Fourteen and how to research a thing like a mini search topic paper thing

  A mini isearch. I could talk about nutrition, the thing I want to do with my life. Thought about Economics, as I am worrying about the food heat gas for the car issues that are prevailing on my wallet right now. Possibilities there but it was such a large topic. Breaking it down into sections did not help either because Microeconomics and Macroeconomics were still to large a topic for me to write an itty-bitty essay about. Bingo, which is one of my favorite games. Ask anyone who had won our four hundred dollar jackpot how excited they were about it, you would probably get a list of why they loved Bingo. I have played the game for years. I volunteer there quite regularly when I am not in school trying to drill knowledge into my brain and  not have it leak out.
    I started with Bingo, (the adult version) in spring of 2006. I volunteered there for many years first as a runner and then as a relief banker adding selling of the special games and fifty/fifty tickets. I was then tapped to be the caller. It is not often that you see women callers and that is for a very definite reason, no one likes to see grown ups cry. Most women do after the crowd gets through with them for making a mistake, whatever the mistake would be. I have literally seen some of the men vow never to come back to the hall after such troubles. I thought they were being a bit overly dramatic but they seemed to think being yelled at for calling the wrong number was a bit out of line. I was the banker for many years and even balanced out the monthly checkbooks and sent of the proper monthly paperwork to the state police gaming commission who is the duly authorized agent for the State to handle such things as Bingo and pull tickets or Lucky Sevens as they are officially known as and high stakes bingo.
    As I continue in my thoughts of Bingo, I realized that although I know the people and the operation there at my Legion hall, I know most of the rules that apply to the small stakes bingo games, I really have no idea about what is going on in High Stakes bingo nor do I know anything about the rest of the games of chance or anything about how bingo came to be such an unusual American pastime.
    The History of Bingo started out in Europe, specifically Italy, as more of a Lottery, (http://www.strangelife.com/bingodoc/bingohist.html) than the Bingo that we play today. I would have thought the way the Indians felt about it, that it was something to do with them, but no it is one of the few European things that the Indians took to. Indians refer to high stakes Bingo as the, "new buffalo" because it is a single source capable of feeding and clothing the Indians, much like the buffalo used to. (http://www.library.ca.gov/crb/97/03/Chapt4.html)
      In short, Bingo has been around in its earliest forms since 1530 when it was invented as a state run lottery by the Italians and through various changes has come to be the modern game of Bingo. In the early 1930's. High stakes bingo started in Florida by the Indians and after fighting with the State of Florida about minor legalities, which the Indians won, the games were allowed to be conducted on tribal lands without state interference. Several states have since followed suit allowing their local state tribes to conduct the high stakes on tribal lands  (http://www.library.ca.gov/crb/97/03/Chapt4.html)
     Although it is technically a form of gambling, I personally do not equate it with other games of chance. I equate it with any other sporting endeavor. there is strategies that can be applied. Sometimes they are superstition other times they can be as simple as not sitting next to the woman that talks constantly through the whole night and distracts everyone around her. Good for her because you are going to miss a number sooner or later. There is also the fact that you have to develop the skill to search out the number you want in a set amount of time the more cards you can scan in the allotted time limit then the more chances to win you are capable of. I know some ladies and gentlemen that can play up to 30 cards at any given time sometimes more if they feel like it.
     Bingo is a very sociable game. You are sitting next to a group of your friends and between games there is a lot of joking around a laughing going on. You are not just there to gamble.  I look at it like any other athletic event, you pay your entrance fee, hone your skills to beat your opponent, and use whatever strategy you can think of to give you an edge over the other guys. There is an element of skill as well luck that goes into playing these games. As a runner in a race can stumble and fall you can miss that all important number, or have to go to the bathroom, or even stamp the wrong number accidentally.
     We have several of what I call God's Special People, playing the games on a quasi regular basis. Our Legion Hall is very protective of them, recognizing that it is a beneficial chance for them to get out and socialize and be around society in an accepting setting. We do not allow them to play more than one card unless we know they can handle more than one card. (http://www.ncrta.org/Professional/benefits.htm
 

week thirteen curtseys to her queen

    From the beginning of page one to the very last most delectable word, this story took me away and deposited me in the Scottish Highlands, circa the Dark Ages. The author, Julie Garwood's vivid descriptions of the Scottish Highlands, with their mountain lochs and wooded glens, created a picture in my mind that stole my heart and gave me a new item for my bucket list, visiting Scotland some day. Barring that I will continue to live in the mountains of Maine, which are the closest I can come to it for right now.
      The story is a simple boy-marries-girl, then boy-doesn't-know-what-hit-him-from-then-on-as-girl-completely-runs-rings-around-him-and-leaves-him-with-the-misconception-that-he-has-any-control-what-so-ever-in-his-own-life. See, what could be more simple than that? From when we first meet our heroine, standing on the back of a horse that is running through a field for the sheer joy of it, she shows us that she is made of sturdy stuff. The author has her shouldering the burdens of responsibility constantly but every once in awhile the character does her own thing, almost as if she slips it in on the author when Madam Garwood is not looking.
     There is also the subplots of the heroine's sister who is married to Alec Kinkaide's neighbor. In laws drive me nuts too, and she absolutely frazzled her new brother in law. Then there was the jilted English Baron, Jaime's first fiancee, having already paid the bride price to Jaime's father, who had gambled it away and could not repay it. He arrived on the doorstep of the Kincaides, with his army and a severe issue about getting either his money or his bride back. The murder of Alec's first wife who every one but Jaime thought had committed suicide, and was bound and determined to murder the second as well. Throw into the mix, a tremulous new priest, and a cantankerous old warrior bound and determined to find something to do while he recuperates from a battle injury, and you have everything you could possibly need for a sexy, suspenseful, page turner; destined to become one of those books you never want to give away.
     While reading this story I laughed, I cried, and was completely impressed with the ability of the author to reach from the pages of her book and touch my heart with her characters. They have become my new best friends and I will check in on them from time to time for many years to come.
   

week twelve hits the shelves...see your "Slim" and raise you "The Bride"

     I have been reading as long as I can remember and most of the time I do not remember from one day to the next what books I have actually read. I once had a friend that wrote down every book he ever read. I was impressed with the organizational gene that he had been born with, however, I am not that anal and could not remember the books from last month that I read, let alone the ones from years before. I have read everything I could from the time I could pick up a book and read it, or the cereal box, whichever. I read many different types of books and was banned from a few after I read them. Little like shutting the door after the horse was loose, thank God for baseball games on television or I would have been banned from  a lot more I think.
     In high school I was introduced to the Greek mythological stories and all the beauty of them. Kudos to you Edith Hamilton and Homer, for all your hard work which brought so many teenagers and college students weak eyesight, many headaches, and a glimpse into the beauty of the Greek and Roman poetry and prose. It taught me to dream of being loved by a God, and the beauty of far away places in long ago times. Right about the time I was getting that headache, excuse me, increasing my knowledge, I was introduced to the herstorical romance genre of reading material. I absolutely fell in love with these types of stories because it fulfilled so many of my yearnings created by Homer and Hamilton. Yearnings of a budding, very curious, young woman who loved to learn, who desired to travel and meet new people, old ones too, for that matter and wanted to experience being in love and describing it as timeless. Plus the covers weren't bad either. Ah Fabio...in a buccaneer costume...I digress.
     For a young teenage girl in rural Maine, this was really heady stuff. I prowled the libraries, the local Mr. Paperback of my town, my neighbors' attics and garages, looking for books that were written in this venue. After a time I realized that there were books out there that were ok, for a rainy afternoon and then there were books that I became so engrossed in, they would literally transport me to another time and place. I became as a fly on the wall of these people's lives. I do not know who the majority of the people were who wrote these stories but, in this genre, one writer stands out above them all, Julie Garwood.
     I have read everything I ever could get my hands on by her. Her stories are so well written and her characters are so three dimensional that they have become my friends. Every time I read her newest story, it is like meeting someone new. Julie makes her characters flawed and lovable, admirable, desirable, stubborn, arrogant, and...well...human. They could be the people living next door to you. When they get into trouble you want to help them. Everything by Julie Garwood is written in this truly gifted fashion; there is one book of hers that reaches me above all of them and that is this book "The Bride."
       In Garwood's story, "The Bride" we are presented with an elder daughter of a British nobleman. He is not the brightest of men, although he does love his five daughters very much, and has gambled away the King's tax. In retribution, the King gives Laird Alec Kincaide the right to choose a wife from amongst the five of them as well as a neighboring laird traveling with him. They toss a caber (debranched pine tree) to see who has first pick. The Laird Kincaide wins and chooses the eldest daughter, Jaime, marries her then and there, carrying her off the the Scottish Highlands. After some some time and lots of settling in together, they discover who murdered his first wife, avert a war with the British, and unite the area highland clans who are always feuding.
     All of Garwood's characters are three dimensional and very real, but I have a particular liking for Jaime because as much as she can, in that time period, she takes control of her life, she is independent and funny. Plus her description reminds me so much of the young Elizabeth Taylor. Although that is a trite reason and is shallow and superficial I can't help but think that is what was in the author's mind when she introduced us to this character.
     I live in a trailer and have very little storage room, as trailers are notorious for not having any, so I have to keep books in one small bookcase for now, and this is one of the few books that I keep to reread. I visit my friends when ever things in my own life demand that I take a few minutes and escape to another time, another place, where my friends are all waiting to tell me again, the story of their life.
 

week eleven I can't wait to go a sleddin...how to process

     Cooking, is a lot more than just the ordinary slice and dice that you see at a restaurant. I think that is why I do not like to go out to eat on a regular basis. It is fun once in awhile but it cannot compare to the atmosphere created in your own home while you are cooking dinner for your family. The kitchen, for me, has always been the heart of my home. It is where I fed my family, teaching my children the alphabet, while eating alphabet soup, of course. It is where I ironed my first husband's uniforms, walked babies around the table while I waited for bottles to heat up, or medicines to go down. This part of the house is where every cherished holiday memory started for me and it is, now that I am back in school, where I do the lion's share of my homework at.
     I live in a little two bedroom trailer and, of the common area, the kitchen takes up about a third of the space. The makers of my trailer, who have long since passed into obscurity, were ingenious at putting in cupboards and cabinets right where I would need them and yet leave me room to look out the window while I eat, especially since there is only one way the table will fit in here. My trailer has forty year old paneling that showed forty years worth of use and abuse on them. At first there was even some kind of mushroom growing out of the wall down by the floor, and it took me along time to decide what I wanted to do with the kitchen after I removed the mushroom, but eventually I found the wallpaper that made my heart go pitter patter. I bought all the rolls of it that were in the thrift store. Thank God there was enough for the whole kitchen because that was going on the wall whether there was enough or not. I slapped up a coat or three of paint to trim off the wallpaper with, and just recently found the perfect wall border. The old wooden cupboards I kept the same, some copper accents strategically placed, and I have an old world style kitchen, kind of a rustic European country look.
     Everything meshes together perfectly. Feng shway people would be impressed. My point to this blathering ramble is, that when my family comes in the house and sits down to eat, there is a pleasant atmosphere to the place blending the old with the new. Kind of like my family. I have blended my three children with my new husband and his two children. I did not trim them in wallpaper and paint but I did get some things they liked; pillows, towels, their own dishes etc. One of the boys lives with me now and I am incorporating him into the fabric of my family, just like my pico de gallo.
     I picked up this recipe somewhere in Texas about 20 years ago and for all family functions, I have made a big heaping bowl full of the stuff. It goes on everything and with everything. My son, when he comes home on leave from the war, is usually at me to make him some to put on his food while he is here. His own bowlful of the stuff, I comply and within a few hours he is happily slathering it on everything he can put his hands on in the kitchen. My son-in-law once made me a bookcase for which I paid with a bowlful of Pico de Gallo. It is the only thing that my daughter will eat jalapenos in. I get the freshest ingredients that I can find. I then slice, dice, shred, squirt, and toss it all together to create a new family memory.
     Something happens when I make the pico. Everyone comes into the kitchen and sits around the table and they all begin to eat...and tell stories. It starts innocently enough with the accusations of double-dipping and somehow gets to Jeremy getting dish soap squirted down his throat and ending up throwing up bubbles out his nose. Every time he coughed bubbles came out, which made us laugh, and then he would choke some more. It was the strangest poison control call I ever made, the guy on the other end of the phone was even laughing. It goes from Jeremy right around the table and, before you know it, we are all laughing and having such a good time. The pico in the restaurants might be fancier, made by chefs, maybe even more authentic, but for my family only Mom's pico will do. I try to tell them it is not really the pico but it is the family and the fun and the little bit of love that goes in it, that is what makes the difference I think. I am not sure they buy that explanation though.
     Recently I had surgery on my arm and the day of my surgery the children, who were at my house, asked me to make a bowl of the pico for them before I left for the hospital so they could have something to snack on while I was having the surgery done. I of course agreed and set about making a big bowl of it. I still have some left. Casey asked me to save it for him and he would make me an omelet when he got home, he went to his stepfather's house this weekend. Considering how he lost his mom, the thought of another mother in the hospital probably is sending him right up the wall. I have his pico here and have saved out some eggs too. He makes the best omelets and they go so well with the pico.

A Woman's Reply to a Nymph...by me

Spring to summer in fields of green
A shepherd man hunts for his queen
Her treasures bright and glorious, found
By beating heart of Love unbound.

Upon the rocks and river’s dam
With Lady love he’ll hold the lamb,
To guard them both while birds do sing
Til winter’s breath the sap does bring.

As time goes on to wintry night,
With Lady love and glowing light,
The shepherd man his flocks do tend
To Lady love his knee doth bend 

For trinkets that the shepherd made
His Lady love, in wooded glade,
She’ll give to him her maiden days
For love she does the shepherd’s ways.

A ring of gold and wedding veil
A rope of pearls and roses pale
For faith she goes down petaled aisles
To promise him eternal smiles

Youth is fine for childhood fear
But adults know that time is dear.
Little nymph you must choose wise,
For love, like life, moves quick, then dies.

Edit Delete

week 10 I'm Getting Out of the Fen

    Community service in America is not something ordinary people normally do. I cannot speak for the rest of the population, only what I am directly involved in. I personally am involved in four different organizations in my community: The American Legion, and its counterpart for the wives,mothers, sisters, and daughters of vets, The American Legion Ladies Auxilliary, The Piscataquis County Fair Association, and The Shiretown Homecoming Festival (Old home days). The thing that gets me really steamed is that even though some of the names and faces are different amongst the organizations, they are basically the same people, doing the different fundraisers and events to see that the vast majority of the community can enjoy some really fun family events. Without these same people there would be no parades culminating in fireworks on the beach, haunted houses for the public, maple Sunday breakfasts, bingo nights at the hall, or county fairs for our area. Most of these volunteers did not just learn to volunteer overnight. If you talk to them you will find that most of them say they have always volunteered for things, that they grew up watching their parents volunteer, and it is a way of life for them. It began in their homes, and was reinforced in their school and became a way for them to socialize with those of a like mind as adults.
   Learning to volunteer begins at home. Children learn what they live, this has been proven over and over through out generations. If children learn to chip in and do their fair share at home, then they will do it in the community. By making all the family members responsible for the smooth running of the home, the children learn on a most basic necessary level that they are important to their family. Their job is important and their help is important, there for they are important. If we carry that thought out just a bit more, when children see that care and concern for the community are important than they will care about their communities also. Where ever they go in life they will bring their caring with them because it has been taught and then reinforced by the families and friends they grew up with.
   Learning to volunteer is reinforced with the youngsters at local schools. I am glad to see one change in education today, since my time of going to school, is the requirement of community service every year for our students. It is a good start, however the amounts of time required are not enough for the kids to learn how vital their volunteering really is. That being said, it can usually be seen, by the time they are in high school, who the future volunteers of the next generation are going to be; they are usually involved in everything. If not for them volunteering to see that things get done, then there would be no proms, homecomings, pep rallys, and the list can go on and on.
   As a young adult volunteering is a great way to have a change of pace from the work and the routine that you normally do. It creates an outlet for the volunteer to meet people they ordinarily would not have, socialize, and maybe get some on the job training or networking contacts for their future endeavors . There are hospital aides, people to help with shut ins, hotlines to be manned, free legal aid or accounting help is always needed. Towns and counties are increasingly hit with budget shortfalls, having volunteers to help with filing and simple jobs around the town could not be appreciated enough.
   In these worsening economic times it falls to the ordinary guy to do extraordinary things. Learning to do extraordinary things begins in the home, and by way of reinforcement, in the schools, and by choice as a young adults.We all have to pitch in to help our fellow man and learning to do it now when they really need it makes it that much more appreciated when it isn't.

week 9 I Am Behind

    My life right now is filled with an unbelievable amount of stress. I am currently on food stamps and every year in around this time, I have to find every scrap of financial information from the last three months, drag it all into the DHHS office, swearing and affirming that it really is my information. After all the time I have taken to find it, taken an afternoon off to drag it all into the DHHS office sitting for hours waiting for my number to be called and my case to be processed, I usually find out at this point that I have forgotten at least two items absolutely necessary for the food stamps/MaineCare to continue. I now have to hang on to all said documents and find the missing pieces because since I qualify for these items, I am going to need them for an appointment with Penquis Cap for my heating allowance. At that appointment, I get told I am missing four pieces of information, because it is doubly more important than food stamps. By the end of the appointment I grab all my paperwork, which I cram into my Algebra II book because I was under the impression I would actually get to study the stupid equations while I was waiting to be seen, (I call them stupid because if they can't solve themselves how am I supposed to do it?), and I head back to my classes.
    My week consists of classes on Tuesday (Algebra and American Sign Language). Wednesday I work for 6 hours and then have classes in the afternoon into the evening (Anatomy/Physiology classes with a lab immediately following) Thursday is a repeat of Tuesday except at the end of my day I help out at my American Legion Hall with their weekly Bingo night. Tuesday and Thursdays I also work at the gym on campus for a couple hours a day for my Federal Work Study Program. That gives me Friday to Monday to do all the homework for those classes and then to do the work for two online English classes, plus laundry, shopping, and cooking for the following week if need be. It is after all October/November by now and the trailer needs to be buttoned up for the winter, windows caulked, leaves raked, plastic up, and furnace cleaned.
   Monday night I have to take my granddaughter to her basketball practice. Every other Tuesday I have a meeting at the hall for the Legion and the Legion Ladies Auxiliary, of which I hold dual memberships, I literally have to be in both meetings at the same time which luckily are in the same building, I have taken to sitting in the doorway so I can listen to both meetings. Recently I have taken on the position of Secretary for the Ladies Auxiliary as Jeannette who was the elected secretary was no longer able to handle the stress of the job.
   I have raised my three kids and I am now in the process of trying to get my husband's son through high school. It is not looking promising for accomplishing that with this child. He is going to go down a different road than the other kids. His father's road I guess, which ended up in prison, for a long stretch. I keep wanting to mention something about falling apples and trees here but I guess I will pass on that opportunity. This is not my son's first brush with the legal system and I am pretty sure it is not going to be his last. I go to church almost every Sunday with the grandkids and we have a potluck there once a month, I bring the grandkids, all three of them.
   I am on unemployment so every week I have to call the Unemployment office and tell them how many hours I worked this week and what my total check was. Then once every six weeks I have to send in a work log of everyone I have applied for a job with. I am responsible for keeping the lights on, the phone running, the internet working, the sewer connected, the taxes paid and the water pumping, the furnace heating, the car insured and the full of gas, the kid in school and his homework done. I have homework and work assignments due for 6 of my own classes. Plus the little old lady that I cart all over town once or twice a week.
  I lately have begun to wonder what would happen if for some reason I just ran away.  I mean really, what would happen if I took my car and went to the coast for the week or two, just to watch the sunrise and the sunset off the waters of the Atlantic? I am thinking the personal private worlds of everybody who has anything to do with my life would come to a grinding halt, I would probably hear my name bandied about on the radio as a missing person. I would probably have to be careful as the police would be looking for me thinking I had come to foul play or a mental snap.
   I know my granddaughter Halle, would be having a drama fest, with my son-in-law right there with her. Little Mercedes who is only four would walk around to everyone saying, "Cmon, what is your problem? Nana only went shopping." That is Mercedes answer to everything. Go shopping. Damien is a quiet little fella when deeply upset or scared; he is a good grandson, always trying to share stuff with me so I know he loves me very much. He does not willingly share a toothpick with a pine tree. He would be in his room under the blanket I got him with his favorite stuffed dog.
   Most of the world would of course go on with out me, my classes would continue for which I would receive a zero; there go my good grades. The red tape that I have to deal with on a weekly, monthly, quarterly, semi-annually and yearly basis would get considerably more snarled, taking longer to unsnarl then before my get away but it would get straightened out.
   My children however would have a hissy fit the size of the Maine coastline. The shock of not being able to tell me what to do might just kill them. They seem to need to speak to me every day or email me of their exploits overseas. I told my oldest son once that he could talk to me about his issues of the war as a mother and as a veteran, if he had to be tough enough to live the war, I could be tough enough to hear about it. I am not sure that was a wise statement, but I have held true to my word and we have cried together a few times.
   My son who is still at home, whom I love very much is a so busy being a teenager that I think he would not really mind very much, he might throw a party. When I do make it back home I will probably have to scoop the teenagers off the top of my trailer with a shovel, rolling them down the river bank and letting the water carry their snoring carcasses away down the river. They will wake up before they hit the dam. I will have to take Mercedes and go grocery shopping as there will not be one scrap of food left in the house, and I will owe the neighbors something I am sure.
  The boys that are in the service, when learning of my disappearance, would contact the Red Cross to come home and help search for me, this of course would necessitate informing the Army, the Marine Corps and the Air Force that one of their service members is missing a parent. I do not think the small town police could handle all those congressional investigations and inquiries.
    My daughter who lives with just as much stress as I do would be getting every WalMart in Maine to help look for her Mommy, that is not even close to an exaggeration. She has hives if she does not talk to me every day as it is.
   My husband is up for parole in a couple of weeks and not being able to communicate with me frequently would cause another stroke for him. 'Where is she,' and, 'what is she doing,' being urgent need-to-be-answered-right-now questions for him. He is not very good at waiting for answers.
   I am quite sure that the Legion would truly miss me if I disappeared for a couple of weeks, as I get phone calls 2 or 3 times a week about Hall/Bingo/Legion/Auxilliary business. There is a lot of veterans in Maine who want to prove they are still just as capable as they were in the service and God help us all they would set up patrols. Those old salts know how to get a big job done.
  One small thing that really would happen is that I would actually get some rest, recharging my batteries to deal with the problems that come up on a day-to-day basis, which for a short time, would be a bit more snarled but then eventually, unlike my Algebra II equations, would straighten themselves out. Maybe I really ought to run away this week... before I have to have my surgery on Thursday.

            I do not do good with facts, tending to get them all comfabulated somewhere, and to back it up with paper, well there are a dozen places I could have put those pieces of paper...in my living room alone. But I shall endeavor. The box full of all my old stuff from my lives gone by is the best place to start I think. A dozen little pictures flash through my mind of me putting bits and pieces of my life in it. I was born in Bridgeport General Hospital, located in Bridgeport, Connecticut. that is from my birth certificate and a hospital certificate with my footprint on it.  I have a baby book that chronicles my life up to grade school which I do not really remember. I was healthy and loved, from the entries I read in it. I have several pictures of my birthdays from this time period; I was spoiled too.
            I entered school in Center Annex School, in Seymour Connecticut, grades K-2. I have class pictures with those grades on them with the name of the school. I was cute and for some reason always laughing, go figure. I remember moving to Maine after that and living with my grandparents for a time. I have the class picture that says I went to school at Jefferson Street School during my third grade with a certain teacher from that class but that is a different story. My grandparents have long since sold the house, and  the school is no longer there, sadly. Long after I had moved away I fell down the marble stairs of the front entryway of that school and severely sprained an ankle. I figured it was a parting gift.
            We moved to Orrington, Maine in the middle of the school term, so I was not in Old Town a whole year. I have my brother's fifth Grade picture which says he was in South Orrington Elementary Fifth grade. He did not move to Orrington alone, much as he would have liked to have gotten rid of me, I just had to tag along. I do not know why mother gave me his pictures, I think to get them out of her drawers. I have a few more class pictures of different grades through the years in Orrington, I had a lot of hair.
            I participated in our country's bicentennial events as per the Orrington newsletter dated...OMG! 1976! I demonstrated the fine art of dipping candles. the picture of me in frontier garb working over a vat of hot candle wax is too grainy and yellowed to tell what the candles looked like but I think they were ok, little skinny maybe. I graduated elementary school in June of 1978. I have the graduation announcement stuck in my baby book
           I have a bit  more stuff from high school then I did my junior high years. A program from the basketball games at the Bangor auditorium, John Bapst High School letter from doing the rally squad, (think pom pom girl) Finally a copy of my high school diploma, which is stuck in the baby book with my eight grade graduation announcement. I have tenderly preserved my next document a DD-214 which says I joined the military on June 20, 1981. I remember that day and the bus ride that took me from my life as a daughter, sister, child, to my life as a sailor, wife, mother, and friend.

An Autobiography of My Life, by Me

I remember...with a factual back up ...I can do this, although I am much more able to do it when I have all my switches on. Maybe not at 4 in the morning, although I am usually up at that hour Wednesday I would be at work as evidenced by three years worth of time cards for Wed, mornings, compliments of the Piscataquis Observer. I do not do good with facts, tending to get them all comfabulated somewhere, and to back it up with paper, well there are a dozen places I could have put those pieces of paper...in my living room alone. But I shall endeavor. File box is a good place to start. I was born in Bridgeport General Hospital, located in Bridgeport, Connecticut. that is from my birth certificate and hospital certificate. I was enrolled in Center Annex School K, 1, ans 2. I have class pictures with those grades on them with the name of the school. I remember moving to Maine and I have the class picture that says I went to school at Jefferson Street School during my third grade. I remember a certain teacher from that class but that is a different story. We moved to Orrington, Maine, so I was not in Old town  a whole year. I have my brother's fifth Grade picture which says he was in South Orrington Elementary Fifth grade. He did not move to Orrington alone, much as he would have liked to have gotten rid of me, I just had to tag along. I participated in our country's bicentennial events as per the Orrington newsletter dated OMG! 1976! and I graduated elementary school in June of 1978. I have the graduation announcement stuck in my baby book, along with my high school one dated 1981 from Brewer High School. I have tenderly preserved my next document a DD-214 which says I joined the military on June 20, 1981 and was discharged on February 29, 1984. Let it be said that there is no moss growing on this rolling stone, my son's birth certificate says he was born on March 6, 1984. It was really a rather busy week for me. 
 I was married on June 23, 1984, and moved to South Carolina after that. So says the wedding announcement in the paper can't tell which paper though since I only have the article clipping. I had my daughter on July 27,1985. We left South Carolina for Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. I have the plane tickets still. On a side note, if you ever get the chance to live in the Caribbean...take it. The pictures you see in the movies and magazines are nothing compared to the real thing.
Left Cuba, kicking and screaming, for...Beeville, Texas. There is no document to prove I was kicking and screaming, but I really was; I just did not want to leave. However Beeville is where my youngest son was born. Shortly after which we were transferred to Pensicola, Florida. We lived there for a few years and the last year there we were lucky enough to experience our first hurricane, we were so amazed by the experience we had to repeat it again. I have clippings.
After the second hurricane my husband was transferred to North Carolina, kids school records. Three days after arriving there,  I experienced the third hurricane. That was nauseatingly fun. So much so that a few months later I tried again. I am the only person alive I think that has experienced 4 hurricanes in the space of one year's time almost to the day. Hurricane Erin in August of 1995,Opal in October of 1995, Bertha in July of 1996, Fran in September of 1996. There is a list somewhere of those hurricanes having struck Florida and North Carolina I am sure. I really hate hurricanes now and if I am ever in another one, I am going to get drunk and pass out, waking up after the storm has passed so I do not have to see it or hear it. I left my husband in July of 1997 and moved to Maine. Rental agreement and then later on school records of the kids. Divorce in 1999. Married again in 2005, moved to Dover in my own little trailer in November of 2005. Enrolled in college in January of 2010 and was on the Dean's List that first semester. Got knocked off the second semester by Chemistry. I was back on the honor roll for the third semester but not enough to pull up the C in chemistry that I received my second semester. There is something inherently wrong about adding letters.  Sewer pipes blew up, have the bill for that one, and that brings me here to today, where I live next to my river, surrounded by all the little bits and pieces of the proof of my life, kinda like all those picture negatives no one ever knows what to do with, that are just lying around, collecting dust, waiting to be a memory.

A Memory of Boot Camp

   As I stood there in the bright morning sunshine, I watched the long black car pull out of the parking lot, speeding off down the road towards the interstate. I was able to glimpse the back of my son's head in the rear window. He was turned around watching me with a stillness that belied his near panic at finally being shipped off to boot camp. Superimposed over this scene was another just like it some 30 years ago, almost to the day, when I was the one in that long black car, turned around looking out the window at my father. He who was the one standing there in the rain watching me being driven away. I bowed my head a moment and asked God to take care of my son, I no longer could. I had done my job and it was now his turn to live and learn and oh what an adventure he was going to have. If he survived boot camp. I wondered as I walked to my car if my father had said the same kind of prayer for me. I will have to ask him next time he calls me.
    Boot camp I thought about it as I had not for the last 30 years. How young I had been, naive. Just because you have graduated from high school does not make you an adult. I vividly remember seeing my Dad out the rear window of the greyhound bus. He was standing there all hunched up with his raincoat on, the day appropriately raining. I put the palm of my hand, fingers spread, upon the window. The last act of my childhood.
      I watched as Dad pulled his hand out of his pocket; palm up, fingers spread, he returned the gesture. The last act of a father to his adolescent daughter. I stayed turned around; watching until I could no longer see the crumbling old greyhound bus station, built of brick and mortar, standing sentinel there on the end of the bridge. I watched long enough to see my father wipe his face and slowly turn away.  I turned around then and thought about the new adventure I was going on, how it all began with this bus ride.
     It was a nice bus as buses go black leather comfy, squishy seats. I woke up as we were pulling into the station in Portland, did I mention the late night party the night before? My friends, being my friends, wanted to make sure I got off to boot camp in the right frame of mind, which was namely, hung-over. They had gone to great lengths to ensure that I would only remember the important parts of the trip. Getting on the bus, and then getting off the bus. Luckily, upon arriving at the indoc center in Portland, there were other hung-over teenagers getting off the bus with me; if I was in the wrong place, I would not be the only one. We were really a motley looking crew that is for sure.
     We were immediately met by a man wearing a tan uniform who hollered a lot. I wondered if he had throat lozenges in his pocket. He caught me wondering and wanted to know if I was retarded, his words not mine.   “No sir,” I said, at this point my eyes almost fell out of my head looking at him, “I am not.”
     “Then why are you not paying attention?”  he asked me, looking me straight in the eye.
     I swear the only thing I could think to say was, “because I like a challenge sir!..?” So NOT a good move. For the rest of my overnight stay in Portland, I was known as, ‘The Girl Who Liked a Challenge.’
     Portland was the place that a potential service member began their screening by any chosen branch of service. Think of it as separating the wheat from the chaff. That is where our teeth were initially examined, yup, I had some. We spoke to a psychiatrist. Yup, most of us could put three words together to make a sentence. There was a marine wanna-be that had to have the questions repeated a couple of times, he still passed though. Did I mention I was going in the Navy? A lawyer went over the final service contracts with us; yup I really did sign my name on this, this, and this, line. They sent us to a hotel while they typed everything up. Fortunately there was one of us of legal age to buy alcohol, and again we showed up at the office the next morning, miserable and motley looking.
     We were again counseled on contracts, we saw the doctor one last time, and then we all gathered in the blue room. I do not know if that is the name of it or not but the walls were deep blue, the carpets were deeper blue and the furniture was even bluer. The only contrast was the gold and brass accessories and the American Flag. We all had to stand and be sworn in to our perspective branches. Then handing us our orders and shaking our hands we were welcomed aboard the fleet, hustled out the door, and sent to the airport.
     The airport was interesting. I was excited because it was my first plane trip.  It was not a good experience. We were almost half way to Orlando when we hit a thunderstorm over the Carolinas. I do not know what the storm was like down below, but in our little plane above, the women and some of the men were screaming. things were falling out of the overhead racks, babies were crying, and I was writing my last will and testament. It was short document as I did not own anything.  I held the hand of a little old lady sitting next to me for the longest time.  When the plane finally landed in Orlando, everybody was still crying and hugging, even the stewardesses. They hugged the pilots. The fellow who met the plane asked how the flight was. I really wanted to say, I like a challenge, but I could not quite get it out of my mouth through all the blubbering. I believe he understood, “Not Good” though.,

Pipes Away!

 
     A year ago I bought my .19 acres on the Piscataquis River from a guy who out bid me at an auction put on by the town. The town claimed the property when the people living there in a different trailer had the misfortune of having a tree fall on their trailer; not being able to afford a new trailer, they had let the property go to the town. I hired a fella to demolish the old trailer and clean up the lot, which he did. He was also supposed to move my trailer to it and set it up, which at the last minute he could not do. Now I have to pay another person to move my trailer and set it up. He gets it moved over there but then he tells me he doesn't set trailers up. My son-in-law says, "I will do it for you, just make me meatloaf."  I thought for a minute and yup ok sounds good to me.
     I did not know that was the beginning of my downfall. I had originally paid the first fella to set the trailer up, then I had paid the second guy as well, but they don't do the setting up. My son-in-law tried to help and sort of got things level but not being a plumber, his pipes fell apart less than a couple of days after he swore it was all set. He tried to fix it the night they blew apart but I was pretty sure, when he went out with the duct tape and a flashlight, that he was out of his depths with the plumbing. My money for getting everything set up had run out since I had paid everyone to tell me that they do not 'do' setting up trailers, and my church finally agreed to help me out and that brought me to Greg, my plumber.
     Greg is a very nice man and a licensed plumber and he did the work of setting up my sewer lines and waterlines and insulating everything for me with heat tape, all for the grand total of $524.67. He came under  bid he says. I believe it. He was paid the bid anyway. I have been living in the trailer happily flushing ever since, up until about 3 weeks ago.
     Three weeks ago, I was admiring my beautiful clean river. I am not foolish to think that the water was drinkable clean but it was getting there, until I came along. As I am hanging out the laundry, I hear the distinct sounds of running water and after looking around I see water coming out from a pipe that is jutting out just over the edge of my river bank which is a fiftyish foot almost-sheer drop, and oh my, the pipe is coming from the direction of my trailer. I ran in the house and after filling up the washer and hitting the spin cycle, I then ran back outside to watch. Oh what a sight, and then WOW what a smell. At first my reaction is to do nothing, what is one person's raw sewerage, really? Then about an eighth of a second later, I realize that I cannot do that, so I call my friend Jay.
     Jay is a really nice fella and is good friends with my husband. When my husband became tied up out of town, Jay told him he would help me out if I needed it. Well, I was thinking that I needed it about then. So the next day that Jay has off, he comes over and takes a look at my pipes. "Geez, Leisa all your pipes are good, no leaks or anything. It is the pipes under the ground and those belong to the town. They are the town's sewer lines, they must have burst or broke or something. The town has to come out and look at them, this is on them."
     "Are you sure Jay," I ask, "because once I call the town I can't pretend I didn't." Jay nods and tells me he is sure. So I call the town. They came right out. I was really impressed with the speed of their response. Most ambulances don't even have that kind of response time.
     The town tells me they are only responsible for the pipes leading up to the first stub(the end of the pipe that hooks into the main line). "Ok," I ask, "where is the first stub?" The town guy looks at my lawn and rubs his chin for a minute, consults a paper and looks at my lawn again then points to a spot about 6 inches off the road onto my lawn. The rest of it is your pipes, he says and by the way the stub and accompanying pipes are listed as 5 1/2 feet down.
      At this point I call Greg, my plumber. Greg, comes right over. It is after all his name on the original permit that says he made sure everything was up to code, and the fact that I was maybe hyperventilating on the phone may have had something to do with it as well. I now have Jay, who is arguing with the Town Plumbing Inspector about who's pipes are where, and Greg who is trying to explain things to my son-in-law, who had come right over with my daughter and then tried to tell me what the plumbing inspector, Jay, and Greg the Plumber, have all told me, already. I am crying and my daughter is trying to tell me my son-in-law will take care of everything (Remember he is the one who tried to fix the pipes with duct tape). I may have cried harder at that one.
     The long and short of it is, that we have in the course of digging up my whole front and back yard looking for a pipe that is 5 and 1/2 feet under ground, found a septic tank. Which means that I am not hooked to the town sewer system. The tank is old and rotted, the tank lid having fallen apart and dirt is falling in to the tank. Did I mention the tank is under my trailer...literally? Now I have to hook up to the town sewer system and start paying a bill. Greg the plumber who felt bad, is only charging me 75.00 to turn all the sewer lines around from the back side of the trailer to the front. The town says I am not in any trouble. I am thinking at this point if I am, so is the plumbing inspector, and the town. My husband has told me to put a lid on the tank, have the lines hooked up and he will take care of everything when he comes home, maybe next February.
     The situation is still ongoing and each day seems to bring a new chapter to the saga. There are four trenches of varying lengths and depths in the front and back yards as well as a several holes, all of them at least four feet deep and some deeper. My father called a few days ago and I told him about what was happening. After I finished, there was a long pause, and all Dad said to me was, "You have what is known as 'a fluid situation' on your hands."  He could not even say it with a straight face...

Childhood take 2

      Childhood. We all have one and it is always with us. It is at the back of our subconscious every single day. The events in our childhood affect us in everything we do. We all have many memories of all the things we have done, the good, the bad and sometimes the things in between that are neither good nor bad but just are. For instance, I can remember dressing up every Sunday morning to go to church with my mother and father. I remember having to put on these little white gloves that looked just like my mother's bigger gloves, a little beret which matched my coat. I must have done that for a long time when I was growing up because every Sunday I still feel the need to put on a pair of white gloves when I go to church I do not know why, especially at Easter.
      Easter was a big deal at my house while we were growing up. It was almost as much fun as Christmas. We always left out a plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. Not knowing what the bunny liked to drink,we tried something different every year. Funny thing was he seemed to drink everything we put with the carrots. Each year we would get a basket with candy toys and cards in it. Every year a new dress, tights, shoes and a little coat or sweater. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. My brother, who did not get a dress, got a new suit with a tie, and shoes. Our coats were always big enough for us to use the following year for winter. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. I am not going to lie, I liked the candy too. The baskets we kids (there were only the two of us) had on Easter morning were always guaranteed to make us squeal with delight upon waking and seeing them at the end of our beds.
        One Easter, my brother and I, still being young enough to believe in the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and all such magical creatures, had decided to camp out under the big picture window in the living room to wait for Mr. Cottontail. We had each grabbed our blankets off our beds and hidden behind the orange recliner with matching rocker next to the window. My brother had built a most excellent bunny trap, complete with box, string, and stick, and put it in the middle of the floor.  Rusty, who is the smarter one of the two of us, had figured out how to make a periscope of sorts from a cardboard tube and a couple of mirrors, and we were all settled in for the night with all of our 'surveillance equipment,' every now and then sticking it up over one of the window sills in the room. We were whispering to each other so the bunny would not hear us; of course, the arguement about who got to work the periscope may have given us away. We soon heard some rustling around outside the window. I do not know why but we got it in to our heads that it was a robber and not the Easter Bunny. Never saw any two kids move so quickly to their bedrooms, jump in their beds, and pull the covers up over their heads. As I was almost asleep, I thought I heard whispering and some quiet laughter from my parents' bedroom and I wondered if maybe the Easter Bunny had made it. It was enough to send me off to the land of colored eggs and candy for the night, happy that Mr. Cottontail had made it to my home.
      Looking back I believe, maybe, Mom and Dad got tired of waiting for us to go to bed; so they were hurrying the process along without seeming to have anything at all to do with it. I am quite sure Dad sneaked out the back door, going around the house, crept up the driveway and scratched at the screen in the window a few times, then did it again, just for good measure. He then sneaked back into the house, waited a few minutes or so, probably about the time it took him to smoke a cigarette. That is all the time it would have taken for Russ and I to fall asleep at that point in the evening. I am not sure when I figured out what Dad had done, but all that sneaking around was most assuredly the reason I hung on to believing in the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus an extra year or two. I remember waking up the next morning and there being a basket at the foot of my bed with a little candy in it, and a necklace too! A new dress with tights and shoes, a new coat with matching hat, and a snowy white pair of gloves with a little matching handbag. Hearing my brother hooting in his bedroom, I figured he got something equally as nice.
      I have carried on the tradition of squeaking out an extra year or two of belief in holiday magic by allowing my kids to camp out under the Christmas Tree waiting for Santa, or sleeping in the living room next to the plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. They in turn have carried on the traditions to my grandchildren. I caught my daughter buying bunny feet on sale last year after the season, and she said, "they are getting older Mom, I gotta do something or they will figure it out this year, I think." I paid for the feet. She is carrying on that same tradition started by accident so many decades ago, with the bright idea of waiting up to meet the Easter Bunny, making the children believe for just another year or maybe two, that there is magic and mystery in their world still, along with a new suit and tie or a new dress and tights, shoes, and a new coat that is just a little big with a little matching hat.

Making the Magic Last

     Childhood. We all have one and it is always with us. It is at the back of our subconscious every single day. The events in our childhood affect us in everything we do. We all have many memories of all the things we have done, the good, the bad and sometimes the things in between that are neither good nor bad but just are. For instance, I can remember dressing up every Sunday morning to go to church with my mother and father. I remember having to put on these little white gloves that looked just like my mother's bigger gloves, a little beret which matched my coat. I must have done that for a long time when I was growing up because every Sunday I still feel the need to put on a pair of white gloves when I go to church I do not know why, especially at Easter.
     Easter was a big deal at my house while we were growing up. It was almost as much fun as Christmas. We always left out a plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. Not knowing what the bunny liked to drink,we tried something different every year. Funny thing was he seemed to drink everything we put with the carrots. Each year we would get a basket with candy toys and cards in it. Every year a new dress, tights, shoes and a little coat or sweater. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. My brother, who did not get  a dress, got a new suit with a tie, and shoes. Our coats were always big enough for us to use the following year for winter. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. I am not going to lie, I liked the candy too. The baskets we kids (there were only the two of us) had on Easter morning were always guaranteed to make us squeal with delight upon waking and seeing them at the end of our beds.
     I remember one Easter we had just moved to Maine and to our new home in Orrington. My brother and I, still being young enough to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and all such magical creatures, had decided to wait up for the nighttime visitor. We had each grabbed our blankets off our beds and had camped out under the big picture window in the living room. My brother had built what he thought was a most excellent bunny trap, complete with box, string, and stick and put it in the middle of the floor.. We had camouflaged ourselves by hiding behind the big orange lazy boy chair recliner and the matching lazy boy rocker that were in the living room. Rusty, had stationed himself behind the recliner on one side of the room, and I, behind the rocker on the other side. Rusty, who is without question the smarter one of the two of us, had figured out how to make a periscope of sorts from a cardboard tube and a couple of mirrors, and we were all settled in for the night with all of our 'surveillance equipment.' Every now and then sticking it up over the window sill of the picture window or the one other window in the room that faced the driveway. Mom and Dad had gone to bed what seemed like hours before, leaving us to our own devices. I am not sure how wise that was, but they had done it. We were whispering to each other trying to be quiet so the bunny would not hear us. Of course, the arguement about who got to work the periscope may have given us away at some point. My brother may have been smarter but sometimes he was not very bright(make two dummy). By and by we heard some rustling around outside the window in the snow. I do not know why but we got it in to our heads that it was a robber and not the Easter Bunny,( teach him to only make one). Never saw any two kids move so quickly to their bedrooms, jump in their beds, and pull the covers up over their heads. Well I do not know about my brother, but I was certainly under the covers. funny thing was, as I was almost asleep, I thought I heard whispering and some quiet laughter from my parents' bedroom and I wondered if maybe the Easter Bunny had made it. It was enough to send me off to the land of edible grass and chocolate peanut butter eggs for the night, comfy and secure in the knowledge that Mom and Dad were on patrol.
     Looking back I believe, maybe, Mom and Dad got tired of waiting for us to go to bed; so they were hurrying the process along without seeming to have anything at all to do with it. I am quite sure Dad sneaked out the back door, going around the house, crept up the driveway and scratched at the screen window a few times, then did it again, just for good measure. He then sneaked back into the house, waited a few minutes or so, probably about the time it took him to smoke a cigarette. That is all the time it would have taken for Russ and I to fall asleep at that point in the evening. I am not sure when I figured out what Dad had done, but all that sneaking around was most assuredly the reason I hung on to an extra year or two of believing in the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus. I remember waking up the next morning and there being a basket at the foot of my bed with a little candy in it ...AND A NECKLACE TOO! A new dress with tights and shoes, a new coat with matching hat, and a snowy white pair of gloves with a little matching handbag. Hearing my brother hooting in his bedroom, I figured he got something equally as nice.
     I have carried on the tradition of squeaking out an extra year or two of belief in holiday magic by allowing my kids to camp out under the Christmas Tree waiting for Santa, or sleeping in the living room next to the plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. They in turn have carried on the traditions to my grandchildren. I caught my daughter buying bunny feet on sale last year after the season, and she said, "they are getting older Mom, I gotta do something or they will figure it out this year, I think." I paid for the feet. She is carrying on that same tradition started by accident so many decades ago, with the bright idea of waiting up to meet the Easter Bunny, making the children believe for just another year or maybe two, that there is magic and mystery in their world still, along with a new suit and tie or a new dress and tights, shoes, and a new coat that is just a little big with a little matching hat.

The Paper Route

               Traveling. I have always loved to travel. I think there is a bit of Gypsy blood in me somewhere back 10 generations ago or something. My ex-husband has often referred to me as a bloodsucking vampire to the kids so maybe I really am from Romania. My happiest times are on the road to somewhere I have never been. I love the adventure of it all, it is a good thing too, as nothing I ever do is simple. I even took a part-time job traveling all around the county (Piscataquis) and two others to boot; delivering newspapers to area businesses. I look forward to that day all week long. It is my one time of the day when no one can reach me. No one can demand things of me. I get to drive a brand new truck, that someone else has put the gas in, and all I have to do is drop off bundles of papers while I am yakking at people about the weather, politics, how little I know about sports. It seems simple enough, but as I said before,I never do anything simple.
               It begins on Tuesday night, when I have to get to bed early. Like at 8 or 9 in the evening, no later really, or I am tired the next morning when there are some long stretches between some of those stops. I am used to staying up until about 10 P.M. so a few hours earlier is rough to try and get to sleep when your body says, "Wait, I am not done yet!" Eventually my brain stomps on my eyelids and drifting off to the land of no bills I go. To be awakened at 3:30 A.M. by my alarm clock which sometimes forgets to go off. I do not really have a whole lot of luck with alarm clocks anyway. I have lived here in town for about 6 years now and this is my third one, the fourth one is going to be here soon, I can tell. Luckily I have a plan B in case my alarm does not go off. That would be Chad.
              Chad is the other driver of the truck. He goes up north to the plant up in Presque Isle and picks up the bundles, getting back into Dover around 4:15 in the morning. He is a nice fella and I enjoy our mornings together, such that they are. He is also a volunteer firefighter for our town, is a dishwasher at The Nor'easter Restaurant here in town, and is gay. Chad also has Cerebral Palsy, and I admire his dogged determination to live life no matter what is happening with him physically. I have never heard him complain about his disease, now that I think about it. He is the best front half a person can have on a nightly relay. He calls me every Wednesday morning at 4 to make sure I am awake. Most of the time I am. My body having become accustomed to waking up at 3:30 every Wed. morning now, does so automatically. I usually have the coffee set the night before so I only have to push a button to get it going in the morning as it does not require too many brain cells to do that. I grab a big travel mug, fill it, and run out the door. Since I live about a five minute walk away from the office, I stroll on over there to meet him and take over the truck, the papers, sign for my check, and take him home. I have learned to ask him if he has gotten everything out of the truck because once in awhile he leaves something in the truck and if I do not ask, I will have to turn around and go back, to bring what ever it is he left in the truck back to him.
              Once I have the truck and have dropped him with all his stuff off, I head out of town. About a mile down the road, I remember to turn on the radio. I happen to listen to inspirational music and being the mother of teenagers, who prefer what ever that crap is they listen to, this is the time when no one argues with me about what is playing. Chad usually has it set for me when I get in. It is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. He likes late seventies disco music, go figure. I usually turn the volume to blow-out-what-is-left-of-my-eardrums level. People can hear me coming shortly before they see my white truck pull into their parking lots. Doesn't bother me and I think God might get a kick out of it as well.
              Many mornings on my walk down the street, and my drive out of town I have seen things that maybe need to be looked into a little bit. The other morning Dr. Chasse's back door was left open and I was worried that someone had broken into it. Neither Chad, nor I, could remember the police non-emergency number so we swung over there since it was on the way to Chad's house and knocked on the door. No one answered, so we called the sheriff office instead. Hope everything was all right. I found the window to the WDME office next door shattered one time, that was another call to the police, but they were on top of things that night and had all ready dealt with it.
              McDonald's is the last place of business that I pass on my way out of town as I am headed into Sangerville. I have one stop before I get there though and that is where I pull out all the bundles that were stacked in the back nice and neat, until I take a corner on two wheels and send them flying all over the back of the truck. We have a flashlight in the truck because most of the time, we cannot see the labels on the cover papers in the dark. So I grab my flashlight at the first stop that I make and find the next half a dozen stops worth of bundles, bringing them up front, I bag them up. I get to the last one I want and, after reading it, I learn I have just thrown out the wrong bundle to the store that I am at. No problem, I switch the bundles and thank my lucky stars that I have not driven off yet. there have been times that I did not catch it and had to turn around and go back ten fifteen and fifty miles even.
              Whilst I am singing along with the radio, and trying to miss the nightly obstacle course of potholes the size of small ponds and dead putrefying animals that litter the road as if a war had gone on (Why do they always seem to be skunks and porcupines?), I think about all the stuff going on in my life in the past week. Like how my teenage son at home is giving me more gray hairs than the other four combined. Worrying about my daughter and how tired she is, the knuckleheaded grandchildren and that zoo that they have over there Nine puppies on the first litter my daughter's dog threw out. Then Mama dog decides she doesn't want to feed them. So to bottle feeding we go. I thought having two babies with bottles was bad! Wow!  OH MY GOD!...There goes the turn off for Sangerville, darn it now I have to go around the long way. Man I need more coffee I think to myself. I will get some in Guilford in a bit. I have to really hurry now because my coffee cup is getting a bit empty.
              After hitting the next few drop offs, I pull into the A.E. Robinson's in Guilford. It is a pretty big gas station with a garage attached to it. It is actually Irving's now but everyone still calls it Robinson's. Norma works there on my delivery day and is pretty nice, she gives me coffee and the occasional donut. Her warm smile and bellowing, "HEY ! Good Morning! How are you?" never fails to put a smile on my face. I refill my coffee cup here. I like my own cup as it is bigger than the ones that the store has. The newsprint being real fresh has all ready blackened up my fingers, so I give my hands a good wash and head on over to Aunt DeeDee's Restaurant across the street, waving bye to Norma and the smattering of customers, mostly loggers and construction workers, that are there.
              Aunt DeeDee's is actually the mother of one of my son's friends that he chummed with while growing up. She is pretty nice. She has the most beautiful window boxes I have ever seen. They must have 10 different kinds of plants and flowers crammed in them. They are full of deep purple petunias, dark green ivy, tiny white alyssum, geraniums(red and white) marigolds, daisies, pansies, all of them in a blanket of color spilling over and flowing all over the ground. Looks rather like the flower fairies threw a party, had too much fun, and threw up all over the front of the building. She is a baker as well, and does a darn good job at it too. Yup I have tasted her donuts, they are really good. Don't know why she does not sell her donuts in Robinson's, hers are better. I bought a cake platter at a yard sale a few weeks ago for a couple dollars. It was beautiful polished stainless steel and heavy crystal cover. Very stately and elegant. I was baking up a storm since I bought the darn thing because it was too pretty to leave empty, and being that I want to lose 15 or twenty...ok seventy pounds, that platter was sabotaging all my best efforts. So I gave it to her in honor of her opening her shop. As well as a bundt pan that I never use. She gives me a slice of cake or a donut when I go in there now. Freaking cake platter still gets the last word in.
               I now strap in because I have a long stretch to get to Abbott from Guilford, and by now the radio is not playing songs, it is playing the morning devotional sermons. That is ok with me because I am not so perfect that I cannot use a little preaching. Ever notice how people on the radio are in complete control at oh dark thirty in the morning? I mean the only people up are delivery drivers and cops. Who is going to pull over and try make a call to a pre-taped radio show? Abbott has just a few stops the last one being The Abbott Bakery. They are the makers of the famous 'Skidder Tire Donut'. It is a yeast donut that is about the size of a skidder tire, duh, and for those that do not know how large a skidder tire is, I have seen them made into playhouses for kids. The tires stand about four to five feet in diameter if not larger and the width of the tire is about three feet or more across.  I came out of there one morning and since it was the beginning of March and the stairs were iced up; I fell and hit the back of my head on their stairs. I did not sue them however as I really hate paperwork. They give me donuts now in the mornings, often saving me a bag of day old skidder donuts they sell for a drastically reduced price.The elderly lady that works there happens to be the grandmother of the previously mentioned friend of my son's. She and I and DeeDee sat together at our sons' graduation. I was kind of disappointed that they did not bring donuts but that was kind of wishful thinking anyway. Good thing too, as I am on a diet.
              After heading out of Abbott I head on north to Monson, that is where Gail works. It is also the starting point or the ending point depending on your perspective, of the Appalachian Trail or a major stopping point I am never really sure. I cannot tell you how many backpack clad hikers I have seen walking up and down the streets of Monson. There is a pay phone on my last stop there. I found a wallet with large sums of cash in it laying on the sidewalk once, and not wanting it to be stolen, I turned it over to the sheriff's office.  I called the store up at the same time that the owner of the wallet, who was from away, was there looking for it. He had no car as he had hiked into Monson and wanted me to bring it to him. I almost said it was just a little hike compared to the one he just made, but I refrained. I did not want to make the citizens of Maine look bad. One of the sheriff's took pity and brought it up to him, cash and cards intact.
               I head out for Shirley. It will take me awhile and I sit back for the drive, singing my songs and looking out for moose. Moose have got to be the stupidest animals in God's creation. Moose look like something the Creator threw together with all the left over spare parts that He had because He did not want a mess up in Heaven. They are, however, unbelievably large; with the largest of them often weighing well over a ton. I inadvertently raced one, one morning after I had left Monson, headed for Shirley. He had to lower his head to look into my truck driver side window. I still remember seeing the dumb look in his eyes as he was trying to figure out what kind of animal was running next to him making all the racket. Ever see a moose running one way with his head pointed another way? I decided to be merciful and let him win the race. That is as close as I ever want to get to one ever again. The males sometimes cannot tell the difference between a female moose and a human. That is not an exaggeration, it has something to do with the doe pee that hunters put on and overly musky perfume as well. I hear about a different 'attack' every couple of years.
               I head to Greenville after I leave Shirley. There are a few stops there and then I turn around and head back to Guilford and from there head into Parkman. Along the way I have a few stops that I stop at to take pictures at various times of the year. I have gotten some really stunning photos of the sunrises, Moosehead Lake and what ever that bog is at the lower end of the lake. The water laps at the road every spring. I wonder what will the people on the far side will do if it ever floods over. I have a certain waterfall that I stop at in the fall because the back drop of stunning colors next to the rushing water is just perfect. this year I swear I am going to get rid of the hose floating around in the bottom of the falls. It ruins my shot every freaking time. Mom likes that picture of the falls. I send her a new one every year. there are some spots along this stretch of the drive that offer some stunning photo opportunities around sunrise, weather beaten old farmhouses standing alone in the fields, fog blanketing the fields, various wild animals eating in the fields, crossing the roads, thinking about crossing the roads. I laugh everytime I pass one rather new cluttered up house. I once saw a red fox mother barely more than a kit herself carrying a dead rabbit down the road, I assume back to her litter of kits. She trotted just as proudly as she could tripping over the damn rabbit the whole way. The guys at Jamieson's Pizza Shop, located in the town, laughed when I told them what I had seen. Said that they knew of her. They had been watching her since she was orphaned real young; not to hunt her, but they were rooting for her to survive. They admired her gumption and her courage. It was even mentioned about leaving fresh kill by the den to help her out when she birthed her litter. I sincerely hope she stays away from chickens, ducks, and geese. Her reprieve would then be over. those grizzled old hunters tickle me to listen to their wild stories. I plop a paper in front of Harris's Drug store and it is my last stop before heading back out of town. Harris's looks like an old five and dime and in fact I think it was. I have never been in there but I have heard there is still the old counter where you can order an ice cream soda. I keep meaning to find out.
              The drive to Parkman is about forty minutes or so in which time I am thinking about my grocery list, how much homework I have to do, and if there is a way I could study and drive without killing someone. I crashed the truck once at the top of the hill just out of Greenville proper. I hit some black ice and the last thing I saw was a log truck, down the road a piece, barreling towards me. I got my truck turned around and headed back to town in the nick of time, pulled in the first parking lot I came to, and called Jeanette, the office manager, at home because I could not remember what I was supposed to do. Jeanette, who upon answering the phone, told me to, "call the police, dummy." In my defense I had hit my head and all I could think about was how I was going to get fired. Chad had come in that morning from up north and said how this was the last run with this truck. We were getting a new one and this was being traded in. Apparently as I totaled the truck, the boss got more on the pay out than he would have for trade in value. He was happy enough I guess. I still have my job so maybe. I blame Chad, he jinxed me.
              Parkman is usually where my bladder lets me know that I have had quite a bit of coffee by now. I also have to wash my blackened fingers again. It makes me wonder because I have to wash my hands to go to the bathroom, then I have to wash my hands again. There is a brand new country store there that sits upon the place where and old one burned down. It is the kind of country store where all the old men in town gather in the mornings to sit and share stories of glory days gone by. A few of these old men have lived in this same town all their lives, and grown up together. They know each others stories better than the tellers of them do. I often wish I had a tape recorder so I can record these stories. The men are funny, charming, and quite the rascals sometimes. They are the remnants of an era, I can can only dream about and barely remember the last vestiges of myself.
               I wave good bye and with a friendly, "Have a good day!" to the room at large, I leave Parkman and wind my way in through Cambridge and out towards Harmony. Cambridge is beautiful for a small town. The center of town is an s-curve that has steep little knolls at both ends of it. Recently a log truck missed the corner and plowed into the side of the only store in town that sits in the middle of that set of curves. There is a spot just outside of Cambridge as one is headed to Harmony, where there is a picture post card shot of a very large hill on a lake's edge. There are always geese and ducks on the lake in the fall, on their way south. I have gotten some great shots of that too. I love to get shots of the geese swimming across the lake and leaving little trails in the water behind them. I always dream about starting my own post card business, then I think about the trouble the post office is in and I put that dream away. Snail mail is a thing of the past, sadly.
              Harmony is a small town down the road ten or twelve miles or so. One of the town managers got it in their head that putting in a turn-around on that stretch of nothing was a good idea. Everyone else is having trouble figuring out why, but the town went ahead and ok'd it. I think it is a waste of money everytime I see it.
further on down is the Lakes Family heating oil business. Sad affair that one, he got upset with her for leaving him and for one reason or another shot his ex and their two kids then himself. My eyes fill up everytime I pass the place because of the stupid waste of life.Harmony has a free fair and they like to think that they can compete with the County Fair in Dover. They are constantly taking down the County Fair's posters,  and putting up their own. It aggravates me since I am the one who put the County Fair's signs up to begin with. Someday I am going to return the favor in a big way.
              From then on it is up a hill down a hill with a blind corner thrown in there between them for good measure. It is not too bad in the summer but the winter is some real white knuckle driving. My truck is modified with an extra leaf spring to compensate for the full load of the papers. By the time I receive the truck to do my route the weight is substantially less, so the back end of my truck gets a little bouncy. In the winter when I hit frost heaves, potholes, and what not, it is difficult to control the truck sometimes as the back end has a tendency to fish tail and it threatens to spin out. I have taken some of those hills at about fifteen miles an hour due to snow and ice but thanks to studded snow tires, I can get up the hills ok, albeit slowly. It is about twenty five minutes on that stretch in the summer, and in the winter I have taken upwards of an hour. When we have fall mornings it is stunning to look down across the mountains and see the vivid colors splashed all over the mountain side against the back drops of green pine trees and deep blue azure skies. I came down across that stretch my first winter of driving and was blocked by a milk truck stuck in the snow across the road. I had a bag or three of sand in the back, and a shovel. I wanted to help the guy out more but I was just in his way. By and by the farmer came along with his very large tractor and pulled him out. In the mean time I handed out papers to the cars that were backing up and we all had a good discussion about the state of affairs, how the guy got that way, and where we were all going to. I have kept extras in the truck since then, just for that reason. I come into Dexter at about 7:30 A.M. or so. the business are starting to open up, school buses on the road, and people. I have to really hurry now as my coffee is empty again, and I make my stops so I can get to Noah's Landing. There is a bakery there that all though not as good as the ones on the front half of my journey, is pretty good for the back half. Sometimes they give me a donut and a small coffee on stormy days. I am always grateful. Rite aid is the last stop and if it is before 8 A.M. then I know that I am on time for the rest of my drive to Newport.
               I stop at P and L Groceries which is the last big bundle of the day, the rest are small and doubled over. My drive is well past half over and now thoughts of home are percolating through my mind. Home and my son, and school and wishing I had only taken five classes and not six as I am not giving any of them the  attention they deserve. But I step on it and hit the three stops in Newport, the third one being Irving's, which is right next to Dunkin' Donuts. I usually pull through there and get a coffee, they know the truck now and sometimes throw in a couple of munchkins with it. I slide them a paper for their lunch room in return. The last stop out of town is dropping off the advertizing free copies at Varney's. I always I wonder if it is Brent Varney that owns it.
               I see a lot of police on the next stretch so I buckle up and head for Dexter, just as fast as the law will allow. About half way to Dexter, I call my daughter on the company cell phone and yak my way through a couple of towns. On the Dexter side of Dover, I stop at the Log Cabin and they usually have something for me to test out. I am a guinea pig to them. I do not care; they have the best bread this side of Dover. I leave and head over to Garland, drop off the final two bundles and head home. Garland store is always trying to tempt me with their double chocolate cheesecake muffins. Oh wow! Some days I forget I am on a diet and buy one. They are so freaking good. Home awaits, and with it the final paperwork, the cleaning out the truck, and dropping off the cell phone. I elect to walk home, mostly because I am trying to lose weight and the fresh air and exercise will do me some good. It is just about lunchtime and I need to eat something healthy for a change.

traveling

     The things I see as I walk along the street--that's heaven to me.
Or is it? What would be the point of living on a street if it wasn’t heaven? Right now my street is cold, white, and full of snow. It is beautiful but it is not heaven. I live on a one way street that is always seems to be  going the wrong way. There is one neighbor next door.  Although not a bad neighbor, I have no delusions of us having neighborly barbeques. He is a flatlander and has been here barely a year.  There is a group home across the street from him. The residents there are good people but I have no illusions about what kind of neighbors they are and I won’t be borrowing a cup of sugar from them either. Next to the group home, there is a small street that has a name but nothing on it. Not one house or business. I can’t figure out why they named the street. If you cross the street there is the back side of a string of churches, one of which is mine. The other church is the one where all the mothers-to-be get their WIC vouchers. The police station used to be there as well located between the two churches. The town has grown despite Augusta’s best efforts to stop it and we had to move the police station down the street to a larger building. A counseling center is there now. It’s pretty busy usually. I am not sure that is a good thing. Across from the dirt parking lot which services all three buildings, there are a few old, white, multi-family homes. The families come and go as their financial situations dictate. They get crabby when the overflow from the two churches park in their driveways. Ask me how I know that.
      As I continue on down the street I come up on a B & B that is called the Freedom House. I never see anyone there though. They must really be free. The owners got motivated and decided to paint the house yellow. Some of the neighbors are probably still in shock. As I walk along I wave and I chit chat with them all, even though I do not know their names, I try to be neighborly. Across from the Freedom House is a little secondhand gift shop that sells odds and ends. I believe the lady of the house may be an alternative religion as there are an awful lot of references to the Goddess on her minivan.  I don’t ask though because it really isn’t my business.
   I come next to a very large misshapen parking lot which services the strip mall which fronts the Main Street and has the river on the other side of it. The parking lot winds around and comes out between the Center Theater and the chiropractor’s office. The Center Theater has been there for a long time and was even closed down for a period of time until some enterprising people came along and raised the money to renovate it.  Every weekend there is some kind of concert, movie, or play going on there. Friday night the cars line up along the side of the road with patrons who don’t want to walk the distance from the parking lot.
      Next to the theater is Mr. Paperback Bookstore. The sidewalk in front of it is all cracked and uneven. They never have the books I want.
Then comes the radio station office which always makes me wonder because every couple of years it changes its format. Right now it is a liberal talk show format. My county is the only Republican county in the state and I can’t imagine they are making too much money from sponsors. Maybe the owners like a challenge.
      As I walk on, I pass by the Observer, where I work and I see all my coworkers busy at work. I wave and mouth the words, “Hi Guys.” I continue on down the street and pass over the bridge out of habit looking over the edge. I see where the people from some long ago forgotten construction job tossed their debris over the side into the water. I guess it was cheaper than taking it to the dump. I am now in the center of town and can go northwest on to “Greenville," which is even smaller than Dover. I can go north to Canada although why I would want to do that escapes me. I can go south to Bangor and a place where there is lights, stores, and people; enough people to lose yourself in the crowd, or make your own crowd, if you choose. Not like here, where if I sneeze then my neighbor friend comes down the road, bringing me tissues. For now I am here, but tomorrow…I can go anywhere I please.

The View From My Window...version something final

   The river today is muddy and brown. The froth, peppering its roiling surface, is evidence of the chaos below. It is rushing on its way to where ever the Creator intended for it to flow today. A late summer storm having dumped several inches of rain on us in these the last couple of days, has made the river swollen and angry, seething. Sitting here at my kitchen table, gazing out of my window into the fading light of the day, I wonder at the myriad sorts of critters, swimming in its depths, fighting the currents that are carrying them willy-nilly where ever the river wants to take them. I am mesmerized by the sight of the river and all its  movement, and find that spans of time have passed while I have not thought a thought, nor dreamed a dream. I come back to the now and see the trees on the riverbanks, which I can see from my window, are calm and still, waiting for the next breeze to whisper through their outstretched arms.

      Watching the leaves, I am again mesmerized by the dance that they are putting on for me. Here a dip, there a turn, bowing to their many partners; then dancing away, gently swirling, and whirling, to a music that only they can hear, carried to them by the winds blowing through their midst. The speckles of fading sunlight that are showing here and there gloriously costuming them in today's fading light. Their dance ever changing and ever evolving, perfectly choreographed by nature in an intense and rhythmical pattern only known to God.
    
       The sun has gone down now, and with its dropping, the rain has started, as if by some unseen lever that is holding its balance with the weight of the sun, it opens up a flood gate from the heavens, allowing them to empty their rivers into my own. Valiantly battling the darkness all around it, is a watery light spilling from my kitchen window, which I have left open so I can see and hear the sounds of the rain on this night; for it is a peaceful and soothing balm to the stresses of my day.  I have found it is my own private method for relaxing and getting myself back together, I don't even mind sharing it with someone as it all begins outside, with the view from my window.

The Crapper...version2

    We all have these stories about our lives that, while the retelling of them usually causes everyone else to laugh, we do not find them so amusing. While time does heal all wounds somewhat, it does nothing to heal our dignity, after the happening of one of these 'adventures'.     Who hasn’t heard about the eating the dog/cat food, the three year old peeing in some public place he was not supposed to, or the first day of school when so and so cut her hair to get ready? The list could go on, with each little story becoming more colorful with each telling. At family gatherings we all try to make somebody else's embarrassing dilemma funnier than the ones we were involved in, until finally only a chosen few of the best of these stories are remembered at all future family gatherings, garnering the honorable title of, ‘The Family Legend.’ We, each and every one of us have our very own family legends that we try to forget about. Rare indeed is the person who sadly, is not a part of some outrageous family foible.
     I have many of my own stories that I was a part of, and can still hear my mother laughing at some tale she tells of my brother and I as children. Time is no gentler to my children, and one day my youngest son and I got on the subject of embarrassing family stories and he proceeded to tell me his rendition of ...'The Incident.' “I was only four years old when Grandma Lee stopped in to visit on her way down from Maine to Florida. It was spring and we were living in North Carolina at the time. “
     "Do you know I shudder when I hear those dreaded words, for I know what is coming," my son says. "My dignity can only stand the telling of the story no more than once a decade…maybe. I am afraid of bringing my friends around my sister because she is mean and brings it up when I would rather that she forgot the whole thing forever. I cannot help it if I picked that age in my life to be curious about where babies came from. Mom,' he says, sadly shaking his head, "you should have known better than to describe birthing pains as 'that feeling you get when you have to go 'number two' really, awfully, bad,' I understood that explanation only too well."
     "My grandmother even brought it up on our visit to Florida when I was thirteen. You haven’t lived until you have had a whole restaurant full of your grandmother’s nearest and dearest senior citizen friends find out that you had a problem with constipation when you were just a little guy," and at this point he stopped and looked at me, "Why do old people seem to be so fascinated with bowel movements?" Not giving me the time to answer he carries on with his story, "I couldn't help it if the straining of being constipated reminded me of that explanation you had given a few days before, and who can blame me for being scared? Sometimes constipation can be a scary thing"
     " I actually remember the panic I felt in my little heart as I figured that maybe I was not just going to the bathroom, and feared that something horrible was going to happen to me, by now my son was up and pacing around the room, "I thought I was being quite brave and didn't realize you guys heard me in the other end of the house."
     "The neighbor next door also heard you as well," I interjected at this point.
     "The bathroom," he continued after looking at me, "had a harsh yellow light and my little legs dangled over the edge of the toilet seat. I remember looking all around me and up at the ceiling, which seemed so high up over my head. I could not hear anyone in my end of the house. It felt as if I was the only person on the whole planet, and this awful thing was happening to me."
     "Suddenly, there was my hero, the center of my world, she who made everything right..my Mom. You had heard me after all. You had this look of total concern on your face and I could hear it in your voice also as you asked me, repeatedly, “Why are you crying,?"
     "I remember it was like a dam bursting amidst a torrential downpour, the words spilling from me, 'I THINK I'M HAVING A BABY AND I DON’T WANT ONE!!!!' Once the words were out, I knew that you would make everything OK again. You would get rid of this problem and everything would be all right. I started to settle in to a good screaming fit because I was really scared and my belly hurt so bad."
     "Then I heard a funny gurgling, choking sound, coming from the hallway. I realized then, that it was you and, unbelievably, my grandmother. Having the both of you there to help me would make everything better faster. No sooner had the thought occurred, then you came back into the room, the picture of a loving and concerned parent, asking me why I thought I was having a baby.
     “Because I have to poop, really, really bad and it hurts something awful,” was my reply, "You said having a baby was like that. You said it when I asked you about where babies come from. I can’t poop, but I have to and it hurts so bad just like you said having a baby does. I don’t wanna have a baby.”  I remember the words continuing to spill from me in between great shuddering sobs, along with panic, and tears. I finally open my eyes taking a look at you; that is when  I realize you were laughing."
     "Oh, I could see how you were trying not to," he waggled his finger at me, "that is where the choking noises were coming from. I could hear Grandma Lee outside the door too, she wasn't even trying to hide it like you were," he stated with some agitation.
      "I am in there hollering that I do not want to have a baby and telling you that it really was not funny, and all you guys can do is laugh. The cramps from my bowels were doubling me over on the toilet still, and then there was the indignity of it all, because by now my brother and sister were out in the hallway wanting to know what was going on. So were the kids from next door who always came over to play with us and you just had to tell them. I could hear everybody laughing and that was making everything worse."
      "'You can’t be having a baby. It’s not possible,' was all you kept saying, and you were outright laughing by this point. 'Calm down, I promise you aren’t having a baby,'”
     "Do you know, that I remember thinking, 'How does she know?" At this point I tried to answer his question, but he was on quite a roll by now in his story-telling. "That is when I started to calm down," he went on,  "I figured if you were laughing then it was not anything to be afraid of; the fact you kept on laughing though became quite humiliating.
     "You sounded awfully sure of yourself. You and Grandma Lee were still laughing...a lot. Grandma Lee looked a lot like she was sitting on the floor to be quite honest, which I found quite strange. STOP LAUGHING AT ME,! I was hollering at the bathroom door. I remember I had to holler, as the laughter on the other side of that door, was beginning to get quite loud.
     “'Son, you can’t have a baby because you are a boy, and boys can't have babies. Only girls can have babies and not until they are grown up like Mommy,' was what you finally choked out. Grandma Lee was laughing again; making snorting noises as she tried to stop laughing and breathe."
     I remembered , as I listened to my son go on and on, that throughout his whole traumatic episode, I kept going in and out of the bathroom to talk to my him and then going out in the hall to help my own mother as she lay laughing on the floor. All we ever said after the “incident” was that we had never laughed so hard in our whole lives. Not even when I told her how I had accidentally dropped a perfume bottle and broke it in the Sear’s store at the mall. In my haste to get out of the store, I ran right into a mannequin on the store floor and automatically said. “Oh, excuse me, I am so sorry," I tried to pick it up and fix it, finally fleeing the store in sheer mortification at the whole event, smelling rather like a French bordello. My son may win the war in the family battle of who was the most embarrassed, I too, knew how to have someone rolling around on the floor.