Trixie Archer's Blog, page 5

The Dunes of Time

I'm doomed.  In knowing that I'd have to wake up early and write this blog today, I prepared hard boiled eggs for breakfast.  I took care of our cats, one of which is refusing to step foot from her crate because we have cat-guests.  I carried stubborn-Sal to the litter box, guided her in, pleaded with her for no accidents...and just as I was about to head to my office, my son asked for the gum I bought him.  Gum, really?  I changed directions and surrendered to the great scavenger hunt, sorting through the cloth grocery bags I keep in my car only to realize I failed him.  I lost the gum.  Sigh.
 
By that time my dog wanted to go outside, so I complied.  Finally, I booted up the computer and then, my daughter (who is at home on spring break this week) entered my office and plopped down.  All of the ideas that I had for today's blog, rained to the floor in a puddle. 
 
Thursday is blog day and everyone knows this.  How do I carve out this time without hurting her feelings or do I?  I suppose ideas come and ideas go...and sometimes they trail away along the great river never to be heard from again.  Can you seem me?  I'm waving at them now.  Bon Voyage.
 
"So how did you like my new boyfriend?"  Daughter asked.  Boyfriend was our honored guest for dinner last night.  I made soft shelled tacos with home-made guacamole, spicy rice and refried beans. 
 
"He was very nice," I said.
 
I surrendered to polite conversation with my daughter....during which the sands are slowly trickling through the hour glass.  Each grain passes then crashes into a visual echoing.  Migraine, frustration, frustration, migraine...grains of sand...doomed.  I'm doomed all right.
 
Last evening, I put her boyfriend through scrutiny level one.  I interrogated...but in a nice way.  I learned of his politics, questioned his viewpoint on "The Walking Dead," I asked how many people were in his family...we told ghost stories and he helped our son with the new tune he's learning on the electric guitar.  All in all it was a good evening.  I truly enjoy having company, however, that was yesterday and today I must write for this ten a.m. deadline.
 
My daughter begins to rock in the chair behind me and the motion is disrupting my thoughts even further.  If I could grasp a solid, I could pull a concept together once and for all...except I can't now...it all seems impossible.  I've fallen and I lack concentration...I've fallen and I can't recall what my plans were for this post today.   
 
I had an idea once, I really did.  The last tangible recall was for a drawing back early January, but then my brother was in that horrible car accident and my senses have clouded over as the grains continue to fall through the hour glass of reality.
 
Ideas.  I attempt to draw a new picture each year...just one, a testament to my creative mindset.  If you saw them, you'd probably understand the "gears of how."  Some of my creations are obvious, others are way out there.  For example, a few years ago I sketched a young women with stylish hair, perfect skin and features that were remarkable.  As a necklace, I drew a noose sported freely around her neck.   She is grinning but there is something in her eyes hinting that life is nothing like it seems.  The image of course was symbolic of most women today...or at least that is how I felt at the time.  I draw what I feel...I draw what I see...expectations versus soul, the inner battle of truth.  My work is very personal and just for me.
 
My sister L feels I should sell my drawings.  I'm sorry but there are some things in life that are not for sale.  I'll write for profit, I'll take photographs that I wouldn't think twice about sharing, but not my drawings.  Sorry.  I feel we all need something that we carry as precious just for ourselves. 
 
I planned on posting nature photographs this week from the hike that my daughter and I were supposed to take.  (We always find a county park to trek through when she is on spring break.)  The truth is, she'll soon graduate from college and will be moving back for a while.  We've been cleaning out her room in preparation for a new coat of paint.  The thrift store has welcomed her collections from yesteryear...and there is plenty more on the way.   Mark one more thing off the "to-do" list, thank goodness. 
 
Okay, so I found something to write about despite the invasion of my space.  I think this will do just fine for now, a perfect one-size-fits-all St. Patrick's Day blog.
 
On a more positive note, my brother Mike has finally begun to open his eyes with purpose.  For about 45 seconds he trailed a tablet projecting a Skype conversation with my sister M.  45 seconds, Mike was focused on our sister!  It may not seem like much but after being unresponsive since January, it truly is a big deal.  That was the longest he has held his eyes open as of yet.  Fingers crossed~
 
Until next week...
 
~Trixie Archer 

Lundi Speaks

The wind kicks up and the trees overhead begin to sway.  There are many huge arms reaching towards the heavens.  The unpredictable movement causes me pause and I hold my breath.  One snap, one bend, one unexpected gust...and then there is lightning.  I worry.
 
While traveling along the gravel road out in the middle of nowhere, I notice the "check engine" light flashing on my dashboard.  The car begins to sputter in complaint.  I feel a sense of doom as my adrenaline kicks into high gear.  I pull my cell phone only to realize there is no tower.  I know I am on borrowed time as I coast along.  I panic.
 
I open the door to call the dog in from the back yard but she is nowhere to be seen.  In my pajamas, I step outside only to realize someone left the side gate open.  "Fido," I call, but nothing.  My heart breaks as I realize the long list of misfortunes that might have happened to my dear pooch.  "No," I mutter as I return into the house to find my coat and boots so that I can chase her down.  I shiver with concern.
 
It's two a.m., I had fallen asleep on the sofa again.  From the level below, glass breaks.  I realize that I'm home alone.  The dog begins to bark in an alarm like I've never heard before.  There are footsteps....creaks in the floor and the sound is traveling towards the staircase.  I reach for my phone and the line is dead.  My cell phone is on the table on the level below.  The dog runs towards the stairway and I'm frozen.  This can't be happening, this can't be happening....  Terror.
 
I can't find my wallet.  I'm standing at the checkout lane with a full load of groceries that were tallied up.  $101.79.  I must feed a growing teenager.  I've gone through my purse twice but my billfold is not there.  Everyone is staring at me with disbelief.  My face reddens with embarrassment.  "I'm sorry," I finally mumble as I make a swift exit.  When I return to the car I notice my wallet lying on the mat.  I then recall opening my purse in a hurry to answer the phone as I was driving along.  Stupid, I know.  Illegal in some states, yes indeed.  Do I go back into the store?  Heck no, I peel away in search of another grocer.  Frustration.
 
All of these instances have one common factor, all of these experiences have one common theme.  Monday.  So the next time you think you are on a sinking ship, return here and refer to this.  Perspective...yes, the Monday perspective indeed.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Archer's Shine

Hello.  Due to circumstances beyond my control, I've decided to turn this week's blog over to my dog Monkeyshine.  She has promised to meet the Thursday deadline and aside from a few paw prints on the keyboard, no one should be the wiser. 
 
Next week, I'll be back, hopefully with some information surrounding "A Love for the Taking."  I believe that I've finally dotted all of the i's and crossed all of the t's to the best of my ability.  Anyway, Monkeyshine is hoping to warm your heart on this cold March day with her tale or rather the wagging of her tail.  (Bad joke, sorry.)
 
_____________
 
Woof, woof,  growl... oh I need to speak in English so that you can understand me, okay, I've got this.  As Trixie  indicated, I have a story to tell, one that I believe might be of interest.  I'm guessing you've been wondering how it was I arrived in the company of Ms. Archer.  I've always kept that part of my life secret but for the sake of other dogs out there, maybe it's time for me to dig it up.
 
Around my third birthday, Trixie adopted me.  My life before was not always squirrel chasing, walks in the park and kibbles in my dish.  There were many dips and valleys along the journey to now.  Although I'm glad to have found a forever home, without the challenges of my past, I probably would not carry as much appreciation. 
 
In the very beginning I belonged to a pack.  I was born into a litter of five.  My brothers and sisters were pretty much the same as me, except there was one runt and one who had dark wiry fur.  We all enjoyed our life with ma-dog, but as the weeks progressed, we realized that our time as a family would soon be over.  There were many visitors back then including a vet who poked us with needles, cleaned our ears and peered into our mouths.
 
 "Awe, they're so cute," was said especially by the children that made our acquaintance.  My brothers disappeared first and then us girls...little by little, one by one.  When I was adopted, Runt was the only puppy left.
 
I was taken by a young man who drove a speeding blue car with shiny rimmed tires.  As I tried to keep my balance on the back seat, he tore along.  Miles upon miles passed, down country side roads to the smooth of  the main highway.  He clicked on some loud music as we coasted for a while.   The man who I later knew as Bud, kept a cigarette burning in his ash tray at all times.  The air was thick and I tried to keep my nose positioned through  the side window so as to collect fresh air from outside.  Around nightfall we arrived to a long and twisting driveway.  A home laid tucked into the woods and was described (as I had heard others say) modular.
 
My first bed was a cardboard box with blankets and a clock that tick-tick-ticked.  After a long evening a woman arrived.  She smelled of cherry blossoms and took an immediate liking to me.  She won me over right away just from the aura of good she projected.  She offered treats left and right, under the table and out the door.  "Treat," she'd say and I'd come running.  Even though I was named "Dreadful" I really believed I won the lottery with my new home. 
 
Outside, the back yard was fenced in and there were squirrels everywhere!  Yes, the dogs life was for me!  I had it all, I really did.  Varmints, a loving human and food served to me in a fancy bowl.
 
One afternoon a year or so later I noticed there were many fights erupting between my human parents.  Doors slammed, accusations were screamed...tears were falling...curses and hurts.  I did my best to console Liz but unfortunately, my attempts didn't seem to matter.   The sweet lady packed a bag, then headed through the door.  I stood there waiting, with my tail wagging, hoping she'd come back for me but her car sped away and I never saw her again.
 
There were days to where Bud neglected to fill my bowls.  I resorted to drinking from the toilet and scrounging for crumbs off the floor.  Fortunately, I held a fondness for pepperoni pizza.  Bud often left a box open at the center of the coffee table near the tv.  He lost patience more than once after he had forgotten to leave me outside so that I could answer my call to nature.  When the food ran dry my time was up.  He led me to the car and followed many streets, this way and that.  We headed in a direction opposite of  when I first arrived.  I secretly hoped he was taking me to Liz.  I loved her and she loved me.  I knew this.  I longed for my human connection.
 
We entered the city, except at that point I didn't know what a city was exactly.  There were many lights, plenty of people and millions of scents.  Bud drove to the end of a dark alley, opened the door and said, "Well go now.  I'm done with you, with Liz and with all of that mess from the past.  Find your own way, you little beggar!"
 
I stood there at the edge of the alley, my nose sniffing the air and my tail wagging in a half hearted response.  Bud's car sped away and that was the last I'd ever seen of him. 
 
I wasn't sure what to do or where to go so I found a space between a dumpster and a building.  It began to rain.  I hated to be outdoors absorbing the damp but I had no other choice.  I tucked myself low and kept small.   I didn't feel right drifting to sleep so I did my best to stay alert.  There was much scurrying about.  Rats, mice, people...I began to shiver out of fear.  Liz, how I wanted to be held once again, for her to tell me that everything would be all right, for my human to love me.  I began to whimper.
 
The city life grew on me.  I followed a certain path around the neighborhood, venturing here and there, scavenging for food.  If I held my head just-so, the humans would toss me scraps.  I surrendered to life on my own and learned rather quickly which streets were better than others for gaining food and attention.  Steak was the best, popcorn, not so much.
 
One sunny morning I met up with a male beast with gnarling teeth and a horrible attitude.  That dog seemed to think that he owned everything and everyone on the block.  I fought him off with nips, barks and bites.  I ran for my life, only to have another pick up to where he left off.  It was horrible and until that moment I did my best to stop thinking about Liz so much.  Out of desperation, I crawled into an abandoned house and hunkered low until the danger had passed.
 
A couple of months later I began to feel out of sorts.  As if being guided by instinct, I did my best to find a more permanent shelter and for some odd reason I just couldn't go on.
 
There was a junk yard a few blocks over.  I wriggled through the opening in the gate and located a crevice between two cars.  I tried to stay as far away from predators that I could possibly manage.  To my shock, there was pain and I just knew that I would soon pass, except I didn't.  Instead I had puppies...one after the next, sack after sack.  I'm not sure how I knew what needed to be done, but I did.  The first I named Petey,  followed by Mary, Skunk, Bear, Lima and Dink.  I was a mom and life was wonderful!  I had my own pack now.  Although living in the junk yard was not the most ideal situation, at least we had each other.
 
I made our den as comfortable as possible by hauling in fluffy scraps of material and positioning barriers so as to keep outside threats away.  I'd leave my pups during the day with Petey in charge.  I'd scavenge for food and when they became old enough they'd accompany me.  We had a system, all for one and one for all.  A bite here, a nibble there, we were thriving. 
 
One morning however, Dink had wandered off.  I made everyone promise to stay hidden as I tore through the yard searching for him.  I trailed his scent to the gate, through and to the street.  It was then I saw him in the arms of a little girl as she stepped into a car and they tore away.  I ran as fast as I could.  Dink peered through the window at me and I felt as if my world was suddenly falling apart.  There wasn't anything I could do.  The car sped up and my energy fell off.  I could only hope that Dink was accepted into a home with his own Liz.  If so, he would be the lucky one.
 
Life for our pack went on.  We split up and stayed within a three block perimeter.  We learned who to approach and who to avoid.  On a rare occasion we'd go hungry but for the most part we were able to manage just fine on our own.
 
One day however, a paneled van arrived near our den.  There were two workers carrying poles with rope looped at the end.  If they had only been a few minutes later we would have been off for the day. 
 
Lima and Petey were captured first, Bear, Mary and Skunk were next.  I ran.  I ran as fast as I could through the gate and because I wasn't thinking about anything other than escape, I landed flat dab into a wire cage.  This set me off!  I was furious.  How dare anyone put me in a cage.  I was a mom, I was the leader of our pack, I would do anything to be free...just me and my pups, my pups and me.
 
I growled, I barked, I shouted..."LET ME OUT OF HERE, LET ME OUT OF HERE!"  This of course set my pack into a rage as well.  We all began to scream, we all did our absolute best to demand justice.
 
We ended up at the city pound.  My kids all had their first experiences of a dog bath.  They smelled all funny as flea dips, deodorizers and disinfectants will do that to a dog.  I think the humans were afraid of me, no one dared come near my cage.  At night when things fell silent, we'd plan and plot our escape.  The thing is, it didn't take long for my pups to decide that having meals provided and clean water carried many advantages.  They all surrendered to the wealth surrounding them.  I, on the other hand, continued to tear at the crate.  I hated the cage, I hated being confined.  I wanted out, I wanted my pups with me, I wanted the life that we had invented for ourselves.
 
One by one my babies were adopted out.  They promised to always remember me and I felt a great sorrow over the loss.  Someone placed an X on my door.  I heard another say that my time was up, that they needed the space but were doubtful because of my behavior and the risk to humans in my company.  I'm not exactly sure what it all meant but I was set to have a cocktail the following day.
 
Just in the nick of time, a woman arrived.  There was a great kindness to her as she eyed me with appreciation.  I never did settle down in that crate.  Someone mentioned my aggressive tendencies, a lost cause and that it would be foolish to take a chance with me in their home.
 
I soon found myself in a van with the woman named Meagan heading onto the interstate and towards a new life.  "I think I'll call you Monkeyshine..." she said.  I didn't know it at the time but she was from a rescue organization.  She was contacted about me and the hopelessness of my situation.  She drove a long way to spare me from a certain doom.
 
In no time I was accepted into her home.  There was another rescue dog there as well, Marvin.  He had a scraggly look to him and no house manners what-so-ever.  He'd potty at will always trying to make it seem as if I did it.  Meagan was onto him though.  I was groomed proper with careful attention to my nails.  I loved to sit in the window and watch the world go by.  I often thought of my pups and wondered about their new homes.
 
Meagan said something about posting my picture and story on the Internet.  I questioned what on earth the Internet was?  In no time there was some interest in me.  It took a few weeks but that was when I was driven to meet Trixie Archer for the first time.  She offered me a carrot from her refrigerator as I realized how delicious vegetables could be.  I graciously accepted too.  Although I was apprehensive, there was something kind about Ms. Archer.  Yes, I could definitely call her my person if she gained my trust through patience and understanding.
 
Those first weeks with her were a bit of a challenge.  She tried to crate me when she needed to step away to the store or what-not.  Big mistake.  I detested crates.  Not only did I throw a fit, I destroyed the crate, pottied everywhere and made Archer wonder about choosing me.  The claw marks on her doors showed her exactly why confining me was never a good idea.  Archer never raised her voice, she never scolded me...she'd simply clean up and ask me to do better the next time.  It took a long while for her to leave me unattended after that.  She'd re-arrange her schedule so as to have a baby sitter with me at all times.
 
Finally, out of desperation, she contacted Meagan.  My friend explained that as long as I could see out the window, I could be left alone without any sort of worry.  Ms. Archer then bought a protective blanket to cover her sofa and that is where I perch every time she goes away.  I'm so glad that I arrived when I did....Trixie needed me as I did her.  We are family...and I'll do anything for family. 
 
Carrots are still my favorite snack and the best part of the day is after dinner when I lay on Archer's lap for a bit of cuddle time.  There are plenty of squirrels to chase in the back yard and visitors for me to entertain.  Life is good.  If any of you reading this happen to come across my puppies, tell them mom-dog is okay and that I am with a great family now.
 
All my best,
 
~Monkeyshine 
 
 
 
 
 
I
 

Potato Icing

While I was on the phone with my sister Kay this evening, I asked her for a random word.  "Just whatever pops into your mind, it'll be the icing at the center of this week's blog." 
 
"Sure," Kay laughed.  "Potato-head, as in mister."
 
Cough, cough.  Chuckle.  "I could have sworn that you said Mr. Potato-head."
 
"I did," she replied.
 
"Mr. Potato-head it is then for my blog this week...chopped into wedges, tossed with a bit of olive oil and baked at 450 degrees to perfection."
 
No worries though, I realize the plastic would melt and someone would begin a campaign against Ms. Archer regarding the cruelty of toys for the purpose of her blog.
 
Seriously though, Mr. Potato head?  Thanks Kay, thanks a lot.
 
_______________
 
I'm rattled, literally.  Our gas furnace was the top of the line when it was installed ten years ago.  However, now every time the beast clicks on there is a high pitched metallic sound.  The din is so troubling it warrants the use of ear plugs.  Although the foam cushions the racket, the clanking still arrives with just enough annoyance that I'm reminded of mosquitoes dive bombing under the mask of night.  If only I could click on a light, find the rascal and put an end to this.  The shrill is to the point that I'd rather go without heat than to put up with the disturbance.
 
I called a service man out. 
 
"There's nothing what-so-ever wrong with your unit...and that thing'll last another twenty years.  She's a beaut-  isn't she?  Ten years old and still 93% efficient!"
 
"The noise, don't you hear it?"
 
"That's just the blower when she kicks into second gear.  Nothing to worry about, I assure you.  She's just needing a bit more power to fly over the bridge, if ya know what I mean."
 
Have you ever seen a comic strip from many years ago?  Often a character will be drawn with swirls for eyes and an expression of ba-ba-ba and that would have been a perfect depiction of me in that moment.   Ba-ba-ba, mental raspberries, toss me a line, I'm about to fall over a cliff...or maybe I'll jump.
 
I wrote a check for $98.33.  Thanks for nothing.  I could have opened the encasement, run the vacuum and saved myself a heap of cash.
 
I clicked on my screen, found the flash drive with my current book and began to focus on the story at hand. 
 
As Penny stood among her neighbors and friends, she realized her lacking.  Her life was here, her family was here, this was home and yet her heart remained several hundred miles away...she finally understood the difference between quality and mundane, love and acceptance. 
 
The heat kicked on. 
 
Darn it.  The blasted heat.  I reached in desperation for my noise cancelling headphones.  Music, anything at random, just make it stop, just make it stop!  The shrill was worse than a child set on a constant whine.  "I want....mom, make him give me the blocks, mom, mom, mom...."  Most accelerate through the whining stage, thank goodness, with a smile and the ultimate patience extended from mom.  The furnace was set on bother in a super-sized portion with no nap time, playing outdoors or going to a friend's house for half the afternoon. 
 
I ran into the garage and pulled a mallet from the tool chest.  In hindsight, I should have grabbed a merlot from the wine rack instead.  Each would have been equally as effective under the circumstances.  I marched to the furnace and tapped it ever so lightly.  I aimed to show the beast just who was in charge.  The thing laughed at me, the rattle continued as I used a bit more force the next time.  Bam, bam, bam, I'll show you!  Aside from a noticeable dent, nothing what-so-ever had changed. 
 
It was in that moment that I realized the beast was hissing at me. 
 
"Shut the heck up!  I'm tired of your antics.  I can't work, I can't sleep and there is no place in this house I can escape you.  Just stop, do you hear me!  Just stop!"
 
Okay, in hind sight I realize the furnace was not alive and there must have been a logical reason for the noise.  Rattle, rattle, I'm rattling your bones, your nerves and your sensibility...
 
I text messaged JD at school, "I'm heading to the grocery store is there anything that you'd like....a pack of gum maybe?"  Yes, I just bought groceries yesterday.  Give me a reason, any sort of reason to be out of the house, please.  
 
He knew that I was doing my best to finish the current story at hand.  Recently, I wasn't the greatest example to him.  Procrastinate and avoid, avoid and procrastinate...in an exact balance.  How could I explain the mind rattle to him?  How could I explain the lack of focus? 
 
JD never heard a thing.  "There, do you hear it?  It's right there, it's so obvious...it's biting and I'm ready to surrender to the teeth of it.  It wins, you know?  It wins!"
 
JD placed his lower lip between his teeth and peered at me with an amazing sympathy for someone in the 11th grade.  He shook his head no.  "I think I'll grab me a sandwich, would you like one mom?"
 
Oh the frustration.  A few minutes in the car, down the street, to the store, in the store, aisle 3, aisle 6, dairy, the check out lane, 12 items or less, the drive back.  Peace of mind, $22.50 all for a lot of nothing. 
 
After shoving many useless items into the cabinets I returned to my desk, opened the lid to my laptop and continued on penning the plight of Penny.  Maybe the main characters name should be changed...too many p's is never a good thing.  It doesn't flow.  Did anything about the story make sense after all?
 
I narrowed my eyes and then click, rattle and annoy...the beast was awakened once again. 
 
This time I reached for the wine.  A white variety, a gift from my brother Mike from Christmas this past year.  No glass, just a cork screw...pop, open and there it is, after a few guzzles the sound was sure to lessen...except all the elixir did was remove all inhibitions. 
 
In a mad sweep of desperation I hurried to the garage and lugged the entire tool chest with me.  "I've had enough, this IS it!"
 
Let me just say for the record that someone who knows nothing about a furnace should ever open that can of worms mid winter.  A lack of heat in September is a whole different issue compared to a lack of heat mid February.
 
Piece by piece, guzzle by guzzle...first the cork and then I pulled the plug...on life, on heat, on feeling.  Silence.  The beast was quiet now, he was sulking...I took charge and HE didn't like it much.  Too bad, so sad, for you.
 
"I'll show him!"  So I did. 
 
If I was thinking about things with a sober mind I would have used the camera on my cell phone because eventually all parts would need to go back in the same sequence that they were removed...except I wasn't exactly seeing things clearly.  All that I knew is that I wanted to write a story, I wanted to finish a story...there were imaginary characters waiting to spark alive.  I needed silence to accomplish this.  Was that asking too much?
 
It was then at the far corner of the furnace I swear I caught a glimpse of eyes.  Two perfectly round eyes, peering up at me.  Plastic eyes, tiny...  I reached in and pulled out a rather dusty keychain.  On one end was the house key that I had given JD when he began kindergarten years ago, on the other, Mr. Potato-head himself.
 
"I lost it mom.  Someone must have taken the keychain from my backpack because they loved Potato-head just as much as I did."
 
The character was grinning at me, the sheepish devil.  He'd been the cause of the rattle and clank all along.  His position against the outer casing and the air flow...yes, it all made perfect sense.  "Help me, I'm here...is anyone there?"  That is what ol' potato had been saying with alarm.  The whine belonged to him.
 
Of course JD wouldn't admit the noise because he was part of the cause.  It was a stage he was going through back in the day.  I wonder if this toy would fit into there.  I once found an action figure inside the plastic enclosure of my treadmill.  I opened the thing to rid the dust and there was Captain Benny scuffed from his journey into the cave but ultimately happy to be released from jail.  I'm still perplexed because ol' Benny was twice the size as any opening.
 
Fast forward to present day.  "You're free!"  I said to Mr. Potato-head.  But this experience wasn't free since to have a working furnace was sure to be costly.
 
As I headed into my office to place an emergency call to our service contractor, my current story flashed on the screen before me.  After a brief conversation, I sat down with a thick blanket and continued on with Penny's struggles with love, life and existence.  Funny how her teeth began to chatter just the same as mine from the new world of quiet and ice.
 
__________
 
So there you have it.  My sister Kay led the way for this tale of escape propelled by a challenging word and imagination. By the way, no toys were hurt in the process of this short story, honest.  In the real world, in my world,  the heat clicks on...and there's that horrible beast once again...all hiss and frustration.  Honest. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Commercial Spot

I long for a commercial break, isn't that silly?  I mean, who wants a slogan or a ridiculous sales pitch to interrupt life? 
 
I do.  I want the ramblings of side effects to the latest pharmaceutical that I can't pronounce.  Give it to me so that I can't recall anything during or after.  How about a glimpse of the outrageous family dancing a jig to a whole lot of stupid?  I need a pause, a moment to just stand up, brush off the crumbs and move into the next room.  I crave popcorn.  I want to collect myself...to invite normalcy because at this moment I have none.  Yes, it's time for a commercial, with a tablespoon of butter and a pinch of salt. 
 
Sometimes real life circumstances are a bit much.  People we love get hurt and although we'd give anything to have them back with us, we must face "what is," as is stands.   The lumps hurt and the tears are real.  The waiting for the great unknown of tomorrow is exhausting.  Am I right or should I just write?
 
I'll write then, I'll blog.  It's what I do on Thursday, come rain or shine...I'll walk up Blog Hill with a sled in hand.  Step after step I'll figure out exactly what I have to offer today.  Are you ready?  We're at the peak, here we go!  Wee.
 
Even at my age, I enjoy sledding.  As I zoom down the hill, the years fall away.  My eyes water, my bum bounces and thuds...and I laugh with the need to run up that hill to do it all over again! 
 
I grew up as a Midwestern flat-lander so hills were a rare commodity.  In my parents backyard there was a mound that separated our yard from the neighbor's.  I'd work the snow building massive boulders, rolling and collecting.  The tiny downward slide  became a much larger run by the time I had my way.
 
It was all worth the moment.  Rosy cheeks, steam rolling off my breath...I'd let go...and the world along with all worries would disappear. 
 
I borrowed one of the plastic sleds that my sisters shared.  There were two.  They came in a roll and they worked beautifully.  One was a darker blue, the other had a racing stripe down the center.   
 
My mom had to beg me to come back into the house.  At 9 o'clock with everything dark, I'd finally cave.  On the way back inside, I'd often stop near the tall oak that overlooked my brother Tom's garage.  He was always fiddling with cars, Studebaker's...until all hours.  I'd make three snowballs and take aim near the tiny window.  Bam, bam, bam!
 
Silence.
 
The entry door would open and Tom would gaze about.  I lowered myself behind the hedges...bursting with laughter.  Fooled ya!  He'd narrow his eyes taking in the stillness of the landscape. 
 
He said my name under his breath, shook his head and then returned to the land of tinkering. 
 
Have I ever mention that I was an assistant brake bleeder?  After repairing brakes one must push all of the air from the line and the mechanic can not do this alone. 
 
"Okay pump the brakes," my brother would say. 
 
"How much pedal is there?"  I'd place the tip of my shoe between the pedal and the floor. 
 
"About three inches and the brake is squishy."
 
"Okay, do it again," Tom would command. 
 
I always did my best to help because after all, brakes are important.
 
A few snowballs tossed was a small price to pay for services rendered.  We all needed comic relief.  I know I did.  Sorry Tom.
 
I had a dog back then, Snoopy.  My mom hated the idea of germs in the house so ol' Snoopy was an outside dog.  He lived next to Tom's garage.  There were many bitter days that he was invited to the entryway of our house.  I'd pad out in the night to visit my pooch.    
 
Obviously I named him after the Charlie Brown character.  I had always wanted a golden retriever.  When the neighbor's golden had puppies I began my campaign.  I drew pictures and placed them all over the house.  I begged, I bartered but the unfortunate reply was no.  It was my mom.  She did not want a dog.  Germs.  Mess.  Yuck.
 
Snoopy came to us, we didn't go to him.  Someone pulled to the side of the road and tossed him out into the world.  We lived one block into the county and it wasn't the first stray and probably wasn't the last.
 
The pooch dug a hole under one of the old cars in our yard mid winter.  Mom tried to shoo him away, but I was sliding him food when I thought no one else was looking.  He knew a good thing, so he adopted us.
 
My brother told mom, "well I guess the kid finally got her dog..." and that as they say, is that.
 
Snoopy, the mutt, wasn't exactly the dog I wanted but he turned out to be the dog I needed.
 
I talked to him.  I told him all of the troubles I carried on my shoulders.  He was the best listener too. 
 
My dad built a massive dog house.  It could have held a dozen St. Bernard's with plenty of room in between.  I'm not sure why pops felt a need to provide such a luxury home but he did.  So, I'd crawl in there with my dog and I'd bend his ear with conversation.
 
Snoopy seemed to understand as most canines do. 
 
On one occasion, I broke something and my dad had words for me.  I took off running into the yard with my dad giving chase.  I crawled into Snoopy's house and watched dad searching for me everywhere.  The dog must have known I needed sanctuary for he did not give me away, not a bark or a yelp.
 
Of course dad caught up with me but the "commercial break" was most appreciated. 
 
Years later, wile I was working the evening shift at the hospital, Snoopy ran away.  When I walked in, mom looked me in the eye and said, "I have some bad news for you.  Snoopy's gone.  He broke loose this morning and never came back.  We looked for him but I think this is it."
 
It was raining outside.  In my white lab coat I trotted to the back yard, to his house and the stillness made it seem as if the night was set on pause.  I felt all choked up...and the rain scattered in a way that made it seem as if my world was foreign. 
 
I began to cry.
 
I thought of all the great times we shared.  Fetch, chase, the walks where the dog would drag me down the street...the loss was heavy.
 
"Snoopy!"  I called while choking on emotion.  Silence.
 
"Snoopy!" 
 
In the distance I heard a dog barking.  Wrong number I thought. It wasn't him.
 
"SNOOPY."
 
Down the street I could hear a trail of barking and the din began to grow in a way that led me to believe the neighborhood dogs were saying, "he'll be there in a jiffy."
 
Not two minutes later I heard a chain rattling...and there was Snoopy!  Wet, excited, tail wagging and yes he was grinning at me.  Oh how I wanted to give him the devil for causing such worry like he did but instead I led him to the garage to offer him the best treat I could find.  My theory was that if I wanted him to come home after running away, I had to make him want to come home.  I offered a few chunks of steak with a side of praise.
 
I really wish I had a way to tie this weeks blog together and dress it up with a fancy bow.  With everything that I've been facing in the real world, I feel as if someone has gotten hold of my personal remote control and just as I'm about to focus on this, the channel flips to that.  I'll step into a room and forget what I was searching for.  The box of oats ended up in the refrigerator next to the milk.  Yesterday it took me twenty minutes to find my car keys...and I'll begin a sentence only to lose the point.
 
If only I could make a few snowballs and hurl them at a garage door somewhere...perhaps something would make sense once again...or maybe I simply need an annoying commercial...something that feels normal, but instead, I carry the reality of how the show must go on...and it does.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Ten Seconds

Ten seconds.  I'm thinking of the significance of tick, tick, tick.  While sitting at the corner waiting on a traffic light, in the span of ten seconds, a person's life can change forever.
 
By the way, I have little tolerance for driving any longer and it's been that way for a few years now. 
 
Back in my younger days I had a job that required driving throughout the city.  The traffic didn't bother me, waiting in line for an exit ramp, no problem.  Life was much simpler back then, zoom, zoom, no GPS and no cell phones...heck, our 85 Chevy didn't even have air conditioning.  Just push on the accelerator and the car simply went.
 
Upper Wacker, Lower Wacker, Lake Shore Drive, Michigan Avenue...a crisp day mid April with the sun bringing forth a great translucence to the blue expanse.  It felt as if the wind was shouting, Isn't it great to be alive.  I can almost picture Lake Michigan glistening to the east of me...the sky reflecting off the water.
 
I'm not sure why driving never bothered me back then.   It should have but it didn't.  I never worried, I just mapped my destination, turned the key and accepted.  No bother, what was the point?
 
I guess I understood the crapshoot of fate long before most.  I was in the side yard with my brother's Mike and Tom.  We noticed the sedan weaving on the street moments before the crash.  I'm not sure which of them sprinted to the front yard, but the other grabbed me just in time and sent me to the house.  An angry voice was used, so I listened.  Mom had closed the draperies in the front room, filtering out the sun and the grisly scene that lurked thirty feet from our picture window.
 
Making a game out of it, I'd run to the drapes as if I were going to open them...mom would call out in warning, I'd giggle, then dart back.  What did I know?  Everything was fun to me back then.
 
Growing up in the 1970's with a tavern around the corner was not exactly safe.  My dad needed to replace the mailbox with each changing season.  The tire marks on our front lawn would fill in until the next time...and after that crash, the one where Tony our next door neighbor held pressure to spare the driver from bleeding out, we had two beautiful elm trees in our front yard.  We lost the one from the accident and the other died from loneliness.
 
When mom was distracted in the next room, I peeked through the curtain.  Never tell me that I shouldn't do something or go somewhere, that was an invitation that set me into doing. 
 
The sedan was a light green, a boat really...the hood was crunched around our elm.  The windshield carried a map of veins with plenty of blood splattered from the center of a hole where a man's head was resting.  I understood fear at that moment...fear for him, fear for us...fear surrounding tomorrow.  There was no safe place because after all, this all happened in our front yard.
 
When I was in high school, the campaign to prevent drunk driving was born.  Billboards, television ads, newspapers...don't drink and drive.  Good advice, except a certain public official in our town must not have been paying much attention to the ads.  With our windows open to catch a cross current, the sound of tires squealing followed by a metallic thud as our mail box landed in a heap interrupted the stillness.  My dad hurried to the front door and shouted, "what the heck?" 
 
I swear dad was better than Barney Fyfe.  On any given day he kept his keys in the ignition just in case the need would arrive for him to chase someone down in the night.  We lived in the county and the sheriff response was slow.  The midnight chase  happened more than once...the midnight chase interrupted my childhood.
 
My brother Tom drove the public official home that night, he used his truck to pull the car off the post that dad now added to his list marked replace.  The town official swore it would never happen again...he begged, he pleaded and dad stood as the ultimate jury, deciding to take him at his word.  No need to call the police for he was the police. 
 
It was a risk considering...this week our mailbox and post, but what about next week?  The threat of losing his job and his future must have had a sobering effect because to the best of our knowledge, the man kept his word.  Maybe it was a wake up call, maybe he had actually hit rock bottom and decided to swim up...minus the currents of whiskey.
 
There is a vulnerability we must all surrender to.  The moment we slide into a car, buckle our seat belt, the truth of "whatever will be" becomes apparent.  If one is lucky the engine won't crank, if one is lucky, the tire is flat.  Tomorrow is the better choice for going to work, tomorrow is the better time to frequent the grocery store....except there are bills to pay and mouths to feed making tomorrow-today.
 
When my daughter was ten years old, I needed to drive to the bank to deposit a check before the branch closed at 5.  Daughter was my side kick back then.  I'm not sure what we were talking about or if we engaged at all.  Much of the time we were just happy being together.  Yes, I remember her childhood painted in pastels with rainbows and dainty little flowers.
 
While we were waiting at the corner stop sign for a car to pass, a burgundy car plowed into us from behind.  The impact came out of nowhere.  That was one of the few times I used the "f" bomb in front of my daughter.  The man backed his car up, drove to the side of us, looked me in the eye then sped away. 
 
"He's left us here...I can't believe he's left us here!"
 
I peered into the back seat and my precious daughter's eyes reflected shock.  "Are you okay?  Please tell me you're okay."
 
"I think so," her tiny voice replied.
 
A moment later a neighbor arrived to say they had phoned the police....and that we shouldn't move.  I peered to the left of me.  I could see our front yard from my side view mirror.  I wanted nothing more than to go back home.  I wanted nothing more than to cuddle my daughter and tell her that everything would be all right.  Don't move.
 
A few of my neighbors took off in their cars giving chase to the bum that left the scene of the accident.  I guess they had Barney Fyfe in them too.
 
They caught up with him, ran him off the road and held him until the police arrived.  The man was drunk, too drunk to drive and this was not his first offense.  With happy juice numbing his reality, he was cuffed and taken to jail.  In the mean time, my daughter and I were placed on back boards, transported to the hospital and we spent the next several hours surrendering to test after test.  In the months that followed, Physical therapy became a new activity for us followed by a stop at Wendy's after.  Ten seconds...
 
In the moment it takes for a bar keep to pour another shot and the patron to slam it down...out on the street, that's enough time for such choice to alter an innocent's life forever.
 
My brother Mike was sitting at the light waiting for his retirement to begin.  What was he thinking about in the moments before?  His to-do list that he was famous for?  The squabble he had with Tom earlier that evening?  Was he visualizing a new house and a pole barn large enough to accommodate his  WWII tank and half track?  Was he worried about his grandchildren or was he just looking forward to being home for the night?
 
In just ten seconds his life was changed forever.
 
I may never know because my brother remains in a coma and he is not talking. 
 
I struggle to better understand the "why" surrounding this...I struggle to comprehend the selfishness of other people.  I struggle.
 
We are heading towards phase II of this experience to where my brother is being transported to a rehab center for them to manage his care until he wakes up.  HE will wake up...he has no other choice...really.  Sound off the alarm, he has always answered the call, no matter what time of day or night...he has been there to help.  Sirens blaring, horn blasting, "get out of my way, I'm coming through...there's a fire, there's a fire!"
 
In just ten seconds he's on his way...and I'm waiting.
 
 
 
    
 
 
 
 

Kooky Crumbs

It's three a.m. and I'm wide awake.  What's new with that, right?  I was tossing and turning over and over until I finally decided to crawl from the warmth of my blankets.  My inner mind was nagging at me.  Time to write your blog, time to write your blog. I'm traveling to visit with my brother Mike later today so I must produce some words lickety-split.
 
My bro is doing better.  Tuesday evening my sister M messaged to announce that he is now opening his eyes 3/4 of the way.  This is great news...right up there with the sun will come out tomorrow...
 
Mind you, Mike is still not responding to lift this or move that...but there is hope in this revised forecast...and I'll take sunshine even under partly cloudy conditions any day.
 
I've been thinking a lot this week about our senses.  There is much I've been for granted maybe less than most because as I'm writing stories, I constantly ask what would that feel like, what flavor would that carry or what sound would that make?  Our senses are not only a gateway towards making a story come alive but they're also a part of who we are.  They help us build new experiences and tie us to what we have gone through in the past.  We carry an entire smorgasbord of events based on the many sights, smells, touch and sounds as well. 
 
The aroma of perked coffee will always remind me of the epic family gatherings at my Aunt Mary's house.  She was a hardy woman with an amazing aptitude in the culinary arts.  As I entered her home, there was an overpowering smell of freshly brewed coffee.  The fragrance lingered in the air as a preview of the wonderful delights that were soon to be offered.  The absolute best were her Polish keflies.  (Okay, I googled to check my spelling...there are several different takes on the same word.  Kifli's, kifles...keflies...potato, patato...you choose.)
 
Anyway, my point is, perked coffee...my Aunt Mary's house and the anticipation of a five star dinner placed in a collection of yum at the dining room table.  To this day I feel the warmth of the experience all conjured from the simple aroma.
 
Fresh cut grass in the summer time.  Hand me my blindfold please... At just the thought, my eyes begin to water as my allergies kick in.  Seriously though, childhood...the dew in the morning as I sprint outdoors because I can't stand to be in the house for one more second.  A gentle breeze tossing the leaves on the Elm tree out front, youth, bare feet, pajamas...the promise of many tomorrows to come.  All from a whiff of a newly cut lawn.  Can you hear Theo Martin as he starts the engine on his Craftsman down the block?
 
Wet dog...well, you didn't think I'd describe all lollipops and rainbows here, did you?   My former dog Smooch had the most pungent odor when I'd let her into the house just after the clouds began to spit rain.  She'd look at me with her soulful eyes and I swear she conveyed thank you.  Smooch shadowed me and on such days that distinct odor of wet golden retriever, well let's just say I found two practical uses for a clothespin.
 
A real Christmas tree.  The pine needles flavor the air in a cloud of yesterday.  There is an intermingling of past holidays to the present...years spilling forth, people who have come and gone, laughter, carols, hugs, warmth, lights...all shimmer as an emotional bridge to the past.  Oh Christmas tree....
 
Cookies freshly baked from the oven.  Should I really be writing about them at this hour?  It's three thirty and I'm rather hungry.  Chocolate chip cookies, soft with steam rising up... and that unique sweetness that will always be just a batch away from mom.  She would often bake for fund raisers while I was growing up.  We were only allowed the imperfect...and I'd pray that while she was transferring the cookies from the baking sheet that there would be a mishap.  When there wasn't, I pointed out those that did not meet quality standards.  (Wink, wink.)  Mom failed to notice that I kept a full glass of milk next to me just in case.  "Okay," she'd say with disbelief.  Well you've gotta love my mom!
 
Which leads me to a simple question...if one were attempt to help someone in a coma reemerge with the want of using smells, how on earth could that possibly be accomplished?  I mean, what we carry is unique to us.  Even though I know my brother rather well, when I smell freshly cut grass I may have fond memories to where he might be inclined to recall how every Saturday morning our dad would awaken him at first light insisting that he mow the lawn.  Where as I might wish to remember, Mike may want nothing more than to forget. 
 
I guess in the end the key is to jump start his recollections...to encourage him to reemerge...good, bad or indifferent.  Once those wheels begin to turn then he can spin his own truth.
 
With that said, I should probably crawl back to bed now.  I'll need to be well rested for my trip back home tomorrow...or would that be later today? 
 
I wish I could find a collection of sample perfumes for my brother to smell...except I've never seen a fragrance called wet dog.  Imagine entering a department store and the fragrance greeter mists the customers with Le perfume de canine odor! 
 
I know, maybe I should pour everyone a glass of milk as the perfect compliment to mom's kooky crumbs.
 
Until next time,
 
~Trixie Archer
 

Relentless Fog

The fog has been terrible.  It stands as a thick veil closing off the in-between.  Relentless. On one side I've been standing watch, taking a shift here and there from the high perch of the lighthouse.  My sisters, my brothers, Mike's kids, his grandchildren and friends have all been at the overlook as well.  Instead of a beam circling above casting rays through the fog, we are projecting our voices and tidbits of conversation.  ​Foghorn.  We have taken to blaring music.  There is great hope that with something said or a memorable tune, it will reach the other side and that my brother Mike will find his way back.  
 
In case you missed the blog Superman, my brother Mike was in a horrible car accident and ended up in the ICU in critical condition.  The drunk driver that caused the accident was released on bail and is being charged for causing bodily harm while under the influence.  Mike has been upgraded from critical to stable condition but he still remains in a coma.  I wish I could write this in a different way but I'm afraid reality trumps fiction.
 
The storm that carried him off was swift and unexpected.  The fear from not knowing where he landed we all wear.  Creases of worry line our brows and we have dark circles surrounding our eyes.  Unity.  A lack of sleep will do that...a loss of appetite will do that.  Although we stand strong and with each other, there is a hollow emptiness within.  Nothing will ever be the same again.  Even though my brother may find his way to the lighthouse, the steps to the tower will be a very long and exhausting feat. 
 
Townspeople have been gathering in surprising numbers.  My brother Mike is very well liked and his popularity quite apparent.  Their voices carry into the distance and I believe my brother knows we are all pulling for him.  I imagine him on the other side, batting at the fog, wishing for the simple luxury of a flashlight to lead his way.  He has nothing but his sense of reality...and he has been tossed and turned, battered and bruised.
 
Up is down and down is up...yesterday is tomorrow and last week is next year.  The storm itself brought on a rolling far worse than anyone can possibly imagine.  Those in  white coats attempt to enlighten us as to where he might be hiding and what he may sensing but that all seems to be an educated guess.  That sort of storm is different for everyone.
 
So we call out into the night, through the fog, telling Mike stories, hoping that our will and love will be bright enough to lead him through.  We pray. 
 
"Mike, remember years ago when we were at our cousin's wedding and you were late for work?  I think I was seven years old and I begged to ride along with you.  Your car was that fancy muscle car...painted in a dark metallic.  I wanted bragging rights...so you said with reluctance, "yes."  It was just me and my big brother and I was thrilled."
 
"I think I held my breath the entire trip home.  Thirty minutes in your classic Dodge Charger was sliced down to 18.  I never experienced such speed before since dads caution led me to believe that all cars were designed by turtles."
 
"We made it home safely that day but it was no wonder the state police had it in for you back then.  Slow down...mom used to say...pay the fine, but slow down."
 
"I still remember the exhaust that would radiate through the floorboards of that old car.  Every time you shifted, poof.  Between that and the speed itself, with bumps, swerves and fear, it was no wonder I felt green.  I literally kissed the ground when we finally arrived." 
 
"How about that Halloween Egore mask that sis gave you?  She took to calling you handsome whenever you wore it.  All of that ribbing, all of that fun.  What an influence you were to me.  Never take anything too seriously...laugh and laugh again...and so we did."
 
"We had our own language, the magnificent seven of us.  We had our own humor and we had our own struggles.  I'm not sure if I'd be who I am today without the lot of you.  We held fast to each other through many thunderstorms.  A voice sliced through like a rolling thunder...dad's voice.  He was a force, with a curled lip and impatience...his quirks, his struggles.  In the end though, we all stood as one.  Family."
 
"The funeral procession stopped in front of the house as a tribute to the home that dad built.  You made that happen.  You pulled some strings with the city.  It was a perfect ending to a very complicated story....a special farewell from you to him."
 
I've been thinking a lot about purpose.  Each and everyone of us has one...it is more than destiny, it is our own unique contribution in making this world a better place.  You bro Mike have touched so many lives, with your humor and personality...you have saved so many lives through your work with the fire department...one of the magnificent seven.  Superman.
 
So I will leave this here as I squint through the fog with the hope that I'll catch a glimpse of where you've disappeared to.  I have faith that you'll find your way back through.  We miss you Mike, Egore mask and all, handsome.

~Trixie Archer
 
 
 
 
 
 

Superman

During the late 60's and early 70's there was a popular rock group called Chicago.  They accomplished a unique sound by intermingling horns into their songs.   To this day, whenever I hear them, my brother Mike comes to mind especially since he played their albums as his favorite. 
 
My brother Mike is a character, he is everyone's brother, and if you've ever made his acquaintance, you'd remember.  He has this quick wit and charm about him...a real jokester.  Mischief and trouble would be set as a tie for his middle name. 
 
As I was about to walk down the aisle on my wedding day, my brother Mike looked me in the eye... and well, you'd think it would be one of those moments with tears and sentiment...but instead he announced,  "you're adopted." It was the perfect remedy for the occasion since I was a bundle of nerves.  His humor lifted my worries not only then but through many challenges thereafter.
 
Mike stole the chocolate pie from the main table at my reception.  I should have known it was him as I wondered, who on earth would have the nerve to do such a thing? ...but later, much later, he fessed up.   Got-cha!  I promised him that someday I'd even the score...someday.
 
My brother Mike is a hero.  I wish I had kept the newspaper clippings to prove all that he has contributed throughout his career as a firefighter.  Believe me when I say, there was plenty.  He saves lives for a living...he is part of a well executed team, all set on helping under the most dire of circumstances. 
 
I remember when all of us still lived at home and Mike was volunteering for the township fire department.  He was issued a scanner that was the size of a microwave oven.  When the tone would resound, he was out the door, blue light flashing on his car...speeding down the highway...help is on the way! 
 
Somehow, I figured out that by playing two keys on the organ the tone would match what the fire department used.  So I took my recorder and mimicked the alarm...I pitched my voice to sound like the dispatcher and I positioned my antics ten minutes onto a blank tape.  Just before our family sat down to dinner, I depressed play in the next room.  Mike, all ready for the first bite, lifted a fork of mashed potatoes and then he heard my fake alarm.  "Ah man," he scuffed as he rushed to slide into his boots and grab his keys.  Just as he reached the kitchen door, I said, "Mike..." by that time I was holding the recorder and when he realized, he grinned from ear to ear as we all shared a hearty laugh.
 
Throughout his career he has seen so much, some of which he spoke of, some of which  he did not.  One thing is obvious, it takes a special sort of person to run towards danger as opposed to running away from.
 
With a heavy heart I'm here to say that Saturday evening while Mike was waiting for the light to change at a busy intersection, a drunk driver struck his car from behind, pushing him into the line of traffic. 
 
My phone rang at ten o'clock...and the unimaginable news suctioned all air and placed a dagger through my heart.  Flashes of Mike came to mind.  Waterskiing at the lake, his children and grandchildren, his many friends, his hobbies, his smile, his shenanigans...his voice.  Life has stopped for me, for us, for our family...until he returns... 
 
Mike is currently in the ICU after suffering from head trauma.  I'm sharing stories with him even though he can't respond for now.  We are all praying. 
 
It occurred to me as I saw the local news report of his accident...of how many times I've seen blurbs as such throughout my life and the victims have remained faceless, nameless people.  All of those accidents were my brother Mike, your brother Mike...and it is so painful and tragic...especially when someone who was drinking takes the wheel and imposes harm in such a way.
 
I'm hopeful for my brother and maintaining a positive attitude.  He is in critical condition and we are set to "wait and see."  With only 30 days left until he was officially retired...well, he deserved to coast towards the future he worked for without this. 
 
Bro Mike, not only are you a hero to the community but you are especially super to me...be strong....
 
Staring blindly into space,
Getting up to splash my face,
Wanting just to stay awake,
Wondering how much I can take,
Should have tried to do some more,
25 or 6 or 4.
 
-lyrics from "25 or 6 or 4" by Chicago
 
~Trixie Archer

Playing Ball

After picking my son up from band yesterday evening, I bought a Powerball ticket.  I'm not one to gamble but as my uncle once said, "you can't win unless you play."  So I plopped down two dollars for a no way chance in hell.
 
You know in the after, when you taste something that makes your nose crinkle and then the flavor lingers for a good time after?  There was similar type of unpleasantness to the experience.  Why you might ask, well...
 
Having a truckload of money would not make me a better person, nor would it gain me any sort of respect for accomplishment, determination or creativity.  In fact, after the ten minutes of fame I'm willing to guess, everything surrounding life would become far more complicated.  Sure my children would be provided for, transforming the paper napkins they carry in their lunches to that of the finest linen but it wouldn't make them better people.  If we set off to help as many that we could with the winnings....maybe, but then again, maybe not.  I suppose even if we became "good deed-doers," that too would detour every road forward.  There would be a constant knocking at the door and our entire purpose would become all tied up in the "answering."
 
I think sometimes it has less to do with how much a person has and more to do with what is done with it.  I'm reminded of the tiny houses that have recently become popular.  Everything is right there in a scaled down, "easy to reach," structure.   Space is tight and yet there is room for a large screen television, a sitting room, kitchen area, bathroom, and a loft with fold out, fold ins, drawers, cubbies that are all compacted into a roomy design.  There is no space for clutter...everything has a place...miniature scale.  I feel that concept represents how most of us take what we have "as is" and use it proficiently.
 
A lottery ticket is merely a dare to dream.  What if?  The first question I would ask myself;  "how could I make the world a better place?"  "What would I change if I had the means as such?"
 
Wouldn't it be great to help the homeless?  Wouldn't it be awesome to contribute by refurbishing homes all with the intention of giving them away?  To help real people, to offer a hand up?  To witness the expression on their faces when handed the key.  The thing is, I can do that now...with my spare time and talents by volunteering for Habitat for Humanity.   That is actually something on my "to do" list just as soon as my responsibilities lessen.  Sign me up for the painting crew and tell me where to begin!
 
My point is, one does not need a lot of money to make a difference, just time, a few kind words and the ability to get involved.  Generosity comes in many forms.  I see that...no winning ticket necessary.  In a sense, all of us have all ready won if we use all that we have for the greater good...if we carry the right attitude and are willing to share. 
 
It's two in the morning and I checked the numbers as did many...  I had only one matching number and so, life will go on the same as it was yesterday and the day before....  In hindsight, I probably should have taken my pocket change and put it towards some printer paper or art supplies instead of feeding the greed if you know what I mean...but hey, it was worth the escape if even for a moment.  The possibility carried me away from the chill of this January cold snap.  Travel would have been terrific though, somewhere warm and tropical...Whispering Falls perhaps, but then again, I've all ready been there within my own imagination. 
 
Until next time,
 
~Trixie Archer