Free Poems with Thorns

Poems with Thorns

Many of you already know about my oldest son from a previous post, This Man Is My Son . I have another son with different challenges. While my oldest son still lives in the imprisonment of addiction, my other son lives imprisoned behind bars. Every week or so I receive an envelope prominently stamped across the front of it in bold black ink “__________ Prison.” It breaks my heart. At first every envelope contained a hand written poem. I typed each of those poems and published them as “Poems with Thorns” a few years ago. There are two more volumes waiting to be processed.

If you happen to be a Kindle Unlimited member, you can read the book for free. The Kindle version is only $1.99. I love to read on my Kindle but its heart warming to hold my son’s book in my hands. I’m giving 3 readers the opportunity to have a copy of the book. All I ask is that you consider leaving a review. All you need to do is be one of the first three to claim the book here. Note, the book is written under a pen name, Onslow Mansbridge.

I look forward to your comments and it would be fantastic if you would be kind enough to post an honest review.

I Wanted To Write

I wanted

to write a book that would tear your insides apart with laughter, not heartbreak.
to write tiny bites of my life with enough humor to leave my readers with howling belly aches over exaggerated blimps and bleeps.
to write the best selling memoir full of wit and wisdom, one that would live on the nightstand of every parent on this earth who might need a quick dose of humor following a particularly harrowing day.
to write with a keen sense of humor to keep my readers turning the pages (or swiping their Kindles) to the very last word.
to write the takeaways that would lead to joyful resolution for all who read my words.

Meanwhile I have

written the necessary 90,000 words of a pitiful and shitty first draft (ala Anne Lamott), just to get over it.
highlighted the questionabull, deleted the distractabull, rewritten the sustainabull, and added the conceivabull.
hit the muddy middle and squirreled away at least sixty hours of mindless FaceBook gaming in the last thirty days.

The time has come

to send away the critics and bring in the clowns.
to let go of the past.
to write that final chapter.

If nothing else comes of this

I can say I wrote a book
My inner self will be sufficiently mended.
I can be a better person.
I still have a sense of humor.

BUT maybe one day I’ll sit at the Algonquin table in Dorothy Parker’s mink coat signing copies of my phenomenal book.

The Sunset Years

Farewell Micky

Ten years ago today I said goodbye to my best friend.

We met in the sunset of our lives. It’s not an uncommon occurrence that two women become best of friends in the Red Hat Society. This disorganization of women over fifty has grown in exponential proportions since its inception only a few years ago. It fills the need for those women over fifty to gather together to celebrate life with fun and frivolity. And that is exactly what we do. We do it with whim and wit flaunting our age in shades of purple topped off with brilliant red hats.

When I learned about this society of women, I felt that my conservative and shy nature made me an unlikely candidate for such a prominent public display of splendorous glitz. Under the guise of a dare I coerced a few old friends into buying red hats, purple dresses, and showing up for high tea at a local tea room. We giggled under our bright red brims, a conspicuous spectacle of color amid the dainty pink and white décor. Due to a few inquiring ladies with sense of admiration we emerged a couple of hours later with our hats tilted with a new attitude (hat-itude). The next day I registered with Hat Quarters as Queen of the newfound RHS Molls.

The Molls chapter has now grown into an eclectic group of over sixty members and while I enjoy the exaltedness of being a queen, so contrary to my life before red hats, the biggest reward has been my bond with one special new friend. She walked into my life with a handful of silly purple clappers, the biggest grin ever, and the heartiest of all laughs. We had the same purpose in mind… pure fun. And fun we have, time and again.

Neither one of us had a single clue that the biggest problems in our lives would be our biggest bond. It happened a few months after we met when I shared with her a rather personal reason for my escape into this society of women. Her face dropped as she blurted out her reason. While our situations were different, we shared equally desperate challenges. The point is not what we suffered from but how we would take care of each other. We allowed each other the space to share the daily trials in our life and then we moved past that into fun and friendship. We learned that sharing the grief, with compassion and a good sense of humor lessened the burdens and intensified the fun.

This friendship that developed was far beyond the friendships of my youth. For me the young friends came and went as we grew apart in our individuality, moved on, or moved away. My life has been a journey with turbulent twists and turns. But as I settle into my second half of life and learn who I have become through these circumstances of life, the growing pains recede. I begin to let go of the past and enjoy a new set of friends; friends, who know and like each other for who we are today.

There is a new set of dynamics however in these recent relationships. Youth behind us we now realize the evidence of our temporary existence as friends, old and new, begin to pass on. And so, this special friend and I shared our last days together in sadness and in joy. Together, we cherished the journey and the gifts of each day.

Rest in peace my dear friend. I miss you every day.

Will This Make Me Smarter?

desk

Here I stand. I’ve never tried standing to write other than a brief tweet or message once in a while on my smartphone. Some people stand all day at their computers. They say it helps their back, burns more calories and makes them think better. I remembered that when I was looking through the latest Costco catalog and came to the article about standing desks. Of course I immediately went on line to see what I could find. But I didn’t need to spend $600 or more for a whole new desk. I have a perfectly fine desk.

So I checked Amazon (sorry if you are one of those people who refuse to shop at Amazon but convenience wins when I need to find out about things, and I get free shipping). First search brought up three pages of desktop standing desks. I ordered this one. It was reasonably priced and the right size for my desk surface.

I came home from work just as the mailman was delivering our mail and waited patiently in the street since his truck blocked my driveway. I knew by the disgruntled, look on his sweat dripping face that he wasn’t exactly pleased having to huff up the steep driveway in 90 degree weather. When I reached the front door I realized why. Hard to believe it but Amazon chose to ship this 56 pound package through USPS. Even harder to believe is that our slightly built mailman was able to heave it up the driveway.

It took two of us to bring it in the house. It took two of us to figure out how to get it out of the package. And two of us to heft it onto the desk. It took me two hours to clear off the desk, re-hook up the computer, glue on the little rubber feet and figure out how to make the innovative simple touch height locking mechanism lift the desk with ease. It would have helped if I had thought to remove the plastic shipping ties hidden under the desktop first.

So, here I am testing this out. It seems ergonomically correct. My arms are at right angles, feet firmly planted, and eyes a good enough distance away for bifocal work. Now about those extra calories we can burn standing – I know someone who says she walks on her treadmill while using a standing desk. Seems like a good way to multitask. Mayve I should check Amazon for one of those. But will it make me smarter? Or just poorer?

Happy Mother’s Day – Chapter One

“Your mom is very sick.” After five years of marriage, I can read the tension on Eric’s face and feel it across the kitchen table in the grasp of his hands.

“And?” I ask. I know there is bad news to come. News that I don’t want to hear.

“Maybe you would like a cool drink. It’s been a hot day,” Eric stalls. We are in the middle of a heatwave and yet I feel a chill run down my spine.

“No. I think I know what you’re going to say.” I had been visiting Mom at Letterman Army Medical Center at Presidio of San Francisco for months, watching her fade away. Dad had mentioned a week before that Mom would be going to Stanford University Hospital to be evaluated by Dr. Shumway, a pioneer of heart surgery.

“Your dad called earlier and asked me to tell you something. Dr. Shumway says there is nothing more that they can do.”

Eric moves his chair back as I shift around the table and fall into his tender hug.

Don’t cry, I think. I’m twenty-four years old and can’t dodge the recurrent reminder of Dad’s words, “Big girls don’t cry.”

“How long?” I ask, trying to maintain composure. My temples pulse.

“Maybe a few weeks.” His words trail off as the tears come. His tears. Not mine. There’s a swift kick in my belly as I try to digest the pain. My mother will not live to see this baby, I realize.

Is Dad crying now? Is that why Eric is the one to break this news? Only Eric will witness my tears.

Four months later I sit in stoic silence at the memorial service as Rev. Boring offers words of comfort at Carmel Valley Community Church. It feels odd to have someone other than my father at the pulpit. My sister, a blossoming teenager nine years younger than me, buries her tears in a lump of tissues. I see my older brother brush his tears away on his coat sleeve. My head pounds with backed up tears. Did I imagine Dad’s gasps and sniffles?

After the service, we gather at the house. It was Mom’s dream come true, this house on the hillside above Carmel Valley. With a glass of wine propped on my growing belly, I feel the touch of my mother’s sister. Her hand is on my belly. “You are so strong,” she says. “You will make a good mom.”