You can't take your truck with you

I don't believe most people remember things that happen to them when they were little, especially younger than five, but I do. I remember my first birthday. I remember having cake - a regular round layer cake at the kitchen table on our house on Glenmoor. It must have been evening because the overheard lamp was on. Since my birthday is in July and it stays lighter longer, it must have been well after dinner time. There were only a few people around the table. I got one gift. It was a box wrapped in yellow tissue paper and inside there was a chalk blue steel dump truck with six wheels. It worked. The trailer lifted up and down on a single hydraulic lift and the gate was hinged along the top corners so that when it dumped, the bottom opened to release the load. It was heavy and it was really cool. I remember thinking that I wasn't sure if it was for me or not. They had made me open it, but I didn't understand why it was mine all of a sudden - even though I really liked it.
I kept that truck for a long time and played with it many many times in the sandbox we had in our backyard. I think it finally rusted out and got thrown out. Too bad.

Why can't grownups see snakes?

I had this dream when I was little - about five years old. I still remember it vividly. I was on the steps of the school I attended and two giant green cobras were coming up the walk, I was doomed. There were only two steps up the the brick orange double steel doors that allowed entry into the main hallway. Each door had three square windows about a foot wide down the center in a vertical line. Inside, the pine paneling lined hallway looked cool, dim and safe atop the dark green tiles.
But I couldn't get up the steps. I needed help. There was nobody around. I looked down the walk and the snakes were getting closer and closer, their shiny greenish brown eyes looking right at me. A teacher came to the door from inside. She had short, dark hair and wore a pale dress with a white belt. She peeked her head out the door and said I didn't need help - that I should just come in. But I couldn't. She didn't believe me - that I needed help when I asked for it or that I knew my own limitations and capabilities - never mind that she was blind to the sharp and gaining danger that was really there had she bothered to look. Grown-ups never trust kids to understand what they can't. I was so scared. I was only five for God's sake and there were poisonous snakes about to kill me. Who wouldn't be petrified with fear? That was the end of the dream. I woke up. Glad to be in my dark room, but still alone.

So many blogs . . . so little time

Propelled by my own thoughts stated in a previous post where I said something to the effect that "I didn't even know what a blog was" I did some reading.
Over the past two days, I've read tons of blogs. There are literally 100s of millions of them out there addressing as many topics. I found that the experience was similar to going to a bookstore after a while - that old saying, "You can't judge a book by it's cover" even though that's exactly and consistently what we all do. There were so many that my brain simply couldn't take all of them in. There had to be some way of 'sorting' all this information. I found myself reading the blogs that looked a certain way or were constructed following my own definition of visually attractive and functionally identifiable. Is that fair? Probably not, but it helped.
I've decided what I'm not going to write about. I'm not going to write about the hardships of being the single parent of two teen-aged boys one of whom is Autistic. Who cares? -Really. Would it help me? Again, probably not. Instead, I'm going to work on finding ways to cope that fit my family and my situation. Solutions that we come up with - that we can live with. I'll keep this between my and my boys since we're the ones who are affected by these choices. My kids are great, but they're not public property. And (here's the crux of it) - I don't like admitting that I can't solve issues on my own, that I need help - so I conditionally disregard most all advice deciding instead to soldier on through my own war zone finding solutions that I can own entirely and therefore have a better chance of fully committing to.
I'm not going to write about the fact that I'm tired of making school lunches every day and that I'm glad school is almost over because, honestly, if this is my biggest obstacle during the day I would have thought I'd died and gone to heaven! Besides, summer camp starts in two weeks which will require more lunches, money, sunscreen, clothing and cash. It never ends so why hope that it might. I'll choose to simply deal with it - as graciously as possible while secretly cursing those for whom this is truly a hardship. What kind of life must that be?
I'm not going to write about how hard it is to be a working Mom and all the things I miss because I have to spend time earning a living. This is life - whether I work outside the home as well as inside. Like it or lump it as they say. But who said you can't choose both? A world of complicated, conflicting logistics is not uncommon so why are people so surprised that they have to apply simple business practices to their home life and figure out things like what to wear?, what to eat? when to spend time with family?
I'm not going to post pictures of food that I made. Even when it's good, it could be better. I started a new job as a Quality Systems Supervisor last year. In the middle of it I learned something about myself. That is that I've been doing this all my life! I've always been able to see the potential that things hold. Whether it's people, buildings, places, spaces, processes, ideas, recipes, down to the most insignificant minutiae like the color/shade/tint/grey tone of paint . . . I understand how changing the details can change the entire outcome. You can't imagine how hard this makes almost everything. Nothing is ever 'good enough' or could at least be better if someone just thought for a second. Everything can be altered and made to fit, work or be better, more useful version of whatever it is. And perfection is absolutely subjective. I've had to learn that acceptance is just as important as expectation.
With that said, I'm still trying to define exactly what this blog is about. So far, I believe it is simply a collection of seemingly random thoughts of a insatiably curious, pretty smart girl who's really never been told that anything is unachievable. Well ...that's not entirely correct. I chose not to believe it every single time it was as a matter of course. There were a lot of them. What can I say? I'm a cynic, a skeptic and have an stunningly positive attitude. How does that work?!
I will write about my hopes instead.

My sister is the person who actually suggested that I write a blog. At the time, I had only the vaguest and skewed idea what a blog was. I'm not that technologically literate and there's lots of reasons for that. First, I like the idea of paper and pencils. (I'm like a kid in a candy shop when I walk into an Artist's Supply store.) Second, there's something soothing and helpful that happens when you're forced to put your ideas down on paper. I suppose I feel like there's a necessary validity that anything written should possess. Finally, eWords don't have the same properties. Instead, they're quick, casual and don't actually exist - anywhere. Except maybe in the rings of Saturn - who knows. Cloud technologies are so weird. But I guess that's a pretty accurate description because these types of thoughts and words have the potential to dissipate entirely, develop into storms or travel huge distances with no assistance from any human and land somewhere - else.
So back to my sister. We were in the car. I had just finished grad school. Thinking back on that day - I wondered why she was so quiet back there in the back seat. I forgot she gets carsick. Now I feel bad. She was probably miserable.
Oops, I was talking about the graduation ceremony I had just endured. Yes, endured is the most polite and accurate word. It was awful. It felt more like an Amway sales conference slash "Raa-Raa!, Go Team!, You-Can-Do-It-Even-Though-Nobody-Actually-Expects-The-Majority-Of-You-To (shhhh, you didn't hear that) party" than any congratulatory gathering. The speaker was close-minded and self-absorbed regarding his own path to wealth. He spoke with condescension, ignorance and hubris. The audience was . . . hmmmm. We were there. I could just imagine all of them making beelines for trailer parks and battered apartment complexes well stocked with anything alcoholic, actually convinced that their achievement might magically lift them from their self. I shared their hopes. And yet, at the same time I was mortally embarrassed to even be a part of any of it. I dreaded the big screen television monitors and hoped to God that my portrait would be somehow overlooked - simultaneously by everyone.
I told my sister that I was wishing "that the cells of my body would somehow restructure their DNA and momentarily transform me into anything the size of a dust spec so that I could sink (and fit) down between the fibers of the carpet and disappear from sight and subjection."
This was the statement that generated the, "Oh my God, you have to write a blog!"
I'm still not sure that I know what a blog is, but I know that this is my version of a blog. That whole "life is what you make it" might work here. It works for me most days.
I'm still not technologically literate despite the prodding and eye-rolling glares my son delivers at regular intervals. He just speaks IT. He doesn't understand why other people don't or how they could avoid not. It's as simple as breathing or sight - you just do, an involuntary facet of existence.
My sister has lots of good ideas. I've been stealing them for most of my life without her realizing it and much to her chagrin when she did. Even though I don't understand some of them (she's too smart for me and it takes me a while to catch up) I know they're good. So . . . I'm writing.

Okay - I have my first post completed. And as usual and just as I had thought, I think I'm addicted. Secretly, this might be the reason behind my procrastination. Have you ever avoided something because it just seemed like it might become/grow larger than you had time to deal with or brain cells to navigate? That's how I feel about this blog.
I suppose now that I've "dove in" it's either sink or swim.
I've heard that in Ireland, fishermen don't learn to swim. If they go overboard or sink, it's understood that they're going to drowned in the icy water. Why prolong the inevitable with false hope? Just get it over with.

"If you can pick up a pencil and write your name . . . you can write."

These are wise words from my grandmother, 'Mary'. She's right, as usual. She's 92. At this stage in her life, she's got almost infallable perspective, an excessiely keen sense of self, more determination than she could ever possibly act upon as a single individual and a dry, realistic wit. So without further distraction, avoidance or a self-inflicted cop-out . . . here I go.

I think I've had this blog set up for at least six months now and have never written a single post. Not that I haven't thought to or wanted to write. And certainly not due to any lack of persuasion or support from family members. I simply wasn't sure what to write about. What could I possibly say that was even minutely interesting to anyone else?


Sometimes I find that I need the inspiration of complete and utter boredom to propel myself to act. Rage works too in small quantities. Larger amounts tend to incinerate good ideas in the accelerant of adrenaline and leave you with only ashes for thoughts and your fingers burned. That's how art has always been for me. When there was absolutely nothing else to do - I dove into art.  I must have been bored a lot as a kid. Or maybe I simply needed to have control of something - anything.


Whether it was writing as I grew older; drawing when I was too young an immature to wait for words to come capable of analyzing actions and transform them into meaning and connections; baking - when my mind is so busy that I can't think. If I don't keep my hands busy with something - God knows what might happen. (There was actually a much more immediate and fundamental need to bake which I may go into in a later post. For now, let's just say - the need was imperative on many levels) or really any expressive activity. Art - I can do. I understand it in all it's forms. I get it. Meaning, intent, suggestion, it's all there. I can practically feel it most days.


I wrote a book when I was six years old. I was in first grade. I still have it. I won a prize  - 1st Place. The school I went to had a book fair every year. Every student had to write a book at whatever level his or her ability was. What a great idea! I hated it every year. I dreaded it.
We had to write the story, type it (most times the teacher did this for us as we dictated our words), sew the pages together, make the cover bringing cloth scraps from home to cover the shirt board, and then illustrate it. I swear, I only wrote the story so I could draw the pictures. But it was a good book actually. 


I've heard that writers should write about what they know. At age six, I took this to heart. My story was about a little bear who got lost in the woods very near her home. Funny, as I write here I realize that I've always assumed everyone understood innately that the main character was a girl bear. But I don't think I ever said so for sure in the story - I mean in explicit terms.  
The bear gets lost and proceeds to discover every member of her immediate family one at a time in the woods around her. . . . "And then they get lost." The shocking part about this little story is that - in the book - the other members of her family don't even realize they're lost until the smallest one points it out to them. There's no, "Oh my gosh! We're lost!" It's all very matter of fact.
And only when the bear finally finds her neighbor is she - and the rest of her family members which she has gathered and escorted beside her through the woods - able to find her way home.
It was all SO SIMPLE and very easy too. The neighbor knew exactly where he was going and where he was to begin with - which was apparently not important to the little bear's family, but was to her. Could life really be this simple? so straightforward? so  . . . normal?


Ignorance is truly bliss - for some people. For others, it's stressful and requires immediate acknowledgement and finally resolution. Why? do you suppose?