MY QUEST FOR GOD - PART II (REPOST)

The summer of bible camp was "The Summer of Love."  How ironic I thought, while others everywhere were tuning in, turning on and dropping out, I was trying to understand basic human nature and to find out if God really does exist. From a child's perspective, I grew up thinking if the people who claim they love me and want to protect me will hurt me, then what will the rest of the world do to me? That isn't actually the right stuff to guide a person into adulthood, but nonetheless it guided me into being clueless where romantic relationships are concerned. The "funny" thing about it is that I've gone through life waiting and wanting someone to prove me wrong, but to date no one has. My logic says since people are human and humans are flawed, anyone is bound to hurt/disappoint someone else, but on a deeper level...one still filled with idealism and good things that can't be destroyed by this cesspool called life, I choose to hold onto the belief that love is a good thing and in many situations is the only thing that keeps us afloat. So until love comes my way, I'll just stay in my canoe and hope I don't lose my paddles. 

After that summer when I fell short of receiving God's grace, I turned to trying to understand evil instead. When Anton LaVey's Satanic Bible was hot off the presses, I purchased one and read it from cover to cover hoping for a lightbulb moment. Needless to say, it was just another book filled with words written by man and it didn't explain the great mysteries of life any more than the Christian Bible had. My spiritual journey I suppose some would say was corrupted by my inability to believe what I couldn't see. Instead of blindly believing, I questioned EVERYTHING instead. If God loved us so much then why do bad things happen to good people? Where are the miracles? Why are there wars, famine and disease? No one seemed to be able to adequately answer these things through the Biblical verses they would throw my way. I needed more than meaningless words on a page to help me swallow anything I was told about God. I needed more than just empty written words to make God a reality.

Eventually my salvation was found in my experimentation with drugs. As that experimentation deepened, I found certain drugs had a numbing effect. That feeling was one my whole body craved.... especially my emotions. Nothing bothered me as long as I stayed high, so by the tender age of 14, I stayed high ALL the time. I could easily sit back and blame my choices on my genetic background. I'm sure the long line of alcoholism that runs on both sides of my family would be enough of reason to say I didn't stand a chance not to be a substance abuser. Yes, the odds were against me, yet somehow I know that's not why I changed the path I had walked as a small child. I didn't begin life as an addict. You see, I actively sought out finding something that would make me numb. It took me many years to realize that without drugs I would have been a much uglier statistic. I choose drugs to stay alive if that makes any sense. They didn't choose me. 

Looking back on it, I call the next 16 years of my life "my leap of faith". They say God looks out for fools and drunks, but I think He/She has a special fondness for all addicts. Addictions, whatever they may be, cause an emotional bankruptcy in the person. No love is greater than that of a person and their drug of choice. When I say "drug," I include food, sex, gambling, shopping, work or whatever it is a person uses to escape. All other things in life come second regardless of what we try to tell ourselves and everyone else who is in earshot. That moment, at the climax when nothing else matters, I found freedom from pain and a facade that made me think nothing could ever hurt me again. Many years later, when the truth stared me in the face daring me to look elsewhere, I realized the truth and only the truth would set me free. 

MY QUEST FOR GOD - PART I (REPOST)

My first exposure to religion was as a young child. At the age of 5, I was baptized into The First Congregational Church in Brewer, Maine. For all those not familiar with the Congregational Church, a quick history lesson should refresh your memory. Does the word Puritan mean anything to you? It was a quaint church overlooking the Penobscot River. The beautiful stain glass windows illuminated the interior as the morning sun rose in the sky. I went to church with my family on Sundays, sat quietly and very still on the pew mimicking what the others did when they did it, yet I can't remember a word of what was ever preached in that church. My only memory is the feeling that there was more to it than what I was being told. I wanted to be touched by the real hand of God, but somehow, I always eluded His omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent grasp.

By the time I was 11, often, I walked to church alone or with my best friend, Margie who I asked to accompany me after she'd spend the night at my house. Her mother was dying from Hodgkin's disease, so she sought comfort elsewhere during that time in her life. My door was always open and I welcomed her companionship (and still do after all these years). One Wednesday night she asked me to go to church with her. But it was Wednesday...who goes to church on Wednesday? I soon found out. The Baptist preacher bellowed from the pulpit condemning all sinners to burn eternally in the flames of Hell. As he spoke and thumped his fist on the pulpit to drive home his words, I was certain he was speaking to me personally. I was doomed to burn in Hell if I didn't seek out Salvation, so when my friend asked me to attend Bible camp with her during that summer, I eagerly accepted. Maybe God would reveal himself to me at Bible camp.

We met in old army style tents outside a host church on Eddington Pond for various daily religious classes and activities. Each day, we were expected to memorize a new Bible verse. When that feat wasn't accomplished, off the person went to see the preacher. They always would return subdued and extremely repentant. When they upped memorizing the verses from 1 to 2, I panicked. I had trouble focusing and remembering the words. So naturally, I froze when I was asked to stand and recite my verses. My mind went blank and the interior of the large tent seemed darker and filled with impending doom. I felt true shame as I walked to the preacher’s office inside the church. I remember my long, slender legs shaking and feeling weak as I entered his office after knocking. I stood before him looking down at the floor.

At first, he spoke softly, and I lifted my eyes to meet his. He peered into my soul and I shivered. He stood and walked around me, then laid his hand on the back of my head. I trembled as he prayed for me and it seemed my fear ignited something in him. His voice slowly became louder and louder until it filled the whole room. I was a sinner and without a doubt, I was going to burn in Hell for all eternity.

As the tears ran down my face, I was instructed to kneel. I felt almost relieved to stop standing. My legs were weak and trembling. I cried and prayed and asked God's forgiveness. My pleading was frantic. I asked God to enter me and fill me with His Spirit. I truly wanted His Grace, but the only grace I would receive that day was being bent over a desk and being told to bare myself. As the pastor spanked my bare bottom, his voice trembled as he prayed for me. Each time his hand met my flesh, it lingered for a moment. When he finally stopped, he stood behind me while I repeated the verses.

I could feel the intensity of his eyes gazing down upon me. Each time he said, "say them again," his voice trembled, and his breathing quickened. Suddenly, his voice changed and the words that came from him were ones I had never heard before. He was speaking in some foreign language I didn’t understand. And then silence. It was finally over! By the time I covered my bare bottom, my skin was so tender it hurt to have the fabric of my panties brush across my bottom.

As I walked back to the tent, the realization filled me that something had just happened, but I wasn’t quite sure what that something was. Did God finally “touch” me? Had I finally received His Grace? It wasn't until many years later when I awoke screaming from a nightmare that I realized what had happened that day and I wondered how many others like me had been filled with the good pastor’s Spirit of God.

JUST A CHAT BETWEEN TWO FRIENDS

Mildred: OMG!

Martha: What's up buttercup?

Mildred: You’re going to laugh at me. I hope you're sitting down.

Martha: Oh goody.....that always makes my little black heart red!

Mildred: So I got high as fuck last night and I’m holding that damn stone Angel gave me because I’m supposed to hold it as instructed by her. 

Mildred: So I’m laying in bed in the dark holding the stone and chatting with Jesse and I lose the damn stone. I can’t find it anywhere.

Martha: Uhhhohhhhhh

Mildred: I look around. I move the dogs. I look on the floor. It’s really late so I finally say fuck it. I’ll look for it in the morning when it’s light out.

Martha: Go on......

Mildred: So this morning I get up and tear my bed apart, no stone...

Mildred: I look all around my bed, no stone...

Martha: WTF?

Mildred: Under my bed, no stone...

Mildred: Not on my nightstand!

Mildred: It’s nowhere!

Mildred: I’m fucking freaking out because it vanished!

Mildred: So I figured it’ll turn up eventually because I didn’t get out of bed while I had it in my hand.

Martha: Have you found it?

Mildred: No!!!

Mildred: So, I’m in the bathroom getting dressed and I looked down. There wedged in my belly bottom is that damn stone.

Martha: Oh jeezus!

Martha: 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Martha: That's what they call pop in belly button jewelry

Mildred: I have a really deep belly bottom.

Mildred: I don’t remember putting it there. lol

Mildred: I was really high!

Martha: Well......you WERE stoned off your ass!

Mildred: Fucking Apple Fritter strain. See what happens when I try something new? lol

Mildred: OMG

Martha: Save me a hit!!!

Martha: I need to try it!!!

Mildred: I thought you’d want to hear about this one!

Martha: Absolutely! You never cease to dazzle and amaze me😘

Mildred: Why the hell would I put a rock in my belly button?

Martha: Maybe I'll get a belly stone, too!

Mildred: lol

Martha: Who the hell knows why! Who the hell knows why you do anything you do?

Mildred: It's amazing it stayed in there all that time and didn’t come out.

Mildred: I wish someone had taken a pic of the look on my face when I discovered it was in my belly button.

Martha: Did it pop right out or did you have to dig for it?

Mildred: No it came right out.

Mildred: I don’t know about me sometimes!

Martha: I know, I feel ya!

Mildred: Well, the stone has my mojo on it now. That's for sure!

Martha: And belly button lint

Mildred: And some belly button lint

Mildred: Jinx!

Martha: Lmao....great minds!

Mildred: We need to pinkie swear and do a wish.

Mildred: What can I wish for?

Martha: Pinky swear......make a wish!

Martha: Done!

Mildred: I don’t know what I want to wish for.

Mildred: Hmmmmm! What do I really want?

Mildred: Oh, I wish I'd get laid!

Martha: You can't tell me or else it won't come true.

Mildred: That one may take a boulder in my belly button! lol

Martha: Ouch!

Mildred: Oh yeah! I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Let me wish for something else.

Mildred: It’ll be a secret this time!

Martha: Good!

Mildred: Okay! Done!

Mildred: We’ll see how strong the power of the pinkie swear really is!

Mildred: So how are you today? Did you put any foreign objects in any of your orifices?

Martha: I'm okay, and no.....not today!

Mildred: I’m so proud of you! At least one of us is thinking straight.

Martha: I got lucky.

Mildred: This time!

Mildred: I’m still chuckling. Do these things happen to other people?

Martha: I just told Max.

Mildred: I can't be held responsible for my actions. I exceeded Snoop Dogg's usual consumption of weed last night. I was completely cooked.

Martha: Max just shook his head.

Mildred: But he loves me.

Martha: He does!

Mildred: You have to love a fool and at least he didn't tell you to spray me with the hose like before.

Mildred: Not many people would admit to something like that and at least I'm honest. lol

Mildred: It takes a special person to admit to their colorful blunders.

Mildred: and I’m special.

Martha: You're special alright!

Mildred: But I can’t spell or speak today...it must be that damn stone! It put some funky Hoodoo on me! I put it back on the shelf. I'm keeping it away from me! It's dangerous!

Mildred: I think I may need some more Apple Fritter to straighten me out after all of that trauma I went through! lol

MY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

As a child my birthday always felt more like a curse instead of something to look forward to each year. Other than my mother, how could anyone be excited by the hallmark of that day?  Public schools always went back in session the day after Labor Day.  That meant many times the first day of school fell on my birthday, September 5th.  My very first day of school when I entered kindergarten at Vine Street Elementary School was much more memorable than any of the others because of the events that unfolded.  My birthday had been the day before, so this special day as I began my educational journey remains etched in infamy as being showcased by the fancy footwork of an awkward 5 year old klutz.

My next older brother is 4 years older than I am.  He had been delegated the responsibility to walk me to and from school until I got old enough to either walk by myself or in a group with my friends.  Since we went to the same school, it shouldn't have been that big of a deal to him, but anything involving siblings has a funny way of becoming complicated and drama-filled.  His biggest issue was having to deal with the shame of walking his kid sister to school.  Oh, the horrible things our families cast upon us, but like I always say, "what doesn't kill us, only makes us stronger".  I'm sure my brother is a much better person today for having had to deal with all the responsibilities of being an older brother to a pain in the ass like me. 

We both were decked out in our fine new first day of school apparel as we left home that day.  The journey up Walter Street seemed like such an arduous trek for a five year old child. The route contained two hills, Little Walter and Big Walter, crossing a sometimes busy Third Street and navigating Vine Street to arrive safely at school.  As we walked down Little Walter, I discovered many other children doing exactly the same thing we were doing.  All the older brothers and sisters were walking just ahead of their younger siblings prompting them to stop being so slow.  

As I walked I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing or where I was going. Before my brother noticed and could redirect my focus, I fell face first into a rather large pothole in the sidewalk. It all happened so fast that I didn't even have time to put my hands out to help break my fall.  BAM! My nose and forehead took the full impact of my fall. As my brother helped me up and took me home, he bitched at me the whole way there. I had blood and tears running down my face, but to hear him tell it, you would have thought I had planned the whole thing out just to embarrass him and to make him late for school.  Contrary to popular belief, I may have always had a devious streak in me, but not that devious!

Our family doctor, Dr. Dearborn looked me all over and patched me up.  My nose wasn't broken, but I had two black eyes and my forehead had been split open. My face was a mess for awhile and that was no way for a shy, little girl to start school, but I developed a great poker face at a young age so no one knew just how deeply that fall had hurt me. I like to say I learned to watch where I was walking, but that skill was developed at a much older age.  The only real lasting effect from my fall was the daily ridicule I endured from my brother as we walked to school.  I was so glad when the city finally patched that hole and my brother stopped tormenting me.  We laugh about it now, but I often wondered if any of my brothers ever realized how inferior to them I grew up feeling. 

HOW DO YOU DEFINE PHYSICAL BEAUTY?

We are taught from a very young age to revere physical beauty. It isn't until we get much older that we figure out it's inner beauty that matters most. That interim time we spend soothing our eyes with what we consider aesthetically pleasing is often times accompanied by mending our broken hearts. For most of us, those wasted days we’ve spent with "eye candy" pales in comparison to the real thing. I think it's a travesty that people are coerced by society into developing meaningless preferences for their most intimate relationships based solely upon what a person looks like and not what type of character they have.  

We overlook anything that may have depth just to possess beauty for a fleeting moment. We’re so hoodwinked into believing that outer beauty is the important thing. We’re not told that physical beauty wanes with age and then in hindsight during some brief moment of clarity, we suddenly get it. Aging no longer seems scary when vanity is put into its proper perspective. Gray hair and wrinkles no longer are dreaded. Some people wear them well and like a fine wine, they become better with age. 

Many people alter their appearance thinking that a youthful appearance might grant them the key to happiness by cheating the aging process when in reality all it does is buy their plastic surgeon's a new Porsche and helps put his children through college. So why does aging scare people? Why do we feel less desirable? When we turn 60 is it really necessary to look 30 in order to feel the happiness we so desperately seek? Vanity is such a powerful force that rules supreme from our early years right up until the time we realize vanity is a waste of time. Physical beauty is so subjective and filled with individual preferences. If asked to name the three most beautiful women in the world and the three most handsome men, the list would vary from person to person. What we might find out by comparing lists is how we differ in our definition of physical beauty. 

No wonder so many teens develop eating disorders and remain confused and unsatified with their appearance for years. When beauty is defined in terms of this picture, what we strive for is not only unhealthy, but is a hideous facade as well. The picture features a model who looks anorexic. Because most of us have too much meat on our bones, it makes us ugly by society’s standards. Yes, physical beauty is governed by our preferences. What looks hot to one person might make someone else run away in search of a paper bag and a Phenergan suppository. 

Gratitude statement: After looking at this picture, it makes me thankful vanity has passed me by and the only use I want a paper bag for is to cover this lost soul until she gains alittle weight. 

TO STACY WHEREVER YOU ARE

WHY CAN'T JOHNNY READ AND WRITE?

I woke up this morning thinking about why so many people are up in arms about prayer not being allowed in schools. I remember as a child praying in school, but now I look back and see how wrong it was to impose Christianity upon everyone. It's great if you believe in a Christian god, but what if you don't? What if you're family is Jewish or Muslim? What if your family is Buddhist or Hindu? What if your family is Wiccan or Scientologists? What if your family is Agnostic or Atheist? What's wrong with just having a moment of silence in respect of all belief systems and not just favoring one? What's wrong with teaching tolerance and respecting all differences? What's wrong with teaching a child God has many faces and sometimes God is a faceless entity called science and reason? Shouldn't schools be more concerned with teaching our children math, reading and science than instilling religious doctrine? I guess it's okay not to be able to read or write as long as you can recite the Lord's prayer because God takes care of all His followers and will provide for you when you can't get a job. If I sound angry, I am! Religion is not the cure all to everything! It belongs in church and not in our public schools!

A CRY FOR HELP

Each summer during my mother's vacation from work my family would go stay at my Aunt Leah's camp on Eddington Pond. My family wasn't fortunate enough to own a camp so we had to rely on the generosity of others. As I got older, my brothers stopped going to camp and opted to stay home so they could have legendary parties. While the cat's away the mice will play! 

I hadn't reached the "I don't want to go to camp" stage yet. The highlight of my days at camp as I got older were the boys who had a camp next door. As with any 13 almost 14 year old girl, I immediately developed a crush on one of the boys named Jimmy. I've always had a run of bad luck with guys with that name, but I finally learned my lesson after marrying one.  This "ginger" Jimmy gave me my first real taste of what rejection felt like. How humiliating it is to feel like the ugly duckling and the odd man out. I hated feeling not good enough. I hated being me. Why couldn't I have been born short, petite and gorgeous? 

I've always had self-destructive tendencies as far back as I can remember. Although I've only halfheartedly tried the big "S" a few times, I now wonder what was my actual goal when I downed a whole bottle of aspirin chased by a massive amount of straight whisky. Did I have any idea that it could have killed me? Was I disappointed when it didn't kill me? 

My mother brought a whole gallon of Canadian Club whisky to camp that summer and now I wonder why she did that. My mother wasn't a drinker. Did she have plans of entertaining after the children were tucked snugly into bed in the loft overlooking the pond? If so, I never saw any evidence of it. Were my actions a cry for help or was I just looking for the attention I obviously wasn't getting? So many questions in hindsight, but never any beforehand.

After going on a very animated teenage tirade that probably resembled the Tasmanian Devil going after Bugs Bunny and ingesting the only things available to me at the time...a bottle of aspirin and whisky, I remember continually vomiting until all I could do is dry heave and heave and heave. At that point the desire to die was more than just a fleeting impulse. I felt so bad, dying would have been a welcome relief. The next morning when asked about my "illness" I passed off what was wrong with me as being some type of intestinal ailment when in reality I probably should have been in the hospital. 

It always amazed me how strong my mother's sense of denial was. She was a nurse and never "saw" all the classic signs I exhibited of a teenager in crisis. All my stunts went unnoticed until I eventually overdosed on barbiturates at school less than two years later and was rushed to the ER. Since she worked at that hospital, it was out of the question for me to try to cover up that one. Oops! I got too high and forgot how many I had taken! Actually, that was the truth. I ate pills like candy. If 3 were good, 6 or more were spectacular. Who knew how many drugs I had in my system at any given time? Like an alcoholic, one could never be too high unless unconscious or comatose. Oh, what a wonderful gene pool from which I come!

My ears rang so loudly for the better part of a week that I could hard hear anything, but the ringing. I felt like I had a severe case of the flu. I hurt all over and I couldn't keep anything in my stomach for several days. My best friend, Margie witnessed me sink into my dark era. She accompanied me to camp that summer and fretted over me. When I look back, I wonder how close she came to ratting me out. It must have been hard for her to watch me be in so much pain and self-destruct. (I'm sorry, Margie!) 

Now, I look back and wonder where my mother was during all my brouhahas and why she had left my friend and I unattended that evening. The unattended theme carried through the next summer as well when I did have a boyfriend and that boyfriend was allowed to come stay at camp with me. Oh, what a summer that was! I was 14. He was 16. Skinny-dipping, frolicking in the summer sun and lazy nights and early mornings spent listening to the loons while wrapped in each other's arms. For awhile, I got the attention I needed and wanted and then poof! It was gone and so was I. And to this day just the smell of whisky makes me nauseous.

THE LAST MILE

This is dedicated to Helen Evancheck who recently passed away at 98 years young on September 21, 2022. 

When I walked away there was no turning back. I knew from that point on my life would never be the same. Yes, I longed for the familiar surroundings I called home, yet that house would always remain with me no matter where I went. Running away only made the things I loved no longer a physical part of my life. I could hold them close in my mind and take them with me.

Looking back on it, I know now that my decision to leave was totally wrong, yet at the time it seemed I was trapped and had no other choice. That few weeks I spent on the psych ward after my first overdose, made me realize I had very few real friends. Each night when Wayne's mother came on duty, I would sit with her at the nurse's station and talk until I could fall asleep. We never once discussed her son or why I was on her floor. I knew she had read my chart and was familiar with all the notes written in it. What was there to discuss? I know I should have been ashamed, but she never made me feel uncomfortable. She talked to me as if she truly cared for my well-being and I always appreciated that. She was kind and gentle: warm and loving...all the things I needed most at that time.

I acted horrible during the day...defiant and always questioning authority. I refused to participate in any group therapy and used any recreation time to create weird things to decorate my room. My pride and joy were the bats I had made from modeling clay. I had painted them black with red eyes and then hung them with sewing thread from the pipe near the ceiling in my room. It seemed everything I did was aimed at getting a reaction. But no matter how outrageous I acted Mrs. Evancheck treated me the same way she treated me from the first time she met me when Wayne brought me home to meet his parents. She treated me like one of her own. 

I still remember the outrage I felt when my mother had brought me an electric razor so I could shave my legs and underarms and it was immediately taken away from me. I quickly challenged them by asking if they thought I was going to shave myself to death. Surely, they couldn't think I would try to hang myself with the cord...it wasn't long enough for that and besides hanging just wasn't my style. They never did give me a reason why they took it. They didn't have to give me a reason, so I went on being my usual obnoxious self. Why they didn't just medicate me was a mystery to me, but it probably had something to do with the fact that I would have enjoyed zoning out on some good psychiatric drugs. 

The law required any drug overdoses to be sent to the psych ward for 2 weeks of observation after surviving the ER and the ICU, but many people weren't that lucky. For most the only trip they took was to the morgue! The two weeks I was on C-4 was some of the hardest decision making time I have ever had. Due to my impaired judgment and being so screwed up, I made all the wrong decisions at that time! I had no adult I could turn to for guidance.  I just didn't trust anyone that way.

So I was alive! The overdose had not been intentional...I simply was out of control and on a very self-destructive path. I loved getting high and staying high. I feared nothing...not even death itself. I slowly retreated into a silent, safe place where I no longer felt any pain. Along with feeling no pain, I discovered I also felt no happiness, joy or love. Wayne had threatened to leave me if I didn't stop getting high as if that was going to stop me! Ha! Now, he was gone and I was truly alone...except for my drugs. Somehow they had replaced everything that was good or right in my life. They dulled the pain and I learned how to live being comfortable numb. 

Lynne, someone I considered a friend, offered me a way out and I took it.  I believed that nothing could be worse than what I had been experiencing. It wasn't until much later until I discovered that things always can get worse. It only took me a few days after being discharged from the hospital to realize going back to school and trying to straighten out my life was just not going to happen like everyone else wanted it to happen. The day I left home, I took one last look at Wayne's house before I walked down my street and walked towards the interstate with Lynne. That last mile was my point of no return. As we set out on the road, I left some of my pain behind but the biggest portion was something I would carry with me until I learned how to forgive.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost-

HANDPRINTS IN THE ATTIC

Yes, there were actual handprints attic.  They were put there to imprint my legacy on the house I grew up calling home.  When I was young, my attic always had an air of mystique to it.  Often times a strong draft would make the door creek open and shut causing the appearance of it being haunted.  Who am I to say it wasn't haunted?  I only lived there and it was built in the 1830's! But the fear I had of the attic when I younger soon dissipated when I discovered its true value.  It was a great place to skip school when I had no other place to go. My friend, Linda and I spent many a day tucked away in the attic discussing boys, very quietly listening to all the best songs on the radio and practicing the latest dance moves.  And then in later years it was an excellent party central!

The attic had 3 rooms.  One room was sealed off from the rest of the attic.  It was dark and foreboding.  I never explored it nor did I ever shine a flashlight into the window size opening that was on the top of right side of the stairway.  As silly as it sounds, I was always afraid of what I might see.  The other two rooms were on the left side of the stairway.  The room directly at the top of the stairs had exposed rafters, but had finished walls and a wide plank wooden floor.  It had a large closet partitioned along the back wall.  That made a great place to stash pillows and blankets for when it was cold and we used that space as a pseudo bedroom because it was so cozy and secluded from everything else.  The other room had two windows in it that looked out to the street that ran past my house.  That room was completely finished and had a crawlspace the length of the room along the  left side.  Upon exploring it, I found old papers and other things stashed in it, but none of it seemed of any value to me.   

Slowly the attic became transformed into a semi-furnished place to hang out. The transformation began as soon as I started hauling discarded furniture up there.  Soon the attic had 2 old sofas, several chairs, a table, a radio, lamps and other various items I collected and hauled up there.  What I remember most about the attic is its musty smell.  I thought of many ways to eliminate that musty smell and tried things like burning incense and spraying air freshener, but what helped most was when I decide to paint the walls and floors of the 2 useable rooms. 

The transformation hit high gear when I organized  a painting party.  Each person who planned to attend brought whatever remnants of old paint they could find.  My contribution was tangerine colored paint that was used to paint an old sea captain's trunk (I always thought my mother was crazy for painting that trunk any color), lemon colored paint from my bedroom and lavender colored paint from one of the bathrooms.  The wide plank floor was painted in stripes.  Each plank was a different color.  Then the room took on a whole new life of its own when we all used the rest of the paint in a much more creative way.  We put multi-colored handprints all over the walls.  The final result looked like something out of a lunatic's mind or perhaps a scene from a Dr. Seuss poem. 

One hand
Two hands
Red hand
Blue hand

Black hand
Blue hand
Old hand
New hand

Some are red and some are blue.
Some are old and some are new.
Some are sad and some are glad.
And some are very, very bad.

Why are they sad and glad and bad?
I don't know. Go ask your dad.

Some are thin and some are fat.
The fat one has a yellow hat.
From there to here, from here to there,
Funny things everywhere.

Here are some who like to run.
They run for fun in the hot, hot sun
Oh me! Oh my!
Oh me! Oh my!

What a lot of funny things go by.
Some have two hands and some have four.
Some have six hands and some have more.
Where do they come from?

I cant say.
But I bet they have come a long, long way.

We see them come.
We see them go.
Some are fast.
And some are slow.
Some are high.
And some are low

Not one of them is like another.
Don't as us why.
Go ask your mother.

(adapted from "Red Fish Blue Fish" by Dr. Seuss)

Many years later the plot thickened into a sort of silly jiggly jello kind of mess.  My home was sold and converted into 3 apartments.  My cousin, Debbie still lived next door and the new owner asked her if she knew who used to live there.  I think she must have been a little hesitant to commit to answering that question until she was asked if she knew that someone had painted handprints all over the walls in the attic.  With that she laughed and nodded her head.  It was that crazy Mildred Ratched who joyfully left her imprint on that very old, very bold yellow brick house on Walter Street.  

THE SAGE OF THE SPIDER BITE

I didn’t quite know what to expect yesterday going into my angiogram. I had a basic concept of the procedure but when I got in the procedure room and on the table, it was like I was in Marquis de Sade’s torture chamber. They started strapping me down to the table where conscious sedation would be used. I guess no wiggling is allowed! So you know me I couldn't resist asking which one of the six or seven people in the room was the dominatrix. OMG! That’s all it took! Those people erupted and off it went…

So the procedure went well, but no blockage was found. They used a device called a mynx to plug my femoral artery to stop the bleeding and I swear they used a sledge hammer to put the mynx in. No joke! I'm sore from my waist to half way down my right thigh. An interesting thing about the procedure is that they go in from the opposite side. The bite is on my left ankle and my whole right side is hurting today. My left underarm even hurts today and I have no valid reason for that. It feels like someone grabbed me hard by the armpit. My right side of my neck feels like it got tweeked somehow. I think they may have had a squad of little kids jumping up and down on me while I was unconscious. On the up side, I get to be a lady of leisure for the next several days. 

Because the doctor found no blockage, he now wants me to have a MRI of the area because he thinks it may be an infection in the bone that’s preventing the wound from healing. I just hope the MRI is a little earier on my body than this was! [lol] So the saga of the spider bite continues…

ITSY BITSY SPIDER

As I worked outside in my yard in early January, I got bit by "something" on my left outer ankle.  I never thought much about it until months later when it didn't heal and started to get worse. The bite was located so I couldn't get a good look at it straight on so I started taking pictures of it periodically to compare to see what it was actually doing. I'm no expert, but to me it looked like a spider bite. It would appear like it would start to heal and then it would break open again and that process kept happening repeatedly. 

Around July, I decided it was time to have my primary care doctor look at it because I'm diabetic and although wounds do heal slower for diabetics, I figured six months was more than enough time for anything to heal. She immediately told me she was sending me to a vascular surgeon to have him evaluate it. I got all the particulars on why she thought that was necessary and it made sense so off I went to wait to hear from the vascular surgeons office.

It took about two weeks to get a call to set up an appointment. Yesterday I had my appoinment with that doctor. With much trepidation, I envisioned him poking and prodding my wound, but none of that happened. When he and his PA entered the room they both asked me questions, examined the wound and they both felt the pulse in my foot. I showed them the pictures I had taken of the wound and they agreed that it was a spider bite. The doctor stood back and told me I have no pulse in my left foot. He said I was going to first need an ultrasound done which they did of both legs and blood drawn to prepare me for having an angiogram done that would be scheduled for Friday morning. Hopefully, the angiogram will restore the blood flow to my foot so the wound will finally heal.

The moral of the story is: Don't delay getting wounds looked at assuming they will heal on their own without any assistance (BUT I had it looked at in the ER in June and they said it looked fine! I guess because my foot wasn't falling off it looked fine to them! IDIOTS!) And this goes with double or triple caution if you're a diabetic because you can end up losing a limb. I am in no way completely out of the woods yet and that scares me.  The reality of the situation really is a slap in the face and an eye opener. I need to be more careful. The wound still needs to heal. I'm just thankful it was caught in time to restore the blood flow to my foot to give it a chance to heal.

I'VE BEEN NOMINATED!

I won't bore anyone with where I've been or why I've been there. I know I've been neglectful and probably deserve a good flogging! Who's up for the task? The line forms out back behind the art studio. Take a number and wait for your turn!

OMG! I can’t stop laughing! I just got an email this morning letting me know I was nominated to be in the Professional Who’s Who. Ordinarily this might be considered an honor, but I (Karen) wasn’t the one nominated! Mildred Ratched was the one they want to include in their publication! I have half a mind to go for it, but then the other half...that seldomly used rational side of my brain, wants to know who nominated me and why. Hmmm! Perhaps I can offer a free shock treatment and an enema to the person who nominated me!

THANKSGIVING WITH MILDRED

So with everything that this past year has thrown my way, I can only hope my Thanksgiving will look similar to this...

 

THE TIME I ALMOST KISSED YOUNG MILDRED GOOD-BYE

Ramping up to the Cuban Missile Crisis and as things started heating up with Russia way back in the late1950's and early1960's (The Pre-Stoned Age) students used to have air raid drills and were instructed on what to do if attacked by enemy missiles.  Was the term "friendly fire" even used then? What would have happened if one of out own missile silos had blown up or misfired or something?  Were we ever instructed on that?  Just a thought!  Oh, Uncle Sam doesn't make those kind of boo-boo's we all know that! Just ask any Republican. Weren't the big right-wingers back then the John Birch Society?

I lived in a city that had an air force base and can attest to the fact that when the Missile Crisis and nuclear war was a real threat we had frequent drills. Thank you for scaring the bejesus out of me, Nikita Khrushchev! Perhaps Vladimir Putin could learn a thing or two from you. [That's being written with Maine sarcasm if you aren't one who is fluent in Mildred...] 

The one thing they didn't tell us or give us any instructions about was what to do if a nuclear warhead hit and we were ground zero or anywhere close to ground zero. They weren't honest! No one told us that we could kiss our sweet young asses good-bye, but even as a small child I could see the real worry, the real concern in the adults eyes.  That's when I knew something was amiss.  That's when I knew something wasn't right in the world and it needed to be fixed pronto! 

Of course, they weren't going to frighten children like that and cause an outbreak of panic and and hysteria. I may have been just a kid, but I caught enough on the evening news to know what was going on and knew David Brinkley, Chet Huntley and Walter Cronkite were not some blowhards like Tucker Carlson, Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh or Bill O'Reilly.  Can you even imagine that?  My mother would have popped a vein in her head if Walter Cronkite came off sounding like Rush Limbaugh.  OMG!  Or David Brinkley sounded like Tucker Carlson? Holy Christ! Say it isn't so! My father would dropped kicked the television set across the dooryard. And those were the days when people only had one television set per household.  It wasn't like how it is now with our pampered asses of today! Oh by the way, for those of you who weren't born and raised in Maine, a "dooryard" is your yard where you go to play as a child. 

That was back in the days when the news was just the news before it became fake and filled with guff from conspiracy theorists. We knew the threat was real because they told us it was real.  Why did we know that? Because they didn't lie! They told it like it was and only like it was. When exactly did that stop? 

The newspaper article is dated October 20, 1959.