter in the condo. In the wall. Scratching away, trying to get out. Phoenix and Diablo have been sitting, staring at the closet wall. At first, I thought there was a bug in the nap of the rug, but I saw nothing. Then I heard the scratching. It sounded like desperate attempts to climb up the interior wall between two by fours and electrical wires.

What to do? Cut a small hole into the wall inside the closet. Position the cat carrier in front of the hole with water and cat food to lure the critter inside. Wait. Nothing. Critter disappeared or died.

I don’t smell anything and now I have a hole in the wall to fix.

I'm going to name the unknown critter Paris Hilton.

Truth Never Changes

We’ve seen the shot. Earth from space, a place few have seen or experienced first hand. It's one thing I’ll never be able to check off my “To Do List”.

The astronauts’ perspective of our home, planet earth, seen from space, is something we can try to imagine. I imagine it with two thoughts—one with God and one without. My choice is with. We can debate the points of method or means of creation, if you think it is important. I don’t, but agree I am fascinated by it. My focus is on the Maker and why. I trust in God and I know the answer.

This week, before the space shuttle safely returned to California, my friend Nancy received an email. It was from Danny Olivas onboard the shuttle. He is the astronaut who fixed the torn blanket on the shuttle last week. She knows him from Houston(We all wait to hear who she will meet in her new life in New Orleans.). The idea of getting an email from space is incredible. It is one thing to know an astronaut and quite another to get an email FROM SPACE.

Most American don’t know who this guy is. Honestly, I would not have either if it hadn’t been for Nancy. This got me thinking. Remember the days when the principle herded us elementary kids into the cafeteria to watch the space capsule come back to earth? (Okay, you whippersnapper. This was in the 60’s and I’m showing my age.) The tiny funnel-shaped craft, half the size of VW and with as much space inside as a glovebox, plummeted into the ocean often miles away from the recovery ship. For what seemed like hours we sat there watching the black and white television as Walter Cronkite walked us through the recovery. We all prayed (yup, prayed in school, God help us.) that the mission would be successful and completed before we had to climb onboard the yellow school bus to head for home where in my family there wasn't a TV.

In the days of the early missions, great attention and national importance was given to a program that launched monkeys, dogs and chimps into space. They had names and we knew the names of the Chimps—Ham and Enos. Wrote children books about them. And 40 plus years later we don’t know who is up there, what they did and when they came back. (They do howeer carry the landings live in Florida on the local stations.)

A lot has changed in our world. But from space, incredibly our planet still looks pretty much the same and the Maker hasn’t changed. And we still debate the means, but the truth never changes.

Tax Dollars

Here is an interesting website to play around with. It doesn’t involve flying helicopters into brick walls, nor does it test your skill at Suduko, nor will you get the latest up date on Paris Hilton, nor a preview into Hillary Clinton's (surprised no one has made a song about those two since their names rhyme) latest UTube video. Instead, the interactive website allows you to track your food consumption and daily activities. Over the course of time it provides charts and graphs about your nutritional intake in details that will make you ask “Selenium. What is that?” There are loads of information about the basic food groups and number of daily servings you've eaten and how your diet is stacking up. If you pay taxes, be sure to check it out as it is brought to you by the United States Department of Agriculture Center for Nutrition Policy and Promotion.

It doesn’t take much to set up outside of an ID and password. While it asks for an email address, it is optional so spam is not going to be a problem and Big Brother isn't tracking you gluttony. You can however find out all the nutritional drawbacks to Spam. (Oh yeah, check out this website. Take the time to watch the characters get bored with posing just for you. Roll your mouse over the page and each character comes alive. But be warned, the music is dorky and so is the homepage.)

You didn't think I would really give you links to Paris and Hillary did you? And you thought I was writing a book.

Healing

It was time to reboot the running program. After four weeks of laying in bed at 5:55 am, using the excuse that I was resting my ailing shin, I got up to test that shin and prove to myself that part of my sciatic problem was due to my inactivity as much as my attempt to prefect flips on the end of my swimming laps (I flounder like the fish). The shin felt good, but I ran about as slow as Hershey syrup pours after being stored in the freezer-- so the ants can’t get it although I have found some of the tiny raiders in the rubber gasket of the freezer door.

By late afternoon, the shin wasn’t sore and the sciatic nerve while not 100% continued to improve as I stretch three times a day. I tried a couple of flips in the pool, but since others were swimming and I didn’t want to endanger them or cause them concern with my possible drowning, I curtailed improving my technique.

Soy Nuts

An interesting little buds of flavor with a dry scale resembling insect wings have the same crunch of a piece of toast found in the bottom of a toaster, the salty flavor of a French fry and the light nutty hint of a wild pine cone. Here are some soy nut nutrition facts:1/2 cup as in 86gm roasted soynuts contains Calories: 387, Protein: 34g, Carbohydrate: 28g, Total Fat: 18.6g and Fiber: 7.0g.

Same negative results as soy milk. The question is how many soy nuts can a cat eat before they get sick?

Minor Leak

One of those split-the-sky-open-and-let-the-dogs-and cats-pour-out thunderstorms rolled through Tarpon Springs this morning. I headed home just ahead of the ominous clouds and slammed the windows shut in what turned out to be a fruitless effort to keep the elements out of the condo. I’m sure this is not the first winodw leak (remembered it rained during Tropical Storm Barry).

I set up a little brigade of sponges and rags along the window sill and kept working my way up and down the line wringing and wringing until my hands were as raw as Cinderella’s after she finished scrubbing the stairway to her evil stepmother’s root cellar. I filled a 20 pound cat litter bucket with water. Despite my best effort the carpet still got wet. At times, the rain actually fell on my head. Check that, I’m inside and the window is closed. The track for the pane filled with water and flowed across the faux marble sill and cascaded down the wall. An interior designer could not have designed the effect any better. Except I had no time to admire the watefall.

Definitely need to replace that window as I suspect this is not the first leak and the “crack” around the casing has to let rain into the wall itself. (This is the same area where the ants invade the condo.)

It rained harder than Barry. The condo maintenance guy is out in the parking lot trying to unplug the storm drains. Cars are up to their value stems in water. Looks kind of cool.

Raccoon

I love it when the ingredients of a story come together. The kayak story has been sitting on the back burner for a couple of months, as I struggled with four short stories and a budding idea for a novel. Finally, I figured out how to write it and who is telling the story. It took going back to the basics – paper and pencil. Actually, it took three different colored pens and a new setting—sitting at a table in Panera Bread and drinking a mango raspberry ice drink. The icy drink was delicious, so I am sure it was loaded with calories. I burned them off with an eight mile kayak this afternoon. Fighting a strong headwind and then not messing around too much on the way back with the tailwind worked up a sweat. By the way, saw a raccoon swimming across the river. This little guy was swimming as hard as he could to keep away from the three kayaks. After he made a mad dash into the mangroves, I heard some birds squawking their heads off. Nest raid?

After scribbling away on several pieces of paper, making notes about the main character and brainstorming ideas about the other characters and their desires, dreams and lives, I struck on an idea to have the story told by several individuals – their perspective, to clarify the misconceptions about how the kayak was acquired. The story is told by me to my sister, Jennifer. Very complex and I’ll probably get raked by the writers group for point-of-view issues, but what the heck. It is my story.

Now I have to re-write the twenty pages I have.

Here is a soy update: It is impossible to consume 7 grams soy protein without exploding, if you know what I mean. I’d rather deal with hot flashes.

Air Con

I finally broke down and turned on the air. Geesh it has been hot, but I had a splitting head ache, getting knocked down by hot flashes and needed a good night’s sleep. I cranked the temperature down to 79°. Aaah, relief.

I still had a headache. Actually, it was a migraine. I have not had one in months. The onset came from the other night when I went to see Headless Ax at Got Wine in Dunedin. The performance was outside, under tents to escape the thundershower that swept across the state. Lots of cigarette smoke. The small group of friends of the Headless Ax guitarist, Robert Sutherland, who I sat with went through two packs of Camels in an hour. By 10 PM I was as cured as a Virginia ham. Rode home with the windows wide open hanging my head out of the car like any happy dog.

53 Yesterday

My last experience with the drink had not been pleasant. In an attempt to find a suitable substitute on an island that had no milk except what came in a box from Australia, I bought a couple boxes of soy milk. I found the liquid had a flat taste that squashed a chalky sweetness to the roof of my mouth that lingered long after I swallowed the last gulp over three years ago. In search for another cure for hot flashes (the black cohosh is not making the grade any longer), I found myself debating about the brand and flavor of soy milk.

After my morning bike ride to Dunedin (about 23 miles round trip) thirst and hunger propelled me to stand in front of the refrigerator. After swigging back the blue drink from Powerade (I love that stuff)right from the bottle (hey, I live alone) I was about to go for yogurt and cereal when I remembered the box of soy milk I bought at Publix a few days ago. How bad can this be? After all it is chocolate flavored.

The worst that could happen, the funky chalky fluid would ruin my desire for chocolate (it could happen). I confess I liked it. I checked the label to see if I was about to indulge in another bad habit—like eating what I call second hand slow churned ice cream with Hershey’s Syrup (no need to explain that it is chocolate, which I figured could be added to the soy milk along with Splenda if it totally sucked.

No, I haven’t tied flowers in my hair and took up wearing long tattered skirts. Nor have I tried to feng shui my living room or replaced all my light bulbs with pig tails. I’m just fifty three and trying new things. Some new things anyway.

Signature

He signed the card, “Love Mom and Dad.” Mom is no longer here, but I just realized her love never died. Thanks Dad.

Gordon Stone Band

Back in May, I went to the Tulip Festival in Albany. The Gordon Stone Band was playing. Jon McCartan, the cutest bass guitar player in the world was waiting to go on stage. I introduced myself by reminding him that I misidentified his photo on my blog last summer after I saw the band play in Bourne, MA. The band sounded as good as ever, but the larger crowd and stage made the event less intimate than that rain-filled night near the Cape Cod Canal. It seems like a lifetime ago.

All the best to Gordon, Jimmy and Jon—the boys from Burlington, Vermont. This is one good reason why Vermont should not be allowed to secede from the United States.

Take Note: The Boys come to my hometown, Saratoga Springs, New York on July 1st. Where? No better place than Caffe Lena. Of course.

High Tide

There have been milestones I skipped right over. Others, I have stumbled on, but none have I clung to in a desperate attempt to find an anchor.

This morning, I waited out my first tropical storm of 2007, the second of this young, two-day old season. (The first storm zoomed up the east coast of Florida while I was in New York last month.)

Now I am watching the high tide and westerly winds combine forces to push a surge beyond what yesterday's full moon could do. I believe it just peaked, as I have been observing the debris of nature(twigs and flower blossoms) and man (plastic grocery bags, mainly) float out of the canal. Across the brown waters, the tell-tale sign of the high water mark stains the concrete barrier wall like ring-around-the-collar. (Do wives ever fret about that embarrassment?)

The bayou seeped over its embankments and stranded seawater on the road beyond the canal’s bridge. A few drivers challenged the standing waters, but I did a U-turn in my Jeep and went out the back way to Winn-Dixie in search of a can of tuna, a lunchtime craving.

On the dock watching the water rise under a clearing sky (totally different than this morning when the skies dumped up to five inches on a parched ground—last rain was 25 days ago and I don’t remember it.), I realized my birthday is this Friday. However, that isn’t the significant milestone. I am the last of five to have their first birthday since Mom passed way. I suddenly felt washed over with emptiness and some guilt by just noting my siblings’ birthdays during the past nine months. God, a birthday without the mother of my life.

I have managed to get past every twenty-eighth day of the month without thinking of Mom’s death. I might have thought about it the day before or a few days afterwards, but I never caught myself lingering in thought on that day. That was until last month. Nine months have past, the time it takes to create a new life. I guess I am still grieving. I lost a few tears in the outgoing tide.

Women on Mountain

James

Flames have torched Georgia and Florida for more than a month. Dry conditions and stupid teenagers are to blame. Directly in the line of fire, are contingencies of trained men and women who battle the blazes, tend to the hot spots and douse the perimeter to protect life and property.

The smoke from these fires has drifted south to Tarpon Springs sending those with respiratory conditions inside.

I have a friend, Mike, whose son is working the crews in the Jacksonville area. Shout outs to James Braham and the other fine men and women who are tirelessly working to contain the fires. Be safe and hope you all make it home soon.

Photo: James Braham in South Florida.

To Mom,

I miss sharing those special moments in my life with you.

Dad brought the pansies and the geraniums in for the night. Frost warnings were issued for as far south as Glens Falls. He did not want to risk the cold weather killing the new plants he had potted this week. Dad gathered them from the railing on the front walkway and put them in the garage for the night. The temperatures never dipped as low as forecasted and by sunrise a clear blue sky promised a gorgeous Mother’s Day. You would have said the day was perfect.

The lilacs did not make full bloom, but their effort did not go unnoticed. Earlier in the week, the tiny buds showed no signs of blossoming by Mother’s Day, but warm sunny days enticed the flowers to come forth. By this time last year the branches bowed under the weight of the heavy bouquet. The daffodils and violets were out, so Dad and I picked a large vase full of your favorite yellow flower from the beds near the woods between the house and the old schoolhouse.

Robin, Cindi and I went for a morning walk. On Earnst Road, I spotted a Baltimore Oriel. It has been years since I seen this brilliant orange and black bird in upstate New York. I remembered the sack-like nests that once hung in the elms in front of Grey’s house. The trees, the nests and birds have been gone for years.

Uncle Ralph and Aunt Eileen came up for the day. Chris came too. Mark expressed it well for all of us. It was good to see Cousin Chris and we were glad to be able to share the day with him. I enjoyed hearing him call Dad, Uncle Manuel.

We were all here, except Mike, who stayed home with Margie. John, her father, passed away on Friday. He must have been torn not to be here, but you would have given him hell if he came.

I am not sure what I expected when we went to scatter your ashes. At Moreau we mixed your ashes with Rusty’s and Holly’s, your two Shelties. We walked around the lake, letting our moods swing from light and cheery to somber and tearful, as Dad let the ashes trickle to the ground. As we walked I imagined Hansel and Gretel leaving bread crumbs in the woods. If we needed to find our way home, we could have followed the faint trail of gray ash that dusted the path around the lake.

This was the place you came with Holly and Rusty. Dad reminisced about the walks, the places you rested, and where the dogs chased the squirrels. We enjoyed the quiet sounds of the wind whispering in the maples, the birches and pines. Near the lake shore, we saw fish—perch, pickerel, bass and trout. Chris brought his fishing gear with him and cast along the shore. And several dogs—a Silky Terrier, an English Springer Spaniel and a couple retrievers—greeted us as if paying respect to Holly and Rusty.

At the bridge, each of us took a bit of ash and let the wind carry the dust over the lake. Co hugged Dad. We each shed a tear. And we said good-bye.

Back at the picnic area, we blew bubbles, because you had two bottles sitting on the hutch for some reason and this was good as occasion. And because you had two bottles of sparkling grape juice—one white and one red—we filled our Dunkin Donut coffee cups and I toasted you and all other moms on this day.

I thought of the last time I was at the lake with you. It was just last July when Dad and I brought you here. We sat under the pines and ate Subways...over there Mom, by that table.

And then the day was over. There is still that feeling that sits deep inside me. The painful recognition that you are gone, forever and ever. Like that new 41 cent stamp.

Photos: by Darryl Conte, Jennifer Perez and the waiter at Longfellows