" Friend's Day !" : A Holiday Kept Within The Heart "

“ Friend’s Day !” : A Holiday Kept Within The Heart  “

04/20/12

To my most kind, and caring friends, who in their hearts have befriended me; my ever-constant, supportive readers, both of whom have sustained me, kept the inevitability of silent loneliness at bay, and who truly make my heart happy, while—else, in major pain---would oft despair, I offer up to you, my dearest friends my thanks and gratitude…

If you are like me—perhaps in this singular regard—you make full use of a calendar to record your physician’s appointments, times when bills are due, and must be paid; or to record events, such as birthdays and anniversaries which might otherwise pass your notice, or… in these later years (most importantly), times when medications can be refilled.

And, so often, the little squares beneath each day become a scribbled nightmare; but in consideration of the general frailty of memory, especially memory that is clouded by near-unending pain, depression, or despair, we NEED those little squares to organize our lives; for, who would dare to miss a grandchild’s birthday?  Or, fail to show up for a Pain Manager’s office visit, when it’s the only way you can get those direly needed prescriptions that scarce hold sinew and limb together, and, without which, owing to our psychiatric, and physical suffering, we would soon be in the deepest of deep shit.

You already know the calendar lists all the ‘regular’ holidays, many of which have been conveniently moved, to be observed on a Friday or a Monday, to allow mostly government employees to take advantage of a ‘three-day’ weekend off.  For most of us, these ‘moved’; holidays do not have much meaning; we—if we are interested at all—are more concerned with the dates that Christmas or Hanukah, or Thanksgiving, or, Mother’s Day, or Father’s Day falls on, to give us warning of how much time we may have left in which to get ready for, and prepare.

And should you even bother—beyond half a glance in noticing it—our calendars have become awash in what I would call, ‘ second, or third tier holidays’; supposed weeks and days observed for all kinds of obscure, silly, and often strange events.

While, ‘Secretary’s Day’ and, for those who would insist upon it, ‘Professional Administrative Assistant’s Day’!, (for how much emphasis do we now place in a job title, which—nonetheless—does not in any way imply getting a raise!), might prove to be a day on which such laborers receive a card, and  an extremely small gathering-- in a careless vase--of a very cheap gathering of three very, lonely flowers, and perhaps a paid lunch by the ‘Boss’; to such oddities as, “Boss’s Day”, and ‘National French Fry Week’ (which I made up, but that might as well be listed among the drift of such obscurity, that we look at them, and laugh). 

I somehow believe these odd holidays to be  machinations of the Greeting Card Industry, who also happen to have—for example—cards  such as, ‘Merry Christmas to my Mother’s second husband’, or cards that one can send to one’s pet.  And believe me, my dear, sweet friends, such cards are routinely purchased to be mailed.

There is—I think—a most-needed holiday as yet not found on any calendar, beyond a card that says, ‘Thinking of You!, that has no particular day assigned to it, and certainly one not observed on either a Friday or a Monday, or, at any time, really, that is nevertheless just as important.

“Friend’s Day!”

For me, the celebration of ‘Friend’s Day !’ came about by sheerest accident, some three or so years ago.  My dear, dear friend Joan and I would—on occasion—see some little something that we each thought the other would like; these  gifts were not expensive, but did involve care and consideration in selecting that little, ‘perfect thing’, which then, was painstakingly gift-wrapped.  An accompanying note affirming our friendship was sent in hopes of providing a smile of delight (especially, as most of us like gifts).  Especially, unexpected ones!!!

There was no regular occasion or it; it was not Christmas, or either of our birthdays.  Nor, was it an already accepted holiday on the calendar. For some time, neither of us could come up with a name for this surprise event. Upon thinking of it, we—at last—decided to call them, ‘ Friend’s Day !’ gifts, on a holiday we now called ‘ Friend’s Day !’, to celebrate the day.  These, little surprises--free from any legislation-- could thus be given at any time during  the year…mostly, when we either of us had a little, extra money.  But again, I want to emphasis that cost—per se—was not a consideration.

Imagine, sometime during the week, receiving a prettily wrapped package, with a note of love and friendship attached.  Would it not--perhaps—make your heart glad?  Particularly not having been expected; their untimed arrival adding to the surprise?

Should you have dearest friends, who have faithfully remained by your side, helping you, encouraging you, giving you their attention, and their love, what better way to thank them than with some small and special gift!  Once more, it doesn’t have to cost a fortune, the cost is not the point, but besides any regular communication with them, lets them know just how very special they are to you, and how grateful you are to them for their constancy and friendship, and…love.

A little box of homemade cookies, nicely wrapped, or even some bauble found on sale will more than suffice; for after all, its ‘Friend’s Day!’, a celebration held spontaneously without regard to the calendar.  It’s a holiday in which to celebrate all of your dearest friends.  What means most is not the cost, but the remembrance, made greater when accompanied by a little present, and a short poem, or note, written especially for them,

You do not have to be a Shakespeare, and your five year old may draw better than can you; even if you take a blank piece of paper, and with crayons, draw flowers, trees, a bright sun shining over stick-figure, smiling ‘people’, with a written note that says, “I love you, my dearest friend!” and place it in an envelope, you will send a message from your heart far greater than any literary tome.

And as you-- when of necessity--pause to write upon your calendars, times and places, needs, and requirements, I urge you to stop for just a minute when you can, to consider adopting a ‘Friend’s Day!’ of your own.  Of course—with some slight changes—this works extremely well with others who are special in your life; spouses, partners, children, neighbors…anyone who has—from their kind hearts, made your life a little brighter.

Most recently, I sent to my friend, Joan (who is disabled, nearly blind, and who has extreme pain, when trying to walk), a single pair of sandals, I actually picked up on sale, as I—too--must ever keep vigilant guard on my finances; they were comfortable; she loved the turquoise color…and…they fit!  She can wear them while she’s in her electric cart, and around her apartment.

There was no special day for them; I just happened to see them (and the sale price, which—for me—made them affordable!), and in thinking of her friendship, and her love and kindness, had my dear C.N.A. wrap them up in a beautiful paper, and deliver them to her.  And knowing Joan, even this small gift will make her happy, and will help to keep her happy all the rest of the day, and beyond; sometimes, its little joys that help sustain us, for both the giver, and the recipient.

My truly dear, and caring friends, I think of you often, and wish for you days of lessened, or of ‘no pain’, or distress.  I wish you never know hunger, or sadness; nor regret about the Past or Present.  I wish your pantries be full.  I hope from the demonstrated kindness of your hearts to always, always report abuse.

I wish for you peaceful, lambent days of comfort, surrounded—full—by ones who truly love and care for you, whether they be family or friends.  And hope that you can—in return—express your love to them.  I wish you pleasant afternoons of quiet, grateful contemplation of all your blessings.  And nights of quiet, and restorative sleep, free from nightmare or pain, as ever, kept safe, secure, and blessed by flights of gentle angels.

Please know I love you dearly, my, ‘Friend’s Day!’ friends, when—for, my thoughts of you—every day is ‘Friend’s Day!’,

‘Zahc'/Charles

" The Lizard And The Goblet" : A Parable That Speaks To These Awful, And Uncertain Times "

‘ The Lizard And The Goblet’: A Parable That Speaks To These Awful, And Uncertain Times ‘

04/19/12

To my very, very dearest friends, and loyal, constant readers, there are many times a day…and sometimes nights, that I think of you;  I always wish you wellness, of course, and sufficient security on which to live most comfortably.  But along with my most sincere hopes for days of much lessened, or of no pain for you, I also wish you love, contentment, and happiness, for without happiness—no matter how else you may be feeling—life becomes (and remains) both a chore, and a bore.  To be genuinely unhappy in part, will most likely cause you to be unhappy in all; and with a lingering happiness, I also wish you peace, as endless worry and depression will off-color all your days.  Until life is reduced to an unbearability of simply ‘being’.  Of existing.  Of merely living breath to breath.

And while adult life is filled—enough—by responsibility, financial problems, health problems, with often severe pain; and in seeing nothing change for the better, one eventually tires of searching for the better.  This state of disenchantment and despair fills our lives to overflowing, and affects all others around us; this is why long-time friends flee, and family members become more distant, for fear that such an overbalance of negativity will make us extremely unpleasant to be near, be contagious, or somehow, ‘rub’ off on them.  And, to that end, only the very brave and loving stay close to us, with endless patience, caring, and concern.  Be thankful unto God for them, for else you would be doomed to live a life, alone, with needs as yet unmet; hopes that fade with time; dreams that slowly die; and relegated to intense suffering quite without ever knowing why.

I fully understand, and realize how difficult it is to have to live with a hundred agonies, yet try to smile when presented with some, small kindness. I know how pain can distance you from everything, making even the slightest effort impossible; I know how pain can make one long for a far-away and untroubled Past, or to try to flee a horrible, abusive one; to regret those things whose ‘Sell Buy’ dates have passed us by.  To find no comfort in the Present, with its worries, and dread.  To find that current pain and distress can rob one’s will. And I know the pain that makes one cry.

I know how pain can make you rage, and to lash out at anyone within lashing distance.  To those who would be closest to us, I can even understand some jealousy you might secretly, or…unsecretly harbor against them for their health; their ability to move, to leave, or to just pick-up and ‘go’, without a second’s care; their ability to sleep soundly, snoring by us, as we roil in bed, in pain, unable to get comfortable, watching as the clock mutely announces time’s passage of another, fitful night.  And yet, the mind does not pause in its never-ending contemplation of all that was; what might have been; knowing—only—that the morning will reveal no delights.  Only a darkened house of nightmares and pain…always the pain, that guarantees a day of sluggish tiredness, along with a wearied shame at how disappointing we have become.

Often, in our heart of hearts, we wonder what did WE do, to end up in such a tormented place?  Of course we all have a hidden roster of deeds from our more unpleasant selves; the unkind word; the needless lie; the moment of neglect we opted for. The cruel and pointless deed.  The chance to—perhaps—get ‘even’.

However, I cannot apportion blame to you; we have all been both deceivers and deceived.  Nor, can you ever be blamed for your genes and chromosomes, or perhaps, some past exposure to a set of pathogens that caused in you your illnesses; Of conditions we were born with, or else, developed later; of all the deficiencies of our immune systems that now have failed, and turned on us, making us helpless in our pain, with ‘conditions’ that are incurable, that can only be addressed—palliatively—by more and more medications.

For then, it would clearly seem that our responsibilities begin and end with attention to our own care, while ever trying to not alienate those closest to us.  Granted…it is a battle that prescribes our days; and in this regard, there’s much forgiving to do…first, for yourself, then others.  And, my dearest friends, please allow me to clarify: there’s NO forgiveness warranted by those who have abused you.  I can only pray that—with help, and God’s speed—you will be able to escape such a living nightmare.  Only distance—not capitulation—will ever truly help you.  For someone who has hurt you, your forgiveness of them is your eventual option, not a requirement.

And so, my precious friends, as I pause—again—to think of you, please allow me to share with you a little story; a simple tale that—to me—somehow seems most appropriate to these times.  I am grateful to you for having befriended me, and for being faithful in your friendships, of caring for my welfare as few actually do, and of forgiving my excesses, and of reading my diary entries…which gives me rare pleasure, as when you leave your comments, for which, I thank you with all my heart.

‘ The Lizard And The Goblet’: A Parable That Speaks To These Awful, And Uncertain Times ‘

Part One: The Lizard

In my kitchen, the sink is placed in the corner; behind it is a triangular shelf of paneling (it is a mobile home, after all!), and they lead to the kitchen walls, where—in forming a ‘V’ are two small windows that look out over the back yard.  Of course the windows are hard to reach, and when—such a long time ago, now—my dear, late mother made curtains for them, they proved almost impossible to hang.

In homes such as mine, the windows form two parts, with a bottom pane opened by two, little clips near the sill; usually, most times whenever I find myself at the sink, my gaze looks through the windows to see all the greenery outside, and part of my neighbor’s yard which is fenced, has citrus trees growing at the fence’s border, and a garden there, and lots of chickens…AND, two roosters (which start to crow at 3:15AM; I know, because I timed them, and they drive me crazy).  It remains—though—for one who is too often too agoraphobic to venture out, a beautiful scene, with trees moving to the breeze, and casting shadows on the window panes.

About three months ago, one morning, while starring out the window, some movement caught my eye.

Perched upon the metal window frame was a tiny lizard, no more than two-and-a-half inches long, including tail.  It was lying there, soaking up the morning sun that warmed the window’s frame, head darting side to side, as it looked to catch little bugs.  Since it was a baby, and as lizards are cold-blooded, being trapped inside an air-conditioned house usually means they will freeze to death in time.

I tried without success to somehow capture it to toss it outside, rather than find it dead—somewhere—in the house.  He leapt away from me, and hid down in the curtains. “O.K.”, I said, you’re on your own, buster.”

I fully expected it to die in a day or two, but somehow, the window was warm-enough, with little bugs-enough, to keep the little thing alive.  Days passed, and weeks passed.  And while I can hardly explain it, it was like a gift to have another, little, harmless life in the house. I just wondered what it could possibly find to eat.

But every morning, no matter how horrible my night had been, no matter what my awful pain, when I finally stumbled to the sink to make my mid-morning coffee, there it was; I never gave it a name, but, I found myself telling it good  morning every day, and was so glad that it had survived.  I don’t know why it seemed to cheer me.

Once, a very large wasp got into the house, and into the kitchen. In time, it hit the curtains, and its course of flight brought it nearer and nearer my little friend.  Now, I am very deathly allergic to insect bites, wasps being among the worst.  My little lizard seemed to give it some thought of making of it a lunch, but in realizing that the wasp was just too large, scuttled down the bottom of the curtains, where—you might know—the wasp would errantly follow.

There ensued a comical review, with me—with my girth—standing on a stepstool, flyswatter in hand to chase the wasp, and whap it before it could either bite me, or, the lizard.  In wielding the flyswatter like St, Michael’s sword, I could not help but scare the lizard.  But soon, I managed to kill the wasp, and let my lizard alone to recover; later on in the day, it was perched on the window—again—as apparently content as such creatures can be.  And I was glad that we (Daisy, lizard, and I) were safe.

Part Two: The Goblet

I have a cousin who has become a very, very good, and kind friend to me; actually, both he and his wife have been ever thoughtful, and decent to me.  When our schedules allow, he comes over once a week to visit me, perform some very needed repair of computer adjustment that I cannot do; he brings me a couple store-made-ready sandwiches, and we have a couple of beers while we kibitz, and in general, just ‘hang out’.  I always enjoy his visits, and am grateful for all his kind help; after all, it is he who has assembled probably 95% of all my new furniture you can see, shown at my profile.

He also brings along a little hip flask of vodka (which I do not drink because of my many medications).  For him, I found a simple, pretty, little goblet for him to put ice in, and afterward, the vodka. I doubt the ‘drinks’ can be more than four ounces, and it looks better than using a water glass for the purpose.

Because of my often global pain, and severe lower-back pain, I must admit I am slack on washing dishes, leaving them for my dear C.N.A. to do, which she does not mind, and when the drain board is full, she’ll put the clean, dry dishes away, or, if she’s out of room, will stack some of the cups, and glasses on the space just behind the sink, where I quite often forget them, especially my cousin’s, little goblet, which, with shelf space a premium, I just ignore.

One morning—though—as I again staggered to the sink half awake, and already in a rush of pain, I looked, but could not see my lizard friend.  Oh well, I thought, it’s off on the hunt, looking for tiny bugs, and hiding behind the curtain.  I seem to recall that my cousin was due—soon—for a visit, and, as an afterthought, picked up the goblet to make sure it was clean.

And there it was, my little lizard friend, having somehow fallen into the goblet—not able to escape its glassy sides--lying there, contorted in death.

It was such a tragic end to a cute and harmless life; as I looked at it, suddenly (please do not ask me why), I began to cry, in silent, tears of misery.  I felt so sad for it, myself, and, for all of us.  Had—perhaps—I had found it earlier, and still alive, I might have been able to let it go back to its window-kingdom.  Could I be blamed for my neglect?

Or, is it but the realization that we all live such truncated lives, and to have them thus filled by pain seems—to me—to counter, “Why we are here?”  As adults, we all know that things die; friends and loved ones die; dreams and hopes unrealized die before us, and litter our years with their deaths.  Eventually, we—too—will die, and return to a silent earth the sum of all we were.  To have lived, and died, without notice, or purpose.., what can that mean?  Or does it mean anything?

This is why—perhaps—so many cultures around the world have their own “After life theories”.  I would not in my current place in time, dare argue with any of them.  I would like to think that, rather than fall—unnoticed—into a slippery goblet, unable to return or be free, that our lives are marked—instead—by what we do WHILE alive.  What kindness can we show.  What compassion.  What radiant goodness?  What unselfish love.  What purity of spirit.

And when we finally die, is it to an endless, dreamless sleep?  Or falling into an oblivion of hellish nightmare, and never-ending torture, far far greater than the sum of all our earthbound pain?  Or, else to be catapulted out among black galaxies with their cold, and lifeless stars? 

Or should we—instead—with wings of joy

ascend to the full explanation of our Bliss? For these are but possibilities, questions to which I have no ready answer.  For that—my very dear, and wonderful friends, I gladly leave it up to you.

But please, ever know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’

Please always know I love you,

‘Zahc’/Charles

" Though Worked-for, And Well-deserved...."

      ‘ Though Worked-for, And Well-deserved, Why Do S.S.I., And S.S.D.I. Entitlements Confer A Life Of Grinding Poverty For Those Who Need It Most ? ‘

04/15/12

To my very, very dearest friends, and ever loyal readers,

Sometime—around noon, I guess, for those  whom such exactness is required—the month of April will be half-over; that roughly means that there are still two weeks, m.o.l., until May, and until the rusted doors of the Government coffers screech open. And like an endless swarm of bats scarce seen at twilight, out will fly the little checks we are granted, that—once again—will ensure some little, hoped-for comfort on which to live.

I full-believe that these sums are reckoned at by governmental dweebs and feebs (quite possibly horned, and very feral), kept safe by bullet-headed, armed guards, as they scratch their brow ridges, by the divination of sheep entrails beneath a full, and lambent moon, somewhere quite possibly in Virginia, let’s say Arlington, as so much other mischief goes on there.

For on or about the third of every month, I—and so many others—get a check that is plainly insufficient for our needs.  Although there is about eighteen days until ‘pay’, I find that I am already almost broke, and still with bills to pay.

After my second application for disability (requiring an attorney’s intervention at $5.700.00) when I was finally awarded first S.S.I., then S.S.D.I, in being ever cautious, I was able to survive the month, bills paid; groceries obtained, with—perhaps—a smidgen left over to call my own.  That, my dearest friends, was in 2005.  But as the months and years passed, with no cost of living raise…except the one that booted me out of Medicaid covering my hospital and surgical stays, and doctor’s visits, the cost of everything—it seemed—went up once, twice, almost three times, while my entitlement gamely tried to keep up, and—exhausted—soon fell on its face, a lay there dead.

The Entitlement Program, which many call a ‘supplement’, no longer is nearly enough; and for those of us who cannot work ( damn us, anyway!), it is our ONLY source of income; there’s nothing else.  And while there was one, small 3.8% raise this past January, Medicare quickly sucked up the increase, leaving us, the elderly, the ill, the disabled, and dispossessed to twist in the breeze.

I am currently fifty-eight years old, and fully two years away from any helping or assisting County Programs (imagine…a double-sided page, font eight, of available programs that are denied me, until my sixtieth birthday, or, until I croak, instead).

The ONLY two programs I am currently eligible for are, since I have Medicare, I can pay the County Public Transportation two dollars each way to my doctor’s appointments, only, not even to stop to have prescriptions filled, and the Volunteer Way, a most laudable public program, whereby they deliver to me one box of canned goods and the like, a month.  That’s IT.  Oh...and Medicaid (bless its pointed, little head), has—in its wisdom—declared me eligible for (wait for this….), $16.00 a month in Food Stamps.  $16.00?????

Ah, b-b-b-but wait a second, here.  I worked for over thirty-four years; I filed taxes; I paid my share of S.S., and FICA.  None of this shit makes any sense.  Whenever the Government goes broke, they simply raise the debt ceiling; why then can’t I raise mine?  Or just print more currency?  Or, attach my needs by hiding it within the language of an insignificant bill to be voted upon by those few legislators who even bother to show up to vote?

I live alone, and basically have the same bills to pay as does everyone else: utilities; cable (for telephone, and internet, NOT 900 channels of TeeVee and movies).  I have to pay a private duty C.N.A. to assist me with showers; clean the house; and do the laundry.

And whenever the lawn wants mowing, or the hedges trimmed, oh God, or any groceries purchased ( and that includes prescriptions ), the too-often neglected care of my dear dog, the occasional doctor’s visit co-pay, and trying, hopelessly, to pay down a maxed-out credit card.  ALL of this comes out of MY pocket, and they are shallow ones, indeed.  And, let us not forget taxes I must pay.

What this now means is that I can hardly withstand the month.  In past, I’ve had to borrow money from friends, which I regret, and relatives, which I detest.  I thank God the house is paid for; I have no car, nor car insurance.

Every month—about this time—I start to panic and to become even more depressed. I did not ask to become ill and disabled; I cannot think of anyone who—in their right mind—would.

All this constant worry adversely affects my health; it cannot help but do so.  In consequence, my pain levels go up and stay there; I have searing migraines; my glucose, and blood pressure is shot to hell and back; and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

Funny, but in becoming ill, I did not suddenly fall off the earth; I have to ‘buy’ things; I make, and sustain jobs; I pay taxes, and help support the common weal.  I am now no less a citizen of these ‘United States’ than ever I was.  I salute the flag; I vote; I most firmly believe in our Rights and Freedoms.

Among them—though—I do not think includes the Right To Starve; or the Freedom To Die Unattended.  Yet…too many of our citizens do both, which should be considered an egregious stain upon our Constitution, and Bill Of Rights.  And when it involves our children, it is both vile, and inexcusable. As Americans, we think ourselves to be a World Power, but act with fifth-world nation mentalities.

Annually, billions, and trillions of dollars, are misspent, misappropriated, lost, hidden, or simply given away, as if the ‘cookie jar’ has no bottom; how much DOES an aircraft carrier cost?  How much to bailout Goldman Sachs—who in their blatant disregard refer to the public as ‘Muppets’?

In all of this, we—too—must take on a portion of the blame; for it would seem that every four years…at Election time, the Populi shits it collective pants; we hang—breathless—to every promise that we know will not be kept.  How can they, when carnal greed is met with the lure of boundless cash?  The Grand Industrial/Corporate/Military Complex would eat our babies, were it not for errant twitter boasts, or You Tube video morsels that slip--unnoticed—from the mouths of our self-considered ‘New Age Romans’, who enjoy a life of Barbarous Splendor, living outside, and above the Law.

Never mind that nighty Rome fell not so much from outside attack, but from excesses that rotted it away from the inside.

We sadly witnessed the undoing of the Peaceful March on Wall street, when one banker—from the safety of an upstairs window—jeeringly offered a single person a job at $50,000.00 a year….which was taken.  I find I cannot be angry too much at the person who broke through lines to accept the job.  Pure need is pure need.

But part of me—especially when I have no money, now, well-before month’s end—would rather see that jeering offer met, instead, by a fired shot.  It doesn’t matter if it misses.

 

What these so-called movers and shakers need to feel is fear…of their money, security, their lives.  Until they are forced behind a barricade of desks, surrounded by an uncertain cadre of guards, will we—as a People, as Americans, will ever know both Rightness, and Justice.  We’ve witnessed a succession of petty tyrants overthrown around the globe. Too many of our own elected—who are as culpable of crimes as they, and even worse, were truth be known.

The sad and sadder Truth already lies before us; it is our neglectful shame, full reflected in any mirror. When evil is allowed, it propagates and flourishes, while we—the governed, or enslaved—are too easily distracted by sparkly toys to notice our enslavement?  Before it too late, if not too late already, who shall we, as one, name as our true Champion?

My dear, dear friends, and constant, loyal readers, I thank you for your demonstrated kindness, your inherent goodness, your patience…and, your love and regard.  I thank you for befriending me, and for making me feel not so alone.

I wish so much for you quiet, joyous days  (where did they go?); days of wonder, and delight; pantries full, with security and funds to spare so that you may have fuller lives, free from the worries I know we share; I wish you be surrounded by love and greater care, and days of much-lessened, or of ‘no pain’; true friends to sustain you; balmy afternoons of quiet fun  (when was the last time you had that !?); a gladly-assumed duty to report abuse; and evenings and nights of naturally, blissful sleep;  with flights of angels to comfort and protect you and yours’, until, a happy, and well-refreshed morning.

And please, please know, I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles

' Migraines And Moths; Fibromyalgia And Spiders.....'

‘ Migraines And Moths; Fibromyalgia And Spiders: Excruciating Pains Within A Most Neglected Kitchen  ‘

04/13/12

Oh, my sweet and dearest friends, and as always, my loyal, and ever constant readers, how often—in the resent past—have I spoken to you about pain? And, to that end, have mentioned a searing, tearing pain that would drive a thousand tongues to babble in an extraordinary suffering that readily eclipses the mind and body’s ability to endure; perhaps that has become old news by now, but in trying to make a fair assessment, would mention these things to you as they are common occurrences.

Were I younger, and better able to withstand what seldom pain I had, and, blissfully not knowing what really true pain lay ahead, I would have fully doubted (or greatly suspected and rejected it as being a thing, impossible), that time, and accumulated illnesses would so corrupt my mortal frame as to frequently make of it a most loathsome and despised thing.

That twenty-five year old photograph of me, now posted on MDJunction—having no previous experience in agonizing pains, nor the subsequent collection of illnesses—does not care, because it cannot care; and yet, with all its juvenile assumption finds itself placed more often in the witness box, to be grilled by angry questions from a Present self.  And lacking solid evidence of culpability nevertheless is found guilty—to very least—of not having savored each and every curious and wonderful day, when they cannot be thus favored now.

To use but one illustration, in those long-ago days, what I ‘then’ believed to be incapacitating headache, could—when I was ten—be gotten rid of by one of my dear, late mother’s glass of iced coffee (which, in a Texas summer tasted wonderfully cold and refreshing, and which BTW, began a half-century love affair with ‘coffee ice-cream’); and, later—at twenty-five—could still most easily be whisked-away from me with just one or two regular strength Tylenol.

This morning, friends, at just before 5:00 AM, I awoke, again, out in the kitchen, having left the patio door sliders open, but—today—with a migraine so severe that my head and body simply could not contain it; it was to a agony of pain that radiated through my pores, until I was covered all over in a chilling sweat, having already somehow wet myself.

I rocked, and cried, and disturbed Daisy with my endless suffering, as I dropped cigarette after cigarette to roll, unheeded on the counter top, until little rivulets of ashes lay here and there.

My ever kind, supportive friends, I know fully that you—too—have your pain, and suffering that causes you unnatural despair, and so, dear friends—without melodrama, nor hyperbole, you will, I think, quite understand when I tell you, that for the past three hours (especially as soon as I awoke to such a migraine), that, could I have died, I would have; without protestation, without resentment, nor with apportioned blame.

As very soon I could, I began to take pain medication, not even really counting the doses that I took; and although everything I took (and yes, I took multiple doses of anything I thought might help), so that a lingering effect of achy creepiness remained, I frankly did not care.  I ask you (who have suffered as have no other), what would you do?  When being in such a totality of pain causes you to take much more medication than was ever prescribed, or else, begin to wonder if you have a revolver, and where it is.  And, dearest friends, as I pledged once to not ever lie to you, what I am attempting to describe to you, may be taken at full-face value.  And more’s the pity that pure and unrelieved pain can do that easily.  And…often caused by the slightest effort.

In 1978, when my mother and father purchased the double-wide, mobile home, that now has come to be ‘my home’, one of the features in the small kitchen is a handy, little, built-in pantry; in addition to holding a broom and mop and dustpan, contains seldom used pots, and pans; my aluminum foil, and Saran Wrap; a supply of light bulbs; my cigarettes; and other oddments, and ‘important lock-box papers’.  In addition, this pantry is where I keep the dog food, both canned, and dry.

Most recently, and twice—before—I began to notice moths flying about the inside of the pantry, or perched on the ceiling, above.  In the darkness if that neglected pantry, the moths laid eggs, and multiplied, and multiplied, until they were not only abuzz inside the pantry, but, one very early morning, when—in hoping to get something to drink, and maybe have a couple of cigarettes—I turned on the kitchen lights to behold, perhaps, a hundred moths, filling the air around me.  I staggered around, killing all the moths that I could reach, to find their wings covered in a kind of grey/white dust that always left a mark behind…one difficult to eradicate.  I got out the flyswatter for the ones on the ceiling, but that night (as there have been so many), my fibromyalgia made my attempts to stand on tip-toe on a kitchen stool—while weaving back and forth, unsteadily-- to reach out to smash the little bastards into oblivion, made me dizzy, and light-headed. And most likely to fall, again.

My wonderful C.N.A., Mary, found out that the bag of Daisy’s dry dog food was FULL of moths, and spidery with the cocoons of egg casings. Mary then went through my kitchen cabinets to find that all my pasta, rice, cereal, and any grain product ruined, and blackened at the bottom with moths, and eggs, and…tiny worms, necessitating that everything be taken out in the trash.  I lost ALL of my dry goods. 

So prolific were these little s.o.bs’, that they quickly migrated through the house, into my bed room, and clothes’ closet, where they snuggled-in among my ‘everyday’ threads, and further, into my woolen wear.  I couldn’t seem to kill them fast enough.  The killer was when I had gotten a new, unopened box of corn flakes, and the very next day after I had opened it, inside I could count four moths.  After having had only one bowl of a giant-sized box of cornflakes, they—too—joined the cavalcade of needed food out to the garbage.

Not even once in twenty-six years, had we ever had such an infestation, that I telephoned the County’s agricultural Office; and what I subsequently learned will chill your very poop.

Apparently, in nearly EVERYTHING we buy that is a grain or cereal product (dog food counts, too!), the eggs of the unhatched moths are already there; they’re almost too small to detect, and impossible to winnow out before packaging.  Should you prepare any of these products shortly after purchase, the eggs will not have had enough time to hatch, and with pasta or grain products—for example—the product and the eggs are simply cooked as one, and are harmless.  But did you know that you are eating them, nonetheless?

The moths are known as “Indian Meal Moths”, who hatch only when the products have not be touched in months; I had—for example—purchased an eighteen pound bag of dry dog food for Daisy; I was not able to use it up fast enough, so the moth eggs hatched, becoming little crawling worms (Jesus) that cocoon until they—too—become moths.

Fortunately, there are pheromone traps with an intensive glue inside that attracts the moths, then captures them until they croak, preventing them from laying eggs. In a fairly short time—having interrupted their life cycle—they begin to lessen, until they are gone.  To do that, though, I had to pay my cousin to purchase for me, two, five-pack sets which I placed in the pantry, the living room, the bathroom, the bedroom and the Study, and in both my closets, for when—in time—the traps were overflowing with dead moths, I replaced them with new traps.

And, I now have little spiders in my pantry, who descend, and rise on single threads, but, who all seem to be carrying egg sacks; so what I shall do about them is another matter, as they seem impervious to the moth traps.  In addition to, again, more recent moths.   At least the moths seem uninterested in eating clothes, or dining off woolens.

Frankly, my very, very dearest friends, and loyal readers, I cannot decide quite what disgusts me more: seeing squadrons of flying moths throughout the house, or…knowing that—in general—I am actually having to eat unprocessed eggs, in my cereal, rice, grain, pasta, breads, or flour.  Not to mention the chance of finding spiders in the bananas, or roaches in the produce.

The only possible solutions that I can even think of are preventative:

1)           Buy your rice, cereal, and pasta—for example—with full intentions of using it soon, rather than letting it remain hidden on your kitchen shelves for weeks.

2)           After purchase, place the entire box, itself, or the contents of an opened box in a zip-lock bag, appropriate to size.

3)           Keep your opened condiment, sugar, bread, and coffee in your refrigerator; that way, they will be protected, and stay fresher, longer.

4)           Unless you absolutely cannot help it, never leave dirty dishes with food on them on the sink; either rinse them off, or—as I did—use paper plates that can be jettisoned after each meal.

5)           Do not let your kitchen garbage can become sour, dirty, or…overflowing; if your pain causes you to be less diligent in emptying the trash, give the full bag a dusting with Carpet Fresh, and tie most tightly.  Before you put in a new bag, sprinkle the bottom of the can with Carpet Fresh, or baking soda to help eliminate odors.

6)           The ways that dry pet food (kibbles) are prepared and stored, make of them an excellent moth-breeding ground.  Once the bag has been opened, the moths can not only crawl in, but they can apparently burrow-though the bag.  So, wherever you keep your dry pet food, whether in a pantry, or out in the garage, place the opened, rolled-up bag into a larger plastic garbage bag, and seal as tightly as you can.; some people simply empty the dry pet food into a large, plastic bin with wheels and a sealable top.  The size would—of course—depend upon the weight and size of the bag.  And, unless you have someone who can do it for you, since I have fibromyalgia, and chronic pain, I would—unless necessity dictates (were you—for example—to have two or three very large dogs) that you avoid buying dry pet food in 40-50 pound bags.  For although it may be more economical, such a heavy bag will prove difficult to move, and impossible to lift; that is why I now buy Daisy’s food in eight pound bags, and still have difficulty maneuvering it around, or picking it up to pour in her dish.

It is a miracle, my most dear friends, that that 5:00AM, rampaging headache is actually almost gone; as an afterthought, I still ache nearly everywhere, and am SO very tired, and can now entertain what I like to refer to as: ‘Headache Hangover’, which—if the Past is any indicator of the Present means that I will be tired and shell-shocked almost all day, into the evening; I truly mind-fogged, and weary, and, is not unlike a hangover from too much alcohol.

I wish for you days free of pain or of distress; calm, and quiet days of wonder, and of secret joy.  I wish for you your kitchen cabinets be full of goodies (and NO moths !);  prosperity, and more than enough to get you through the month!; I wish you caring friends, and that you be surrounded by those who truly love and treasure you; safe afternoons of balmy, pleasant weather; and blissful and pain free nights of glorious sleep, free from nightmare, or disturbance, always protected, and made easy by winged flights of gentle angels; and…all the love and happiness that you kind heart can hold!

Please always know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles