Political Pon Farr

 

 

     The other night, as I was settling down to sleep, I started to think about politics. Well, what a way to ruin a good night's sleep! I couldn't help it. My brain had ceased up on the topic and there I lay, weighing it all out.

     I started to ponder why it is that people get so 'strident in their corner 'when it comes to the general election. Already this year, I've seen or heard tell of friendships ending over political views. Folks are being un-friended, right and left. My own, younger, sister 'very gently' told me of her love for Fox political news, adding that she doesn't like to talk politics. And she asked the question "Why can't people get it?" (it being, this view - her view - the real answer.) It's the same question I've asked as well with the opposite view in mind. How is it that I can take in all the information and come up with the reasonable, logical choice and yet so many around me choose the opposite or wrestle with indecision? Indecision! Are you kidding me? This isn't rocket science!

    I have to admit, my sister was not revealling anything new. This summer when I was in the mountains of North Carolina visiting my family, everyone was watching the FOX News, cable channel. It was almost cult-like. Every house I went to had the same FOX News channel on - every house! At some point, it felt like a scene from the Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I was kind of afraid to fall asleep, in fear that a life sized replica of myself would be the one waking up and tuning in to FOX - "All praise Chris Wallace! All praise Shawn Hannity!" I love my family to bits but I have to confess, it was spooky.

     Laying there, in my bed, I had a revelation. This political situation every four years is very much like the Vulcan - Pon Farr. If you're unfamiliar with Pon Farr, I refer to the Star Trek (original series) television show. Mr. Spock (the science officer) was a character in that show. He was a Vulcan and was at all times logical, reasonable and rock solid, reliable. Then the season of Pon Farr came upon him and he became a hot head! He got into fights, got aggressive with the women and just plain couldn't hold a thought. Then Dr. McCoy (down to Earth and folksy MD) explained that Mr. Spock was experiencing Pon Farr - the Vulcan mating heat. Spock would need to go to his home planet and mate with a predetermined mate - or die!

     So they take the big ship Enterprise to planet Vulcan. There, they discover that the predetermined mate is a floozy who has a lover on stand by. She chose Captain Kirk as the person who would fight for her. She would win out because she didn't have to mate with Spock (as the battle to the death would lift the Pon Farr)  and she would have her lover. A brilliant move! So Spock had to fight his dearest friend to the death.  Spoiler Alert - they faked the Captain's death, Spock came out of the heat and they flew off to their next adventure.

     Now tell me, isn't that just like the general election season? I mean really? It's like "Ugg, there's my friend - the Democrat - what a loser!" Or "There's Jim and Suzie with their ritzy-titzy Republican friends. They're so obnoxious!"  People get pissy with each other and yet, a week after the general election is over, the heat has lifted and you're thrilled to see your friends, the previous election - a distant memory.

     There in the darkness, I giggled a little at this line of thinking. That's when a new question popped into my head. "Why is it that I was born into a family of 9 kids and from all I can tell, I am the only Democrat among all these Republicans?" There I said it, I'm a Democrat. I don't talk a lot about it so the confession feels like an AA moment.  I have voted for Republicans before, so I'm no Yellow Dog Democrat. At least there's that.

     I began to think about my childhood. I will admit that I might have been a bit argumentative. (If my siblings are reading this - yeah, I said it.) My Dad and I argued politics all the time. He was a staunch Republican - a Yellow Dog Republican! As I lay there thinking back, counting back through the various administrations to my childhood. I arrived at Nixon. And then I remembered John Fitzgerald Kennedy. I was ten years old when he was shot dead in Dallas.  My fifth grade teacher came into the classroom crying and informed us of the president's death. The news was heart crushing. Especially since my Mama was hundreds of miles away, helping my oldest sister with her new baby.

     There he was; the president - young, handsome, articulate. A Dad. The following days were filled with TV images of the president, the assassin and the assassin's assassin. The president's funeral with the riderless horse and the president's son, saluting as the body of our slain leader moved through the streets. It still makes me cry. My Mom was home by then so that was some comfort. The Kennedy era touched me with it's big ideas for the nation.

     Then Nixon and Vietnam and women's rights and civil rights. My Dad and I had a lot of areas to discuss, heatedly. He once called me a "Commie Pinko," and "A Red Agent." He was always going on about the Communist lurking at every corner. So being called a Commie Pinko by him might have warped me.

      I'm saying all that to say this: When I turned 18 - voting age. My Dad drove me to register to vote. And in defiance to him, that great, big, Republican, know it all, I registered Democrat! When he found out, he was a bit shocked. I could see it in his eyes. He grimaced at me with a look of disbelief. Yet, there was a bit of a twinkle in his eyes. He knew defiance when he saw it. However, I don't think he ever got over it. He once told me "For one against me, I have eight with me." God, he took politics personally! In his later years, he use to kid me about our arguments, so I think we were OK with each other at the end.

      I was pondering this whole sequence, there in the dark of my bedroom and I had to laugh. Me registering democrat is my "tattooed forearms," it's my  "mohawk hair cut" (died red and yellow), it's my "goth look," my "pierced nose," my "boyfriend of a different race."  Registering democrat is my act of defiance to my Dad that lasts until this day.

      These revelations in the dark have been very enlightening! Ultimately, we're all in this together so whoever is elected in November, will be my president. That is what a citizen does, they accept the decision and move on. We've got a great country here in the USA so let's stay friends.

    

 

 

 

My Falls

                     

 

     Yesterday, at my studio in Anderson, I walked out to the dumpster to investigate a large, metal, door sticking out of the freshly dumped, dumpster. The door was wedged tight inside that metal box. It hung there, not all the way out - not all the way in, like some kind of weird passage way into a world beyond. I had no idea where this door came from but figured my local, trash pickers would be along shortly to pry it out and haul it away for the metal. Bless their hearts - they've saved me a lot of grief. 

     I was in a good mood. The morning had started at the end of a good night's sleep. I was ready to take on the day. I turned from the dumpster and started back toward the pavement. Suddenly, my right foot caught on a chunk of wood protruding, barely half an inch, from the dirt. I started to fall. Surprised, I remember thinking, "Can this be happening?" I moved my left foot into position to catch myself. That move might have worked too, if I hadn't brought my freshly freed - right foot - up to gain my balance but instead tripped on the edge of the concrete driveway. I was the victim of a double trip! The picture above is sort of what it looked like except I could see the individual specks of concrete particles edging closer to my face. For the life of me, I cannot tell you how this happened, other than pure instinct, but I remember thinking "Get your hand up to protect your face!" And my right hand slammed into position and saved my face and eyeglasses. For the rest of the day, my hand ached and could take very little pressure. Even turning the keys in my car's ignition brought grimacing pain.

     My loved ones all asked about me going to have my hand seen about but we all know how I feel about going to the doctor.  I said "I'll wait and see."

    This hesitancy got me to thinking about the last fall I had almost two years ago. My husband and I were walking our dog along a trail I'd cut through a thicket on our farm. He was telling me profusely how to train the dog to heal, sit, etc. At some point I'd had enough of his lectures. So I turned and huffed off back towards home. The sun was setting, I was pissed and hurrying. So I failed to see the small stump sticking out of the ground. Boom! I hit the ground like a sack of spuds! 

     My ribs were in pain for days. I eventually went to the doctor and got xrayed only to find out that these old bones can take a beating. Nothing broken, just bruised and radiated! 

     Yesterday, as I worked away on an art project that is weeks behind schedule. I started thinking about my falls. Suddenly I began to laugh out loud. My memory went back to my Grandma Stevens. She was always such a great story teller. She was born in 1893. She knew about life during the horse and buggy era. She told of mica mines in the mountains of North Carolina. And using dynamite boxes to make all sorts of play gear.  In her later years, she began to tell the stories of her various falls. When she was 9 years old, she fell as she climbed up to a cliff to gather hen eggs. A twig she'd been using to pull herself up, gave way and she landed on a big, flat, rock, on the back of her head.

     When she was 11, she made a sled and put it on a creek, frozen over with ice. As she started to climb into it - boom - down she went onto the back of her head again.

     And another fall she mentioned, happened when she walked out onto the front porch, fell off the porch onto her stomach and lost her breath.

     My grandmother wrote about her falls - among other things- and we were left with a nice journal of many of her trials and tribulations.  She chronicled about 15 different falls or accidents in her life. So after my falls, I got out her journal to reread about  some of her falls. The one below is a very significant accident. She was around 40 or 50 years old when it happened. She wore support hose for the rest of her days as a result of this and I can still see her changing her bandaged legs - some 30 or 40 years after the "9th accident" happened. In her own words:
 

 "Still at Clinchfield - I had a wash house out back yard had in a furnice a large black wash pot an old wringer washing machine started washing one day got them all through the first watter one of the children called me it was time to come in and make biscuits for dinner I then picked up an old 8 lbs lard bucket diped it in that old black pot got it almost in the boil come out and spilled that boiling water on my legs and feet had silk hose when I pulled them down part of the skin come off my legs I had to have a Dr that time it was 8 weeks before I walked this is my 9th acident.
I Remember."

     She was tough.  It made me feel sad for her, having to deal with such a horrible accident. My little trip is miniscule in comparison.  I woke up this morning with my right hand feeling better but because I took a tumble, and remembered her with her many falls, it was like having her here to comfort me.

Journey's End - Day 30

   Here we are at day 30. I have entered a blog post everyday for 30 days. I don't know if a writing habit has been established in me but I hope so. It has been an interesting exercise. I've learned stuff.

     First off, I've discovered that I write like a robot. I write like Data from Star Trek, speaks. He could not use contractions, so he always went the distance; is not, would not , could not, have not, etc. By using contractions, a sentence is softened.

     I also think I do better writing in the morning or early in the day. All the entries that I've posted, that I like the most, were written during the early morning.

     Writing helps me relax. To me it's like downloading a file. My brain is full of thoughts, fears, ideas and other such nonsense. So when I write about that stuff, it empties my brain. I think that's why counselors recommend a patient keep a journal. Put it on paper and walk away.

      As for the future, I am not sure about my writing. I'm starting a new challenge in about a week. This challenge has me listing at least 5 things on ebay each day for thirty days. I really would love to get this habit established. So maybe that will give me fodder to write about on this blog.

     In closing, I have posted the above video. It is actually a youtube video that had a lot of other stuff with it. I just got such a kick out of this sweet dog, riding by like he does this stuff all the time. Bye for now.

A Day's Work - Day 29

    The picture above is part of my latest project. It's a rental house in Anderson. It's actually an apartment in a house turned into doubles. Today, I was sanding and mopping this floor, getting it ready for stain and seal tomorrow. I came home tonight with every joint, muscle, tendon and ligament on my body, aching.

    On the way home, I called Kora to tell her that I would go to Ohio with her this weekend. We're going to a birthday party for her nephew. She needed someone to tag along to help with the babies. I am a good choice for that because my grand kids love me!

   Kora told me this cute story about my grand daughter. They were in the grocery and Korinne said "I love you, mommy." And Kora says "I love you too."

And Korinne says "But what?" She's just turning 4 years old and already she ponders the deeper meaning.

Rocky End - Day 28

    This is an old house in Anderson, Indiana. I took the photo because I thought the house looked like it could have been a stunner in it's youth. I liked the color, I liked the shapes, and I especially like the mysterious stairway between the two wings.

    I wanted to submit one more rock story because, well, I like it. Here goes:

Telling Philip -

     Before I told Philip my story idea, I had to prepare him. You see, he's a critic. He'd tear up an anvil just to see what makes it heavy. And I'm kind of sensitive, especially when it come to my creativity. If someone says or even hints at "dumb" - I immediately drop it.

   In a burst of enthusiasm , I say, "Phil, I've got this idea for a book." He listens.

"This is big, really big!. This may be the one thing I've been living my whole life to do. I may even need to get extra people to help me think it through. It's that big!"

    He says "Well, tell me this, what would be your father's reaction to the idea?"

So I think a minute and say "Girl, what's the matter with you?"

Philip says "What would be Kora's reaction?"

I say "Mom! That's a great idea! Go for it!"

So then I tell him about the rock stories book. He is grinning the entire time and when I finish he says "Just one thing, when you write it - change my name."

Trouble on the Mountain - Day 27

     I was in Anderson today. Phil asked me to help get an apartment cleaned up and ready for a renter.  So I was pulling what must have been 1 million nails, tacks, and staples out of the floor. I guess who ever installed the carpet, many years ago, must have worried about the carpet flying away because that thing was stuck down!
    Phil had come to Anderson too. It was beautiful outside, so he planned to do some patching on the roof of the Lincoln Street building.
    He came by the apartment to check on me and to invite me to lunch. I dropped everything and went to lunch with him.  After lunch he brought me back to the apartment and I got back to tack pulling.
     Shortly, my phone rang. It was Philip. He asked me if I was finished the tack pulling, There was a hesitancy in his voice. "Just about." I said. I sensed that something was bad wrong.
   "Are you OK?" I asked.
    "Yeah, I'm OK. I might need your help."
    He proceeds to tell me that he had gone up on the roof to find a section of the rubber roof sheeting blown off. As he tells me this, I could hear him breathing kind of heavy. According to him, a 6 foot by 78 foot section.  "Seven or eight foot?" I asked. He clarified "78 foot."
     I immediately headed over to help. I'll finish this story up tomorrow as we were working past sun down and I am bone tired tonight.

Motown - Day 26

     Detroit; the "Motor City," Home of Motown. We came into Detroit at about 6 PM on a Thursday night. Driving down Grand Avenue, we could see the towers of the city looming ahead. The Emerald City at the end of the rainbow. Yet, something kept catching my eye; trash! Everywhere along the streets, lay, debris. It moved in the breeze with a life of it's own. Piles of garbage, scattered bits of paper, drink cups caught in fences; everywhere. All in accent to the newly built (within the last 50 years) buildings that lined the path to the city.

    It made me sad. The ride along Grand Avenue should have been uplifting. Here we were on our way into the big town and yet the trash rushed our senses.

     At about this time, my teenage son turned on the radio. The Motown sound filled our van. Angels came out of the heavens. The trash stepped back. Voices soothed us. The city took on an entirely different look.

     Before, all I'd been able to see was "Cars Hand Washed," "Girls,Girls, Girls," or just generic graffiti.  Now, I noticed churches and groups of people standing on the sidewalks; talking and laughing while their babies kicked at imaginary objects from their strollers. It was just music, yet, what a difference the sound makes.