The honest truth

When I tell you I have lived an exciting life, I am not lying. (lioning? heh)

People have asked me if I think writers are born or made. Me personally I think it can be done both ways. My Great Tiny Grandma might have opened that conduit in me when I was barely five years old and sitting with her listening to the story's behind the pictures in her family album. Each summer she would bring them and we would go through them. I loved to listen to the stories behind each one.

"That is Elaina and my dad's snake Satan." She said, pointing to this picture.

She turned the page and there was a picture of her dad kneeling in brick rubble next to a safe, with the door ajar. He had a strange look on his face, like....like he had just returned from the future to find his house destroyed.

"That is my dad." she lovingly cooed. "He was an inventor. Did I ever tell you he invented a time machine?"

The hair stood up on my arms.

What ever barriers may have been within my soul and mind at the time, blocking the path to a writers life, strained against there tethers  like hungry dogs awoken by the wet smell of blood. "Honest?"

"Honest truth" she whispered glancing about to make sure no one was listening. "We had a zoo in our back yard and he use to go places and come back with stuff."

She flipped back a page to the lady and the snake. "The future is where he found Tina he brought her back to pose with Satan and then returned her."

My developing writers mind was now whirling like a bucket of eels. In the stillness of my mind the sound of my beating heart reverberated in a ominous pounding. I could taste the thrill on my tongue ..wait a minute. "I thought you said her name was Elaina?"

She chuckled."Doesn't matter, she has been captured and is now being held prisoner in my photo album."

My mind lurched and something deep within me opened and fell inwards. My vocabulary not big enough to label it or fully understand the ramifications. But instinctively knowing her words had redirected my destiny.

Her father indeed was an inventor  and a photographer. The family albums are sprinkled with the photos of his models posing with Tiny Grandma and or his birds and snakes. Tiny Grandma over the years would tell me different stories about them each time we looked though the albums. Most pictures were not labeled, so when she died the family got together to do that. That is when we discovered, she told all of us different stories. The photos remain unlabeled, because beyond the fact that its a model, we have no idea who these beautiful mysterious women are.

My generation is the last to know this truth. The next generation will inherit these books and go on living hence forth, thinking they are related to those women.

This photograph is in my album. When you turn it over it reads in my 5th grade penmanship. "Jar and me"

When I was eleven I found a photo album at goodwill. I opened it and saw this picture. IT FREAKED ME OUT. Those were the exact shoes I was wearing at the time. My hair in the same style, it was like an alternate universe existed and I was peeking into it. That was me...in some other place and time.

I slammed the book shut and bought it and took it home with me. I trimmed off all identifying stuff on it and signed the back, showed it to all my friends, spun a few yarns about me and Jar, and then stuffed it in my photo album. Where it has laid (lied? heh) ever sense.

No one but you readers here today know the truth.

This photo is in my album as well.

This is the last time I saw Tiny Grandma. You want to know what we are smiling about?

 We were preparing to leave after the visit and everyone was saying their goodbyes. I had leaned into her bed and laid my cheek on her soft cheek and whispered to her. "I will see you yesterday!"

As I pulled back she squeeled and clapped her hands with pure joy. Delighted to discover that it was I who had inherited her dad's time machine.

That's the truth.

Or maybe its the honest truth....and the student has now become the master.

Oh yeah? Well the proof is in the purse!

I posted this a while back.  Best-est older sister on planet.

I know what you thinking. How can you trust the judgement of a woman who wears olives on her fingers and talks to herself on her blog.

I'm not saying you would want me as a character witness for you at your trial, but you can trust me on this one.

The proof is in the purse.

My sister is incredibly talented. At EVERYTHING. And if she isn't she has the kahonnies to learn to be talented at it.

She recently took up leather work again.

She made me this in the 70's.

Then never touched leather again until she decided to pick it up again in February and make me this:

My question is how does she do that? It's like she wakes up and says, "Oh, I think I will learn to play the harp today. Casually glances at a harp book at noon, and then calls me to come to Carnegie Hall for a recital that evening.

Spontaneous genius craft creativity, is that a superpower?

She really caught me off guard with the choice of picture. I knew she was making me a purse but I NEEEEVER saw the choice of picture coming. That is one of my drawings from my book Lina Likes.

"Lina likes to pretend her bike is a run-away mustang named Diablo, and she is a Mexican princess named Boots!"

I consider her to be extremely talented as far as art goes, and it is incredibly honoring that out of her vast repertoire she stepped aside and choose a drawing I had done. I am just giddy that she copied something I drew, after I spent a life time coping her work.

Her stitching is FANTASTIC, a two liter of zero coke got spilled into it and not one drop dripped out. Its design is perfect for smuggling in juice bags and snacks for the kids at the movies. It is just so me.

I am glad she listened to Uncle Ben and heeded his words. "With great power comes great responsibility."

She uses her awesome superpowers for good.

Menfolk, caution: I'm gunna use the T word.

I skipped my period last month.

Since I am fixed there are no pregnancy worries.

I am hoping this is the start of actual menopause vs my thyroid just (DELETED)ing with me, as it has done in the past.

Periods should be something women can turn off and on at will.

Don't want it anymore? go visit the Maxi-pad Alter and sacrifice tampons to the statue of Aunt Flow, and *boop* its gone.

Want to get pregnant?  go to the store and order what you want. The kid at the counter should say stuff like "Light flow to go, hold the cramps!"

I'm so ready for it to go away.

I also would prefer it goes away soon. Before my daughter reaches puberty.

Can you imagine the hell my house would become with a pre-teen with raging PMS hormones and a old bat like me suffering hot flashes and menopausal hormone flairs? That is akin to crossing the streams in Ghost busters! You just don't want to unleash that much unholy hell!

My poor menfolk would have to move out. Their lives would be in danger.

The list

Yesterday TBJ pitcher Happ got hit in the head with a line drive. My son and I watched the video and discussed it.

From the sports angle, the medical angle and the angle of tossing around ideas that could have helped him not catch a 100 mph baseball in the head.

"bet that hurts." he said.

"Oh yes it hurts. I got beaned in the temple once with a hard ball while running track in 5th grade."

I went on to tell him the story.

"You have been hurt a lot of ways" he commented.

and I couldn't really argue with that.

Here is the list.

1. Fell down stairs as a toddler, scar on forehead and concussion.
2. Hiding under parents bed and jerked my head up and put a 2" long hunk of wood under my scap.
3. Got bit by a horse on the first section of my pinky finger. (I can describe in detail to you how that pain went though my bones all the way up my arm.)
4. Fell down a cliff, yup cartwheeling the whole way.
5. Trashed the ligaments in my left foot in a slip on the wet kitchen floor
6. Beaned in the temple with a hard ball. (MZ was pretty impressed his hit went all the way to the track and hit me)
7. Fallen off of multiple horses.
8. Had a toe broken by a horse standing on me.
9. Crushed myself in my own car and broke both collar bones and a 4 ribs.
10. Got punched in the face by a demented resident - THE DAY I  had gotten my teeth pulled and dentures placed.
11. Back was trashed in an OJI when a resident tried to kill me.
12. been inside a car that backed over a downed very LIVE power line.
13. Been ejected from a raft in class 3 rapids
14. gotten my pelvis messed up when a pony reared up and flipped over on me.
15 Been in a T-bone car accident and received an injured elbow.
16. numerous spectacular roller skating falls.
17. Got separated from my parties in the lava bed caves and fell in a crevasse, the  A'a lava  just chewing my leg up for lunch.
18. there some other stuff, but I have to wait for some statues of limitations to run out...

(I am not ever going to include the overwhelming massive amount of self inflicted 3rd degree burns, I have done to my self over the years.)

Looking over my list It looks like I have lived a life of danger and should probably have my own stunt man.

I just think I have lived a writer's life.

Had I lived a safe, stay on the path life I don't think I could write like I do.

I walk with a limp nowadays.

When I was a young child I used to walk with a limp too. A full on fake-out-vying-for-an-Oscar limp. When people would ask me what happened I would give them details of a horrific horse related accident. I loved the attention and the mysterious air it gave me.

The karmatic humor is not lost on me, when I am asked nowadays why I limp, and  have to give details of the horse related accident. "I broke the first rule of riding. Sky, you, horse, ground...keep them in that order."

walking away

Back story: farm kids got a welsh pony for Christmas one year. They wanted to ride her. She was acting spooky, I insisted on getting on her first. She reared up and flipped over on me. She dislocated my pelvis and fractured my sacrum. $15,000 worth of surgery/hospital stay and one metal plate and 4 big ass screws and I am good to go. That was an interesting Christmas. Ambulance ride and emergency surgery.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr Namechangedforprivacy shut the door to my room and paused for second, then took a deep breath and come over and sat on the edge of my hospital bed. It was 4 hours after surgery and I was finally awake enough to talk to him.

"I saw your scars during surgery and I wanted to talk to you about them." He said quietly, gesturing to my abdomen. "can you tell me what happened?"

I took in a ragged breath and launched into the story. I had no choice. I can lie away, if need be, all my other scars but not those. THOSE ones do not look like an accident. They are a collection of over 100 circular burn scars artistically arranged into something similar as an African tribal stomach scarification.

(have to admit they looked really freaking awesome when I was 115 pounds and had a flat stomach. However, not so attractive now on a 190 pound, all stretched out from 2 pregnancies belly.)

He just wanted to make sure I was not in danger or in an abusive situation.

We talked for a bit about everything my body and back had been through so far in my life.

Dr Namechangedforprivacy was an older orthopedic doctor getting ready to retire in a few months. He then told me how unusual my injury was and that he has to research it before he operated. He was surprised to find that there was only one other briefly mentioned case history. He enjoyed the whole fresh unusual orthopedic injury to treat.

"Geezze! I can't even get hurt like normal people." I said trying to calm my nerves.

He didn't smile. His face was still hiding something.

"Will this injury put me in a wheel chair?" I finally asked.

He leaned back like he was tallying up a list in his mind. "No. You are walking away from this one." Again with his face still hiding something.

I waited.

"With all of it." he said gesturing from my head to my toes, "everything you have told me,and the existing injuries (the herniated disks from that OJI), leads me to think you will be in a wheel chair when you are 50."

We sat in silence as I processed all this.

I made a mental note that he said: you will be in a wheel chair vs you will probably be in a wheel chair.

He patted my leg. "Some merry Christmas" He got up and headed out.

"Dr Namechangedforprivacy?" I called after him. "I'm not going down without a fight."

He smiled and looked over his glasses and wagged his finger at me. "stay off the pony at least until I take your stitches out."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the time of that accident I was years and years away from 50.

Today I am a heck of a lot closer. I will be turning 48 this year.

Each year the arthritis shaves off another sliver of my mobility and function. This Winter I lost normal range of motion in my right hip. Just recently I discovered I can no longer crouch down. My knees are failing me.

The floor has become no mans land. Things dropped there are magically out of my reach. To retrieve them has become a monumental task.

Someone once told me it must be easier to be born disabled...because you wouldn't know what you were missing.

I don't buy that. my farm daughter with cerebral palsy KNEW she was suppose to walk. She determined on till she learned.

I have been blessed with being surrounded with fierce warriors who despite the crap life shovels on their plate they go forward.

My Tiny grandma was crippled by polio and spent a large portion of her life in a wheel chair. It didn't slow her down, or turn her bitter.

I do not have their strength. I feel panicky at the thought of being a burden to others. To no longer be able to physically take care of myself.

It is a small comfort that most the things my hubby and I enjoy can be done from a chair.

but....this slow progression of turning to stone is....difficult.

Damn you Dr Namechangedforprivacy. I know you are right. I have always know you were right. But I will be damned if I am in a wheel chair one sliver of a second before I turn 50.

Even then you will have to catch me first, I have no intentions of going quietly into the good night. I can run surprisingly fast for a old fat woman with multiple orthopedic issues.

water weenies

Husband comes home from work. As he is putting his coat in the closet he says to me: "The kids are outside pretending their squirt guns are penis's"

I nod my head, "I know. Who do you think taught them."

It occurs to me, I may not be the best influence on humanity. Just saying.

phone is dead

Time line.

10:55 am ...surfing the net looking at cats, right up to the last minute before heading over to pick up Hansolo from school. Leave house 10:56 am

back to house at 11:07 am.

and the internet is down. I pick up phone. dead. I mean REEEEEAAAALLLLY DEAD.

What the?

pace, check. pace, check, reset router, pace, reset breaker for house, pace, check.

Resigned to my fate of being off line, and isolated and disconnected from humanity as a whole, and lacking any Valium to take, I start doing what one does when the internet is down. What I should be doing... like chores and stuff. I take the trash to the curb.

and that is when I see it.

the wire dangling from the power pole.

eyes scan back to where it should be connected to the house, and see the coiled other end resting quietly in the yard.

First thought in my writers mind of course is "IT'S BEEN CUT! we are all going to be killed by lunatics in our sleep because our true identities have been discovered. Call the feds your witness relocation status has been compromised!"

I have to slap my face to stop the writer in me. "Stop it. Keep it together woman, you are NOT in the witness relocation program! and ...wait a minute!! " I glance around. Our line is the only one down.

"Not only has it been cut, but you have been singled out." my writers mind continues ignoring me.

I can maintain control, until its fixed. I'm good. I can do this. The writer in me can spin all the yarns it wants, Just how bad can internet withdrawals really be?

I place the can on the curb and start back to the house. The neighbor waves at me.

Again my writers mind jumps "She knows you can't call 911! She's trying to stall you so they can install microphones in your house. "

Be QUIET! I hiss to it. Wait, microphones? why would anyone want to spy on me?

"They have been reading your blog."

Oh yes, fat toothless hairy legged bloggers are a high security risk for hooliganism. Oh dude! did you have to say blog? Now I want to blog! a thousand ideas flooding me and aching to be blogged. Writers bucket overflowing, awesome-coolness dripping ever where. wasted on dead silence and a stilled keyboard.

I  sit at the computer and pitifully stare at its corpse.

Oh my friend, such an untimely death. To die mid video of Maru.

I raise my eyebrows to weep...but first I again check the phone. Nope still dead.

Check my watch.

Time line.

4:30 pm.

Its been five hours and thirty-four minutes. I am going to get the bends, I just know it. Hmm,  better google the symptoms so I know when to call 911. My hands reach for the keyboard.

"Fool! the lines been cut!"

NOOOOO!!!! This is worse then any torture known to man!! leaving a writer alone with their mind and a mystery!

Addendum:

Phone line fixed. No yelling or cursing required, just a simple call to ask if those dangling wires in the yard are any danger to small children. (oh yes I know they arn't, but that writer in me knew the fastest two ways to get the phone company to fix it was to "endanger small children" or threaten to reconnect the lines myself hah!)  Planets aligned in perfect harmony. Net once again filling my veins with its addicting tentacles. heeeeaaavy sigh. Life is good.