The Grievous Angel

I get daily updates from History, a website for TV’s History channel.  A recent “This Day in History” post concerned the death of Gram Parsons, a country-rock musician who died of a drug and alcohol overdose in 1973.  Most of us die and our bodies are disposed of rapidly.  Gram’s corpse had a remarkable life after death that was also a legendary event in music history.  I was not expecting to see this reminder of his death in my In Box, it gave me pause.  

Gram Parsons was an eclectic bad boy in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s when his distinct musical genius took him on quite the ride.  He was also a serious substance abuser, partying hard with the likes of Keith Richards during the legendary making of The Rolling Stone’s Exile on Main Street.  Gram famously lived with Richards and his entourage for a while at Villa Nellcôte in the south of France until he was asked to leave.

Gram Parson’s music was not traditional country, although he revered country music.  His music is considered country rock.  He is remembered as one of the founders of what has come to be referred to as alternative country, or alt-country.  However, in true wild child style he wanted his music to be thought of as “Cosmic Americana” or “Cosmic American Music.”  Although a lot of people have never heard of him, his brief career profoundly influenced contemporary music.

He was a replacement member for the Byrds in the final days of that band's heyday. His influence was strongly felt on the one album he did with them, Sweetheart of the Rodeo, a watershed moment in the then fledgling country rock style.  He was a bit of a Young Turk in the music industry at that time.  In his early 20's and with minimal street cred, he persuaded Roger McGuinn and the Byrds to change course on that record, and he also wrote and contributed the songs, "Hickory Wind" and "One Hundred Years from Now."

Subsequent to leaving the Byrds he became an original member and creative force behind The Flying Burrito Brothers.  Gram did two albums with them: The Gilded Palace of Sin, and Burrito Deluxe before he was fired from the band.  He then put out a solo album called G.P.  Later he teamed up with the young Emmy Lou Harris, with whom he performed some stellar duets on a truly great album called Grievous Angel.  Their cover of Felice and Boudleaux Bryant’s song, “Love Hurts,” is spooky damn good.  If all you are familiar with are the versions done by The Everly Brothers in 1957, Nazareth in 1975, or Joan Jett in 1990, do yourself a favor and download Gram and Emmy Lou’s take from 1973.  Like way too many great musicians, performers, and songwriters from my generation he died young, at 26, from substance abuse. 

He died from a lethal overdose of morphine and tequila in a motel room at Joshua Tree National Park in southeastern California on September 19, 1973.  If you are my age, and of my background, you are too tired of this nonsense to even say the obvious, “What a waste.”  It went so far beyond wasteful, it was maddening.

His parents were both alcoholics.  He was born Ingram Cecil Connor III at Winter Haven, Florida in 1946, and he was raised in both Georgia and Florida. Gram’s father committed suicide when Gram was 12.  His mother remarried and Gram took his stepfather's last name, Parsons. His mother died from cirrhosis of the liver the same day he graduated from high school.  Addiction was always going to be a factor in this boy's life!

Gram had previously told his friend, an ex-tour manager and producer named Phil Kaufmann, that when he died he wanted to be cremated at Joshua Tree and have his ashes distributed there over Cap Rock.  However, when he actually died his stepfather made arrangements for his body to be sent to New Orleans for burial.  Gram was not from Louisiana and did not have a particularly good relationship with his stepfather. The story goes that his stepfather thought, because of Louisiana's Napoleonic Code, as the senior male relative he could claim the majority of Gram’s estate if he could prove Gram was a resident of Louisiana.

In true rock and roll style, Phil and a roadie named Michael Martin drove a borrowed hearse to the Los Angeles airport and managed to steal the coffin with Gram’s body in it.  They drove it to Cap Rock at Joshua Tree National Park, doused it with gasoline and lit a match. 

They split when the police arrived, but were captured later.  It turned out there was no law against stealing a body in California at that time, so they were merely fined $750 and set free.  Can you believe this stuff?  I mean who gets away with stealing a corpse?  And who has friends so committed to you that after you die they will STEAL YOUR DEAD BODY from a major airport to honor a promise!

The stepfather had the authorities pack up the 35 pounds of physical matter that survived the Joshua Tree cremation attempt and deliver said remains to him in New Orleans for burial.  If his hope to inherit Gram's money was true (and not just the stuff of legend), it didn’t work.  Gram’s money went to his daughter, wife, and sisters like it should have; which proves that sometimes the good guys do win.

Anyway, there are plenty of references to his wild young life and unfortunate death on the internet if you are interested.  A particularly nice one is on his tribute web page http://www.gramparsons.com/#/story.html written by Pamela Des Barres, the famous rock and roll groupie, former GTO, and author also known as Miss Pamela. 

This all reminded me of how crazy and transcendent the late 1960's were.  We all had one foot in heaven and one foot in hell and that's how we walked around, limping and stumbling.  Believe it or not, for a short while the nascent psychedelic drug culture was not dominated by drug dealers, substance abusers, or witless thugs.  At first young people were not taking drugs to get wasted, they really were trying to expand their minds and test the limits of reality.  True story.  Cross my heart! 

At the time it seemed like an interesting endeavor, a noble experiment.  Unbeknownst to us, it was also dangerous.  Our innocence did not last long.  Greed and/or addiction always seem to ruin everything.  Soon decadence and decay settled in and opportunistic scoundrels were everywhere.  Some of us did not survive the decline, the excess.  We all lost someone to drugs and alcohol.  And then there were the cultural heroes like Gram Parsons who checked out early.  Sheesh, there were so many of them.  It makes you wonder why all those beautiful and talented young musicians threw their lives away?

Actively creating something beautiful can be similar to a mystical experience. Tapping the creative imagination is a powerful rush.  I am sure they loved that feeling. The sad and perilous truth is that drugs and alcohol provide an easy alternate route to ecstasy. For a few moments it feels the same, but of course it is not. 

For those lucky people who have a gift, and their gifts are recognized and rewarded, it must be hard to come down to earth after a performance, a recording session, or a song writing experience.  Imagine how high you can fly when the spirit moves you.  Instead of surrendering to The Muse, artists and musicians are sometimes seduced by and then surrender to a lesser stimulus. 

Anyway, I think this is what happens to many artists, actors, and musicians especially when they are young and foolish.  Sometimes they do not live long enough to grow out of it or grasp the complexity of a life well lived. Such was the case with Gram Parsons. 

Walking the Dogs

OK, I am pulling myself together. I am going to stop flirting with confessional and/or bereavement writing! 

It was fun while it lasted, exploring my fears and anxiety (which are legion) in a public way. But that stuff takes on a dangerous life of its own. If I kept it up I would have probably jumped off a cliff, assuming I could find a cliff in Central Florida. I do have a fully realized fantasy of dealing with neurosis, anxiety and fear that I will share with you, though. 

We all have psychological baggage. Some worse than others, it is true – and always for good reason. I am not trying to be disrespectful. Deal with your issues in the way that seems best for you. They are absolutely real, and don't let anyone tell you any different.

I like to anthropomorphize my neuroses. I like to think of them as my personal demons. In my mind they are the Hounds of Hell – in this case three large and vicious canines growling deeply, dripping venomous crud from sharp and oversized teeth, and relentlessly chasing me through life, nipping at my heels. I figure I can deal with my personal demons in one of three ways.

1.  I can try to pretend that they do not exist and keep running from them until I drop dead. I think of this way as the time honored “Way Of The Neurotic.” In this scenario I attempt to keep these unresolved emotional themes bundled up inside me, letting the hounds drive me in all sorts of weird and wacky ways. This is the easiest way.

2.  Conversely, I could do battle with and seek to destroy these demons via "The Way of the Warrior.” In this scenario I battle those suckers endlessly, seeing plenty of action but never quite emerging triumphant. Instead I become battle scarred and bitter. You have to get really, really angry to go the Way of the Warrior. It involves lots of killing and plenty of blood lust. It can be dangerous to walk this path because Anger is a potent demon himself and he may actually try to usurp the rightful place and power of your other demons. You simply cannot trust Anger. Be careful if you choose the Warrior’s path.

3.  Or I could choose the last scenario, "The Way of the Dog Walker." Ha! In this scenario I stop running, turn around, and face my hounds.  Maybe they just want a little attention, you know? It's pretty scary at first, so the Dog Walker path requires as much bravery and bravado as the Way of the Warrior. But those big old hounds eventually stop growling and start to lick my hands instead. We get comfortable with each other, and I attempt to tame them so I can introduce them to polite society. When I am able to put collars on my demon hounds and hook those collars up to a leash, I take those bad boys out for a walk. I proudly parade them around in front of me. In essence I say to the world, “These are my demons, these are what drive me and make me unique. THIS is who I am.” Those dogs are always with me on this path, but I try to keep them on a short leash. The Way of the Dog Walker is the most fun because it requires an inordinate amount of humor.

Today I'm gonna walk the damn dogs.

Breaking the Sound Barrier

On Tuesday my husband had a dental appointment in Orlando.  I love that man like you would not believe; however, I am rarely in the house all by myself for an extended period of time and I was thrilled to have a few hours alone.  An unavoidable loss of privacy occurs when two people living in the same house do not work outside the home.  This has been an unexpected retirement challenge for me.

T and I have always had separate home offices in our 2 extra bedrooms.  Throughout our long marriage, we spent most of each day apart.  Our jobs were private spaces where we spent a huge part of most days.  At home on the weekends we had no problem amusing ourselves with private hobbies and interests.  We have been together for over 44 years.  We give each other a lot of space.  It works for us. 

I assumed our private lives would continue in retirement.  Theoretically, the only thing that would change is that we would now spend most of our time in the house.  In fact, we still have our separate offices.  We still spend most of the day happily pursuing our own hobbies and interests, but it seems less private now.  Why?  Well, I think in moving to Central Florida we inadvertently broke the sound barrier.

Our old house in Upstate New York had 2 stories.  His office was upstairs and mine was downstairs.  The ceiling/floor between us provided a natural sound barrier.  I used to joke that he had the upstairs and I had the downstairs and that was the secret to a long and happy marriage. 

Now we live in a small house with high ceilings, all on one floor.  The master bedroom is on one side of the house.  The dining room, living room, kitchen are in the middle.  The two extra bedrooms serving as our private spaces are on the other end.  The doors of these two rooms mercilessly face each other, separated only by a short hallway leading into the bathroom that lies between us.  I was prepared for seeing him more often when we retired, but it had simply never occurred to me that we would hear each other so much.

I now find myself reluctant to make noise because I do not want to disturb my husband.  He is usually playing his guitar, so I worry that any music I play will interfere with his concentration.  This is not something he has complained about or even mentioned, it is me overthinking.  Anticipating problems is my forte.  Big smile!

Think about it.  We cannot even talk on the phone in our rooms without hearing each other.  It seems kind of rude, but I find myself going outside the house to talk on the phone.  I am not used to being overheard as I talk to friends or family.  It is a bit disconcerting, even though logically I know T is not the kind of person who is interested in other people's conversations.  I suspect he doesn't even listen to our conversations!

So what did I do in the hours T was at the dentist and I was home alone? Well, I have 4,127 songs on my computer.  I swear I have not listened to one of them since I moved into this house, well over a year ago. I guess I have been overwhelmed by change and frozen in place.  It happens!

I clicked on iTunes and played Al Green, Amy Winehouse, and the Pogues at full blast.  I listened to Joey Ramone sing about Sheena being a punk rocker until I started to feel a little foolish listening to the Ramones...  I discovered I actually have some Taylor Swift songs.  I do not think I have ever listened to them.  I did not listen to them then, either.  I was moved, as always, by the mystical Van Morrison.  I reveled in the intensity of my girl, Carlene Carter, as she sang Stronger.  I listened to the young Sandi Shaw singing Girl Don't Come.  Moby Grape thrilled me with their glorious vocals and male angst on Bitter Wind, but I had to switch to another song before they segued into the psychedelic reverse.  Been there, done that.  I am too old to sit through that abrasive noise and pretend I like it.

I remembered that I went on a music buying frenzy in the years before I retired, buying up as many of the new generation of female British soul singers as I could find.  I need to get back to those young women, they are waiting to be heard. 

I ate Doritos and a fudge brownie even though I was not hungry.  I drank coffee until I shook.  I did NOT do any laundry.  I ran wild in an old lady kind of a way.  It was really fun.

It took some doing, because I still do not know where all my stuff is, but I searched the remaining unpacked boxes in my room until I found my iPod and ear buds.  I hate listening to music like that, but I need music in my life.  More change, yuck!  But hey, problem solved!

Another obvious solution to the privacy dilemma is to do something I have always tried to avoid, both in my personal and in my professional life.  I think I need to shut the door to my office.  Why does that seem like such a hard thing to do?

Retirement: Should you retire?

A few people have asked me in recent months if I thought they should retire.  I answered each one differently, because there is no single answer to that question.  It depends on the person and their situation.  In the process of thinking about this, 7 great universal truths emerged that I am compelled to share, somewhat irreverently, with the world:

1.  Are you sure this is what YOU want?

I retired at 62, almost two years ago.  My husband, T, knew I hated my job.  He saw the toll it took on me.  That job was stressful and truly hateful.  I was physically and emotionally burnt-out on even the best days.  He wanted me to retire for a long time before I actually did.  Many times during those last years he would send me off to the office with the retort, “Don’t forget to retire today!”  That was funny at least a couple of times. 

He was afraid I would get sick, occupational stress being a proven fertilizer for many major illnesses in this modern world.  Which brings me to the following very important disclaimer:  if you have a major and/or life threatening illness, ignore this entire post and find the best way to stop working as soon as possible so you can devote your energies to healing. 

OK, now back to the irreverent stuff.  I loved T for caring so much about me. I wanted to make him happy.  I wanted him to stop worrying about me.   I shared his concerns and I thought he was right; but when to retire had to be MY decision.  Ultimately, I waited longer than he liked because, well, retirement is a big honkin’ decision!  If I had not made the decision myself, I would have resented him on those odd days, and there are always going to be those odd days, when I get bored with retirement.  It seemed best to behave like a grown up and make my own decision so that he would be free of my childish blame game.  Yes, I play that game more often than I would like to admit.

When I finally made the decision to retire, I was absolutely, positively sure. The skies opened, angels blew their celestial horns, and lightening struck a few times.  I am not sure that will happen to everyone, though.  I wrote about this in a previous post.

I am glad I stopped working because retirement changed my life for the better. I like being retired, and so do most of my retired friends and family members.  I know a few people who deeply regret having retired and I feel bad for them.  It is a tricky situation.  A person needs to think hard before making this decision.  Changes will ensue. Best to know what to expect in advance.

2.  Are you prepared to do nothing?

“Retirement” always sounds great when you are overworked and under-appreciated.  At about 50 you start thinking of retirement as your next career goal.  You talk about it, joke about it, plan for it, and wonder how soon you will actually be able to do it.  Before I stopped working I had this mental image of the retired me as a thinner, taller, and grayer version of myself running off screaming into the night.  Kind of like the banshee in Darby O'Gill and the Little People.

But seriously, you need to understand and prepare yourself for this thing called retirement. You are not switching jobs or taking time off if you choose to “retire.” It is also not a vacation, although it will definitely seem like the best vacation EVER until napping in the afternoon and staying up past midnight starts to seem like an entitlement.  It is the vacation that never ends.  Your life will never go back to pre-retirement “normal.”  R&R becomes the new normal.  Think you can handle that?  Dig deep before you answer.

For example, today the bug guy came to spray the house and pool area.  It's a Florida thang.  He comes quarterly and he is a super nice guy.  When he sat down to write out the invoice he paused, looked at us in pure wonderment and asked how things were going.  T was lying on the couch playing around with his iPad and I was nestled into the easy chair reading a book.  Mr. Bug Guy joked a little and said he could not help but notice how peaceful our house and lives seemed, was it always like that?  I said “YES.  This is retirement.”  He laughed, clearly not knowing what to think.  I will admit at that very moment I felt a little guilty.  Not for being retired, we most certainly earned the right.  However, I try not to talk about how great retirement is to working people. It is like bragging about your wonderful husband to a friend who is married to a creep.

Keep in mind that in retirement you are ending your working-outside-the-home, achievement focused, on the way up, kicking ass, big money earning years. Suddenly life is no longer about productivity.  At all.  There is no longer anything to prove and nobody to prove it to.

When you worked you had to be ready for anything.  In retirement you must be ready for nothing.  THAT takes some getting used to...  I am not kidding.  It really does.  At first you keep thinking you should do something productive.  But eventually you come to realize that you do not have to do anything at all.  You only have to do something if you want to.  As corny and trite as it sounds, that is the absolute best part of retirement, that “only if you want to” thing. It is pure magic.

3.  Retirement requires personal initiative.

You also have to reinvent your self as a fully functioning and personally satisfied retired person on your own.  You must become self-motivated; consider the horror!  I am kind of bad at this one, so I really do not want to dwell on it...

4. Do you have enough money?

First and foremost you need to make sure you have enough money saved/invested to provide you with a comfortable income until you are about 1,000 years old.  Then you have to hope China doesn’t gut the world economy with dramatic stock market declines.  You also want to have good health insurance with prescription drug coverage, especially if you are retiring before you are old enough to qualify for Medicare.  Medicare does not pay for everything, so if you are lucky enough to retire with health insurance, for crying out loud keep it!  If you are in a position to afford long term care insurance premiums you probably want to continue that policy into retirement, too. 

5. You WILL lose your work identity.

It is not just about having enough money to retire, although that is the most critical concern.  Retirement is a total lifestyle change.  When you stop working you lose your workplace identity, giving up a role that defined you for most of your adult life.  Be clear on that. 

Chances are you were valued in the workplace.  People knew what you are capable of.  When you retire, that role, that identity is left at the workhouse door.  It does not come home with you.  Your employers do not retire your jersey, they replace you ASAP.  Afterwards, very few people will know what you are capable of, even fewer will care.  Can you stand it?  Be honest with yourself. 

6.  Can you "really" get another job if you change your mind?

If you retire in your 60's and then decide to go back to work or get a part-time job to supplement your retirement income, chances are your time will no longer be worth as much as it used to be IF you can even find someone willing to hire you. There are lots of ageist assumptions going on out there in the workplace. Young people think we are stupid and they are afraid of our mortality.  I know this because I used to be a young person.  I know how they think.

7.  Can you do less with less?

Last but not least, your discretionary income will be reduced.  One friend specifically asked me about this one, and I felt kind of bad telling him the truth.  But I did.  There are luxuries that you will have to give up or find cheaper alternatives for, even though you formerly did not think of them as luxuries.  This is different for everyone.  I stopped getting my hair cut on a regular basis.  I let my hair grow long and now just pull it up in back with a clip.  I see no reason to spend the money to keep getting it cut and styled.  I only buy new clothes if I have to go to a wedding or a funeral, and then I shop the sales.  I go to the library now instead of buying books.  I do my grocery shopping at Publix instead of Whole Foods. On New Year's Eve I buy prosecco instead of champagne.  You get the gist? Personally, I would rather have less discretionary income than have to get up every morning at 6 a.m. and get ready for work.  I am SO over that.  It is all about who you are and what you want. 

What I am trying to say is, retirement can turn your well ordered, predictable, safe and manageable world upside down.  Retirement giveth and retirement taketh away.  It involves many changes, so you really need to be sure you can live with those changes before you sign on the dotted line.  I am not just whistling Dixie. 

If you are healthy, happy and still feel passionate about your job then you probably should not retire.  However, if you are completely over the work-a-day world, feel the thrill is gone from your chosen career, know you can stomach all the losses alluded to above, are able to nap without guilt, can motivate and amuse yourself every damn day for the rest of your life, all on a restricted budget then I think you are a good candidate for retirement.  You will love it.  Cheers!

Courage, My Friends!

This morning I woke up thinking about the online accounting system at my old job. Then I read a provocative blog post on Feministe defending a certain Southern sorority’s questionable recruitment video and scolding readers for commenting so ruthlessly about it. I was reminded that courage is needed every single day in every single life, and often for rather mundane issues. However, I know in my heart of hearts that courage alone is not enough.

When I retired the new university accounting system was still new. Maddeningly complicated, the system was designed for central administration’s use. 

I worked most of my adult life as a staff member at this large research university, the “business” of which is teaching, research, and public service. A significant number of employees work in the academic units where the teaching, research, and public service actually happens.  The central administration (aka, Central) is there to make sure the tools are in place and well maintained to meet those goals.

Central is naturally concerned with the University macrocosm.  For them budgeting in aggregate is critical.  The staff in the academic “units” are concerned with the microcosm.  In academic units budgets are a means to get money into a financial entity (called an “account”) so spending can begin and teaching, research, and public service can happen.

Faculty researchers are creative individuals.  Some are the best people in the world at conducting their specific research. They think new thoughts, explore our humanity, analyze social issues, create new materials, isolate genes, cure diseases, and even take us to Mars and beyond. I am not saying they are perfect.  Some of them are not nice and a few are not even all that smart; however, when they behave themselves and do good work they are extraordinary!

Financial staff in the “units” need financial data generated quickly and easily so spending can be monitored and federally funded grants and contracts do not go into overdraft. The new system did not give us what we needed.

Anyway, Central just needed to tell the programmers to design a few different reports for the academic units.  For a ridiculously long time that did not happen.  When we complained, the central accounting people responded defensively. They accused us of being averse to change and stereotyped us as “negative.”  The result?  A solid majority of users hated the system and lost faith in the University's central accounting office.

Neither side listened to the other and no one changed their mind.  This left me scratching my head, once again wondering how you effectively challenge someone’s belief system to effect change? In a nutshell, the courage to speak up is not enough if you cannot get someone to listen.

Personally, I do not always have the good sense to fear those in power.  I know some people think I am foolish, or a glutton for punishment, but I always felt it was important as an employee to do a good job, speak the truth, and try and make things better.  I am not afraid to interrupt or talk over a man in a suit to make him listen to what I desperately hope is a well-reasoned argument.  I learned early on that you have to interrupt people in power or else you will never get a chance to talk. To do that you have to believe you are as important, as smart, and as valuable as anyone else in the room.

I also think it is important to do “the right thing.” However, unless you are comfortable being an ideologue it is hard to figure out exactly what the “right” thing is in any given situation. To figure out what is right you have to be open to the idea of being wrong.  Then you have to think critically, leaving comfortable, established belief systems behind.  This does not come naturally to human beings.  It is hard not to jump on the bandwagon or try not to succumb to group think.  Let’s face it, it is hard to be alone.

You have to suspend a natural human desire to be liked, too.  That means you cannot cry if someone gets angry with you. You just have to take it on the chin. I am sorry, but you also need to stop caring about being sexually attractive, at least for the duration of your argument. There is a time and a place for everything. 

This is a huge stumbling block for some young women. The media would have our vulnerable young girls believe sexual presentation and social approval are the most important things EVER in their whole entire lives.  Big sigh.  How do we liberate these young women from this great lie? 

Which brings me to the post I read this morning on Feministe and the murky connection between that blog post and the University’s online budget system. The post is titled: In which, God help me, I find myself defending the Alpha Phi video.  It was written by a fabulous blogger named Caperton.

As I read her defense of those seemingly frivolous young women I thought, “I don’t buy this.” The whole cutsie-cute sorority sister routine bothers me, why was this serious feminist defending them? What was her point?  In the final paragraph she laid it on me.

We are not going to change any young girl’s mind by attacking or ridiculing her. What I think Caperton was saying is this: a young sorority girl will be humiliated and angered by hurtful dogmatic criticism. Consequently, she will then be lost to the cause.  Plus, she’s still a kid and she is just trying to have fun so give her a break. We were all young and stupid once.  Some of these girls might still grow and change if they are not attacked and traumatized by raging and rabid feminists.  Ha!  You KNOW she’s right! 

I was blown away by Caperton’s courage and intellectual fervor. I enjoyed her message, but it was not as important to me as her savvy in presenting it.  Alone she stood up within the confines of a righteous but dogmatic political movement and spoke what she thought was the truth. She asked what might be a better way to effect change in those young ladies. That took courage, but it also required critical and, more importantly, strategic thinking.

I still do not like sororities. That is probably not going to change considering who I am and what I value.  That was never the point of this or the other blog post, anyway.  Still, I wish all young women cared less about how they look and more about how they think.

The Rainy Season

It is the rainy season in Central Florida.  That means "summer" in the Land of Mouse.  It is hot, humid, and rains nearly every day, though usually only lasting about a half an hour to an hour in late afternoon.  With all the rain our yard is often waterlogged.  There are large areas with standing water for many hours after a heavy rain, and some days it is impossible to mow the grass because the ground is mushy and wet.  It has not rained for over 24 hours right now and I just walked out back where my heels sunk into the wet ground as I walked.

For most of the last 25 years I felt I was an accomplished perennial gardener.  I thought I knew a thing or two about gardening.  I knew how to work the earth, and I knew how to manage the seasons.  It has been so interesting moving to this strange place and finding much of what I thought I knew about gardening no longer computes.  Some days this depresses me, I am not going to lie.  However, just as often I am energized by the challenge.  I got this!  Eventually I am gonna kick some Central Florida gardening butt.  I am almost sure of it.

Collateral damage?  In the past 3 weeks I have lost my butterfly bush, a shasta daisy, two coneflowers, a shrimp plant, and a variety of annuals, all of which I planted this past spring.  A purple penta plant is pretty pathetic, too.  Why?  I am not sure.  They survived the blistering heat of spring and early summer.  Maybe they cannot survive the deluge?  Perhaps the rainy season killed them dead? I wish I knew the answer.

But that is not all.  I have a plumbago that simply will not grow underneath my screamin' pink Crepe Myrtle in the front of the house.  I have another plumbago I planted at the exact same time under a lavender Crepe Myrtle out back.  That plumbago is absolutely huge and glorious, flowering with wild abandon.  I do not know why the other one refuses to thrive.  I already lost one of my 3 Stella D'Ora daylilies to the heat before the rainy season began.  The other two are about the same size as they were when I put them in the ground last May.  WTF?

I am now in a bit of a quandary.  What the hell can I plant that will survive drought for 9 months of the year and then standing water for the remaining 3 months?  As you can imagine, there are not a lot of choices.  I now understand why I do not see a lot of flower gardens down here in people's yards.  Most flowers cannot take these extremes.   

Interestingly, Shrimp Plant is supposed to be a good choice for a wet area.  I wonder if there is something else that killed mine besides the excessive moisture?  I really liked that Shrimp Plant, the flowers actually are shaped like shrimp.  They are wonderfully crazy shaped with great color.  Maybe it will come back?


               That crazy Shrimp Plant

African, Louisiana, and Blue Flag irises are also on the list for wet areas.  I planted a variety in a wet area last spring and they are growing slowly but surely. I will feel victorious if they spread and flower by next year.  I NEED a victory, too!  Dammit.

The giant red Canna Lilies are doing well, as are their smaller yellow cousins in the back yard.  I like Canna Lilies, but I am ashamed to say I wish I liked them more.  What kind of ingrate does not like a flower that looks like this?

      Some gorgeous cannas, not really caring if I like them or not.

We are growing some beautiful flowers in large planters in the area around the pool.  Bird of Paradise, Desert Rose, Gardenia.  I have high hopes for that Gardenia.  If it lives until next summer I will buy more. 

 



















The spectacular Gardenia

Hey, I successfully underwent an open MRI today.  It was still a little freaky, but the open sides made all the difference.  And (Maria) I took your tip and kept my eyes closed.  It worked.  Next time I do something like that I want to choose my own music, though.  Bad late 1970's pop music.  Ick.  In the late 1970's I was listening to the Clash, Blondie, Richard Hell and the Voidoids and Talking Heads.  They had me listening to simpering wimp music as if I was an old lady or something.  I think being pissed off helped take my mind off what was happening.












  

Fly me to the moon

T and I took our 11 year old granddaughter and 16 year old nephew to the Kennedy Space Center near Cape Canaveral the other day.  It was just an amazing place, filled with actual rockets and launch pads and shuttles.  The best part for me were the video's and short films talking about when we landed on the moon in 1968.  They also played this amazing video where in 1962 JFK announces we are going to the moon before the decade is out.  I was reminded of a time when there were politicians who were passionate about people CHANGING for the better, becoming more and doing more than they thought they could do.  Below is an excerpt from the days when Catholics were mostly Democrats and giants walked amongst us:

Mourning

We have acclimated to the climate and, except for the steamiest of hot summer days, we do not turn on our air conditioning until mid-morning.  That means we still keep the sliding glass door to the lanai open in the early morning hours.  Our cat, Buddy, appreciates this.  He hunts lizards in the pool area and likes coming and going as he pleases.   

I am not a big fan of air-conditioning, but it is essential here.  I cannot imagine what life in Florida (or anywhere in the Deep South) was like before air-conditioning.  Still, we both like to put off turning it on until the sweat is dripping down the back of our necks.  Like everyone else in Florida I bitch about the heat; however, I would rather live through a Central Florida summer than an Upstate New York winter.  No contest.  I like the heat, and the humidity makes my hair curly. If only I had lived here in the late 1960's during my Janis Joplin hair phase.

I am slowly coming out of a deep funk that started when my mother died earlier this year.  I am surprised at how hard this has hit me because I thought I was ready for her death.  It is so confusing, this grief thing.  I have lived through the deaths of my father and two brothers.  As Amy Shumer's boss says in Trainwreck, this is not my first rodeo.  I wonder if it is hitting me harder this time because I am retired and I actually have time to grieve this loss? 

The past few weeks I have noticed a change for the better.  About damn time, too!  I am becoming more aware of myself and the world around me each morning.  I take this as a good sign.  I do not know about you, but I can usually predict my mood for any given day by how I experience morning. 

Early mornings in Central Florida are almost always stunning.  The sky is blue, the sun is shining, and there is lush green foliage everywhere.  The first 8 months we lived in this house I woke up every single morning thinking, "Another day in paradise!"  Then Mom died and I did not notice much of anything.  

The worst part is I have not been aware of what was happening to me.  Grief sneaks up on a person like the proverbial thief in the night.  I am reminded of a big cat when she is on the hunt.  She approaches soundlessly, quietly; the prey rarely knows she is coming.  In an instant she pounces and tears into the neck with her killing teeth. Clamping on with that unforgiving death grip, she shakes that poor critter till it dies from a broken neck. The only difference is that Grief goes for the heart.  Grief has taken me like that.  She shook me like an alcoholic housewife shakes her first martini of the day. If you have experienced grief OR if you are (or know) an alcoholic you know exactly what I'm talking about.

Not surprisingly I have spent this fallow period longing for the past, yearning for a whole shitload of things I have lost along the way.  You know - my amazing flower gardens up North, living in a progressive and liberal college town, my black-handled scissors, and a time when I still had a mother.  This really has to change.  I want to move on.  One can effectively deal with the present and make necessary changes that will affect the future; but the past is just that. Those things are GONE.  Except for the black-handled scissors, I think they are someplace in this house.  But anyway, here's the deal: Living in the past involves very little actual living.

All I have done for 5 long months is complain.  I cry, I lose my temper, I behave badly.  I am not trying to be this awful person - at some point I simply lost control.  Please do not misunderstand my complaints about grief; I think grief work is important.  It has meaning.  A person needs to go through it, needs to feel their emotions, blobbity, blah, blah, blah.  I am just so *^!%# tired of it.  Enough!  I am ready to be done with mourning.  I wonder if I can pull that off, change myself just by wanting it?  What are the practical limits of desire?

This morning I stayed in bed long after waking up, a guilty retiree pleasure.  I eventually got up and walked into the living room.  The sliding glass door was open to the world.  As luck would have it, I noticed the blue sky, the pool, and the palm trees out back.  I can assure you I was not looking for them, I just turned my head and there they were.  I immediately thought "Wow, another day in paradise!"  I felt good and I wanted more.

My handsome husband is an early riser and he always makes the coffee before I get up.  This is yet another reason why I love that man.  I poured myself a cuppa joe and thought how great it was to have the morning to myself.  I went into my home office (aka N's playroom) and turned on the computer where I sat down to check email and, perhaps, to write.

The view from my office window caught my eye.  I used to look out and observe my neighbors' comings and goings.  THAT was a waste of time! Consequently, I moved my computer screen and now it blocks the lower part of the window.  I no longer see my neighbor's houses.  Now I pretend I live in the woods.  I see blue sky, two large sycamores, a part of the neighbor's live oak, and the top of our screamin' pink crepe myrtle.  It looks like this:

Grief is a common ailment.  I have friends who are also mourning the loss of a loved one right now. For some the worst will last a few months, for others it might last a year or even more. Grief is not a one-size-fits-all emotion.  I do not believe the feeling of loss ever completely goes away, but at some point we find a way to rebuild our lives without the people we loved and lost.  This is what we do.  There is no shame in being human.  There is no shame in feeling pain or in feeling loss.  It is perfectly okay to ask for help.  These are the lessons Grief is teaching me.  If I learn my lessons well maybe She will leave me alone.

Hijinks

Our 3-year old grandson, N, thinks he is the boss of us.  He is a quirky, funny little person, a bundle of bedevilment and raw, wild energy.  He is also a fledgling megalomaniac.  We often babysit for him while our daughter M runs our amazing granddaughter E all over the county to take singing, dancing, and acting classes, or to participate in plays.  Or at least that is what M says she is doing.  For all I know she is at home taking a nap, the babysitting angle simply a desperate ruse to get away from him for a few quiet hours. I would not blame her.  Babysitting for him is exciting on both a psychological and historical level, because what we may actually be observing are his very first attempts at world domination.

Upon arrival, he insists that we run through an entire routine of activities every damn time.  First we play tag, hide-and-go-seek, computer games, cars, and Lego-type assemblage stuff.  He enjoys the occasional tea party.  He pours. 

Sometimes we go into Grandpa T’s music room and then the three of us have a band.  He likes Grandpa to turn on the microphone so he can yell “One, Two….One, Two, Three, GOOOOO!”  Then we all play musical instruments badly and yell loudly.  I like to play the Conga.  Unfortunately, my Conga playing gets on N's nerves so he usually assigns me a different instrument to play, and dontcha know he tells me exactly how to play it, too.

He maintains a fort in our bedroom.  For most of the past year it was simply a quilt over a tubular quilting frame.  Unfortunately he figured out how to disassemble it, which quickly became part of the “routine” so we had to take it down.   It is too complicated to put back together all the time. Instead, we bought a fabric and post, castle-like structure at Ikea and now it takes up a good part of our bedroom.   Spoiler alert: the castle fort is his usual hiding place when we play hide-and-go-seek.

During the hot 6 months of the year we swim in the pool and there are swimming routines as well.  Once again this includes playing tag and hide-and-go-seek, but this time in the water amongst blow-up alligators and large round tubes.  He will hang on to the skirt of my bathing suit (yeah, I’m one of those women) and insist Grandpa hangs on to his (N’s) foot and then it is my job, no, it is my sacred duty to drag them all around the pool. Afterwards we bring out the water guns and he and I gang up on Grandpa.  In spite of our superior numbers, Grandpa usually wins.    

After an hour of swim play we try to coax him out of the pool.  It is helpful that there is a rainy season in Central Florida because we get short storms most afternoons.  He is well motivated to get out of the pool if he hears thunder.  Otherwise, it is a bit challenging to get him out of the water and into the house.  When we manage to get him inside he sits in front of the TV watching animated shows while eating the same exact food every time.  I have tried to trick him into eating different foods, but he notices right away.

After he eats and his “show” has ended, we have to argue with him (every time) to get him ready to drive home.  He simply will not go quietly into the night.  He cries and acts as if we have rejected him.  The guilt!  We really must take him home at that point because 1. All three of us are exhausted, and 2. He is now as mean as a snake.  If we are lucky we can get him to leave the house and head towards the car without further dramatics. Sometimes I just pick him up and carry him out, but then he screams bloody murder and flails his chubby little arms and legs right and left.  It is embarrassing once I realize the neighbors are staring at us. 

Of course, if we are not ready to leave he will bust out of the house and we have to chase him down before he runs into the street.  He knows how to unlock the door.  I am telling you, there is no stopping this kid.  

When we get outside he will inevitably break loose and run around the car, making us chase and catch him before getting him into the car and on his car seat.  He runs really fast, too - the little stinker.  That annoys Grandpa, who is usually on his last nerve by then.  You simply cannot imagine the sense of relief T and I feel when we hear that seat belt click shut, effectively locking him in place.  All three of us are usually screaming and fighting with each other as T backs the car down the driveway, and that is probably why none of the neighbors talk to us. 

Once we are on our way we must play the same children songs on the car stereo while we drive him home.  He lives a really long 12 minutes away from us.  He won't allow us to play the entire CD, only the handful of songs he calls his "silly songs."  Often he makes us replay one particular "silly song" over and over for the entire drive.  T really likes that part, I can tell.

Of course, he can also be sweet, polite, loving, kindhearted, and affectionate, but that does not make for an interesting post. 

Let kids be kids, you know what I mean?  Soon enough they will be subjected daily, hourly, by the minute to nearly constant judgment and restraint.  It sucks to be a grown up. 

You know, I can actually feel people judging me right now for spoiling this kid.  Luckily I am old enough not to give a shit.  I figure my job as Grandma is to love him and give him a safe place to be his stinkin’ glorious 3-year old self. 

N likes to yell, pretend to burp, laugh, tell silly jokes that make no sense, joyously run from authority, and eat chicken sticks.  He is also the last grandchild I will ever have.  I adore him and I love his little hijinks, just like I did with his older sister when she was 3-years old.  I think a joyous childhood can help one endure what life has in store for grown ups. 

In fact, I think it is just as important for a child to learn to be a stinker as it is for them to learn their ABC’s.  OK, I am starting to feel the judgment again.  My fingers are in my ears and I am singing our favorite "silly song" at the top of my lungs.  There, it is gone. 

I can hardly wait until he comes over again.  And yes, he is much better behaved and well mannered when he is around his parents and his other grandparents.  I am not sure why.  

4th of July

I meant to write a funny post.  Then I got sick last Friday just before the long 4th of July weekend.  While convalescing I read a lot of books, one of which took place during the Revolutionary War.  That put me in a 4th of July frame of mind.

My mind wandered as we drove through Tennessee and Kentucky last month on vacation.  I thought of my direct paternal ancestors who arrived in Virginia in 1714 as indentured servants.  They later migrated from Fauquier County in the Virginia Piedmont down to Rowan County, North Carolina and then to Grayson County, Virginia in the 1790’s before moving on to Southeastern Kentucky in 1807.  I tried to imagine the land as they might have seen it. I wondered why they moved so often?  I wondered what my female ancestors were thinking as they left family they would likely never see again?  I wondered how long it took those strangers to feel like they belonged somewhere?

I guess I share their wanderlust.  I am also reminded that, although I identify as a Northerner, I have a long and storied Southern heritage.  My father’s people did not move to Northern Indiana until 1925, and then only because the Southeastern Kentucky farmland was used up, making it hard to continue to support a family farm. Along with a number of their friends and family, my grandparents headed north to work in the automobile factories soon after they were married.  They may have found work, but they did not find a lot of respect.  All too often Southerners are deemed stupid by Northerners, and if they are rural Southerners, well - they are called hillbillies.  That's a bad word, by the way.  Nobody likes to be called that.  Please don't use it.

Harriette Simpson Arnow, the Kentucky-born author of The Dollmaker, was a distant cousin of mine (to say the least).  Our closest kinship is through her paternal grandmother wherein we are 2nd cousins, 3 time removed via the Shearer family. Her grandmother, Louise Shearer, and my 3rd great-grandmother, Margaret Ann Shearer, were sisters.  I just happen to have a picture of the two of them with their other sister, Rebecca.  My 3rd great-grandma (Margaret Ann Shearer Huffaker) is in the middle and Harriette's grandma (Louise Shearer Simpson) is at the right.  They look kind of stern, don't they?
It turns out I am also Harriette's 4th cousin, 2 times removed through her maternal Foster line.

And finally, I wonder if she is also related to me through a man named Reuben Simpson on her father's side?  There were unrelated Simpson families in Wayne County back then, so I am not sure.  The problem with proving these old families is that the U.S. Federal Census did not start listing all the names and ages of people at a residence until 1850. 

Like I said, no hillbilly jokes.  These particular families were educated, upstanding, and separate families.  Please don't challenge me to prove it, because I can and it would bore you to tears.  I have a 22,000 member family tree and I know how to use it.

The Dollmaker was published in 1954.  It describes the hardships rural Kentucky hill people endured when moving from Wayne County, Kentucky to the industrial North during WWII.  In 1984 that book was made into an ABC TV movie starring Jane Fonda.  Fonda won an Emmy for her performance.  The Dollmaker is actually the third novel in a trilogy Arnow wrote about Southeastern Kentucky hill people.  The first was Mountain Path; the second book in the trilogy is Hunter’s Horn.  Joyce Carol Oates was a huge fan of Arnow's and I have often wondered if Oates' great novel, Them, was influenced by The Dollmaker.

The most recent common Simpson ancestor we "might" share is a North Carolina man named Reuben Simpson.  He was a Loyalist who fought on the wrong side of the Revolutionary War.  Apparently his father-in-law, Capt. William Sherrill, and his own brother, William Simpson, were on the right side.  Author and genealogist Nona Williams states:  

"When William learned that Reuben had joined the Tories at Ramsour's Mill, William rode his horse into the ground in a futile attempt to reach the battlefield in time to kill his brother."

If true, it was a failed attempt - Our Reuben enlisted, fought, and lived to tell the tale.  I will admit I was not thrilled to find him in my family tree.  But as my brother, Big D, keeps telling anyone who will listen, "You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family."

On second thought, he probably did not tell the tale very often.  Loyalists were hated by the general populace after the War and were often forced to leave the community.  In 1798, he traveled through the Cumberland Gap to Wayne County, Kentucky with his family to start over. 

Harriette Simpson Arnow published her novel about a Revolutionary War soldier in 1974.  Her protagonist was a Patriot and an Overmountain Man who was traveling through the Kentucky backwoods looking for his family after the Battle of King's Mountain in South Carolina.  The book is called The Kentucky Trace.  I quite liked it.

Cousin Harriette had a gift for understanding everyday life and people living in the late 18th century.  She was also interested in all sorts of obscure, obsolete practices, like how to make saltpeter in the backwoods in order to make gunpowder, or the logistics of loading a Kentucky Long Rifle during an Indian attack on a forted farm.  I have limited interest in these things, but certainly enough curiosity to keep me reading in awe of her extensive knowledge.  She also wrote two nonfiction books of social history about 18th century Kentucky and Tennessee; however, her personal opinions are dated and she romanticizes the Scotch Irish a bit too much for me.  I like her novels better.

My Southern ancestors fought on both sides in the Revolutionary War and they did the same in the Civil War. I cannot claim a moral purity or even a political consistency in my genealogy.  I wish I could.  I wish they were all heroes; however, the world does not work like that.  Some of my people were brave, some were kind, and some of them were mean-spirited jerks.  The only thing they all seem to have had in common is that none of them were rich.  Like so many other Old Settler families, my father’s line includes many interesting characters.

My direct, paternal 6^th great grandfather, Jesse, is buried somewhere in Lawrence County, Indiana, just south of where the wedding we went to last month was held.  He has been on my mind ever since we were up there.  His wife (aka "Unknown") is the reason I took up genealogy years ago.  It bothers me that nobody knows her name.  I have been trying to find her for years.  Still looking. 

Old Jesse was a Revolutionary War Patriot who fought at the Battle of Yorktown and was present when the British General Cornwallis surrendered to George Washington. 

In 1807, his son Samuel left Grayson County, Virginia to go to Wayne County, Kentucky and marry his childhood sweetheart, Rutha Simpson.  Rutha was the daughter of the aforementioned North Carolina Loyalist, Reuben Simpson.  The night before Samuel left for Kentucky, old Jesse Rector made his son swear on a family bible that he would remain faithful to the United States.  I kind of love that story.