Death triumphs over Disability.

This photo is making the rounds again.  

It’s a photo of the tombstone memorial a man had made for his son who died. It shows a young boy reaching upward from his wheelchair as if he is suddenly free of earthly burdens and on his way to Christian heaven.  And people cheer and applaud him because of his achievement of being free from his chair. Does no one realize that the wheelchair is what gave him freedom? If not for the chair, he would have been confined to a chair without wheels or worse, a bed.

And you think "That could be me."  Admit it, you do. You would rather be dead than in a wheelchair. Or on a ventilator, or have a limb amputated. Face it, you would not want to live disabled in any way. I don't blame you. I don't like it either, but it may stop me from getting into most places I want to go, but I do live life and all in all, have lived a great one.

This country and probably most others, think disability, especially the kind you can see is offensive to the eye, a curse caused by whatever gods you believe in, and in genera,l something to be ashamed of.  

Think of the money people have to spend to get buildings accessible to those worthless folks who roll around or are otherwise disabled. Or of the problems they cause in schools requiring different classrooms or different teachers, different curricula and for what? They will never be anything be a burden on our glorious society. And on you.  

After all, how could anyone be interesting, productive or worthwhile if they are in a wheelchair?  No one could ever want to be part of a group that the disabled were a part of.

You scorn those who are different, different colors, different religions, different nationalities. When you can see a difference, it deserves more of your scorn.  

Maybe we need a good dose of ethnic cleansing? Other countries are doing it. I bet lots of you think it could work here. 

Might be better if we could genetically discover who is going to be disabled and kill them immediately after birth. We can’t abort the fetus because that would anger the “pro-lifers”, but Jeb Bush would have no problem killing a disabled person after birth.

The dad who made this tombstone thinks that being dead is better than being in a wheelchair. Wonder if anyone asked the boy.

Separated by a Common Language

One morning, Jan and I were discussing what we were gonna do that day.  She planned to do some gardening: planting and weeding.  I thought for a while and said, "I'm just gonna piddle around the house."  Jan stopped in her tracks and stuttered back at me, "P-p-ppiddle!  What do you mean 'piddle'?"  Puzzled at her confusion, I said, "Piddle.  You know piddle around."  Jan's turn, "You're gonna be 'pee-ing' around the house?  That's what piddle means."   "Huh!?" replied me.  "No. no. I'm gonna do "this 'n that", nothing in particular." Chuckles all around.

To Jan, the Yankee, "piddle" meant to pee.  To Donna, the Southerner, "piddle" meant to do nothing in particular, just this 'n that around the house.

To paraphrase George Bernard Shaw referring to the USA and England: We are separated by a common language.

When I was a little kid, I'd play hard and get really dirty.  (I still do... play hard and get really dirty.  Ask Jan.)  I'd come in around dusk and my mother would inevitably say, "Donna Claire, get your butt in the tub right now and wash those Aunt Dinah's beads from 'round your neck!’  Ya know, the "dirt-ring";  Aunt Dinah's beads.  What did your family call it?

As an adult, I really liked some of the songs of Hootie and the Blow Fish.  Especially, I Only Wanna Be with You.  But the name of the group - the "hootie" part - always reminded me of our family's name for "private parts", the ones in front.  It was "hootie".  Yep.  It was.  Again, my mother was given to say, "You better wash your hootie good!" 

Other family colloquialisms included "toe cheese". It's not like cheddar or gouda.  You'd never hear someone say, "Would you like that to cheese on Ritz crackers?"

When my mom would get irritated, angry, upset, she'd usually say, "Well, shit fire and save the matches!"  I'd think to myself, "How would one do that?  Hmmmm."  I've never heard anyone else say that.  Have you?  

Saying "shit" was about as far mom's cussing'd go. Dad, on the other hand, is a pro.  His curse words have a lot in common with some German words. Germans tend to string lots of words together to make a single word.  

Even Mark Twain noticed when he said, "Some German words are so long, they have a perspective".  An example is "freundschaftsbezeigungen".  This word is German for "demonstrations of friendship".  Try that on for size.  

Dad does the same when cursing.  An example is "goddamnsonofabitch" - always said in one breath as one word.  Within the last ten years, dad's added more to his favorite curse word.  He now says, "goddamnedmotherfuckingsonofabitch".  My Dad's 90 years old and he can say anything he damn well pleases.

Dad also had other non-cussing phrases he'd repeat to his five kids - none of us ever knew what the phrases actually meant; we always knew their intent.  "You know what thought did, don't you?"  he'd say.  No, we didn't.   Never found out either.

Or, "Yeah,” dad would reply when we'd ask him to do or get something.  "Sure you can do/have that... come Juvember."  We'd think, "When the hell's Juvember?"  We never found out, but knew his answer was "No". 

I'm gonna go now and piddle around the house a little.  Don't send me any Depends.

Have a good day, Miss Althea.

Ben Carson, Your Momma Didn't Raise You Right.

Ben Carson hates gays.  He would like to stone us because you see, jeebus told him we were evil and ya never know, being gay might rub off on him. Those homophobic folks are the ones who are usually the closet or tea room queens that we only read about.  

But there is another bunch of folks that Ben Carson hates more: Transgendered folks. I think he truly believes he will be overpowered and forced to wear dresses in public and everyone will hate him or at the very least laugh off their bloody asses at him.

He has announced he has a solution to his problem (in his mind only) of transgendered people using bathrooms.  He is going to build special bathrooms for transgendered folks. That way no one will be offended and everyone can pee in peace.  Oops, maybe all the trans people would be offended? Ya think?

Hey, Ben? How about adding to your solutions.  

Let’s have separate water fountains for transgendered folks? No one would want to drink out of the same ones that Caitlyn Jenner drank from, now would they?

How about separate seating on public transportation? The trans folks could sit, maybe in the back so they would offend no one, especially you.

Oh and don’t forget to make public accommodations like hotels, or nightclubs or theaters with special seating and separate entrance and exit doors for the scary transgendered people.

Whatcha think of that, Ben? Would it work for you?

Setting Ourselves Up

We set ourselves up, don’t we?  Donna and I bought this little house in December 2010 to eventually retire in.  That has been accomplished and we have been living here full time for almost 2 years now. 

I was here sporadically from summer of 2011 until a couple of years ago and hard at work setting us up for more work than we did while we were working.

We had a front deck built. That’s nice. A couple of rocking chairs out there and we could watch birds, hummers, squirrels and deer having fun in our woods. But did we stop there? Nope, we added a hot tub.  Easy, something to relax in.  Ya, but no.  It can be relaxed in, but it needs to be cleaned, chemicalized, covered and kept running so it stays hot.  That takes some work - exactly what we were retiring from.

And we have an RV.  We use it for a guest house. It just sits there, so shouldn’t need one dime’s worth of work.  Wrong again.  Gotta check the battery often, have vents, doors, windows and stuff replace or repaired. Oh and be winterized and then de-winterized. You guessed it. Work.

So did we stop there? Of course not. I have vegetable gardens lots of them and big ones.  I plant, I harvest, we freeze, can or pickle veggies.  Those gardens need irrigation, mulching, weeding.  Lots and lots of work. And anyone who says gardening is easy needs to drop by to help around here. 

And just to top everything off, we moved a huge swimming pool from New Orleans to here. That thing is 14’ x 28’. Big.  And leaves fall in it; it gets green, with algae, brown with tannin from oak leaves and acorns. That needs fixing - all the time. In the fall, like now, it needs to be covered. If you are an old lady, that’s not easy whatsoever.  The cover fills with rain and needs dewatering. To refresh your memory,  read this It’s work and it’s hard work. 

Oh, did I mention that there’s now a deck around the pool - with barbecue grill, porch swing, table and chairs? All of these need moving when high winds are forecast. And high winds are forecast  for tomorrow. 

Don't forget the regular stuff like when the refrigerator stops cooling the HVAC breaks, the washer doesn't wash or the dryer doesn't dry. Don't forget the dishwasher or the water heater. That requires a phone call waiting for service people who may or may not show up and then a check.

I can remember my dad saying after he retired, he didn’t know how he ever found time to work. 

I can’t either.

  

Monet's Garden Recreated

A mannikin of Monet looking over his garden

Back in 1996, an exhibition of Monet paintings came to the New Orleans Museum of Art. In celebration of that, Lakeside Shopping Center, a prime shopping center in Metairie, a suburb of New Orleans devoted their center area to creating an impression of his work at Giverney, his garden in Northern France.

The exhibit was to open in early January 1996. I was asked to do the exhibit and had but three days to do it between the time the Christmas exhibit in the shopping center came down and the Monet exhibit was to open. 

Spectators wandered through at their own pace

In between the hustling of 3 crew members and me plus lots of help from the Lakeside employees, the exhibit opened on time. One of the problems that almost stopped it from opening was all the shoppers who stopped to ask, “What are you doing?’ as I was hauling plants around, spotting others and barking instructions. My answers almost bordered on the obscene after being asked for the 1000th time.

The arbor served as an entrance to the gardens

To do the exhibit, first I covered the entire area with burlap. Then I had bleacher-like steps on the edges of the exhibit for plants to sit on.  All plants were in containers. Since it was December, there weren’t many plants in flower, but the excellent staff at Lakeside found plants for me.  

After we built the pond, placed the plants, we covered everything but the paths with pine needles. 

The exhibit was a resounding success and I am sure got many folks to the New Orleans Museum of Art to see Monet’s work in person.

Spectators could wander through the gardens

The statue on the top right is a mannikin of Monet with a paintbrush and easel

An impression of the bridge in Giverney

An overview from the second floor of the shopping center

A view from the back - see the rail

You can see the surrounding shops

We even included statues that it took two men to carry

The pond, complete with waterfall, on the floor, made from sandbags and rocks.

Culture Shock

Photo is of our house from the ravine it overlooks.

We have a good friend who quit her job, sold everything she owns, packed her belongings in a 20-pound backpack and is now a pilgrim on the Camino de Santiago in Spain.  When she finishes walking that, she will travel to South Africa and who knows after that.  If she ever returns to everyday life (and she doesn't plan to), she will undergo culture shock of the first order.

Culture shock is very real.  Most of us live in cities or suburbs, go to work every day, drive a car, there and back, get gas, shop in malls or big stores, see loads of other people and have to interact with them. 

We don’t realize that we are in a heightened state of anxiety and awareness because of the assault on our senses day after endless day.  We aren’t even aware of what civilization is doing to us.  

I had a year long motorcycle trip years ago before I was stumbling, falling and needing mobility assistance.  I had a tent, a sleeping bag, a pan, plate, knife and fork and some clothing. I was still in civilization some of the time  but was  mainly in the woods in a tent.  The only decisions I had to make was which way to turn my bike and what to eat for dinner.  All I had to do was live in my surroundings.

I spent some of that time in cities, but very little and usually only to get from one place to another. I stuck to the blue highways and rarely rode on an interstate.  When I rained, I got wet. When it was cold, I was cold too. When it was hot, I sweltered. But most of the time, the weather was wonderful, not a factor at all. I had a root beer at the Long Branch Saloon - did you know they don’t sell beer there?  

I spent weeks in Rocky Mountain National Park, in Arches, Bryce, Zion, Kings Canyon, Sequoia, Yosemite, and up the CA coast to WA. I turned right there and went across the top of the country through  Glacier, Yellowstone, Tetons, Mt Rushmore and then through Michigan to New York via Canada. 

I left NY went north through New England to Maine and back southwest on the diagonal through Memphis to Santa Fe. 

When I returned to New Orleans a year later, it took months of getting used to the noise, the pollution, the noise. I was startled every time a garbage truck went by and OMG, a police or ambulance siren would wake me immediately. People were everywhere and they expected things from me. Things like saying good morning to people or answering a question.  Overreaction was common. That’s called culture shock.

We traveled often over the years, seeking that same peace I found while living outdoors. We found it, but always had to return to civilization to earn money to leave again.

When I retired and Donna was close behind, we found our little cabin in Mountain View AR.  There are no street lights here, no garbage trucks. The closest thing we come to light at night is when the moon is full.

We live on a mountain, albeit a tiny one, all of 1200’ in the air. Our house is in a forest, so we hear and see wildlife daily. We found our woods again and are lucky enough to live in it. 

I suspect if we had to travel to a big city, we would go through culture shock once again. And I never want to do that.

Donna Speaks: Kill 'em with Kindness

She was fair skinned with wavy, long blonde hair and preferred cherry red lipstick which she refreshed often.  Her eye shadow and liner were heavy black.  All of this framed a face concealed with heavy foundation and vacant green eyes.

Jane was a frequent-flyer, i.e., she was often a patient at the psych hospital.  And she was a volunteer patient: Jane would self-admit when she felt unsafe.  "Sometimes my medication doesn't work so well... and I feel suicidal," was often the reason she'd give.  

Years ago she'd been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.  BPDO can be difficult to medicate effectively, can lead to deep depression, psychosis, and, at the opposite end, feelings of being super human.  It can be quite a wild roller-coaster ride for those with this chemical disorder.

Jane had received treatment half-dozen times when I encountered her in the day treatment program.  In our initial interview, with eyes brimming with tears, Jane told me that she had become overwhelmed with the care of her four-year-old son.  "I'd just end up in bed all day.  Joe had run around on his own." 

Jane's husband, John, was able to help out some.  "John's so good.  He's a chief with the Baton Rouge fire department, ya know. He makes really good money and he can take off more."

I met John several times during Jane's stay since we included couple and family therapy as part of our package deal.  He was a "good ole boy", with quite a few years on Jane.  I liked John.  "We met on the job," John had told me.  "We were both EMTs... I couldn't believe when Jane said 'yes' to me."

Over the weeks that Jane was with us, I'd frequently get a funny feeling in my gut.  Like she wasn't sincere.  To me, Jane appeared to be play-acting. Her current role was to be "a psychiatric patient in a day treatment program."  Even when I'd meet with John and her son, Joe, she seemed to be "faking it."

However, it took another round with Jane about six months later to accept my feelings about her as fact.  

I confronted her during an individual session: "Jane, what are you trying to accomplish here?  I believe you'd get better faster if you'd try your best to be truthful with yourself... and us."  

Denials galore ensued.  "How can you say that?" Jane haltingly and tearfully defended herself. "I try as hard as I can to get better... I want to be home with Joe!"  After our session, she asked for another therapist.

I got one last chance with Jane.  On the day of her discharge, we had our mandatory family session. The other therapist was absent, so I drew the short straw.  Jane didn't know until she and John entered the room.  She looked disgustedly at me as she snuggled next to John on the couch.  

I went over the routine stuff: medications, recommendations for continued individual and couple's therapy, therapy for Joe, etc.

Then I looked at John and said, "I cannot, as a professional, let you go today without sharing my concerns."  John looked surprised and Jane shocked.  "I firmly believe that you need to be very careful.  I don't think Jane is being honest with us or you.  I also believe that her attempts at therapy are not sincere."  

Jane started crying, "How can you say that?!" sobbing started. John asked, "What do you mean?"  

I took a deep breath and replied, "John, just be extra careful.  Take care of yourself.  I believe that Jane will do whatever she can to get what she wants."  John looked dumbfounded but shook his head up and down.  

After they left, I took special care to record in writing my session with Jane and John - along with a new diagnosis: sociopath.

About four or five months later, Jan and I were watching the local nightly news.  I wasn't paying much attention until I glanced up and saw Jane in handcuffs and prisoner orange.  She was being lead from a police car to the local jail.  

The reporter continued, "Mrs. Smith was arrested in her home after the police received a call from one of the two men she had hired to kill her husband."  My heart began to beat very rapidly and I felt like throwing up. 

The next day, I learned the whole story.  Jane hired two men she had met in the psych hospital to kill her husband. They, too, had been frequent flyers.  

All three had met in Jane and John's home several times to plan the murder.  Jan had shown them where Joe kept his 357 magnum gun and ammo. They were in the top of the bedroom closet; the deed was to be done in the bedroom.  

Jane explained to the guys that she'd already told John that the next Wednesday she had planned a "special night" for him: she'd meet him at the door in her sexy negligee, lead him to their bedroom where she'd scattered flickering candles all round, had champagne on ice, and the bed ready.  

In fact, Jane had already had several "special nights" with John - just so he wouldn't be suspicious.  I just got sicker and sicker as the details came out.

Unfortunately for Jane - fortunately for John - one of her hires got cold feet and called the cops as he waited in Jane and John's bedroom.  The cops arrived only a few minutes before John.

A few weeks later, the CEO of the psych hospital called me.  "Jane wants her medical records.  She's trying to claim she was impaired by her bipolar disorder. What's in your notes?"  

I shared with him what I'd told her husband, John, during our last session and that my diagnosis was written as "sociopath/psychopath - dangerous to others."

 "Murdering or hiring someone to murder a loved one" is not one of the symptoms of bipolar disorder.

Post Note: Almost a year after the attempt on John's life, he called me for an appointment.  During our session, he told me that Jane had been calling him from jail - begging him for help, telling him it was all a mistake, and that she really loved him.  

"And..." I asked him.  "Well, I was thinking about bailing her out... seeing her again."  It was my turn to be stupefied, dumbfounded, aghast, etc., etc. "If you do," I told John, "You are crazy."  He did.

Charges were dropped.  Jane returned home. The charm of a psychopath is often irresistible, especially to the lonely... and horny.

Oh, dear me, Althea.  Have a good week.