" Well, 'Giddy-up, giddy-up, giddy-up go'...Who Me? "

“  Well, ‘Giddy-up, giddy-up, giddy-up go’…Who Me ?   “

06/13/12

To my dearest friends, and ever-constant, loyal readers,

Now…please don’t get me wrong.  In general, I really do like animals, especially dogs and cats, and pandas, and lemurs, and turtles…in fact, many animals, all of which look SO cute as babies, that sometimes—while yet so young—they evidence something that I can only describe as the  “A-w-w-w-w-w-w” factor.

That’s why baby tigers look so cute, as well—I suppose—as do baby bears, who, in becoming adults still retain their beauty, but that you wouldn’t necessarily want to hold one in your lap, and pet it.

However, there are many other so-called ‘God’s’ creatures, that I would not get near, even with a twenty foot pole; snakes and spiders come most readily to mind, yet some people swear by them as dubious pets.  I find no allure in spiders that might bite me, or pythons, who in an oily manner, move constantly about their owner’s shoulders, seeking to coil-around their throats I bet, looking for a convenient snack.

And…I do like horses; I think the baby foals are cute, as they flop-about, all tangled in legs that are yet too long, or, huddled with their mothers just adorable.  I think that horses are rather regal, with flowing manes and tails, and shiny coats, as they gambol-around the pasture.  One thinks of endless Springtime, flowers, and the intense greenness of paddocks.

My dear, agency nurse—herself—owns horses. And if you will most kindly recall, I very, nearly owned a pony of my own, a dark-chocolate-colored, gelding I had already named ‘Charlie Brown’.  That deal—alas—was not to be, and for a while, I was crushed.

One more than one occasion, my nurse has invited me out to see her horses; and for me, it might prove to be a most pleasant afternoon; carrying a pocketful of ‘horse treats’, and looking at each one.  Please do remember the word ‘looking’ as I will return to that again.

She even gave me a giant calendar for Christmas, with lots of room to write appointments on.  And every day is represented by a different horse, or set of horses.  I don’t know…are they then called ‘gangs’, or ‘groups’, or maybe, ‘herds’?  I usually just say a ‘bunch’ of horses.

And…they are, to a one, beautiful, and full of life, and yes, I might like to ( with greatest supervision and protection !), pet one of hers, or even proffer it some treats.  She currently has an absolutely gorgeous baby (?) stallion called, “Toby”, and from the pictures that I’ve seen on her cell telephone, it truly is a charmer, with, so far, a gentle disposition.

Sometimes, though, while looking at, or writing upon the calendar, my errant memories flow back through prior decades, just to remind me of my past relationship with horses.

I have been on horseback exactly twice in my life, in 1964, and 1968.  The first was with my late dad; we lived in Texas at the time, and on one weekend went to a fairly local ‘dude ranch’, that offered horseback rides.  I was ten years old, and the prospect thrilled me, though the reality was something different.  Isn’t it always?

My father, I, and a group of us were placed on older, bored, and tired horses; they had done this thing a million times, and so, we traced a well-worn path that ended back at the barn…the horse’s only desire was to just get it over with and call it a day.

The ranch DID have an authentic stagecoach there, and I must have climbed all over it from stem to stern.

So after the pre-arranged four-hour ‘walk’, the ‘pony ride’ was over, and dad and I went happily home, both smelling like horse; my mother stood guard at the backdoor, refusing to let us in and on her clean floor, until we had divested ourselves of shoes, socks, jeans, which my dear mom carried, held at arm’s distance, and two fingers on the other hand pinching her nose shut, as she dumped them in the washing machine.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with riding horses, that smell of ‘horsey’ clings, and will not go away.

And while the Jury still may be out, regarding whether fools—in fact—are born, or are they ‘made’, in 1968, when I was fourteen, while living, now in Alabama, I had a chance to go horseback rising again.  I had remembered it as being tolerably fun, if such a thing exists, and so, throwing caution to the wind, I told my friend at the time, “ Sure !, Yippy-Ki-Yay!”, while quite forgetting that that was the phrase American cowboys used to yell at cattle.

Now kindly remember please, that this was forty-four years ago, and I was young and strong, and completely ‘bone-headed’ (the latter charge may still apply, depending upon whom you ask).  But, even then, I did have some sense of self-preservation,

For upon our arrival, I purposely asked for their oldest, fattest, most highly-sedated mare, the kind whose name would be something like ‘Lulu Belle’, wearing a straw hat, with holes cut out for its ears, as it munched-away on a bag of oats.

As I waited, there arose a huge commotion from the stable, and out was brought (by two men holding on to ropes) was a giant, young, and evil stallion, whose Indian name would probably have translated to,” Devil Killer From Beyond Mars! “, but who—for convenience’s sake--was just referred to as, “ Hell-Fire “.

Years, and years later, I would read ( from my all-time, favorite humorist, S.J. Perleman ):

1)           Never eat at any place called ‘Mom’s’.

2)           Never play poker with anyone named ‘Doc’.

To which, I would gladly add a third:

3)           Never try to ride a horse called ‘Hell-Fire’.

This horse hated me, and hated everyone else.

As yet a third ‘ranch hand’ struggled to get under my ass to lever me up into a saddle that suddenly seemed twenty feet off the ground, I was surprised that they did not have those little, rolling stairs by which one boards an airplane.

Were  there any sense of Justice, ‘ Hell-Fire ‘ should, by rights, have come equipped like a car, with power steering, power brakes, and…seat belts.  For, although we had yet not gotten anywhere, even while still tethered to ropes strong-enough to hold an ocean liner, ‘Hell-Fire’ tensed, and jumped around, and chaffed against the bit, and I would gladly have paid extra for it to be given liberal shots of horse tranquilizers, with some, of course, for me.

At that point, my dearest friends, really all I wanted to do is just get off, while the various, idle cowpokes roared at me, and brush myself off, and go the hell home.  It would have been a secret known only to my friend, and I would have threatened death had he ratted on me for being such a ‘scaredy-cat’. No, no, dear friends, those sounds you hear are called ’survival instincts’.

For, in a trice, all the ropes were removed, as everybody scattered for cover, and ‘Hell-Fire’ rocketed-off, truly, as if it had had an Atlas missile up its kazoo.

As Einstein said, ‘speed is relative’, which is true, because with me at horse-level flying-though the pastures, the scenery blurred, and we must have been galloping along at better than eighty miles-per-hour.

Up and down, and all around we went; ‘Hell-Fire’s’ energy knew no bounds, and its only goal in life was to get me off its back.

Having lost my hat and sunglasses, I had long-before given up any notion of holding the reins, and opted—instead—to try to hold on to the saddle, and the pommel with all my might.

This was no ‘horsey ride’, nor petting zoo, and I wanted off.  I stopped yelling ‘whoa’, and ‘stop’, to ‘stop, Godammit !!!!!!!, stop!!!!!!!!!!’. Until I was finally just yelling hoarsely, ‘HELP!, somebody get me off of this thing!’.

And on this point, ‘Hell-Fire’ and I were in agreement; it ran me under tree limbs.  It ran me against fences, and right into the biggest pile of wasps I’ve ever seen.  And if you know your wasps, once you agitate them, they WILL chase you forever.

I think it was when, after a titanic leap, my feet slipped out of the stirrups, that I really knew the fear of imminent death.

Oh, and I forgot to mention, that on too many an occasion, the horse threw back its head, and tried to bite me.  Friends, now those are a lot of teeth!

By now, my horse had truly become insane, and began bucking high into the air.  On the second ‘buck’, the cinch holding the saddle to the horse broke, and off I flew in an inelegant ‘glissade’, high above the horse’s head, and arcing out; all I could see was sky, and tree tops, and landed, maybe eight feet from the horse, right on my keister.

It was a gargantuan landing that—should it have happened even twenty years ago—surely would have killed me.  For a l-o-n-g, l-o-n-g time I just sat there, accessing damages. ‘Hell-Fire’, mission complete just stood there, eyeing me in hatred and disgust.

As soon as I had more or less regained consciousness, I got up, hurting in a bazillion places, gave the horse the finger, and very slowly limped my way back to the office.

“Where’s your horse, son?” the manager said, with a smirk on his face.  To him, I in pain replied, “I don’t know…and, I don’t care.  How about the nearest glue factory?  You boys find him.  I’m going home!”

And with that I grabbed my friend, who had long since ended his kiddy ride, and called my dad to come and pick us up. I ached for days.  And that was in 1968, my friends.

Since then, I’ve had occasion to do more than my fair share of screwing up, and of doing stupid things.

However, one of them was not horseback riding, and I will NEVER, EVER try to ride one again.  Can you see it now? With my oxygen, and cane?  Plus, they’d need a derrick with which to lower my not-inconsiderable caboose gingerly down upon the saddle.

Besides….the horses look just fine on the calendar.

Oh, my dearest, dearest friends, I wish you wonderful days free of pain or despair.  I wish you comfort, and all the love your kind hearts can hold! I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles

"On, How Apparent Swings In Downward Spiral..."

“ On, How Apparent Swings In Downward Spiral, The Human Race “

06/10/12

To my ever most dear, and wonderful friends, and constant, loyal readers,

I first must admit to you my lasting naiveté, when—otherwise—at my time of life, I had considered I had seen so many aspects of life, and had ‘been around the block’ so many times, as to make my head spin.

I felt quite confident in my assumptions about life, and about people, and about how the two sometimes most curiously collide and combine. For in my working life, and now…my disabled one, I have seen true courage and selflessness in the face of eminent failure; I have witnessed love, that evidences no hidden agenda; and I saw people at their worst—I thought—who were genuinely evil-minded, and who spread discord, and disharmony wherever they could.

Very early on, and since, I felt I had clearly run the gamut from the truly naughty, to the truly nice.  I was exposed to blind hatred, and unexceptance, to warm, and giving natures, whose quiet brightness lighted up a room.

I learned that many individuals will fight to the death for wrong things, or right; or react in ‘slack-jawed’ ennui, for whom the most sensational was but a giant ‘yawner’.

All of my preconceived ideas were most effectively ripped from me after I was given my computer.

For anyone who spends anytime at the computer, ‘surfing’ the net, in time you will be exposed to some ethereal beauty, but, more—it seems, increasingly—to horrors that frankly make of fevered nightmare an unimportant thing.

In a way, without somehow filtering its content, or legislating its content, the atrocities that beggar the imagination spew forth their terror, and unbelievable must—perforce—be granted to one and all.  And I will be the first to say that censorship begins with the ‘delete’ key, but, if it is your choice to revel in such hellish stuff, that, of course, is your choice; and I remain a most ardent proponent of free speech.

Now, having said that, I certainly wish that much higher hopes were in the minds of those who developed the ‘Vocem Penitus’, the voice of the internet, and that, in order to be free, it has subsequently passed the ‘Wild West’ days, into something I find disquieting.

How often have I searched for some bit of humor, or information, or edification on the ‘web’, to find that I had been thrown to a place darker than the imagination.

A dear friend warned me of this. (He) said that there were such things in existence that he would not tell me about, for, I suppose, hurting my heart, and boggling my mind.  And, my dearest friends…he was completely correct.

And, although I do not seek these horrors out, they seem to spring at one quite unbidden, and yes, these things hurt my heart, boggle my mind, but also give me lasting ill and uncomfortable feelings.  For now, these make me afraid, for in truth, I had not been exposed to particular incidents, thus keeping my naiveté intact.  Perhaps I did not know, because I simply did not want to know.  Because they DO shock; they DO hurt: they DO offend; and, they DO make one most afraid.

My dearest, kindest friends and readers, I chose to not mention the majority of it.  You know its there.  And I imagine you too recoil at the depth and breadth of its inhumanity.  And our children have free access to this?  This scares me most of all, for eventually, in becoming numb to such things, hardness of heart, loss of innocence, and a kind of mean-spirited apathy surely must follow.

I hardly need mention all the ‘battle’ theme games that are out; and these certainly do not spare the bloodshed, the screaming, and the utter violence that passes now for entertainment.  This cannot help but make one immune to the everyday violence seen around the world.

I will, however, share one incident with you with which I hope to clarify my point.

Yesterday evening, I was roaming-around the Yahoo page, for some little news of interest or entertainment.  I finally found an article with a video, in which a 97 year old woman, finally got her High School diploma.

It was a sweet and touching story, and the woman, while made small with age and care, looked, nevertheless regal in her white cap and gown.

This was—for her—a lifetime achievement, and she touched the diploma haltingly, saying how proud her father would be of her.  And in a quavering, broken, hollow voice she began to cry. She was SO, SO happy at last, and to receive her diploma accompanied by three generations of her family; in fact, her grandson is also taking his degree a little later this year, from the same High School.

To hear her voice, and know her pride, and hear her rusty tears brought more than one lump to my throat, and I found my eyes had tears of joy in them, for her, for our society, as well as ourselves.  And it was but a brief, but beautiful story. Which—in truth—should have, for me, ended there, happy and warm.

But, as it was on Yahoo, as it is with many sites, there was a ‘comment’ section below, so that people could enter in their feelings, and their thoughts.

My friends, I never made it through even two pages of comments.  While about fifty-five% were warm, congratulatory, and life-affirming, too many were unparalleled in their vulgarity, most, as you might know, sexual in nature; or rude; or complaining.

My jaw hit the table in front of me.  How could anyone say such things?  And why?  And for what purpose?  To entertain? And why—please do excuse me—would any comment written, necessitate the mention of the word, ‘lube’?

It must, therefore, represent a few, important things:

1)           That, although that world is wide and large, the apparent number of unspeakable people abound in greater numbers than I could have possible imagined.

2)           I am then more naïve than I thought?

3)           That pernicious evil is everywhere, and since most people have video-recording cell telephones, they do not hesitate one second in sharing with the world their mindless, base brutality.

4)           In addition to being very, very ill, and agoraphobic, besides, now I am becoming more and more afraid, which makes me less likely to want to venture forth.

I fully realize that, particularly in these days, one cannot afford to keep one’s head in the sand, it does, in consequence make me want to barricade my doors, and try to stay (with dear Daisy), safely hidden within.

It also makes me sad, as I still don’t understand, except that being human isn’t all its cracked up to be.  And I sometimes wonder why a giant asteroid doesn’t just wipe the slate clean.

Just how very far HAVE we wandered from an Eden?

On a personal note, dear friends, my bronchitis has spread to become pneumonia.  With prayers said, and with luck, and rashers of medications, I hope—yet—to recover, and be well.  I do ask you, please, please forgive me if my future postings become every third day, instead of every other.  This will both allow me to rest, to better gather my thoughts, and with greater hopes to provide you, my special friends and readers with more that I most sincerely hope will be worth reading.

For YOU are the most important part of my equation; your mounting readership makes my heart happy, and helps me find my Voice.  And, to that end, I am—of course—open to your suggestions, as I value your opinions, even those contrary to mine, and for your readership.  Without them, I am truly alone.

I thank you humbly, for your befriending me, and for ever keeping me in your most kind thoughts, and wishes.

Please always know, I love you,

‘Zahc’/Charles

" Please...Why? "

“  Please…Why?  “

06/08/12

Please…why is it when dire, infectious illness wends so slowly as it slowly wanes,

all kinds of miseried things—instead—fly in;

like roving migraines, more deep despair, and unrelenting stomach pains,

to seek some measure of ascendency, there, to lasting, dwell within?

For though a painful, aspirative congestion remains,

and constant coughing from a too-raspy throat,

allows a rank fatigue to settle in, while dark depression reigns. 

Somehow, these small, attendant evils gloat.

My hands and arms, and shoulders jump, and have not stopped,

and I still have not an appetite for food;

I sit in silence, with coffee that I’ve spilled, and burn marks from the cigarettes I’ve dropped.

Oh well…perhaps some weight loss will do me good.

In feeling ill—somehow—has been uncapped an endless well of sorrow

that reduces all my once-fond hopes to smoke and dreams.

I briefly doze throughout the day, in hopes I will feel a little better, when I awake, tomorrow.

Despite all the antibiotic use—for now—as useless, there is no relief it seems.

My jumbled, scattered prayers are mumbled to a God I cannot see,

for wellness, for financial help to make it to month’s end.

Is there a cure for loneliness, I ask, most wistfully?

And that some blissful, monetary help descend.

I’m not completely selfish, because I always pray

for illness-end, and health returned, and that all pain and need will cease;

I do this for my dearest, kindest friends at M.D.J.

That you—too—may find true happiness at least.

How often have I come to you in pain, to always find you there?

How often have I cried for all of us, for everything which we should enjoy in full, but lack?

How often have I turned to you, my dearest friends, to seek your heartfelt, loving care?

Please always, always know how very much I love you,     ‘Zahc’

End

"Whenever Dreary Illness To Existing Pain Is Wed..."

“ Whenever Dreary Illness To Existing Agonies Of Pain Is Wed, The Ill-struck Mind Thinks Back Upon The Odd, But Somehow Kinder Hope Instead “

( An entry made up of bits of fluff, delusion, lost love, and worse; to try to find some lambent comfort written out as prose, and sometimes verse, or in uncompleted notions, bits of thought, that only pain or illness knows)

06/05/12

To my very dear, and dearest friends, and gentle, loyal readers, please know that you are never far from my regard, or the totality with which I wish you happy, safe, and well.

Just having been seen by my Primary, the ‘winner’ has been announced: on top of all my known agonies of pain, I now have bronchitis, which—while it seems harmless-enough-- combined with C.O.P.D., and emphysema, and my having to drag oxygen all around with me, I find that I am, again, a cat’s whisker from a stay in the dreaded hospital, and so, am being bombarded with antibiotics, in hopes of being able to remain home, and, yesterday, had the dosage of them increased 50%.

Now, whenever I take a smaller, compromised breath, I am like to cough, and the feeling is not unlike having swallowed a cheese-grater, upside down, along with rib cage pain, that—together—has made me want to cry…but I am out of tears at present.  At least for myself.

The only vector that comes to mind is my dear C.N.A., who—last week—came to assist me with a shower.  Occasionally she had a little cough, or sneeze one would otherwise hardly notice; her voice did sound unusual, and she complained of having problems with her ‘sinuses’.

Try as I can, I cannot ‘germ-proof’ the house against the world, or even remotely live in some plastic bubble.  In truth…it could have been anyone…a neighbor bringing in the mail, or the man who delivered my groceries, though he seemed well. And, there’s use to pointing fingers, when illness is the result.

All that I do know, or can say, is that, as a card-carrying member of the ‘Agoraphobia Club’, and having a shit immune system, since Friday, I have felt less than alive.

“ Medical ‘1—2—3’s “

06/06/12

To my ever dearest friends, and loyal, steadfast readers, despite the apparent depth of my resent illness, I somehow feel as if in some way, I am doing a major disservice to you, for, as my friends and readers, you sustain me with a joy not found in my day to day living.

I mist—in truth—admit (a little ashamedly) that your increasing numbers delight me. And my life—it seems—is fully lacking in any kinds of joy; too often I am consumed with budgets, and of how much I have left to pay the bills.  Thus unrequited, I turn to you, my precious friends, for some sense of gladness, some sense of purpose.

But there are times—especially when I feel this horrible—the ‘idea’ well seems to want to come up dry, and to this I would attribute a most severe ‘mind fog’, and a reluctance to even get out of bed.

And I imagine that when you happen to be ill on top of illness, on top of illness, there soon is reached a point where everything seems hazy and unreal, not helped in any way by an absent appetite, a ‘drugged-out’ fatigue, until one’s concentration hovers from breath to breath, and so passes an increasingly long day.

For I now am all these things …and more; how willing I am to suffer at home, rather than risk a $500.00 ambulance trip, to a hospital, already creepy-crawly with enough germ, bacteria, and viruses to fund a thousand illnesses.

Or, the matter of my last hospital stay, with a roommate who avidly watched extreme horror movies all night, and slept most of the day; where the mattress and the pillows I was on felt as if filled with rocks; and both side-rails up (ostensibly, to keep me from falling out of bed), but kept me—instead—from the bathroom, maybe eight feet away, with urinals, instead, that slipped down the rails to the floor, or was placed upon the same bed-side table, where my meals were delivered.

In a matter of two, maybe three days, I felt grimy, dirty, greasy, until all I most wanted was a long, hot, soapy soak in a tub, and clean linens placed on the bed, and fresh gowns placed on me.

With my luck, I drew the bed nearest the door, and all night long, lights shone in, the intercom brayed doctor’s names incessantly, and I could hear geriatric patients all up and down my wing yell, “Help!” or “Nurse!”

Thinking upon it all now, there should be (at time of admission), a huge pill that simply renders one unconscious for the duration of the stay.

And I haven’t even yet vented my spleen regarding hospital Emergency Rooms, or, their Waiting Rooms, with a type of ‘herding’ process, that double guarantees that anyone forced to sit, and wait there for hours, will pick up at least three more conditions, from would-be patients who could or would not cover a sneeze or cough.  For someone with an already compromised immune system, this is the equivalent of medical, ‘Russian Roulette.’

To my dear, sweet friends, no matter how you feel, I would advise going to a hospital as a ‘last course’ of action, such as stroke, or heart attack.

06/06/12

“Decision time.  Decision time “

However, whenever you’ve become quite ill, and decide to remain at home…then what to do?

If you have a family, you quickly become just another thing underfoot.  Often times, your family will shun you, lest they believe you are contagious, and will severely limit their exposure to you.  Very busy families will be no less busy, and, sometimes (dressed in stale pajamas, slippers, and robe), when all you might want is for someone, anyone to kindly make for you a cup of chicken soup, just so you can let the healing steam help open a clogged nose; you find—instead—that you’re given a wide berth, largely ignored, and…if you want the soup, you will have to make it.

For who straightens up the house when you are truly ill?  Who washes the dishes, or the laundry?  And, if you have this fantasy of being tucked-into bed, with plumped-up pillows, vaporizer going with the smell of Vicks, with a new box of Kleenex by your side, drapes drawn, and waited on with nourishing soups, or steaming cups of tea… Lady, you’ve been reading too much “Family Circle” magazines!

But I can hazard a guess that any male-type-creature in the house that becomes semi-partly-deathly ill, immediately infantilizes, and howl as though they already have one foot inside ‘death’s door’.  As their temperatures slide toward 101, they become complete invalids, having to be waited on hand, foot, fin, and beak.

“ The Dreaded Division Of The Sexes, Where Illness Is Concerned “

Whenever a male child is born, they are often, by the attending doctor slapped to cause them to take their first yell.  And thereafter, they somehow seems to never stop.  From, “Honey ! where’s my shirt!.  To, “Honey…where’s dinner?!”.  And what is odd, is that this man—outside—may be the Manager of some huge company, with piles of decisions to make every day.

No matter.  When it comes to home, if it doesn’t involve mowing the lawn, or beer, they devolve into almost utter helplessness.

And, should they ever become really ill, are so completely unable to care for themselves, that (unless you put a pillow over his face), you’ll soon swear that you somehow have one more child to tend to.

Times of wide-spread flu are the absolute worst, especially when whole families are down; then, no matter how very badly the mother/wife wants to be left alone, soon, you will feel like hired help, but, without the benefits.

And while this all sounds like stereotypes, in this Country (at least), it is true.  I am completely serious.

And why do I know that this is true?  Because I am a fifty-eight year old male who, while being very, very ill…still wants my mommy.

“  The Unpleasant Rigors Of Being Ill, And Alone “

When I was in my twenties, I lived in Tampa, had my own duplex, worked, ate, and prepared my own clothes.  And I was well, young, and strong then.  And both my parents were alive, so I still had some lifelines when I needed them.

In trying to live quite alone, I failed miserably at:1) keeping the apartment clean; 2) cooking for myself, and 3) doing the laundry.

After a couple of ‘near death’ experiences at the laundromat, in which once, I added so much detergent, that as the machine agitated, the top began to bounce up and down, spewing rivers of suds down the front of the machine where it gathered in a lake on the floor.  This did not go down well with the laundromat’s owners.

And while I did not earn a fortune, I decided that—in order to save the environment—I would drop off my dirty clothes one morning on the way home from work, and then, pick them up washed, dried, folder, and on hangers the next day after work.  I considered this a necessary treat, and routinely budgeted for the cost.

When I was but a young lad growing up, my mother, and dad both worked: though, she, as ‘House Wife’ probably worked three times harder than did my dad, except, she never got paid for her labors; while he was away—each day—she kept the house immaculate. For those of you too young to remember, my mom would weekly mop and strip the wax from the linoleum floors in the kitchen and bathroom.  After scooping up all that wax, she would make sure the floor was clean, and put down new wax to make it sparkle.

She actually made her own aprons, and had them all clean, and folded neatly in a drawer.  Always in the pockets of her aprons were a few clothes’ pins, an odd button or two, and much like Beaver Cleaver’s Mom, would wear a hose dress with her apron in front.

It was she who washed, and line-dried the clothes; some afternoons would find her in the living room, ironing clothes.  Socks were not thrown away, but mended.  Buttons were replaced. Hems were sewn.

Everything gleamed in the house, and there was no spot of dust anywhere.

Yet, she still found time to bake, and often would bake two loaves of Heaven-sent bread, and wrapping one in gingham, in a basket, still warm, she sometimes took a loaf of homemade bread to a neighbor who was ill, or simply…just because.

It was she who rubbed Vicks in my nose when I was sick (which was often), and slathered that junk all over my chest, covering it with a towel, and with a flannel pajama top.   The thermometer was near at hand, and the vaporizer ran constantly.

“ Flash Forward To A More Recent Past “

When—at last—I lived alone, I quickly found that, genetically, I was incapable of trying to keep my duplex clean; all too quickly, I learned that being both a ‘pack rat’, and a ‘slob’, were qualities that did not I any way help one another.  After a few attempts at trying to sweep clean my apartment’s linoleum, I final up and laid cheap throw rugs over all.  The unused half of my double bed became a resting place for everything I had intended in the past six months to read.  I did—however—keep the bathroom clean, as, some I had seen had blackened tubs, with just a small space to stand to take showers.  Yuck.

Gradually, my little home became the growing repository for books, newspapers, magazines, and—strangely—calendars. And…dust.  And so, about once a year, I hired ‘Merrie Maides’, who, frankly, did not look all that ‘merrie’, to come, hose out the house, and make it clean again.  And for a matter of months, it would look as if humans lived there.

“ Kindly Keep Your Cookbooks; Make Mine ‘Kraft’mac-n-cheese-in-the-box “

I never wanted to ‘fuss’ with supper, wanting only to fill up that hole of hunger with something cheap, reliable, and, very, very easy to make.  I never wanted to invest more time cooking something than it took to eat it.

Frankly, I ate so much ‘mac-n-cheese, it’s a wonder that I did not look jaundiced; many’s where—for convenience’s sake, I ate it directly from the pot I cooked it in with the same spoon, as I stood over the sink; afterwards, there was just one pot to wash, one spoon, and one strainer.

Or…sometimes you could buy those little Banquet pot pies for 5/$1.00; I especially liked the ones that had the bottom crust.

I also ate a LOT of bologna and Nacho Dorito sandwiches, with mayonnaise.  To this day, those are still great!  You’ve got to schmush them together, though.

“Please Bear With Me, As I’m Nearly Done, Or Just, ‘Done in’ “

Surely, by now, I must have two-dozen diagnoses, I guess, what’s one or two more.  Until I again feel more like myself, please excuse inconstant and/or jumpy posts.  For, really, all I want to do is try to sleep it off.

I really have no one to ‘care for me’, but I would only be a giant baby in consequence, if I did.

For you, my dear, dear friends, I wish days and days of lessened or of ‘no pain’; no random, ugly little illness such as mine.  I wish you family and friends attend to you with all their love; I wish you happiness and joy in everything you do.

I wish you plenty and peace all around you.

And, at the end of day, I wish for you a blessed, restful sleep, free of nightmare or distress.

And—as always—please know I love you dearly!

‘Zahc’/Charles

" First...You Must Forgive Yourself "

“ First…You Must Forgive Yourself “

06/03/13

To my very, very dearest friends, and ready, constant readers, I would like to wish for you a most quiet and peaceful Sunday, free from pain or care. I wish happiness for you and your family, free—at least for today—the worries, or any demonstrated ill-humor, which might otherwise cloud a wonderful day; actually, as all should be as wonderful, save for that which our various complaints would sully.

How often are we enjoined to keep our voices down and make peace with children running, laughing through the house; of being perpetually late to meals; or a spouse, who would rather retire as soon as possible to a basement lair, to hide in his ‘den’.

The pure fact of the matter is, we just don’t care; the house may be in complete discord, with clothes, and pets-under-foot everywhere

And, even those small slights, and indirections, such as having your parking spot ‘liberated’ out from under you before you can get it; surely store personnel; car  and sirens blasting, etc., all combine to make more wild your mind.

For, on top of all this horrendous stress (like, where’s the mortgage money coming from?), you are already much able to cope.  How well you try, but, whenever all seems lost, we tend to forget that no one asks to be disabled; no one asks for Lupus; or P.S.T.D. Nor could you so arrange your genes and chromosomes in such a fashion, that I would make you ill, afraid, despairing.  Often with pain that makes you cry…or pain that ties you to your bed…or pain, that frequently reshapes every life vector that you may have.  Until you often feel exhausted and undone.

And, all these people, with their separate and conjoined actions are to be somehow forgiven, and excused

that, in doing so, somehow we are somehow, elevated, made more temperate, and somehow closer to a greater Deity.

And as we tend to the contents of our souls….only then, may we be better in full as can be to contemplate the any, possible conjugations of theirs.

But first, before passing judgment, as ruthlessly we tend to do to our own hearts, and souls, do remember that you had NO say in the way that you’d turn out.

Try, then, forgive yourself, in full, for whatever you may have wanted life to be.  And, if you can be kinder to yourself, all will benefit.

I wish for you, my dear, and dearest friends, a measure of inner peace and accord; of satisfaction; I wish for you certainly days of lessened or of ‘no pain, or contention.  And if, upon an evening you offer up your thanks, in being easy on others, never forget to be most kind to yourself, for healing, for a quietness of the mind, for a general ease, and liberation from horrid nightmares, in finding true happiness at last.

Please know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles