Snow

August Friedrich Schenck : "Anguish" -      at etsy.com

"But sorrow is better than fear.  
For fear impoverishes always, while sorrow may enrich."      
                                                                                                           Father Vincent in "Cry, the Beloved Country"














Just thinking,
grateful for your visit,
Riverwatch

Spilling the Beans

I try to keep up on some Ohio news, just so I can pretend to myself that I remember all those early years growing up along the Ohio River
,

I read in an Ohio news article that today is 

World Elder Abuse Awareness Day.

Old people are sometimes, nay, often,  mistreated.

Shocker.  Not even.



As a nurse, I can tell you, old people are not the easy ones to take care of.

And furthermore, now that I am old, I can go ahead and spill the beans on why we are...err....difficult:

We are slow.  At least slower than the young people who aren't on drugs.

We are opinionated, even if we are silent.  Nasty words, or silent powerful vibes, lambast those around us, even care-givers.

We are fetchin' tired of .....well, so many things.  You know.

We are sometimes so discouraged it occurs to us we would be better off dead.
And while in that mood,  we conduct ourselves accordingly: ( skip exercise, skip our medications, double up on our medication, pretend we followed orders when we didn't, eat forbidden food, smoke, do drugs, drink alcohol, do not answer the annoying phone or door bell, won't talk or answer questions, won't shut up, quit wearing our hearing aids, throw our little bowl of applesause at the nearest human, waste money, hide important things, ....)  You get the picture.

We are either poor and appropriately frightened because of our financial situation, or we have resources and we worry there are vultures circling.  We are far more paranoid than we used to be.  Heck, we may be old but we are not stupid!  Frankly, our paranoia is an intelligent response to reality.

Our brain is not as good as once it was (but we're not stupid!) and it lets us down from time to time, and we act.....old.

Our hormones are MEGA screwed up (the testosterone-estrogen thing)..............................................
 or have disappeared (the thyroid hormone, growth hormone, gastrin, insulin, pancreatic polypeptides, epineprine, melatonin...etc, etc thing).

Even if we have accomplished a lot, and many of us have, it is past tense and doesn't really cheer us up nor keep us from stubbing our freaking toe.


Of course we aren't the sweeties we try to be!



pinterest.com


My favorite scene from my nursing career was responding to screams from the men's ward and rushing in to find two old men strapped in wrecked overturned wheelchairs sprawled on the floor but close enough to still be slugging each other.  It was my job as a young nurse to stop the brawl, get these buggers out of their wheel chairs, lay the buggers onto the floor (far apart) so I could lift the wheelchairs into the upright position, and get these old buggers off the floor and back into their wheelchairs.

I was 23 years old.  How much understanding do you think I had?






As good old Mom always said, "Be careful.  What goes around comes around."



Aging gives most of us ample "object lessons"  to practice the art of forgiveness.
We gotta forgive the carelessly unthinking younger peoples.

Maybe even repent of how carelessly unthinking we used to be with some old folks.
Hard core repentance if we actually stole from them!!!!

I appreciate your visit to my blog,
Riverwatch

Keys

Living in the southwest desert, I thrill to the moonlight of bold nights, and to the warmth of winter days and the welcome chill of the dark breezy nights.
Of course I always wanted to live on the Judean desert, not necessarily this desert I am on.

My desert is second-best, having no Masada or En Gedi.

Still and all, we have our attractions:  polygamy, Mormon temples, prophets in the desert.

Even undocumented wanderers lost in the desert, trying to make it to the land of opportunity. Kids even.  As near as I can tell, in this desert of people who believe in God, these wanderers are basically unwelcome.







It is so easy to forget what God said about the stranger at our gate, or the strangers within "our" lands.

"Our" lands.
It all belongs to God, and I think one big reason I love the desert is because mankind basically rejects the desert, except as a refuge, and God shines through much better in the desert.

Except maybe not for the undocumented wanderers.

There is so much living to do and although I often share on this blog what I consider the good things about aging, here is one of the sad things:  we discover when we are old that it is true that we only have one life to live!  

Living as fast and deep and long as we can, we barely scratch the surface before it is time to move on.
Thank goodness for our ability to live vicariously through other people's lives and stories and blogs!

Presently I am living vicariously by reading again about Luther, Martin Luther, the great German who foreshadowed the internet by translating the Bible for "the people".
Information flowing to "the little people" is transforming!


Luther's words on grace during the tumultuous time in Christian history, known now as "the Reformation" , still live on, thanks be to God.
 "The merit of Christ is not a treasure of indulgences, which exempts from well-doing; but a treasure of grace, which gives life. 
The merit of Christ is applied to believers without indulgences, without keys, by the Holy Spirit only............"
                                                                                                             

Thanks for breezing through "my" desert,
Riverwatch




PS   I am beginning to believe their is a huge difference in believing in God....and believing God.

The Long of it and The Short of it

The question is.......should I write about it?

I don't really think many people want to know about it....
................................................certainly few want to focus on it.
Not the long of it & the short of it.
It is almost too much.


I'm old, you know.
But not old-old.
Once in conflict with one of my sons, I said in exasperation, "I didn't just fall off the turnip truck yesterday, you know!"
It took all the fight right out of him.  He smiled.  He had hit paydirt.
"Just when DID you fall off the turnip truck, Mom?"


Being old, I fell off the turnip truck back when TB sanatoriums still existed.  We student nurses had to take a bus for miles and miles and miles to reach one, but tour one we did!  Wow.

Our nursing education was designed to expose us to it all.

As I have walked through life since all that early exposure and education, I have actually been astounded at the length and breadth of my nursing education and experience.

This post is the Long and the Short of it......two vastly different educational experiences that touched me to the core, changing my world view forever.

Warning:   disturbing graphic material.  Enter at your own risk.

Let's start with the Long of it.  The last outpost of human life.

When I was on my psychiatric affiliation in Kentucky at Central State Hospital, an 1800 bed psychiatric hospital housing over 1400 patients (census already dropping as better meds were being introduced to allow the dumping of patients onto the streets), there was a building deemed not worthy to enter for our psychiatric nursing education.
That building was the Organic Brain Syndrome Building.
Our leaders explained that these mostly old  patients were not psych patients, but were housed there because nobody knew what else to do with them.  Not to worry.  We would not have anything to do with them, as their brains were basically gone.
Except for learning (poorly) what Organic Brain Syndrome means, I never gave them or their building another thought.

Fast forward to a dark cold autumn night.  Flashlights in our dormitory, loud banging on our door, yelling adults screaming, "Get up!  Get up!  We need your help!  You are ALL needed quickly at the Organic Brain Building!!!  Get dressed!  Now!!  Hurry!"
Glancing at our clocks we saw it was after 1am.
Hurrying outside without proper grooming, still half asleep, we felt the spitting snow.  We raced over the hillside to the building we were unfamiliar with and found we were assigned the duty of evacuating a building full of "brainless" people, most of whom could walk.

Fire?
Fire drill?
We would never find out.

To say we didn't know what we were doing would be an understatement.

That night remains at top of the list for primal fear I have known.

The stairs were extremely wide, allowing at least four humans to walk abreast, but somebody at the  floor above the stairs I was assigned was shoving five patients onto the stairs at a time and since the humans themselves coming down the stairs did not know directions, there were major jams as some went left, some went right, some went forward and some went backward.
Periodically there was a young student nurse with a flashlight (and lack of education OR direction) to "guide" the herd down the stairs and out the doors.

My fear came when I was pinned against a stair wall by a moving pressing wall of old humanity whose eyes were blank, whose language was gone, whose response was never appropriate...beings who towered over me because I was a small young woman.  I was being suffocated and squashed.
I has helpless against the tide of flesh.

The arrival of firetrucks with strong firemen saved me.  Help at the bottom of the particular stair I was on came as two or more firemen roughly pulled at humans to unjam the herd.
It was not easy for them but stair by stair they untangled the mess, literally shoving beings down and away, away from me.

I was of no further use that night.
Talk about needing psychiatric help!!
I drifted outside, still shaking from my ordeal.

The multitude of beings  were all now sitting or lying on the snowy ground in their white thin nightclothes, oblivious to the continued lightly falling snow. Mercifully there was no wind, and thin white hair  on many remained tossled from bed without "grooming" by wind.

I walked around the yards, the gently rolling knolls (this was hillbilly Kentucky, not flatlander Kansas).
I didn't know what to do for the ghostly beings.
I wasn't even aware of being cold myself or having no coat.
One of the other student nurses came up to me and said, "I guess we can go now.  They said we can go now."
We never even knew who "they" were.
We students walked back across the hill to the dorm.
We were silent and exhausted, overwhelmed by the scenes of the last outpost of life.

Skirting that cliff of the last outpost of life, I forgot my fear of dying as I became, for the first time in my young life, afraid of living.

Next day we tried to get some information and all we were ever told was, "Heads are going to roll."

***

If I thought the last outpost of life was frightening, I can tell you that in no way did it prepare me for the far-off land of Welcome to Earth.    The Short of it.

We had to tour the West Virginia State Training School for the Retarded at St. Mary's.  Back then, the word retarded was not derogatory.  Retarded meant "developmentally delayed".  It would be at least another decade before laws began to be enacted on behalf of these individuals to ensure their human rights.

But back then, even I, with my bleeding heart compassion, was clueless that developmentally delayed individuals could be mainstreamed into public schools,
educating those around them,
and breaking the spell of isolation.

The training school at St. Mary's was a world of isolation.

The tour would take hours.

Of course from the outside it looked warm and inviting.  The grounds were green, shade trees were abundant and the front building had many windows.  A truly  inviting place.
And on that first floor we entered a school....desks, teachers, students.  So many Down Syndrome students all of whom seemed happy.  The vibes were good.
People with Down Syndrome usually exude love and acceptance and inclusion of others.  We felt that welcome in that wonderful classroom and I, for one, thought This isn't so bad!  I could teach school here.  We all relaxed.

And the tour continued.

We descended into the  bowels of St. Mary's.
As we progressed through doors, and halls, and rooms the good vibes disappeared and in the dim light we witnessed suffering.

The upstairs school was forgotten as we surveyed scenes we did not know existed.

Diminished light.
Fewer care givers.  In fact I saw exactly none.
Maimed people without names.
Grosteque humans.
Groping humans who did not reach out to touch us, but reached out for ....what?  A stable world?  A chair?  God?......or reaching out because that is what we humans do.
That is a vivid visual memory I have of that day.  A shadowy arm reaching out for nothing.

Incomprehensible noises.

But there were beds....and linens.....and some sad semblance of the world  we  live in.

And the tour continued.

Our guide stopped us before we entered the crib ward to explain we must not freak, since all these people are being cared for by loving care-givers, and  we should focus, not on the person we are looking at, but at the medical condition that caused this.

Look and Learn.

We were told that these people are not babies, but some are old indeed.
We entered the crib room and there is where I began to lose it.
This crib ward was huge with many cribs.  At least it had windows!  It was light, airy and clean.
The forty or so cribs were filled with babies....shriveled up babies,  babies with heads so large it took two adult people to even turn them in the crib....one with a head elongated beyond belief, stretching a little face to its limit and then leaving the face behind to look like a trapped monkey....babies who did not move or blink, their blue eyes staring.......a baby with staring blue eyes with long long eyelashes on a baby face framed with long wavy black hair.....seizing babies...
I don't care how old they were, these were all babies and I have a special relationship with babies.  I think babies are the closest avenue to Heaven ....except for the Holy Spirit and face it, you need to be sort of good, or at least repentent to commune with the Holy Spirit....but babies are the innocents and are all so connected to Heaven and they are at our mercies.
I began to cry for the babies.
I was not alone in my tears.  We students were freaking.

There were no baby sounds in the large arena.  It was a silent arena.

Two loving care-givers for about 40 babies.  Not a ratio for interaction.

And the tour continued.

Now we had landed.
The first outpost for some of humanity.  The Shortest Short of it.

Look and Learn.

This was the crucible.  This was the land of no escape.
This was a land of cement, rails, gutters to receive the human waste flushed from an arena where clothes were not worn.
This was the place where to Look was to Learn nothing, but to be assaulted with questions that screamed for answers that did not exist.
"What are these?!  Are they human?"
Certainly there was nothing animalistic about them.  Animals make sense.
Nothing in this arena made sense.
Where is God?
Do these living things have souls?

One of them was in constant motion, rubbing the skin off the body as cement and body  met again and again. This living entity appeared to be round, as rolling forward without well formed legs was how locomotion occurred.   Actually many were in motion, but I focused on the one  and although it was a horror to watch, I could see there was freedom.  Caged, yes, but a cage so big as to be obscure.  Like the dome above our heads that "keeps us in"  but does not feel restrictive because it is life-sustaining and huge.

Caged.

Products of horrifically flawed human conception who made the leap to land-life from the watery womb and survived.

Sunshine was coming through some small high windows on the east side of the cement arena, and the smell of vanilla cake baking wafted through the air.

The lone RN on duty was like an angel.  Dressed in white, with a tiny little cap atop her hair, she was not much older than we......but she was someone more evolved than we.  She loved her job.
"No, it isn't hard," she said.  "They deserve to be loved and I am able to do that.  That is about all we can do for them, and I do think that makes a difference."

She carried a tube of antibiotic ointment to put on their abrasions.

She was baking them a vanilla cake. Yes, they do eat.


If you suffered your way through this post, thanks.

Grateful I am, that at a young age, I was privileged to see, and survive seeing, the full spectrum of living humanity, from the Long of it to the Short of it.    

I am made different by those things I  witnessed.

Riverwatch

***

Unanswered questions galore, but on tour I did learn two, only two, things:

1.  Help others.  Not because of who they are, but because of who we are.
We are helpers not destroyers.

2.  Love makes a difference.

Reaching Up

I thank my friend who sent me this video clip from a Harvard professor.
It is 90 seconds.
I hope you like it.


https://www.youtube.com/embed/YjntXYDPw44



One reason I like this is because this professor is an "older" man speaking, still engaged, still willing to serve.  
He has suffered a heart attack, cancer, and a stroke.  None of that has stopped him from forging on with learning and teaching and traveling.


You can see at the end that permission is granted to pass this on as long as it is not edited.

Grateful for your visit,
Riverwatch

Christmas is coming!

Christmas is coming and it occurs to me that it is probably time to start getting ready.

You can never start getting ready for Christmas too early.  Heck, I had a friend who was always ready for Christmas in August.  God rest her soul.  She wore out quick in life.

I usually wait til the last minute.  I need the adrenalin rush to get me through the ordeal.

But this year is going to be different because I recognize that the earth is going through some major rapid changes and I have decided it is easier to decide what to buy for folks when climate chaos is in the works.

This year I am buying everybody the same thing.  A towel.
One beach size bath towel for each person on my Christmas list.

I got my idea from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

That book has a few things to say on the subject of towels.

A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing a hitchhiker can have.  Partly it has great practical value.  You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; 

 you can lie on it on the brilliant beaches, inhaling the heady sea vapors; imgur.com
om

you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert; imgur.com


use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; 



 wet it for use in hand-to-hand combat; imgur.com

wrap round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid unwanted gazes;  

and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value.  
For some reason, 
if a non-hitchhiker discovers that a hitchhiker has a towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, washcloth, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet-weather gear, space suit, etc., etc.  
Furthermore, the non-hitchhiker will then happily lend the hitchhiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitchhiker might accidently have "lost".  
What the non-hitchhiker will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the Galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against the terrible odds, win through and still know where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

gem-a-day.blogspot.com






Thanks for stopping by.
Hope HARP is not pointed over your sky.
Be prepared.


Keep track of your towel,
Riverwatch

My Struggle With Being Humble

My favorite quote of Golda Meir:

            Thank you. Spot on!  I feel better.

Israel's Golda did make a mistake, though, when she said there were no Palestinians
there on the land
when the Jews took over the land to make a nation! 

                                                                                                                                                                 

However, I know she was talking semantics:
There were Arabs, not Palestinians.
There was no nation.

A bit like when the Europeans immigrated to this great land of ours here in America 

and said there were no people here,
 only Indians.

As a hybrid  Indian, I don't think those Europeans were talking semantics.

                                 "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" by Dee Brown  is a history of America looking East instead of looking West.

"Westward Ho the Wagons" is no longer how I visualize our early
immigration and land grab in America.
I stand looking East.
                                                               
       I recommend this history book to everyone who thinks 

the uninvited immigrants crossing our borders today
are horrible people,
criminals with bad intent.

I appreciate your visit today and wish you well,
Riverwatch


PS    The big fight over land seems to be centered around Who Was There First.

         You know, entitlement.  

     "We were here first!"

         But as a person who walks daily through the misty fog of local polygamy
here in the southwest desert,
looking at  strings of women following one man,  

                                          I can safely assure all entitled people:

          it is definately not Who Was There First.  

     The real winner is Who Got There Last.

Life is fluid.

Entitlement sucks and is a set-up for a rude awakening.

And I am entitled to say that!!

Education

I don't know how it is in your church,

or mountain side open-air cathedral, 
or lake side beach chair,
or even cassino,

but in the church I attend, every Sunday there is a portion of the worship service where we can turn in cards requesting prayer for a specific person or circumstance.

Not only do we get to pray for each others' concerns and dilemmas as Pastor leads us in prayer, but we also get to hear the concerns and dilemmas of the crowd.

This Mother's Day Sunday we prayed for several people, war-torn nations, weather and travel.
But the prayer request that pierced my heart was the prayer for education and educators.

I believe that was the first time I heard that prayed over.....
or maybe just the first time it pierced my heart.
My daughter, a school teacher, had called me the night before in such anguish over how education has gone in our nation.
My heart was open to the anguish of educators.

As I have added education and educators to my prayer list, I wonder what specific should I pray for?
It is all complex even in America.........
                     and fraught  with many  issues,
                                  dangerous issues, in some other lands
                                                       and for some other peoples.

But since science disproves science (again and again), I will start praying for lifelong learning for all of us.
We must be ever learning .

Go tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere,


                                                                                                     
                                                                                                                                        fotosearch.com


 



Go tell it on the mountain.

zoeaustrailia.org


I appreciate you and your visit,
Riverwatch



2 Timothy 1:7   For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power,
                          and of love, and of a sound mind.

"Project"

I like being old.  Sort of.

I am 71 years of age, and I am still learning.

Here is the latest.

As you probably know, I am a nurse
                                            a born reformer, even revolutionary
                                                 a missionary of God's love for you,
                                                     a missionary of ideas,
                                                          a skilled rescuer,
                                                               a fixer.
                                                     

I am not quite sure, being of good cheer and all, but I have always had a little suspicion down through the ages that I get on other people's nerves.

        "Project!  Project!"     

So along came a big "Project!" a few weeks ago and I was so tired I couldn't even begin to think about the solution for my loved one.  Old, I am.  So I prayed for help.

Here came the inspiration:  A solution is not required.

I was astounded.  Doesn't everything require a solution??!!!

Apparently not.

I did nothing.

Nobody did anything.

Doing nothing felt so good.

Why did I not hear this wisdom when I was young?

It is liberating.

 

 










Having built a lot of my life around finding great solutions, not just for me but for others, I have entered a new phase of my life.

A solution is not required.  

Thanks for dropping in to see how I'm doing,
I'm doing better and I hope you are, too.
Riverwatch

It is ok. Really.

One of my favorite authors is Anne Lamott.

Here is a particularly comforting quote from her:

"You own everything that happened to you.

Tell your stories.

If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better."

Here is my own little quote:

"It is not always a good thing to be a close associate of somebody who loves to write.......and it is particularly hazardous to give birth to somebody who loves to write!"

Riverwatch

November Rain

 I saw a young woman with a name tag on recently
 that said  November Rain.

"Is that really your name?" I asked.

Yes it is.

I want to be called November Rain, 

not Riverwatch!!!

Like my college-student granddaughter says, 

"Some people feel the rain.  Others just get wet."


thereinventiontour.co.uk

A Changing World

So the little class was on "Turning What We Know Into Action in a Changing World".



How does an old person cope with a world that is changing more rapidly than it ever has in the known history of mankind?

How does an old person change "slowing down" into "speeding up" as opposed to "getting out of the way"?

I know there is a way, because I have a close friend who does it!
She is a social doer.
Not exactly a social butterfly (she isn't lithe and pretty or even able to locomote well) but she keeps herself extremely busy with the social affairs of town and country.


No minutes to pause and take a breath.

I know why she does it.
She told me why.
"I am NOT going to think about dying!"

So there!

Well, that works well until you have a stroke or something!

 

Actually, she did have a stroke.  

She climbed out of that abyss faster than I thought possible.          

She climbed out to get back to the social scene and volunteering.
She is NOT going to think about dying.  She is NOT a poet.  She is NOT a philosopher.

I admire her and love her but I do not pretend to understand her.

We are surrounded by the death of others...should not that give us pause?


Pause and take a deep breath.


I personally draw the conclusion that we are supposed to think about death!

Once upon a time, we did think about death.                                                                                         People died at home.
"Wakes" were held at home.
Sit up with the deceased.  Talk.  Cry.                                                                                                         Maybe have a little party.....close by the casket, not off at some social venue where death can be momentarily forgotten.

Awareness, keen awareness, that death is part of life and that the "departed" were not gone-gone, just gone.   And the solemn thought that our day is coming.


Is it not in our best interest to have developed some internal coping skills so that we don't need to stay constantly engaged with entertainment to avoid thinking about death?

Now I am NOT judging!
After all, I turn thinking into entertainment all the time.
I take classes.

This little class said we turn what we know into action in this changing world
by knowing WHY we exist and by knowing WHAT we stand for.

Oh my stars!!!  Am I in trouble!!
Why do I exist?  I am no longer sure why I exist.
I still am sure, pretty sure, that I do exist.        
Why is less clear these days.
I think it has something to do with "the whole" and little to do with "the me".

And why is what I stand for changing, growing, roping around, fraying, and becoming fluid??

Oh my stars!!!  Am I in trouble!

Of course, people who have love do not ever wonder about why they exist.
They know the purpose of life.

Philosophers are love-lorn.  It's true.

When I was young I knew easily why I existed.
I existed for LOVE and excitement and learning and adventure     .....,,,,,,,,,,,,
                                   
                                     and then I grew old,
                                                                     and became a philosopher.

Thank you for your visit to the aging crazies.
Your visit means more than words can say.
Thanks, Riverwatch

"Go out and honor all people..."

Church

It is always a joy to be a vital part of a worthy victory.

We have sensed the needs of this poor, stricken world, grievously vexed by doubts, confusions, anxieties, sorrows, cruelties, and deepening fears.

The church with our help can change this situaltion.

The church, a church,  is the open channel through which we can work to establish truth, mercy, justice, brotherhood, confidence, faith and love.

The church must be victorious.

Happy Morning!  I aappreciate your visit,

Riverwatch

John F. Kennedy

Christianity

ROMANS 5:20 "WHERE SIN INCREASED, GRACE ABOUNDED ALL THE MORE." 

Is it not obvious He is not a manufactured God?  
Who among us would ever dream up such a God?  

Ancient texts say we were created in His image (not the other way around), 
but we are not finished.

One of the hard things about being old is not only feeling unfinished, 
but also feeling finished. 
  

One of the good things about being old is 
I don't care .   

Let it be as it is. 

Trust God to handle it. 

It is what it is.

It was what it was.  

Thanks for taking time to visit,

Riverwatch                                                                                                               

shoot me now

re-post in advance of Mother's Day






Somebody (I don't recollect who) posted  on their blog an observation that if you know a young person who wants to be a writer, shoot them now while they are still happy.

I remember when my son, a playwright, had his first play showcased in college.

This is the son who taught me to LOVE criticism of my works.
"Mom, you cannot be a writer unless you lay your ego aside and allow critics to rip your works apart!  That's how you learn to craft something that others want to read.  You are not writing for yourself.  You are writing for others. I have taken one whole semester on submitting plays and having a group of experts and other students dissect my writings as pathetically flawed while I had to sit and listen.  It began as humiliation and ended with exhiliration that anybody considered me good enough to criticize."

So we, his family, sat in the crowded theater
whilst he, the playwright, sat in a special box in the balcony.
latest-hairstyles.com

He was dressed to the nines, voguish, all plucked from the local thrift store,
hanging on his confident frame
like icicles gracing a mansion.

.seacoastonline.com

We were all so excited.

The play began by explaining, before the curtain opened, that this play was "adult in content" and R-rated.
My heart  did not have time to skip a beat before half..... HALF..... the audience got up and walked out!
I was devastated for my son!

But  he was happy.  Later he explained, "You want those people to leave.  That's why you announce the R-rating.  You don't want people ruining your play by getting up during it and leaving."
And he taught me how important it is to target the right audience.  How everything is not for everybody and that is "ok".

But I was cringing on my seat, not only for him, but for ME.  R-Rated?  Oh, dear.
But before those feelings could overtake me, we heard the people behind us discussing the walk-out.
"Are YOU leaving?"
"Oh, no!  I heard this play was written by a drunk sophomore and I have got to see it!"

These are the things that make your face look like ten miles of bad highway by the time the kids are grown and gone.

The play began.  We sat there mesmerized by a play so poignant, so tender, so great we could scarce believe we were related to the "drunk sophomore" who wrote it.
Those who walked out to protect themselves missed something so human and tender they would have been touched.
The play won awards and was showcased elsewhere, bringing a touch of success to my son.
I felt no part of the success since we in the family all recognized that the main character was actually my son, the playwright and the antagonist, the pathetically flawed failure, was his dad.
Thank goodness his dad wasn't there!

Still and all, I felt a little smug, no compassion whatsoever, actually, for my ex.

I might have felt sorry for my ex had I any idea at that moment of what was coming downstream, in a couple of years,  on stage, for me!!!!!

Don't even ask!



..........


So, it is no surprise, me being interested in criticism and all, that yesterday at a belated Mother's Day Lunch, I asked my daughter to critique my blog honestly.  Her age precludes her from my target audience but I know she reads "I've Landed!".

The desert sun shone muted through the blue tinted restaurant window, casting soft relief to the 30 year old wall paper and unchanging decors we have enjoyed in our favorite restaurant for decades.  The flowering trees outside were made deeper in shade by the tinted glass.  The smell of pizza was everywhere.

         

                                                                                                                 deviantart.com

When my daughter visits, we always try to get at least one  meal at this the watering oasis for decades in our personal desert.

bayfieldbunch.com

"Well", she said as she gazed out the window, "I think you could improve your blog by leaving out the statistics.  They are boring.  And leave out the education also.  If people want education there are multiple sites they can go to."

"But my blog is meant to be educational!"

"Well, skip it.  Nobody wants educated.  Tell the stories.  Do the expose'.  That's what's entertaining.............reading other people's stories."

"Do I put too much religious stuff in?"

(pause......)   "No.  Not really.  That's ok.  But you are a little edgy with the UFO stuff.  You might want to leave that out because, frankly, you seem like a nut sometimes."

"I am a nut!  I am not ashamed of being related to lunatics!  Besides you are only saying that because I am a tea party enthusiast."

"They are nuts!"

"So?        .....What's your point?"

"Stay away from the UFO's and the Tea Party."

Undaunted,
Riverwatch