tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53380150568945873622024-03-13T16:23:01.709-04:00The Red Sweatercj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.comBlogger248125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-5157480166894134972019-06-10T10:33:00.000-04:002019-06-10T10:58:09.186-04:00Too Happy to be Creative?<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My creative juices have gone stagnant, thick with algae, green flies swarming over the surface. I’m not sure how they got this way, only know they aren’t moving me in, urging me to write. I don’t wake with poems churning in my head. Could it be I’m too happy? Is that a real thing, too happy? Over the last 15 years, I’ve experienced some life changing and devastating life experiences, and through them all, I’ve gotten up every morning eager to write them down. I’ve raged at God, questioned my sanity, wondered if I would ever survive. But now, life is settled and stable as I face the upcoming tenth anniversary of Clint’s death. I survived the fourth anniversary of Parrish’s death at the hands of an incompetent staff at Gateway. I have almost forgotten the times I was so depressed I got lost on my way to the hair salon I frequented for years, the times I go lost trying to find the barber shop so Clint could get a haircut, the times my short term memory was so completely absent I couldn’t construct an coherent sentence. I am surrounded by natural beauty and fast friends and family who love and cherish me. I even have a social life of sorts, meeting with life-long friends for cocktails almost every Friday. I go to Sunday School but not church.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The beach beacons in the spring weather, and I often take my dogs there so we can all get some ocean air and exercise. Yes, we have another dog now, an All American Dachshund-Terrier mix adopted from a shelter near Atlanta. He’s as laid back as Della is wound up, so they are good for one another. I even have a little bit of a tan. We have experienced extremes in the tide and some days the water is sucked out so far to sea, it looks as though the beach goes on forever. Other days, the sheets of water, bearded with foam, lap against the dunes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve been stitching a needlepoint pillow and watching French Open tennis on TV, caring for my orchids, all five of which are in bloom, decorating my house with their exquisite beauty. The birds are well fed, their water station filled and ready in case they get thirsty, and I have moon flowers planted in the back yard. I’m not that crazy about the marsh rat that comes to my bird feeder every afternoon at dusk, prompting me to take it down every evening, but, hey, he was to eat too. I take a certain surprising joy in keeping house and yard. But I haven’t felt compelled to sit down and write about it. Do I need to be in crisis to be stirred to record my feelings? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Fonda, my dear and precious friend, is here with us for a few days. Word nerds both, we have filled our time with crossword puzzles and other word games. And there is all the talking and catching up and just loving being in one another’s presence. She brought two containers of her famous pimiento cheese, and we have been feasting on that. Crab Man caught us a small mess of crabs, and we picked them out and I made us a pot of crab and sweet corn soup. I steamed some fresh shrimp Crab Man caught off the pier in his cast net. Life is certainly good. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I am filled with gratitude. I get to live here on my beautiful Saint Simons Island, where the Live Oak trees offer shade that keeps us a little cooler than the mainland, where boas of Spanish moss sway from their branches as though conducting a secret Island orchestra heard only by those of us who are attuned to it. Sunlight filters its way though the branches in glorious streaks. It’s easy to see why people come from all over the world to catch a little handful of the magic we enjoy year round. Yes, it’s almost summer, and it’s hot, but that’s just the trade-off we have to make for getting to live here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There is no crisis. There is no angst. I have learned forgiveness and acceptance. It seems impossible my life has ever been wracked with loss and anger and mental imbalance. My Xanax bottle sits untouched in the bathroom cabinet, and I am flanked by Della and Hank, my precious dogs, who bring me such joy, yes joy, a sense of steadfast contentment and belonging. Gretchen is a good roommate, and I am grateful to have her with me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Maybe all this happiness will stir those creative juices, act a little like chlorine and clear them up. In the meantime, I’ll just keep on feeling content and fulfilled. </span><br />
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-67024318833392278512019-01-03T14:23:00.003-05:002019-01-03T14:25:56.762-05:00Beach-Walking and Crab-Cooking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>An old friend once advised me to spend New Years Day doing the things I want to do for the rest of the year. Besides visiting my long time friend, Laura, in the hospital, which I certainly hope won't happen again, I accomplished a couple of things Tuesday which I hope will foreshadow my new year. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The weather was fine on with the temperature registering a comfortable 81º. So, in the middle of the afternoon, I donned a sleeveless linen dress and a pair of sandals and took Della to the beach. Once we were on the soft sand, I kicked off my sandals, and we walked to the edge of the ocean to dip our feet in the cool water. I wiggled some sand up between my toes, and we started our walk. You would have thought it was the middle of summer. A light breeze was blowing from the south, and the beach was crowded with colorful umbrellas, under which sat people of all stripes, from toddlers to old folks. There were stickball games, Frisbee exchanges and Happy New Year greetings etched in the sand. Small children in floppy hats splashed and squealed in the water as we passed. Three catamarans were parked in the surf, ready to skim across the water, and bright kites sailed above it all. Optimistic fishermen anchored their rods in PVC pipe pounded into the sand and waited for a bite. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And there were dogs, lots of dogs, reminding me of all the times I read P. D. Eastman’s </span><span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">Big Dog, Little Dog</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"> to Parrish when he was a small child. Della was in heaven. Except for a cranky old woman who were afraid my 12-pound dog was going to somehow harm their large, coifed and bejeweled darling, Della was welcomed by all when she swooped in to see who wanted to play. Okay, okay. There is a leash law. And we routinely break it—but we’re not the only ones. Della is trained to return to my heel after venturing off and whenever she hears the command, “Here!” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yes, that’s a rationalization, but don’t forget what the character Michael said in <i>The Big Chill</i>: “I don't know anyone who could get through the day without two or three juicy rationalizations. They're more important than sex.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When we encountered a four-month-old black and white Boxer puppy it was a match, to unabashedly use a cliché, made in heaven. We humans stood around and watched as the pups took turns chasing one another, in circles, in and out of the water, their muzzles bearded with sea foam and sand. It was something to see. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We walked for nearly an hour before we made it back to my Yukon. I even got a tiny blister on the bottom of my heel. After we rinsed off, Della jumped into the back of the truck and we came home. I was putting her towel in the laundry room when my phone rang.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Miss Claudia! I got some big blue crabs! I know you want some of these bad boys!” Crab Man pretty much speaks in exclamations, and yesterday was no exception.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I don’t know, Crab Man. It’s late in the day. I just got back from the beach and I’m not sure I want to fool with crabs.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Now, Miss Claudia!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“All right, fine. I’ll be down to pick them up in about 15 minutes.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Crab Man saw me pull up in front of the Village Pier and came walking up the dock, swinging a ten gallon bucket teeming with some of the biggest blue crabs I have ever seen. He used my big tongs to transfer ten of them into my bucket. I usually don’t want to cook fewer than a dozen, but they were so large, I was afraid my pot wouldn’t hold them all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I got home, I poured water and seasonings into the jumbo-sized aluminum pot I bought myself for Christmas and turned up the heat. My back was to the stove when I first heard the banging. No, the crabs weren’t in the water yet. I was waiting for it to boil. The “boiler” I bought didn’t have a flat bottom, and on my confounded ceramic cooktop, it was throbbing back and forth, more rapidly as the water got hotter. <i>Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat</i>. I tried to true it up, reposition it so it would sit flat, but nothing worked. <i>Rat-a-tat</i>. I finally decided the pot was not designed for the stove but instead was to be used with a propane-fueled fish cooker—outside. Great. Can’t really return it after boiling water in it laced with Tony Chacheres Creole Seasoning. So, I dragged out the big cast iron pot with a porcelain glaze I’ve been using for years but had decided to retire because of its weight. I transferred the seasoned water, brought the whole thing to a boil and poured in the crabs, which filled it to the brim. Twenty minutes later, they were done and cooling in the sink. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I snapped off the flippers and claws, then pulled off the backs, broke the bodies in two and cleaned out the innards and gills. Crabs are easier to pick if they’ve been in the fridge overnight, so I boxed them in a plastic tub with a tight fitting lid and stowed them to pick later. I'll be making crab and sweet corn soup this afternoon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Happy New Year, everyone. May you have many days of your version of beach-walking and crab-cooking in 2019. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none; font-size: large;">© 2019 cj Schlottman</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-15731901278768401072018-02-19T20:46:00.000-05:002018-12-23T22:21:39.539-05:00Honey<div style="font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">These words are written on a magnet that clings to my refrigerator:</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Lhasa Apso</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">regal loyal calm deliberate</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">mannerly tough strong-willed</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">bossy jealous keen watchdog</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“When a Lhasa looks in a mirror</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">it sees a lion.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>During the night of January 17, Honey, my 14-1/2 year old best friend, a Lhasa Apso, was uncharacteristically restless. She wouldn’t stay in bed, kept walking to the edge and staring at the floor. I lifted her down, and she walked around the house randomly, listing to the right all the while. She eventually tired and I was able to put her back on the bed, where she slept, but for only for a while. After about an hour, she was up again and looking as though she might tilt over onto the floor. So, I helped her down again and she repeated her earlier behavior twice more during the night. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was in the throes of a severe case of bronchitis and not sleeping well anyway, so I was awake with her. Honey ate her breakfast of chicken and green beans and went outside to do her business. When she didn’t come right back, I went out and found her struggling to negotiate the two steps up to the deck. I helped her up, brought her inside and put her on her favorite sofa and her leopard throw. As soon as my vet’s office opened, I called and made an appointment for later in the day, after Gretchen got home from work. I really felt too bad to drive. Honey ate lunch, went outside and got herself back in the house unassisted. She slept most of the rest of the afternoon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When we arrived at Dr. Brennan McGoldrick’s office, an older gentleman was retrieving his two large dogs from the groomer. Honey, in typical Lhasa Apso fashion, began growling and trying to climb out of my arms to protect me from them. (They were just sitting there smiling.) It was all I could do to keep her on the bench with me. As sick as she was, she displayed one of the cardinal attributes of her breed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We saw his assistant first, then Dr. McGoldrick came in the room. Honey had been walking around in clockwise circles since his assistant put her on the floor when we arrived. Brennan McGoldrick is one of the most kind and understanding young men I know. In his quiet voice, he gently asked a few questions and immediately knew the problem. He explained to us that Honey’s behavior was characteristic of a brain tumor, probably in the frontal lobe. We had noticed her slowing down over the previous weeks but never thought it was due to anything other than her advanced age. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What to do? More than anything in the world, I wanted her to be spared any unnecessary pain. She was confused, but as far as we knew, she hadn’t suffered a seizure, which would in all likelihood happen sooner or later. The thought of her suffering fell over me like a blanket of despair. I tearfully asked the inevitable question. What should I do? Dr. McGoldrick suggested a round of steroids, explaining that if she were going to get relief, it would happen quickly. In his sweetest of ways, he suggested if she weren’t better in a couple of days, it would be time for her to cross over to the other side.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And she rallied like the champions from whom she was descended. After only two doses of prednisone, her tail was once more up over her back and she was easily getting down from the deck and back up. Clever as she was, she began climbing up at the end of the deck, where a layer of brick make the first step easier. She stopped walking in circles, and we even took a brief walk. She ate three times a day and slept well, waking a couple of times every night to go outside. The steroids stimulated her appetite and her thirst, thus the nighttime trips outside. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Honey wasn’t supposed to be my dog. In 2003, Clint’s knee replacement got infected and had to be taken out, which resulted in months of pain and a carpet-bombing of potent antibiotics followed by another operation to put in a new prosthesis. He was recovering slowly at our house on Dunbar Creek. He was listless and not interested in the things he usually enjoyed, and I decided a puppy would give him a focus outside himself, a reason to get out of bed and care for another living being. We already had one dog, an adult Boxer named Belle, but she wasn’t a one-person dog. She loved us all with equal abandon. Lhasa Apsos tend to be one-person dogs, and I hoped our new puppy would attach itself to Clint.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, granddaughter Sarah and I told him we were going to Savannah for the night to see Addie, another granddaughter. Instead, with the Addie’s family in on the secret, we drove eight hours up Interstate 95 to Rocky Mount, North Carolina, where I had located a reputable Lhasa Apso breeder. In the early years of our marriage, Clint and I had two Lhasas, and I knew how much he loved the spunky little breed. Sarah and I spent the night in a less than grand hotel near the interstate and next morning drove out into the country to find the breeder. We did it the old fashioned way: with a map and by the seats of our pants. There was no GPS on our cell phones in 2003. Just as important, if there had been, there was no service in rural of North Carolina.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don’t remember how many puppies there were on the sunken dining room floor of the breeder’s house. I do remember them milling around and falling over one another in that way puppies do. They were energetic and seemed healthy and strong. Sarah was determined I shouldn’t choose the puppy, insistent that if I did, it would bond with me instead of Poppy, Clint’s granddaddy name. So, she sat on the step and waited patiently until a honey-hued little girl nosed up to her, climbed into her lap and reached up to cover her face with kisses. In no time, we were on the way home.</span></div>
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Honey and Belle, 2003</div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We found Poppy propped up in bed with Belle at his side, reading and looking rested. After confessing we had been, not to Savannah, but to North Carolina, we presented him with the furry ball of love whose name would become Honey because of her color. She climbed all over him and Belle, too, who seemed a little taken aback but accepting of the attention. The smile on Clint’s face was confirmation to me we had done the right thing. He hadn’t looked so happy in months. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the days and weeks that followed, Honey proved herself to be plucky and smart and fearless, jumping off our high bed and negotiating the steep steps up to our front door. Twice, seeing something down in the back yard, she leapt between the pickets of the deck down the nearly ten foot drop to the grass. She held her own with Belle, who was, for the most part, very gentle with her. The two of them raced up and down the hall with one toy or another. Belle never outgrew playing with her toys, but Honey would abandon such frivolous behavior as she grew into adulthood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Clint began to feel stronger, more like himself, and was soon back on the golf course. I was elated that he was out and active, but that meant the care of both dogs fell to me and the inevitable happened. Honey bonded with me. As it happened, Belle and Clint got closer, and we took them both on daily walks around the neighborhood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It would be over a year before Honey reached her adult weight of 14 pounds, but from the very beginning, she was a Lhasa to her core, fiercely loyal to me and protective of our home. She quickly established herself as the alpha dog in the house and as my protector. I never went to the bathroom alone after she came into my life. Even at that young age, she steadfastly placed herself between Clint and me in the the bed. (When she was grown, she even treated him to a little growl if he turned over suddenly in the bed.) As she grew to adulthood, her honey-toned coat faded to white and she became a great beauty. Ever vigilant, she monitored the front windows and was a perfect partner for Belle, who would have greeted Satan at the door with kisses. Like most Lhasas, Honey had little use for other dogs except the one in her own pack. On walks, she thought she could take down a Great Dane, but when she occasionally had to go to day care, with me out of sight, she aloofly separated herself from the other dogs and slept alone all day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Honey went just about everywhere with me. A good traveler, she frequently went with me Savannah to attend Rosemary Daniel’s monthly Zona Rosa writer’s workshops, and she became well known to the members of the group. I have lovely sketches Charlotte Harrell made of the two of us at some of those meetings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When Clint was in his last days, Belle stationed herself at his side most of the time, but Honey was with me every step of the day, following me from room to room, lying beside me when I joined Clint in the bed. After Clint passed away, it would be my dogs who comforted me in the way only they can do</span><span style="font-family: "lucida grande"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">—</span><span style="font-kerning: none;">silently, lovingly and without questions or demands. In the spring of 2013, when Belle got too tired to live, it was Honey who comforted me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Parrish and I relocated back to Saint Simons a few months later, and after a year on a rented flat, we found this sweet house with it’s safely fenced yard. Honey quickly established herself as the boss of Meadows Drive and monitored all activity on the street from her perch on the back of the sofa in the living room. When not on patrol there, she was on guard at the front door, eyes keen on the yard and street through the glass door. She announced, in typical Lhasa Apso fashion, every vehicle and pedestrian who passed our way. On walks, when we encountered my neighbor Tony Baker and his late pup, Mollie B, who was about the same size as Honey, the two of them practically ripped their leashes in two in an attempt to protect their people. I’m pretty sure Mollie had some Lhasa in her family tree.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After Parrish’s tragic death in January, 2015, Honey was my comfort, my unfailing companion and confidant. She never once asked me how I was doing, never asked if there were anything she could do. She didn’t bring me plants to remind me Parrish was dead. She was here, present with me in the middle of my pain. And as I emerged from it months later, she was waiting to welcome me back to the world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She was my bed buddy and my alarm clock, waking me with kisses on the nose when she was ready to go out and then come inside to eat breakfast. I cooked for her most of her life. She liked all kinds of ground meats, and she really loved peas and carrots and green beans.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s hard to put my finger on when she began to slow down. It came on gradually. Her hearing had been failing for about a year, but she could see well enough to go to walk with confidence. Our walks gradually became slower, though, and eventually became shorter. She went with me to the November Zona Rosa meeting, but that was the last time we went on the road. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nearly three weeks to the day after our visit to Dr. McGoldrick, Honey noticeably got weaker during the day. The next morning, she wouldn’t eat or go outside. I tearfully called her doctor and told him it was her time. I spent the day with her as she slept. At one point, she napped on my lap, but for most of the day, she lay on her sofa and slept. In the middle of the afternoon, I gave her a sedative. Gretchen came home early from work. When Brennan arrived a little after 5:00, Honey was drowsy and didn’t seem to know he was here. He gave her an injection in her rump, and I stroked and loved her while she quietly became unconscious. Then he shaved her little foreleg and injected her with the medicine that helped her over The Rainbow Bridge. I didn’t know I could be so heartbroken. My heart was in a million pieces as Brennan and his assistant waited patiently for me to say my good-byes. Then he wrapped her in a little blanket and took her away. Honey was there for me through most of the major tragedies in my life and losing her made me feel so terribly, terribly alone. I won’t try to explain how I felt, how I still feel. If you’re a dog lover, you know. If you’re not, you will never understand. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A week later I went to the office to retrieve Honey’s ashes, which were in a beautifully carved wooden box. And there was a plaster print of her paw in the canvas tote bag with the box. I sat in my car for what seemed like forever, trying to compose myself. I finally stopped crying and felt safe to drive. The first thing I did when I got home was place her paw print next to Belle’s in the den. That night I took the little brown box to bed with me, and it’s still there. It will be right where it is until I’m ready to move it. There are moments, like this one, when my heart feels as though it will shatter. I long for her to nudge me for a treat or remind me it’s mealtime. My bed is lonely and cold without her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Despite the pain of losing Honey, I will always have a dog; I can’t conceive of life without a furry best friend. So no one should be surprised I have located a reputable Brussels Griffon breeder and will be getting a girl puppy in the next couple of weeks. Knowing I could never replace Honey, I opted for another breed, and at my age, a pocketbook dog is just what I need. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "my underwood";"> Honey, February 6, 2018</span></div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-20850968943038793022017-11-09T18:38:00.001-05:002017-11-09T19:02:14.196-05:00So This is Where I've Been . . Part 2<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "My Underwood"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 12px;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’m going to set aside Part 2 for a moment to say a little about how glorious life is here on The Island during this fall season. Despite a nor’easter that rattled the trees for days and whipped around to come out of the northwest, bringing with it cooler temperatures, the weather is splendid. Skies so bright they shine like blue mirrors fill up with sparkling stars at night. Sitting on my deck, which is something I spend a great deal of time doing this time of year, even writing out here, the backyard birds are a distraction. The smaller birds</span><span style="font-family: "lucida grande"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">—</span><span style="font-kerning: none;">Carolina Chickadees, Titmice, Carolina Wrens and House Finches, even Downy Woodpeckers</span><span style="font-family: "lucida grande"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">—</span><span style="font-kerning: none;">flit around the seed feeder, diving in for a sunflower seed and taking it away to peck it open on a tree limb or the branch of a sturdy shrub. A Brown Thrasher, who has lately taken to perching on the suet cage for long periods, trying to claim it for himself, is regularly run off my Red-bellied Woodpeckers. It’s hard to concentrate on much else, and I am grateful anew I get to live here. This is the trade-off for sweltering hot summers and hoards of tourists during summer months. The occasional roar of the Sea Island Air Force slices into the quiet, but the birds don’t see to mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As for Part 2, in February I drove to Steinhatchee, Florida, population south of 1500, to visit with Kristy and her family and attend the annual Fiddler Crab Festival. We had Friday to ourselves and she drove me around to the beautiful beaches where the family goes out in kayaks and dives for scallops during season, which runs roughly for the months of July, August and September, bagging their limit every time they go out. That night, we were joined by Shannon and Joey and their two teenage sons, Noah and Jacob, and the twins, Abby and Drew, eight at the time. I hadn’t seen the entire crew since Hurricane Matthew ran Gretchen and me off The Island in October of last year and sent us scurrying to Kristy’s Pine Mountain house. The kids were in school as we waited to return home, and I didn’t have much time with them, so I was glad to have a weekend with the family.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> I had been warned Steinhatchee, which means “Dead Man’s River” or “Dead Man’s Bay,” is a little on the rustic side and right-leaning politically. I wasn’t disappointed. There are about 10 restaurants but no grocery store. One convenience store stocks staples like eggs and milk and a limited amount of produce, but if you want a real supermarket, you have to drive 38 miles north to Perry. There are three marinas, several restaurants and, of course, the ubiquitous Dollar General. The ACE Hardware sports a life-size cutout of Donald Trump just inside the entrance, and on our drive Friday afternoon, we encountered what I can only describe as a crude roadside sign with this message: “Jesus said: Be Fishers of Men. - Matt. 4:19 - YOU CATCH ‘EM AND HE WILL CLEAN ‘EM,” flanked on either side by a single red Christian cross. </span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There’s a little glimpse of the Steinhatchee River from the Burkhalter house, which is situated half a block from the main drag, not surprisingly called Riverside Drive. A few food trucks were set up along the street, and at sundown we wandered down to find dinner. I was on the cusp of my decision to become a vegetarian and had already eschewed meat, but seafood abounded. Before the others arrived, the bandstand across the street came to life with some of the most awful rock music I can ever remember hearing. I made my ears hurt. Kristy and I sat on the deck, drinking cocktails and smoking cigarettes and tried to tune it out. Mercifully, it ended early. The weather was cool but not cold, and we were happy to be together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The two day festival, which included a fiddler crab race, fishing tournament, car show and The Swamp Water Cook-off, among other events, was kicked off at ten o’clock Saturday morning by a parade. It consisted of a procession of mostly golf carts, four-wheelers and pickup trucks, many of which had shotguns hanging from racks in their rear windows. Some pulled what I suppose could pass for floats. Most were decorated with all things crab: the official flag of The Festival, crab baskets and traps, and plastic crabs tied to rope netting sprinkled with colorful buoys. Kids of all ages, some sporting crab costumes, </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">others dressed as pirates, rode in the backs of the trucks and on the floats and threw gaudy Mardi Gras beads, purple and gold, silver</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">and green and pink, to the spectators along the route. A golf cart draped with burlap “moss” was driven by a pirate complete with gold tooth, his female mate dressed all in black and standing on the rear bumper.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The light rain didn’t stop the kids from going down to catch their share of beads. The various vehicles sported huge American flags, the occasional disappointing Confederate battle flag, and of course, Fiddler Crab Festival flags. It was a raggedy little display but fun nonetheless. By the time the kids got back to the house, the rain was coming down in earnest, but at mid afternoon, the sun was out, and so were we.</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Riverside Drive was lined with food trucks and stalls with names like Red Neck Seafood and Bubba’s Bar-B-Q. No festival is complete without kettle corn and funnel cakes, and the hard core fair lovers weren’t disappointed. We missed the Swamp Water Challenge, but Kristy more than made up for that when, that night, she had a fish fry for all of us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The street running parallel behind Riverside was where the real arts and crafts and just plain junk booths were located. We wandered about, checking out the wares and stopping in to see the work of local artists as well as that of those who had come from afar. I ended up buying a wind chime made from channel whelk shells that was made in Shellman Bluff, a fishing village about 40 miles north of my house. Who knew? We purchased handmade soaps and a few little things the twins were interested in, but all-in-all, it wasn’t a banner shopping experience. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It wasn’t about the shopping. It was about Joey cooking on the grill and friends dropping by to visit. It was about sweet, gooey, sticky s’mores. It was about Shannon getting a haircut from one of her friends right there on the porch. It was about Abby and Drew growing right before my eyes, about Jacob and Noah, no longer boys but young </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">men. It was about eight people sleeping in a two bedroom house with one</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">bathroom without squabbling. It was about leaving the bathroom door cracked while in shower so others could use the toilet, number one only. It was about sleeping with Kristy on her bed, which is hard as a concrete slab, and not waking with a backache.</span></div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-64552985135292278512017-10-26T14:14:00.002-04:002017-10-26T14:14:34.799-04:00So This is Where I've Been for Nearly a Year<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 12px;">
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px;">I may have reached the age when time rushes past one in a blur. I don’t know where the months have gone, just that they are behind me, and I haven’t shared a single thought with my readers since last November.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After the holidays, I was blindside when our lawyer called me</span><span style="font-family: "lucida grande"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">—</span><span style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px;">less than two working weeks before the statute of limitations expired in our pending case against the State of Georgia for what we believe was Parrish’s unlawful death</span><span style="font-family: "lucida grande"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">—</span><span style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px;">and said he didn’t have a medical expert who would testify in court that Parrish wouldn’t have died anyway. I immediately found another attorney who was willing to take the case, but with only ten working days, he simply didn’t have time to get the material to another expert, have him study the documents and give an opinion. To say we were shocked at such a last-minute bailing out on the part our attorney is to state the obvious. I felt then, and still do, he had to have known well before January 2. I’ve never been a cynic, but I have to wonder if he was hesitant to take on the state. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px;">Although the case was never about money, if you’re interested, to the State of Georgia, a human life is worth two million dollars. The case was about exposing the negligent way Parrish was treated at Gateway Behavioral Health Care’s crisis stabilization unit in January, 2015, how he was over sedated and not monitored and allowed to fall into respiratory arrest. It was about how the medical examiner’s report stated P died from a multi drug overdose administered by Gateway. It was about there being no record of anyone checking his respirations or listening to his chest while he was so heavily sedated. It was about him being knocked out and being ignored to death. It was about getting the word out in this community that Gateway isn’t a safe place for your loved ones with severe mental disorders. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px;">I obtained the medical record from the facility and read it carefully several times. The only thing I could document from what was only the skeleton of a chart was that Parrish received massive doses of Librium in the staff’s attempt to sedate him, and that he had been assaulted by another patient, leaving his left eye purple and closed. There we no indication his vital signs were monitored closely because of the heavy sedation. When I was a working nurse, one cardinal rule of record keeping was “If you didn’t write it down, you didn’t do it.” In spite of his enormous medication load, nobody wrote down anything in that chart about checking on P frequently. I will never forget seeing his beautiful face so damaged when I walked into his cubicle at the ER. He lived only about ten more hours, deep in a coma, never having attempted to take even a single breath.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px;">There was that to get through. I wrote volumes in my journal about my feelings and disappointment, but for some reason I didn’t share it here. Maybe I was afraid of sounding like a whiner. I don’t know. The whole thing is in the past now and easier to parcel out from this distance. And that’s all I can do, just this little bit. The loss of my only child, even though he several times attempted suicide, was the single worst event I ever endured. But as time goes on, it’s easier to sort out the good memories and feed on them, pushing those images of him on the ventilator, face bruised and misshapen, to the back of my brain.</span><span style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ll be back in a few days to continue catching up. I have no idea why anyone would be interested in following this self-indulgent recap, but I have a need to write it down</span><span style="font-family: "lucida grande"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">—</span><span style="font-family: "my underwood"; font-size: 12px;">here.</span><br />
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-73535869915670790622016-11-05T16:26:00.000-04:002016-11-06T12:41:57.003-05:00Long Hot Summer<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve been absent for too long, but my absence doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing and doing some editing. My journals overflow with thoughts and memories, and I continue to feel grounded and very much where I should be, here on The Island.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In early June, about a month before Parrish’s 46th birthday, my grief, simmering under the surface of my thoughts, bubbled up in my heart and broke it again. So, I began the long process of healing all over. The empty darkness of my loss was at times overwhelming, and I was distracted and suffered under the blanket of heat that came with summer. At times, I thought I was in hell.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Through June and July, I busied myself with the Tybee Retreat and also attended a workshop in Clayton, but my heart wasn’t in the moment. The sadness weighed me down, and I wanted nothing more than sleep until the pain was gone. We all know grief doesn’t work that way. You can’t sleep through it. It will not be ignored. It will drag you down and put it's heavy boot on your neck until you face it head on and stare it down, even temporarily. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the midst of my personal angst, Hurricane Matthew ran us off The Island for five days. Gretchen and I drove across the state to Pine Mountain, where Kristy has an A-Frame. The trauma of evacuation, displacement and not knowing what we would find when we returned was exhausting. Through it all, I continued to struggle with reactivated grief, the feeling of being separated from the others by it, the hole in my heart still oozing pain and distraction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When we returned, the dreams began—all involving Parrish and my impotence to bring some modicum of hope and happiness into his life during his last two years. Instead of vanishing as though a magician had touched them with his wand, which is usually what happens, they stayed with me during the day, dragging me down. I felt deep pain and helplessness and great confusion. I flashed back to times when he suffered and I could offer no relief. Every time I thought of him, my heart pulsed with pain.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And then, on the first of October, I fell and hit my head in the bathtub, hit it hard, producing a gash on my forehead that required stitches. My scalp was, and still is, sore and tender to the touch. But after that accident, I suppose because I was forced to rest for days, I was drawn to write poems about my only child. I began to see the first glimmer of light through the fog of my depression and profound sadness. The dreams continued, but I didn’t remember details. Some of the poems are complete and there are others percolating in my brain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Once again, I have begun the real healing, the hard part where I have to own my grief and not spend my valuable emotional energy on hiding from it. Writing, especially writing poems, is hard work, and it's healing for me. You can’t write a good poem if you don’t tell the truth in it. Nor can you write a good poem without cutting and condensing the words to their bare bones. The strength of a poem is in it’s marrow, where the pain is. Here's a <a href="http://cjschlottman-mypoems.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">link</a> to one of them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All has not been suffering, though. Gretchen is still with me, which is a joy. Honey, at 13, is still my best friend. My human friends are always here for me, and I actually put together a little cook-out for a few of them last weekend. The squirrels, overcome with glee that acorns are falling like hail, have abandoned the bird feeder and are busy making nests. I don’t think it’s my imagination that the songbirds are in better voice without harassment from them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And my 50th Glynn Academy class reunion is in full swing. Walking into Sea Palms last night and seeing familiar faces, so long absent, come into focus all over the room gave me a further sense of being grounded here on My Island. There will me more about that later.</span></div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-62060715535839066862016-06-30T14:43:00.000-04:002016-06-30T17:35:46.194-04:00Block Party <div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Dedicated to my dear friend, Shirley (The Squirrel) Martin</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> The squirrels in our neighborhood had babies this spring - many babies. At first they were cute. Aren’t all babies cute? They’re also smarter than their parents, because it didn’t take them long to learn how to climb up the shepherd’s hook, position themselves on top of my squirrel-proof bird feeder, and hang upside down to help themselves to all the sunflower seeds they can stuff into their little squirrel mouths, without touching the perches. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> A squirrel-proof feeder is cleverly designed with little doors that slam shut when anything heavier than a bird lands on its perches, thus cutting off access to the seeds. It’s a wonderful invention, and until this year, it worked like magic. Squirrels would climb up the pole and reach over, grab the perch, and wham! The door would close in their little squirrel faces. Score one for the birds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Not so this year. I tried putting out corn for them. They’re supposed to prefer it to seeds, but they just eat it all up and then hit the feeder. They also raid the suet cage but it's too much trouble for them. After all, they have an open banquet at the feeder. I constantly refill the water station. Like the rest of us, they are no doubt trying to stay hydrated in this heat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> The regulars in my backyard—cardinals, titmice, chickadees, finches and wrens—are naturally intimidated by the squirrels, so they only eat when the squirrels are taking a nap or whatever they do when they’re not feeding their faces. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Make no mistake, Honey has been doing her part, patrolling from her station</span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; -webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(255, 225, 97); color: #ffe161;"> </span><span style="font-kerning: none;">on the deck and chasing the little rodents back up in the trees where they belong. It’s a new pastime for her, squirrel chasing. She took it up just after her 13th birthday, but even with her help, the squirrels have been running rampant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> I imagine them having block parties, inviting all their little squirrel friends from around the neighborhood to my back yard, cavorting about in little squirrel party hats and drinking little squirrel cosmopolitans. I can see them lounging on the deck chairs, smoking little squirrel cigars and sipping from little squirrel brandy snifters. I picture them dealing little bridge hands with little squirrel cards, bidding grand slams and snacking from little squirrel nut dishes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> I know what you’re thinking. I should have installed a baffle the minute I realized my squirrels were party animals. But I hesitated, not wanting the ruin the esthetic of my back yard. A baffle looks like a Coolie hat. It’s attached to the pole and designed to keep squirrels from climbing up to the feeder. The most effective ones are made of slick metal, which keeps the squirrels from getting any traction should they land on top of it. Some of them can jump eight feet straight off the ground. The idea of an ugly baffle just didn’t sit right. So, I spent way too much time shooing them off my feeder and calling them dirty words.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> The <i>coup de grace</i> came when, day before yesterday, I realized they were inviting their cousins over to the house. I looked out to see a gray rat, about six inches long with a tail twice that length, hanging from the seed window, bypassing the perch altogether and eating sunflower seeds by the handful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Oh, no, no no, no, no! A squirrel is one thing, a rat quite another. Not even I, who sometimes question my own sanity, would let a rat find a ready food source in my back yard. I was off to Ace Hardware, where laid down $31.09 for a big, ugly baffle made of slick black metal. I drove home and attached it to the pole. A screwdriver was all I needed to install it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> I went back inside the house, positioned myself at the window and watched to see what would happen. The birds immediately returned. A trio of squirrels gathered around the base of the feeder, scavenging the seeds birds inevitably drop. They seemed to be getting plenty to eat. After only a few minutes, one of them wrapped his little squirrel paws around the pole and began climbing. When he was within about a foot of the baffle, he looked up, and seeing nothing but black, jumped down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Victory! The same squirrel gave it two more tries before giving up. The others seemed to have, intuitively I guess, learned from him and didn’t even give it a go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Birds: 10</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Squirrels and rats: 0</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> I’ll let you know when the little bastards figure out a way around it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">© 2016 cj Schlottman</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-39521138534736662492016-06-22T14:55:00.000-04:002016-06-25T10:03:13.710-04:00Positive Negativity<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 12px;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Monday night, just after sundown and as the Strawberry Moon was rising, Gretchen and I made our way down the boardwalk at Massengale Beach. The high tide that coincided with the full moon and summer solstice was washing against the steps and sliding in to lick at the dunes. The moon’s reflection on the water showcased brilliant whitecaps, sparkling evidence of the power of the ocean. A couple and their two children wading in the shin-deep water were buffeted around by the oncoming waves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> A cool onshore wind blew salt air into our faces as we settled onto the deck and organized our modest picnic of steamed shrimp and wine. Blanket and chair situated, I opened the wine and filled our glasses. We turned our faces to the moon and breathed in negative ions, the invisible, feel-good molecules so abundant in water environments, especially the ocean, where waves stir up the water, releasing the ions into the air. When we breathe them in, negative ions increase levels of serotonin in our brains, which in turn boosts mood and helps relieve stress. If you ever needed an excuse to go to the beach, now you have it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> As the moon rose, its reflection on the water grew wide, and the night was bright with it. We soaked up the moonbeams, talking and snacking and, well, just being in the moment, fully present for the most part, while the experience washed over us and took with it most of our consciousness of anything else. We lingered late, and as the tide began to recede, I climbed down the stairs and stood in the surf and wiggled my toes. I don’t remember being any happier without Clint.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> The Creator gave us this incredible gift, this healing force of nature we call the seashore. I call it my church. It’s open 24/7 and absolutely free of charge. There are no restrictions of any kind for admission. You just have to go. It’s as simple as that. Whatever your belief system, your spirit will be fed. If you open your heart to it, you will come away rich in peace and loving kindness, or if you prefer, filled with The Holy Spirit. Others may describe being in touch with the essence of God within. It doesn’t matter what you call it. You don’t have to call it anything. Is simply is.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span> <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px;">Just don’t do what Gretchen and I did. We left our phones in the car, and when we finally packed up to leave, it was almost midnight. The park closes at 10. Whoops. I drove to the gate, knowing we would find it locked. But living on The Island is a lot like living in Mayberry. I simply called the non-emergency police number (which every woman, wherever she lives, should have programmed in her phone), and told the dispatcher we were locked in Massengale Park and needed to be let out. Within minutes a nice officer drove up, opened the gate, and without a word, waved us through.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span> <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px;">It was those negative ions, I just know it.</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px;">© 2016 cj Schlottman</span></div>
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<i>Author's note: If you linked here from Facebook or Twitter and have a thought about this post, please leave a comment here on the blog. I'm in Facebook timeout again, and I won't see your comments there. </i> </div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-78741294747949009412016-06-13T13:44:00.000-04:002016-06-13T18:19:56.764-04:00Hiding in Plain Sight<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don’t know what to say. Yesterday’s massacre in Orlando has me distracted and angry and sad. I didn’t turn on the TV yesterday until nearly 11 o’clock I was stupid enough to keep it on most of the day. I am saturated with the blood of it, the senselessness of it, the utter evil of it. I have stared at Omar Mateen’s face, trying to see the darkness that surely lived behind it, but he looks like a regular person, not a terrorist. That’s the thing. Evil doesn’t necessarily announce itself when it walks in the room. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I turned on my computer and began searching for sites where I could learn the difference between Islam and Islamic extremism, and my eyes were opened. Why did I wait to long to educate myself? Have I really been slinging the word, sharia, around without actually understanding the meaning of it? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>During the aftermaths of the terror attacks in Paris, California, and other locations around the world and in the US, I was able to distance myself in a healthy way. I was aware of the dreadful circumstances but didn’t allow it to penetrate and overtake my unconscious. I felt pain and sorrow and anger but wasn’t overcome by it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Is this because I have a gay friend who works for Disney and lives in Orlando? I immediately wondered and worried about him. Thankfully, he posted on FaceBook yesterday that he decided to stay in on Saturday night. He may be safe, but he lost friends and acquaintances in the attack. He may be alive, but he’s not okay. His heart is broken and mine is broken for him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had trouble falling asleep last night. Every time I thought I was settled and ready to center myself for sleep, an unfamiliar restlessness came over me. I felt the need to move my body, turn over or reposition my legs. I finally sat up and started reading, but keeping my mind on the book was next to impossible. My grandmother would have described my state this way: I was as agitated as a worm in hot ashes. I finally resorted to a sleeping pill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I oversaturated myself with negative energy. That’s what I did, and I don’t understand why I did it. Did I think things would get better if I just waited long enough? There must be a name for that kind of sick attraction to tragedy. I suppose that’s the next topic I should explore on the internet. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, when I got up this morning, I vowed not to turn on TV. Instead, I began nesting. I went out on the front porch and watered my maidenhair and foxtail ferns. I dragged the hose up on the porch and watered my ferns in hanging baskets and my Christmas cactuses. Then I went out back to the deck and watered all the plants out there. The hibiscus hasn’t a single flower today, not one. It’s clearly in mourning. I told the orchids everything would be okay, murmured reassurance to the asparagus fern and the pale pink pentas. I even went out in the yard to the shady spot where nothing will grow and spoke to the Irish Moss I planted there out of desperation. I cleaned the grill and stowed it in the store room. The heat index was in the upper 90s, and sweat was pouring off me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I didn’t care. I came inside and started fooling around in the kitchen. I thought about sharpening my knives so they’ll be ready the next time I’m moved to chop up something, but Gretchen is nesting, too. She was in the middle of mixing up a batch of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, so I got out of her way and sat down in the den to cool off. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Have I really made this about me? I suppose I have. I bruised my soul yesterday, allowed myself to be bombarded with the worst of bad news, and today I just can’t do it. I can’t be part of it. I don’t even want to sign in to FaceBook because it’s too painful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Doubtless, many bloggers are writing about this horrible thing that happened to all of us. The victims and their families in Orlando are not alone. Millions of people across the world are standing with them, trying to imagine their suffering and offering support and love.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I count myself among them, but for now, I’m offering my support and love from behind the curtain of my little world here on my little island. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ll be out soon. </span></div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-46882197344211012482016-06-03T16:26:00.000-04:002016-06-03T18:02:59.105-04:00The Zen of Cleaning Crabs<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Since I was a young girl growing up on Saint Simons Island, I’ve been catching and picking blue crabs, the tasty crustaceans with bright blue claws and olive green shells that are plentiful in these waters. Before I was old enough to cook and clean them, my mama taught my three brothers and me how to catch them using a stick and a line. For the uninitiated, you’ll need a “stick” about three feet long. It can be a broom handle sawed in half or a slender board—whatever you have on hand to which you can tie a length of heavy twine. You’ll also need some raw chicken necks or backs. It’s an old wives’ tale that you should let them sit in the sun until they’re smelly. Would YOU like to eat a crab that just ingested spoiled chicken? </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12px;">To finish out the equipment list, get ourself a five gallon bucket and a dip net. Tie a piece of chicken to the loose end of the line and, at low tide, find yourself a spot on the beach near a inlet where you can wade out knee deep and stick your pole in the sand. Throw the chicken out into the water—and wait. You may even want to walk back to your chair and pull a cold one out of the cooler. If the crabs are active, you won’t have to wait long. Gently pull the line toward you until you can see the chicken. It there are crabs greedily attacking it, continue to pull it until you can scoop them up in your net. Go slow and you won’t scare them away. They're greedy little monsters, and they'll follow that chicken practically to your feet. </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> There is no greater thrill than watching children catching crabs. Their squeals of feigned fear and pure delight will stay with you forever. Imagine your children or grandchildren, brown as berries from the sun, taking turns wielding the net, scooping up the crabs and running to shore with their catch. And yes, there were the arguments about just whose turn it was to hold the net and just who let a big one get away, but they were happy, so very happy. </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> We had a Boxer named Toma who would wade out, sit down in the water up to her chest, and watch over the kids. Once, when out of the innocent curiosity only a Boxer can have, she stuck her muzzle into a jelly fish and her whole face swelled up like a manatee. I had to take her home and dose her with Benadryl, but she was okay. We were all okay. We were all happy. </span><br />
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> I got off on a little tangent there, didn't I? So, here's the story I intended to tell in the beginning.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On Monday of this week, Crab Man called from The Village Pier, where he puts in traps nearly every day. (You can’t crab with a stick and a line at the pier.) He wanted to know if I were interested in buying his catch, and I thought about it for a moment and said I did. I refused a bucket about a week before because I didn’t have time to process them, and I’d had a taste for them ever since. It’s a lengthy operation, getting blue crabs from the ocean into a crab cake or some other delicacy, but nothing makes for better eating.</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I parked my truck and, flip-flops slapping at my heels, walked out onto the pier swinging a bright orange Home Depot bucket. I found Crab Man half way down the dock, and when I peered into his catch, I smiled. There, waving their claws and bubbling at their mouths, were 15 big blue beauties. I paid him ten dollars, we exchanged buckets, and I drove home with the air conditioner blowing full blast to keep the crabs cool and alive. I don’t cook dead crabs, and neither should you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I stowed the bucket in a cool corner of the kitchen and hauled out my biggest boiler and set it on the stovetop. When the water was rolling, I sprinkled it liberally with Tony Chachere’s seafood seasoning. (There is no other.) And then I emptied the bucket of crabs into the pot and covered it with the lid. I know, I know. Where’s the Zen in that? It’s not the most pleasant part of the job. They struggle for a few seconds, but I rationalize away any guilt by telling myself death is almost instantaneous. And then there’s the end product—succulent, sweet deliciousness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Twenty minutes later, the crabs had turned bright orange and were floating in the water, a sure sign they were done. I dumped them in the sink to cool and cleaned up the splatters of crab water that inevitably spew out of the pot onto the ceramic cooktop. I hate that thing. It’s a pain in my ass every time I have to clean it, and the only reason I have one is that that there’s no gas line on our street, and I’m unwilling to have a tank buried in my back yard. Learning to live without a gas range is the biggest challenge I faced when I bought this wonderful house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When the crabs were cool enough to handle, I set about pulling off the claws and depositing them in a bowl. Then I tugged off the backs and broke the skeletons in half in order to clean out the innards. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This is when the Zen kicks in. While performing this chore, I can’t think of anything else. I am completely in the moment, concentrating only on removing the long fingerlike gills and rinsing out the spongy goo that is the stomach. I give them a final rinse with the kitchen sprayer and put them in the bowl with the claws. Some people experience a sense of fulfillment when ironing or mowing the grass or shelling a basket of butter beans. For me, there is great satisfaction in the sight of a bowl full of crabs, clean and ready to pick.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> Since the trash man wouldn't be coming for a week, I bagged up all the shells and body parts and stowed them in the freezer until Sunday night. You ain't lived until you've let crab sit in your garbage bin for a week in hot weather. If I were the trash guy, I wouldn't go near it.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Traditionally in our family, picking crabs has been a joint effort. Everyone gathered around the old card table that Harry almost blew up with his chemistry set. We spread newspaper over it and, and using nut crackers and picks, we all worked together. When we were older, there was beer involved. After Clint and I married, his children and grandchildren became part of the process. Bowls filled with crabmeat quickly, and to a person, everybody in my family has fond memories of those times. No, we were not a family who ate as we picked, dipping the crab in melted butter. Hell, if we had done that, the slow pickers would have been out of luck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There’s an art to extracting the meat from a crab carcass, and not everyone is gifted in that way. When my brother John was alive, he sucked at it. Even after he was a grown man, someone always had to pick over his bowl for bits of shell. His wife Lisa, on the other hand, is one of the best pickers I’ve ever known. I’m pretty good at it, too. Once I picked out 36 crabs by myself because everyone else was out fishing with Clint. Then, as now, I didn’t mind and in fact enjoyed the solitude and the Zen of it all. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When the picking was over, Mama would make a big dish of crab au gratin or a pot of crab soup—whatever we had enough crab to make. Sometimes we had both.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Back to Monday. I spread newspaper on the coffee table and gathered my equipment. Vodka was involved. Using the same nut crackers and picks Mama bought half a century ago to shell pecans, I got down to work. I picked out the bodies first, because they’re the hardest. The cartilage that separates the compartments of white lumps of meat is tricky to negotiate. Over time, I’ve developed a feel for them, which is a good thing because these 68 year old eyes ain’t so sharp any more. Some would call it tedious work, but as I’ve already explained, I get lost in it. It takes me completely outside myself.</span><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>If you’re picking crabs by yourself, frequent breaks are necessary. Your fingers get shriveled and a little numb, which can result in sloppy work. Can’t have that. Coincidentally, breaks were necessary about the same time my drink needed a patch. Funny how that works.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Bodies out of the way, I attacked the claws. Child’s play. Using a dish rag to protect my fingers, I pried them apart. In most cases, the cartilage that separates the big side into two hunks of dark meat came out in one piece. Yes! Then all I had to do was crack the hard shells and remove the contents. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Once I was finished and my fingers came back to life, I made two passes at the bowl of sweet goodness to check for shells. Hey, I never said I was perfect. It’s almost impossible to find every tiny piece of shell and cartilage, but it’s important to try, a matter of pride, really. Sloppy picking makes for less than appealing crab cakes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A dozen large crabs will render about a pound of meat. If you pack it into a two-cup measure, you can be certain it’s a pound. Good to know because many recipes call for crab by weight. I had a little over a pound, so there was enough to make crab cakes for dinner with enough left over for crab au gratin appetizers (recipe from Bennie’s Red Barn) for the next night. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I used a recipe for crab cakes I’d never tried, and to be honest, it wasn’t my best work. Next time I’ll fall back on the tried and true recipe that’s served me well over the years: a pound of crab, a finely chopped onion and a couple of sticks of minced celery, two eggs, a little chopped parsley and some Lea and Perrins (no substitute). After it’s all mixed together, form into small patties and sauté them in a little butter and olive oil over medium heat. Crab is rich, so don’t make them too big. Be patient and don’t try to cook them too fast or turn them too soon. The bottom needs to be brown, not burned, and holding together when you turn them, or you’ll have a mess on your hands. Besides, the onion and celery need time to cook. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> I hope everyone who reads this post will have a chance to go crabbing the old fashioned way, then get the family together for cooking, cleaning and picking. You'll make wonderful and lasting memories. It makes me feel good in my feelings just thinking about it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">© 2016 cj Schlottman</span></div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-14087394060522038202016-05-13T17:33:00.001-04:002016-05-29T14:06:30.238-04:00My Spotless Oven<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My oven is spotless, shiny on both sides and in the bottom. The racks are still soaking in my sink, but they will also be spotless before I sleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Why,” you may rightly ask, should you give a tinker’s damn about the state of my oven? It is cheeky of me to assume my oven could ever be of any possible interest to you, but I’m going to tell you anyway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Here’s why: I believe all special occasions should be celebrated with food, preferably something sweet and gooey. So, this afternoon, I set out to bake two lemon meringue pies, my grandmother’s handwritten recipe, which has nothing to do with sweetened, condensed milk, on the counter before me. One pie in honor of my stepdaughter Kristy’s visit, which begins tomorrow, and one in celebration of my friend Melissa’s successful semester in pursuit of her BS in Nursing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The prep work went swimmingly. I carefully measured out the flour and sugar, zested and squeezed the lemons, poured out a little salt, and cut off two tablespoons of butter, placing each ingredient in its own bowl or ramekin just like on TV. It took me years to learn it’s the only way to ensure a good outcome. I once made a pecan pie and forgot the sugar, so you’ll understand my ramekin fetish. I separated the eggs, employing the wildly popular Natalie Dupree method which involves bare hands. I’ve entertained my granddaughters through the years by allowing them to mess with raw eggs. It’s one of the reasons they love me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was time to go to work, so using my 30-something year old Kitchenaid, I beat the egg yolks until they were light and fluffy and added the sugar, flour and salt. I poured the mixture into my favorite sauce pot (also my grandmother’s) and began cooking the custard, stirring constantly, just like she did. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Satisfaction is making a custard without a double boiler and having it turn out perfect. By the time it was stiff enough to pull off the heat and add the butter, I was sweating like a whore in church despite the countertop fan blowing in my face. I tucked a dish towel into the pocket of my blue and white striped apron to use as a brow mop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So far, so good. Next I pricked the pie crusts, the only thing about this recipe that isn’t from scratch, and baked them for a few minutes. When they were cool, I spooned custard into each of them and turned back to the Kitchenaid to beat the egg whites and a little sugar into stiff peaks for the meringue. With a great self-congratulatory sigh, I piled it on the pies and made little designs on the top with a spatula before putting them on a baking sheet and into the oven.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After five minutes, I peeked. The pie on the left was browning at a faster rate than the one on the right, so I donned my oven mitts with seashells printed on them, pulled the rack toward me and turned the baking sheet 180 degrees. I slid the rack back into place, only it didn’t slide. It balked, it hesitated, so I gave it a little shove. Mistake, big mistake. The rack didn’t move a micron, but the baking sheet tilted up and deposited both pies face first into bottom of the oven. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A lesser woman would have had a come-apart at that point, but not me. I cussed. I cussed the oven and the racks and the baking sheet. I cussed the heat and the sweat pooling in my bra. I cussed just about everything about the miserable turn of affairs, but I didn’t cry. I pulled up a stool and scraped up the sticky mass and shoveled it back into the pie shells. By the time I pulled my head out of the oven, my naturally curly hair looked exactly like Brillo and sweat was running into my eyes and down my back. I started the cleaning cycle and stuck the racks in a sink of hot, soapy water. Then I did what any self-respecting cook would do. I scooped some of the wretched pie into a bowl and ate it. It was delicious. Anyone who tells you they wouldn’t have done the same thing can’t be trusted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>With all of that out of the way, like the true Southern Belle I am, I washed my hands, pulled off my apron, smoothed my gray linen dress and I went into the bar, where I carefully measured out a jigger of Ketel One and poured it over a few ice cubes in a Lismore roly-poly tumbler. I dropped in an olive, picked up a cocktail napkin and took a ladylike swig. I sat the glass down, lifted up the decanter and topped it off, just because I could. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Tomorrow morning, I’ll have drive to the Winn-Dixie for more pie crusts so I can start the process all over, but for now, I’m lounging on my leather fainting couch in the sunroom, admiring the brilliant red of the hibiscus blooming on the deck and watching hummingbirds zoom in to feed just outside the window.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Life is sweet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Copyright 2016 cj Schlottman</span></div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-38296623537402154872016-01-31T18:02:00.001-05:002016-01-31T18:02:06.394-05:00Happy Birthday, Clint<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 12px; text-align: center;">
Author's note: Please leave your comments on this page. I'm taking a break from Facebook, and I want to know what you think. </div>
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Thanks.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Today would be Clint’s 82nd birthday, and I wish he were here to celebrate. I wish he had stayed healthy and strong and virile, so we could grow old together. I wish we were celebrating at fabulous restaurant, drinking fine wine and holding hands across the table. But he’s not here. It’s only me.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’m here, in the now. I have my memories, precious and dear, and I hold them in my heart. There is a place in my soul were Clint lives on. We are together in a way impossible in life, I think. There are no misunderstandings, no arguments (which were seldom), no illness and helplessness, no crippling stress. I no longer fear his inevitable death and the emptiness it left in my life. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> When he died, I suffered in such a way my body turned on me. My fibromyalgia was worse than ever, and I never slept through the night without pain. I had a series of autoimmune disorders that began before he died. I had eosinophilic gastritis and was on steroids to control the pain for almost a year. I suffered stress-drive atrial fibrillation six months before he passed away. I was exhausted from trying to hold up the plane, prevent life from taking its course. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After Clint died, I had an ugly rash called lichen planus. I lost my balance and my memory and was nauseated for two years. I went to work one day and didn’t know what to do. In short, my body and my brain shut down, forcing me to stop, to live in the moment, miserable though it was.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was four years after losing the love of my life when I began to believe my life could go on, that there was room in my life for happiness if only I would embrace it. That was two and a half years ago, and I was in the throes of Parrish’s severe mental illness. He was in a hospital in Atlanta after his first suicide attempt, and I was wondering what I could do to make life easier for him. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In the very act of getting outside myself, I made a decision that was good for both of us, and we moved home to Saint Simons Island, my hometown. The first year and a half were rife with the stress of caring for Parrish. So often during that time, life seemed to consist of a series of roadblocks to happiness, but through it all, I became conscious of a sense of being grounded, a feeling I never knew in Macon after Clint died. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Parrish’s sudden death set me back, and I fell into a deep hole of depression, wondering if I would ever find a way to climb out. His death reactivated my grief for Clint, and I spent months hiding from my losses. I sprinkled Old Spice on their sweaters and wore them around the clock. They wore the same scent, and the smell brought them back to me in a soothing way. I drank too much and didn’t eat right. I rarely slept and binged on Netflix until my vision was blurred. I could not see past my pain.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then, last fall, I remembered meditation, its centering power, its ability to put me in the moment. But I had to learn all over again. I got out Parrish’s copy of <span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">10% Happier</span> by Dan Harris and read it in one sitting. I bought Sharon Salzberg’s <span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">Real Happiness</span> and followed the instructions and did the exercises in order to refresh my long-neglected practice. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I began to meditate regularly and include <a href="http://www.wildmind.org/metta/introduction/metta-prayer" target="_blank">Metta Prayer</a> in my daily life. I set realistic goals, hoping to meditate for only five minutes at first. Some days I meditate for longer, but no matter how much or how little time I spend in the practice, I am more centered in the moment and more capable of letting go of the negatives in my life I can’t change.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I remembered good habits I had let fade into the background and began frequent walks on the beach. Implausibly, I had forgotten the beach was there for me, the place I turned to, as a child and a young woman, for solitude and reflection and healing. In a real way, my walks are a form of meditation. Breathing the salt air alone is comforting.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After years of chronic pain, I am comfortable. I don’t wake in the night with burning pain. My thinking is clear and reasonable, and I feel good about my life. I look to a creative future I once thought impossible. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Clint would be very happy. </div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-18086239924606186492016-01-29T13:27:00.003-05:002016-01-29T13:28:59.159-05:00Sand Art Courtesy East Beach and The Atlantic Ocean<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal;">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Shells are not the only treasures the ocean leaves when it flows out. The other today, at dead low tide, the I noticed the receding water had carved works of art in the sand. I don’t ordinarily take my phone when I walk; it just seems somehow counterproductive. The beach is my cathedral, and I certainly wouldn’t take a phone to a church building. But for whatever reason, I had it tucked into the back pocket of my jeans and was able to capture this image.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’m presenting it to you from all four angles. What do you see?</div>
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Please click on the "Post a Comment" button and describe what you see in each image. The first person to leave a comment will see a button that says "No comments." I'll post the results next time. Remember, I'm in Facebook Rehab and won't see comments you leave there. Only those here. My blog posts are automatically posted to FB and Twitter when I publish them. Thanks.</div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-47251512586542565602015-12-26T12:49:00.000-05:002015-12-27T13:41:56.558-05:00Merry Christmas<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">Lately, when walking in the edge of the sea on East Beach, I have taken Clint and Parrish with me in my imagination. Clint is 41, strong and athletic, and he is holding my hand. We are completely in love. His head crowned with blond curls, Parrish is 5 and running in and out of the shallow waves, stopping to inspect shells and pieces of driftwood, calling us to inspect his finds. The sun is high and bright and we are brown with it. This fantasy comforts me, takes me to a time when there was no hint of how sick Clint would become or that Parrish would fall victim to severe mental illness and alcohol and drug addiction. I am content in their love. The smell of the ocean is in our noses; a gentle breeze from the southeast is soft on our shoulders and tousles my hair into ringlets. We are happy, washed in the healing sea air, kicking the water that runs up on the sand in clear sheets edged with sea foam.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">Yesterday, Christmas Day, I once more took the two most important men in my life with me to the beach we all so loved. Before leaving my house, I collected some ashes from each of their urns and mixed them together in a small bottle, symbolically reuniting them in a way that never happened in life. They were estranged for years. Clint resented the pain Parrish’s illness inflicted on me in the same way he resented any force in my life that wasn’t positive. If they had lived, the probability of them reconciling was remote, as much as I wanted it to happen.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">As I was making my way from the Old Coast Guard Station north toward Gould’s Inlet, I stopped occasionally, kissed the bottle, and sprinkled some of their ashes into the warm water of the incoming tide. They both so loved the sea. As I made my way toward the inlet, looking down in my usual way, scanning the sand for an olive shell or a sand dollar, I was surprised to look up and see a pall of fog just ahead. I walked directly into it, head high, and breathed in the salt of it, the weight of it, feeling somehow freed by it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">I turned and began my way back, savoring the sand between my toes and the uncommon warmth of the water. After a few minutes, the sun was in my eyes. I deliberately parked my sunglasses on my head, hoping to catch a few of its rays on my pale cheeks.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">As I walked back toward the parking lot, I came on a snowman, or I should say, and sandman. He was perfectly proportioned, Santa hat sitting jauntily atop his round head, reflective sunglasses in place on his carrot nose, and the artist had given him teeth made from a cockle shell. His arms were driftwood, and as I stopped to admire him, a woman hung a red glass Christmas ball on one of his arms.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
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Merry Christmas<br />
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© 2015 cj Schlottman<br />
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-68160733120802764122015-10-06T09:31:00.004-04:002015-10-06T09:35:43.190-04:00Contentment<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; min-height: 12px;">
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> It’s a sunny fall afternoon, skies blue and a sweet-tempered breeze ruffling the leaves on the oak trees in my yard. I scoop hulled sunflower seeds into a green plastic cup and pour them into the feeder that hangs from a chain outside my window. Chickadees in their black caps along with house finches and tufted titmice scatter as I approach but return before the back door closes behind me. They flit and hover around the perches designed to collapse when larger birds touch down. A chickadee clings to the chain, waits its turn as others sort out the pecking order, decide who eats first.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> A painted bunting, magnificent in its clear vivid hues of red, green, blue and yellow, the first I’ve seen this year, flies in to join the fray. I am transfixed. He restyles the image and it morphs to high definition, the other birds fading into a dull backdrop. He feeds, occasionally looking around, stays long enough for me to take a poor quality photo through the window. And he is gone.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Out in the yard, at the feeder filled with whole sunflower seeds, cardinals and red-winged blackbirds, the occasional bossy jay, even a pair of red-bellied woodpeckers feast at their own table. The small birds feed there as well, given the opportunity. Six mourning doves inch their way across the ground below, salvaging seeds dropped by the others. A single brown thrasher creeps up on them and they scatter, some lifting their round bodies up into the branches of the ligustrum that lines the fence. The bully moves on. After all, he prefers insects to seeds.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Glowing iridescent green and red in the sunshine, a single ruby-throated humming bird perches at the water station and drinks. He returns to hover at the cobalt blue feeder I have hung, a source of the nectar he needs for energy. He disappears, no doubt foraging for insects to gorge upon as he doubles his weight in order to survive the journey across the Gulf of Mexico.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br /> I sit and watch the dance being played out before me, surprised to know I am content, happy in this moment of my life. Contentment has eluded me for so long, I hardly recognize it. I embrace it, cherish the cascade of ease and comfort and belonging it pours over me.<br /><br /><br />Copyright 2015 cj Schlottman</div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-46631428141056203412015-09-30T19:29:00.000-04:002015-09-30T19:29:59.526-04:00Cycles of Tides, Cycles of LIfe<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For the past several days, I have been taking a short walk on the beach every afternoon. For the most part, the tourists are gone, and with children in school, well, it’s quiet and feels like home, like when my best friend, Mary Ellen and I were teenagers basking in the sun, baby oil and iodine slathered over every inch of exposed flesh to intensify our tans.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yesterday afternoon at 4:00, the sun was shining on Meadows Drive, despite a weather forecast that predicted rain. So, I climbed into my Yukon and drove the beach, or almost to the beach. As I made the left turn onto the East Beach causeway, rain began to fall and big drops splattered my windshield. As I got closer to the Old Coast Guard Station, the rain intensified and I turned around and came back home, where no rain was falling and their was no evidence that any had fallen at all.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’d been working on my memoir for most of the day, so I returned to making the necessary changes for me to alter its structure to include Parrish’s almost continuous difficulties along with the events and stress of the last few years of Clint’s life. It takes more work and a different focus to incorporate the two, but it’s necessary for the book to make sense, to tell the entire story. It’s the only way I can make the reader understand the tightrope I walked between the two most important people in my life. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve been mining old journals for content in order to make the chronology work. Reliving that time, reading and processing what I recorded in my notebook is exhausting and exhilarating at once. I made a timeline of the first five months of 2009, and began to see how it would work. After years of thinking my story would be told in two separate memoirs, I am finally convinced, along with some encouragement from Rosemary Daniell, my writing mentor, that both stories are so intertwined they cannot be separated. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px;">Having already begun the first three chapters, I am working to integrate Parrish’s many crises into the events I had already written down. It will work. I know it will work, and I am more excited than ever to be writing this book, and I just might be overcoming some of the fear I have experienced around the writing of it.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At 6:00, I drove back to the beach and parked at Massengale Park. There was sun and a cool breeze, so I kicked off my sandals and walked to the water’s edge and dug my toes into the wet sand and wiggled them around. Then I turned north for my short (with respect for my knee and back) trek from there to the Old Coast Guard Station and back. No shells to pick up, only light rafts of wrack washing ashore. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Each time I go to the beach I am flooded with memories of Clint and Parrish and the rest of the family when life was uncomplicated and unsurprising. Long before we ever considered that Parrish might develop a severe mental disorder and Clint would have an operation from which he really never recovered, sunbathing and swimming and shelling and walking to Gould’s Inlet and back were standard weekend activities. Even when our lives in Macon were filled with work and other responsibilities, we drove to The Island as often as possible, just to be on that very beach. At summer’s end, we were all tan and healthy and happy.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There is something about the dependability of the tides. We have experienced spring tides for the last few days. That happens when the earth and moon are aligned and the waters of the oceans bulge in their direction, creating higher tides than usual. Our spring tides have been augmented by heavy rains and a northeast wind that pushes the waters farther in to shore than usual. So, the high tide water line is almost in the dunes. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The steadfastness of the tides and their predictable cycles of lows and highs creates a sense of stability in me. Knowledge that they ebb and flow in a regular fashion combined with the sheer energy of the ocean grounds me in the fact that life is so much more than I. Perhaps the regularity and constancy of their cycles quenches my longing for a sense of permanence. The chaos of my life for the last ten years has been unpredictable and painful and at times so unbearable I contemplated suicide. In my muddled and disorderly and confused depression after Parrish’s sudden death, I lost sight of the fact that the ocean is practically at my doorstep and is always open for business. There is no limit to what depression and loss can cost. But, at last I can walk on the beach and breathe in the strength of the ocean, soak up some vitamin D and be infused the negative ions that are so soothing to the soul. I am content in the the very knowledge that it will be there tomorrow, waiting for me, be the tide high or low. </div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-33527841662056995652015-09-09T12:42:00.001-04:002015-09-09T13:01:13.348-04:00What Would The Buddha Do?<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On Saturday afternoon, I drove myself to The Village to sit on the pier and read for a while. It was my second foray out after my successful epidural last Wednesday, and I was looking forward to breathing in the fresh sea air of the high time breeze.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On my first pass down Mallory Street, a big black truck began to pull out of a parking space very near the pier, and I happily flipped on my blinker and waited for the driver to pull out. Imagine you are me, about to pull into a parking slot on my right. Standing behind the back of the car next to the truck—the one closest to me—was a man in a red shirt. He waved and I cheerfully waved back and began to thread my Yukon between the white lines. I’m always happy to take the place of big truck because I drive one myself and it’s nice to know I will fit.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As I pulled forward, The Man in the Red Shirt walked directly in front of me and planted himself in the very middle of the space. When I motioned him out of the way, he sallied forth and pressed his chest against the front of my truck. Stunned, I rolled down the window and asked him to move. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No! I’m saving this space.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>What?</i></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Sorry, but you can’t do that.” </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You can’t hit me with your truck either!”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>What? Whaaa-ut?</i></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I took the bait and climbed down onto the pavement to confront him, all five feet, three inches of me.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I did not hit you! You positioned yourself right where you are, and you need to leave so I can park. There are plenty of available spaces, so go stand in one of those.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You can’t make me move!”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Maybe not, but I’m pretty sure the police could make it happen,” I called over my shoulder, walking back to my truck. “And get yourself off the front my this vehicle!”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I looked around for Officer Lacey, who is frequently patrolling on foot near the pier, but I didn’t see anyone. I scanned the other side of the street and realized his parol car wasn’t there. As I got back in my truck, a little white car pulled up behind me and stopped on my bumper. I was trapped between The Man in the Red Shirt and The Little White Car. I couldn’t go either way. There was room for traffic to pass on the left of us. I’d like to think if there weren’t, I would have had the good grace, not to mention the good sense, to give up right then.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Now, I know what you’re thinking, and you have a point. I could have motioned to the Man in the Red Shirt that I was pulling out, given The Little White Car the same signal, and the situation would have been diffused. No harm, not foul, just me wondering what in the name of all that is holy the world has come to. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For a nanosecond, I asked myself, “What would The Buddha do?” It was only a fleeting thought and instead of honoring it, I found the number of the police dispatcher in my phone directory and touched “call.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>No, I didn’t call 911. I have the other number programmed into my phone because I once read on Facebook that I should have it there in case I needed the police but didn’t have a life-threatening problem. (My dear friends, especially you girls, please do that for yourselves. Put that number in your phone in case you come up on a Man in a Red Shirt standing in your way when you are attempting to, God forbid, park your car.)</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The dispatcher came on the line. Since my truck is bluetooth enabled, the call was routed through the speakers, and since my window was still down, The Man in the Red Shirt could hear her voice asking me what I needed. He had moved back a few steps, but when he heard the call, he literally repositioned himself up against the front of the Yukon. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>What?</i></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I know, I know. “literally” is an unnecessary and overused and might even be called a cliché, but I can’t help myself. This story just needs it. Anyway, feeling very foolish all of a sudden, I relayed my situation to the dispatcher. I don’t know why she didn't laugh, I really don’t. The sound of my own voice embarrassed even me, but she proceeded in a professional tone.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“What is your location, Ma’am?”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Down by the pier on Mallory Street.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“And exactly what is it you want?”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I want you to send someone down her to get this man out of this parking space so I can get in it. He and his buddy have me blocked in.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Are you in any danger?”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No, I’m not. I just want this man to get out of my way.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You sure you’re not in any danger?”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was beginning to feel as silly as I must have sounded.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No, I’m not afraid.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’ll send someone right away.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Man in the Red Shirt backed off a step or two, and a really nice woman who apparently has more sense than the rest of us combined presented herself at my window, and I buzzed it down. She was smiling and had sweet eyes and was very pretty with beautiful dark blonde hair.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hi.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hi.” I resisted the urge to tell her I wasn’t going anywhere.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“There are plenty of spaces on the other side. Maybe you could take one of those,” said said.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I am aware of that,” I replied sweetly, “but I have his one. I’m just waiting for that man to step aside so I can pull in.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You really want to be right about this, don’t you?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Pretty much.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I understand, just wanted you to know about the other spaces.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She walked around the front of my car and spoke to The Man as I looked around for the cops, feeling stupider and stupider. No police cruiser in sight. I began to silently pray they wouldn’t show up. What was I going to tell them? That I was somehow at a disadvantage sitting in my big truck while a man stood on the pavement directly in my path? And not a very big man at that? </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Luckily, The Lord looks after fools and old people, both of which I happen to be. The Peacemaker talked The Man down, and he backed off grudgingly. I felt no satisfaction when I eased into the space, but as I climbed down and started walking toward The pier, a couple walked up to me and did a little happy dance.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m so glad you stood your ground!” said the man, as his wife made little silent clapping movements. There eyes gleamed with excitement. “I’ve never seen anything to beat that, never. I want you to know we’ve been here the whole time, and I wasn’t going to leave until things were settled. You never know about people these days.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It was a first for me,” I replied, enjoying the attention and validation of my nitwittery. After we exchanged a few more words, they got back on their motorcycle and left. I spent an hour reading and feeling foolish before I came home. I’m not sure salt air is any cure for needing to be right, but I’m glad I took the time.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The next day, I went to see my friend Jim, who recently had a heart attack. He’s a man with a real problem, facing a life-changing time. He’s doing very well, getting therapy and making good progress. I couldn't help telling him the story, though by that time I had embraced my shame and was dealing with the guilt. When I got to the “What would The Buddha think?” part, he said.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Well, he might have thought that fellow needed to learn right from wrong.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What do you think? </div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-22625108351198408452015-09-04T13:33:00.002-04:002015-09-04T13:33:47.183-04:00In Praise of the Epidural<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On Wednesday, my sweet friend Angie took me to town for my epidural injection of steroids. Two college graduates had a little trouble finding the location, but we arrived on time—or so I thought. I was an hour early. Great.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A little back story. After being “down in the back” in a spectacular way, I only had four pain pills, 5mg Lortab. My dentist gave them to me back in March when I had a dental problem. I doled them out to myself as though they were little pellets of solid gold, and when my back pain finally eased, the day before the epidural, I had only a small stash of the miracle workers. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On Tuesday, a nurse from the anesthesiologist’s office called with instructions. It was simple enough: nothing to eat or drink after midnight except a sip of water if I needed a pain pill. When I quizzed her about what to expect, she said I should have immediate relief that would last about 24 hours. She then told me after that, I <span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">might</span> have pain for several days even worse than I had been been experiencing before being comfortable again. It might happen, it might not.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Is he going to send me out of there with a prescription for something for pain?”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No. He doesn’t prescribe pain meds. You’ll have to get a prescription from your back doctor.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A feeling a dread perfused my entire being. I endured ten days of back pain with lightening bolts shooting down my leg even with the help of Lortab, and the thought of anything worse was almost more than I could comprehend. Tears welled in my eyes. After I composed myself, I called my back doctor’s assistant to ask for a prescription. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Dr. XXXXX has a policy of not prescribing narcotics for his patients.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The tears started up again.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Are you telling me that a doctor who treats back problems doesn’t prescribe pain meds for them? I find that absurd. I’ve been warned that my pain may return for a few days and that it might be even worse than before. What does he expect me to do? I’m not at all sure I want to be associated with a doctor who won’t treat my pain when needed. I’ll have think about this. I may cancel the procedure and look for a reasonable doctor. I just don’t know. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was babbling. Weak and exhausted from the recent siege of pain, I couldn’t imagine things being worse, even for a couple of days. I knew my small stash would not be enough to keep me comfortable if the worst happened. I explained I had tried a milder medication but it made me itch to the point of not being able to sleep. She was unmoved.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I want you to go ask him. Better yet, I want to talk to him.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“He won’t be back in the office until tomorrow.”<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“My appointment is at ten. Will he be back by then?</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I think so.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For a moment I was speechless, a rare occurrence for me. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Then, “When he gets there in the morning, ask him to give me something for pain and call me. Remember my appointment is at ten.”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Yes, Ma’am.” Finally a modicum of respect.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The next morning, as I was checking in for the epidural, my cell phone chimed, and it was the nurse at Dr. XXXXX’s office, telling me he had written me a prescription for FIVE pain pills, and that I could pick it up at the front desk. Five pills? Now isn’t that just a party in a bottle? </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I finished my paperwork and told the receptionist I was going to run out for a moment to pick up a prescription. I was, after all, an hour early. She looked as though I were pointing a gun at her and blurted, </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“But I can’t send your chart back unless you’re here!”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The poor thing had completely lost her automaton-like boredom-ridden cadence she used on every patient as though we were all so many cattle being moved through a chute. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“I’m an hour early. I need to run this errand, and you can transfer my chart when I get back. This is not a problem.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Let me know the minute you get back!”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Like she wouldn’t see me coming through the door of the tiny and badly decorated reception area. I was frankly happy to escape the dull green walls adorned with nothing except xeroxed notices and reminders for patients to not eat or drink anything. Interestingly, there was a coffee urn for the fortunates who were only the chauffeurs. And there were the sad faces of the other patients, their pain reflected in their eyes. There was a stack of current copies of <span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">Golden Isles Home and Garden</span> on a table littered with pamphlets about pain management, and I picked up two copies for Angie and me.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She drove me to the other office, and I waited while two patients were checked in. I identified myself and the reason for my visit. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Do you have your ID?”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It’s in the car.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You’ll need it to get your prescription.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All this for FIVE pain pills. What did these people think? That I was going to take them downtown and sell them on the street? I went back to the car and got my wallet. The receptionist requested my driver’s license and made a copy of it and the prescription on the same page and offered it to me for my signature. All for FIVE pills. I scribbled my signature and we were back at the other office in ten minutes. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I waved at the receptionist, who looked inordinately relieved that I had returned. She had forgotten to give me a paper where I was to mark where my pain is/was on a drawing of the human body. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Well, clutch the pearls! I had thrown a monkey wrench into her routine. I filled out the page, which she directed me to keep and take when I was called to the back. I was still 20 minutes to appointment time. I opened my copy of the magazine, which was interesting. An article about the warblers who will be passing through on their voyage south caught my attention, and I made a mental note to put up a suet cake for them. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At 11:20, I closed the magazine and looked up. A man in a wheelchair and his wife were seated directly across from me. He turned his chair to face her and put his foot in her lap. She pulled the velcro straps on his shoe, loosened it and took it off. Fortunately I was called back as she was pulling off his sock to unleash whatever aroma it might produce.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The the nurses were efficient and kind. The doctor came by and introduced himself and explained the procedure. An IV access was established on the top of my right hand and I was quickly wheeled to the procedure room. It was over in a flash, and I was unaware of anything. One of the most impressive things about the whole adventure was that my IV site looks exactly as it did before the catheter was inserted—not a bruise, not even a hint that it was ever there. A nurse notices these things, and I want her next time. The doctor came back by and said I would need a series of injections and would be coming back in two weeks.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The outcome? Almost no pain in my back, not even enough to take an aspirin, but more lightening strikes. I’ll take it. I’ve slept like a baby for two nights and feel so much better it’s hard to imagine how awful the last few weeks were. The nurse just called and said the strikes should decrease over the next few days. And oh, I didn’t fill the prescription. I’m saving it for an emergency. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Color me happy.</div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-22323964687365399922015-08-22T15:11:00.000-04:002015-08-22T15:11:28.527-04:00Welcome to my Pity Party<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, here’s the thing. I am 67 years old and healthy. I have no heart disease or diabetes. My liver and kidneys work just fine, thank you. I’m not plagued with headaches like so many others. Organically, I’m in good shape, unless, of course, you count that I’m 20 pounds overweight.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The problem is that my infrastructure is crumbling. I have a “slipped disc” at the top of my lumbar spine. It has caused me to have something called spinal stenosis, which, according to Mayo Clinic’s web site is “a narrowing of the open spaces within your spine, which can put pressure on your spinal cord and the nerves that travel through the spine to your arms and legs.” </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’ve been plagued with back spasms off and on since I was in my 30s. Every now and then, I get down in the back and have to take muscle relaxers and pain killers and prednisone to reduce swelling and pressure on the nerve that causes the spasms. About three days of treatment was all that was required to get over it. It used happen once a year or so, but in the last few years things have gotten out of hand, and I’ve had many more frequent episodes. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>About three weeks ago, I started feeling lightening bolts shooting down behind my right knee. Some of them even went as far as the bottom of my foot, and that were doubtless a consequence of my spinal stenosis. I let it go for a week, thinking it was something that could be resolved by taking it easy and treating my back with respect and doing the stretching exercises I have been doing for years. I positioned a warm bed buddy at my back and an ice bag on my knee and watched old episodes of West Wing when I wasn’t showing up to write. I already had the muscle relaxers on hand, so I started taking them. It didn’t get better, so I went to see my back doctor’s PA. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Well, he prescribed a six day course of methylprednisolone, (medrol dose pack) a steroid that blocks the substances in or bodies that cause inflammation. I took the medicine, along with the muscle relaxer and a non-opioid pain killer. (Opiods make me fuzzy and I don’t like them.) He suggested that, if this conservative approach to my discomfort didn’t work, I might consider having an epidural injection of steroids. I’m still weighing that idea in my head. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I lay around like a slug for a few days, running hot and cold, as it were. The dose pack served mostly to kick my cardiac rhythm out of whack, and the lightening bolts continued. My back never has stopped hurting except when I am stretched out on the red leather chaise, which perfectly contours my back as to take pressure off it. The PVCs stopped almost immediately after I finished the steroids.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But about that time my other (left) knee swelled up and became painful. I’m not making this up. I didn’t fall on it or wrench it or run into a piece of furniture with it. I simply can’t point to an event that could have caused it. I spent several days on the sofa with a heated bed buddy at my back and an ice pack on my knee. The lightening bolts went away. One problem solved.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Trouble is, when I get up and do anything at all, and I mean anything, it swells and becomes painful again. And my back hurts—all the time. So yesterday, I went to see my knee doctor’s PA. He ordered some x-rays that suggested a space in the joint that shouldn't be there, that maybe I have a tendon tear. Great. I had one in that knee about eight years ago, and it was successfully treated with an arthroscopic procedure to “trim it up and clean it out.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Are you sick of this yet? Well, I don’t blame you but stand by because there’s more. The knee doctor’s PA scheduled an MRI for next week, put a brace on my knee and told me to continue with the muscle relaxers, and since I was getting no relief from the pain—in all its various places—he suggested I take two pan tablets rather than one. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I did as I was instructed, and about an hour after I took the medicine, I started to itch, all over. No rash, just itching. My nose looks like Bill Clinton’s, I’ve rubbed it so much. I was like a worm in hot ashes, scratching all over and looking in the mirror every now and then for signs of a rash. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And to add insult to injury, I couldn’t sleep. There I lay, warm bed buddy to my back, trying to go to sleep. When I had no success, I got up and watched some more West Wing, then went back to bed. Still sleep wouldn’t come. I dozed briefly, and when I woke and checked the clock, only a few minutes had passed. It was like that all night. And then there was the itching.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finally at six o’clock this morning, I abandoned trying to sleep and decided to take a Benadryl for the itch. It worked. But my knee and back were still killing me. Exactly 12 hours after I took two pain pills, I took a single one. No itching but no pain relief either. What ever became of of Tylenol #3? It’s not too strong, and at least for me, doesn't cause itching.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So here I sit on my chaise, where I can write comfortably and birdwatch, heat to my back and ice to my knee, doing #continuouspractice to tell the tale. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That’s the conclusion of my pity party. Thank you all for showing up and listening to my tale of woe. You see, I live alone and don’t have anyone except Honey to bother with this. And she’s pretty damned tired of my whining.</div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-84791101750056958922015-07-29T16:17:00.001-04:002015-07-29T16:17:42.555-04:00It's Still His Room - How Sophie Helped Me Donate Parrish's Clothes<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pb5xMZg9Ghc/VbkzppgfYCI/AAAAAAAABEg/qVbctTqxASk/s1600/Sophie%2BBW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pb5xMZg9Ghc/VbkzppgfYCI/AAAAAAAABEg/qVbctTqxASk/s320/Sophie%2BBW.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
Parrish was a clothes horse, and when he died, his closet was filled with more items than one man ever needed. I suppose I am partially to blame. His first sweater was a white cardigan with a baby blue monogram, and before he could walk, I dressed him in short overalls in soft cotton plaids with a white collared shirt or pastel turtleneck underneath. He wore white knee socks and miniature brown and white bucks. At two, he had his own style, and his blond curls topped off the look. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As a teen, he rarely wore jeans, preferring khakis with polo shirts. Marnie used to tease him about it. He wore brown loafers, sometimes with socks, sometimes without. Later, he never got so sick he “let himself go”, and after money became a problem, he dressed himself from thrift stores and Wal Mart, and no one could guess his clothes didn't have designer labels. When he couldn’t afford regular haircuts, he kept a buzz cut rather than have scraggly hair.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> He, who literally gave the shirt off his back to a stranger more than once, would want someone to have his things. The time came to clean out his closet and donate his clothes. There are men who need clothes, who don’t have a pair of dress pants or khakis, who need a collared shirt and a pair of leather shoes and a good belt for a job interview. They need something to wear to church.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Last month, I tried to sort out his things and get them ready to go to Goodwill, and even though Sophie—the only person in the world who could help me with the sad chore—was here, I just couldn’t find a starting place. When I walked into his room, I was paralyzed with sadness and weak with grief. I clutched the full length of his body pillow and breathed deeply of his smell, then I turned around and left, shaking with sobs. Sophie, who loved and was dearly loved by Parrish, emptied his dresser and organized his things, with no help from me.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On the 15th of this month, I brought Sophie back for a two week visit. Having her near gives me strength and hope. Everyone should have a friend like her. She makes me want to be a better person, do better things, take better care of myself. She is, no doubt, an angel—my angel. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px; white-space: pre;"></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px;"> A few days after she arrived, boxes in tow, Sophie and I went into Parrish’s room to begin sorting and packing his things for Goodwill. After standing and staring at his bed for a moment, I put the boxes on it and began to fill them. I had to pull back from myself, almost as though I were watching from across the room. To focus on the reality was impossible.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 12px;"> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I stacked his white undershirts in neat columns in the first box. I realized I was holding my breath and reminded myself to exhale. Then I moved on to his tee shirts, the casual ones with logos—Salt Life, Livestrong, Patagonia. I couldn’t make myself pack his yellow SeaTow shirt and instead put it to the side to keep. Sophie helped me take his collared polo shirts off their hangers, and I carefully folded them and started a new box. I left his new sport coat on the hanger and hung it on the door knob.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Knowing the contents of the boxes would be unceremoniously tossed into a bin at the Goodwill drop-off, I nevertheless folded them deliberately and packed them as though P were leaving for a long trip. I pushed the fact he’d been for dead six months to the very back of my mind and did what I had to do.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sophie helped me organize everything, and her peaceful presence is the reason I was able to continue. I folded P’s white linen shirt and placed it on top of the SeaTow shirt. I folded all but one of this ties and tucked them into a box. I folded the madras one and positioned it at the collar of his white shirt as though I were laying out an outfit.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Out of nowhere, the job almost complete, I froze. I gazed around the room at his golf trophies and his Alcoholics Anonymous book and the photo of me on his bedside table as though I had never seen them. I picked up the picture of him with my brother John and my nephew Wil, taken just a few months before John’s death in 2000. I kissed it and put it back. I riffled through <span style="font-kerning: none; text-decoration: underline;">10% Happier</span>, the book I gave him for Christmas.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Go on out then,” she replied. “You have done real good, so rest yourself and we’ll finish later.”</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I plopped down on the red leather chaise in the sun room and silent tears morphed into choking sobs. Honey jumped up to comfort me and I sat there for a while and finished crying.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Three days passed before I could go back into Parrish’s room. I packed his trousers and belts and shoes, put some odd items into the boxes as well—two of his watches, his handkerchiefs and cycling gloves. I put his helmet on a shelf in the closet. I took the vase of dead roses and put them in the trash. Polly brought them to me the day after he died. For the first time since his passing, I noticed two boxes on his dresser. He must have found them in the hall closet, because they were mine. I saved every letter and card he sent me over the years, and many of them were in those boxes. There was the big white envelope with his baby things—his immunization record and baptismal papers, the baby bracelet they put on him in the nursery when he was born, his report cards and more. How long had those things been in there? Was he reliving the past by reading them? Was he trying to recapture the complete happiness of his childhood? He was searching for something, but I’ll never know what.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I didn’t start crying while we loaded all the boxes into the back of my SUV. I was dry-eyed as I told Honey we would be back soon and took my wallet and keys and walked out the door. It was only after I turned over the engine that tears started rolling down my face. I backed slowly out of the drive, sniffed and brushed them away. I sniveled as we traveled the short distance to the drop-off station. And when we got there, I couldn’t get out. I could not make myself hand over the boxes to the nice lady who dumped them into the canvas bin, so Sophie did it for me. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Yesterday, I drove her back to Macon, and the house is aching for her presence. The very walls seem sad. I know I can’t keep her forever; after all, she has a family of her own, and they need her loving kindness, too. She’ll be back, though, and I have that to be thankful for.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This morning, just like almost every morning, I went into P’s room and sat down on the bed. Sophie arranged his books on top of his chest and tucked his school annuals into his gray trunk before she left. I gazed at the paintings above his bed, portraits of our dogs, Boxers Baby and Belle, and the watercolors of quail and wild turkeys. The picture of his daddy waving from the deck of the pilot boat still sits in it’s place on the bedside chest. His childhood trophies are still on the painted yellow table where the cable box rests. I pulled his body pillow off the closet shelf and held it to me, breathed deeply of it. His scent is still there, but it’s fading.<br />
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-9328226185920118082015-07-14T19:26:00.000-04:002015-07-16T08:14:27.740-04:00A Spirit Animal? Me?<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px; min-height: 12px;">
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I spent last week on Tybee Island, Georgia, attending Rosemary Daniell’s annual Zona Rosa writing retreat for women. Since I met Rosemary in 1997, and became a part of her ongoing workshop for women writers that meets once a month at her house in Savannah, I have attended several Tybee retreats. I've always come away renewed in my writing spirit, and this year was no different.</div>
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For a week, eight writers shared the nine bedroom “Happy House” Rosemary has rented for a number of years now. There were two other writers who joined us later in the week, and there were those who attended the sessions just in the daytime. Ages ranged between 33 and 70-something. Rosemary invited special guests, published authors who came to share their work and listen to ours.</div>
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The wonder of the retreat is always in its students. Excellent writers all and ranging in experience from “just beginning” to published, we come together to share our experiences in writing and feed from the energy of our collective consciousness. The environment is conducive to creativity, with mornings devoted to writing and afternoons spent in session, reading from our works and receiving feedback and encouragement from Rosemary and the group.</div>
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On Sunday, the day devoted to settling in and exploring, my precious granddaughter, Addie, came and spent a couple of hours with me. While others were out and about, we stayed at Happy House and were, well, happy. </div>
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I’ve had a memoir trapped inside me for several years, begging to be written. I wrote the first draft of the prologue before going to Tybee, and Rosemary read it to the group for me for me. Feedback was positive, and I felt empowered to start Chapter One. And, two days later, I did just that while sitting on the deck off my room. I don’t know what I expected to feel when I began the project in ernest, shedding all my excuses and rationalizations about not having done so sooner, so I was surprised at the sensation of freedom and that came over me. I felt ready. And I got excited. I haven’t been excited about much since Parrish died, and the feeling is heady and sweet. </div>
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That was the first time I saw the spider.</div>
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Some of my readers may remember when, in August of 2011, I accidentally set myself on fire trying to incinerate a spider with a fireplace lighter. We know how that turned out, and it wasn’t the spider who suffered. On that muggy morning on Tybee, I looked up to see a huge spider web spun between a fan palm and the wooden fence. Right in the middle of the silky strands that glimmered in the sunlight was a creature that looked a great deal like my nemesis, all eight legs stretched to their limit. As the days passed, I watched as the web got bigger and more intricate. </div>
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Never having given much thought to what spiders might symbolize or that I might have a spiritual connection to them (or any other non-human being in the world), after a brief exchange with my fellow writers who knew of such things, I decided to do some research. </div>
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I offer this, copied and pasted unabashedly from Wikipedia: “Totemism is a belief in which each human is thought to have a spiritual connection or a kinship with another physical being, such as an animal or plant, often called a "spirit-being" or "totem." The totem is thought to interact with a given kin group or an individual and to serve as their emblem or symbol.”</div>
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Taking something from each of the several articles I read about the symbolism of spiders, I put together as simple a synopsis as I could. So, here goes: </div>
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In many cultures, the spider is a symbol of creativity, a spinner of delicate and intricate webs—engineering marvels of nature. It is often seen as the powerful female spirit, the giver of life. If the spider is your spirit animal, it may try to bring your attention to your own individuality and ingenuity. You may have an affinity for acts of creation and the ability to build your own fine patterns that are delicate yet strong. </div>
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Did I tell you I love to knit, that I knit lace?</div>
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The appearance of a spider may serve as a reminder that you and you alone are responsible for what you build around you. It may also appear to remind you not to abandon your creative gifts and goals. </div>
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Did I tell you about my recent dream in which two spiders, the size of the back of my hand, were attached to my right hand, one atop the other? There was a sensation of suction but no pain, and I gently pried up their hairy legs and they walked away?</div>
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The following day, another, smaller spider had begun spinning her web on the chair next to where I sat writing in my journal.</div>
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Two spiders, and I made no move to harm either of them.</div>
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When we checked out of the house on Saturday morning, July 11, I went with two of my long-time writing compatriots to The Breakfast Club for a final meal together. When I got in my car to leave, there was a spider, about the size of a thumbtack, sitting on the steering wheel. I gently nudged it toward the window with my parking receipt and saw it safely out the window before I turned over the engine and drove home. When I stepped into my bathroom to wash my hands and face, yes, there was a small spider sitting on the rim of the sink, just looking at me.</div>
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Since I got home, I've been writing my ass off.</div>
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© 2015 cj Schlottman</div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-81173065584695006322015-05-11T17:04:00.001-04:002015-05-11T23:45:15.715-04:00Mother's Day - A Different Way<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Last month, when my first birthday after Parrish’s death came around, I was unprepared, and the day was half over before I realized why I was so unaccountably anxious and tearful. That I should be turning 67, and Parrish would never have another birthday, I suppose, was wrapped in the denial for which I am so famous. A friend was here to help me set up Apple TV, and I could’t find the remote control. I rarely use it because I have one of those from the cable company that does everything except go to the kitchen for snacks. I am also famously forgetful, but it is unlike me not to know where essential things are, especially electronic stuff. Bob, my helpful friend, managed to set up Apple TV without the remote, and after it was up and running—I had to have it because I am addicted to Netflix, and watching it on my laptop was killing my eyes—he stayed around for a drink. I remember repeating myself to him several times and feeling frustrated and a little confused. It was less than five minutes after he left that I went directly to the drawer in the table upon which the TV sits and retrieved the stupid remote. Imagine that. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That was when my denial unraveled and I sat down hard on my spot on the blue loveseat in the den and covered my face with my hands and wept as I did on the night Parrish died. Hell, I’m crying right now, just writing about it. I walked around the house and into his room, clutching a fistful of tissues. I sat on the edge of his bed, then fell over on his pillow to finish crying. It took a while. In fact, I had spells of weeping for the rest of the evening and into the night. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, you can imagine I was not looking forward to Mother’s Day. Parrish, even when he was hundreds of miles away and completely out of my reach, always made a thing about Mother’s Day. There was always a card and often a phone call. Last year, he brought me an African violet—which has grown so much I had to repot it last week—and brought me breakfast in bed. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, about two weeks ago, I started trying to prepare myself for yesterday. My mother passed away over 15 years ago, so I couldn't do anything with or for her. The thought of being both motherless and childless brought on a deluge of tears. I thought about leaving town for the weekend, checking into a good hotel with room service and a spa, but when I started checking rates, I decided I should save my money to pay to have the dead pine tree in my back yard taken down. I considered making plans with friends but realized that most of them would already be involved with their own mothers or children.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On Saturday night, I got a call from Gregory, my yard person, also known as Crab Man because he can often be found crabbing from the Village Pier. He wanted to come over yesterday morning at 8:00 to blow off the roof and do the yard. Since I’m not an early riser, we negotiated a more civilized time, 10:00. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I scheduled my Mother’s Day, sort of. I planned to sleep until about 9:00 and let the day unfold before me. I promised myself a trip to the gym. I filled the bird feeder and ate breakfast on the deck, then read the news and did the crossword puzzle. The weather was perfect, warm but not hot, clear and cloudless.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Crab Man arrived on time, with his puppy, Two Spot, a six-weeks old bulldog, riding in the basket of his bike. You can’t tell from the photo I took, but his name comes from the two round black spots on his back, near his tail. Every other hair on his plump little body is white. I was instantly in love. Honey, who in general despises all other dogs who come near me, gave him a sniff and a once-over before turning up her nose curling into her spot next to me on the love seat. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When Crab Man started blowing off the roof, Two Spot began to howl, that piercingly sharp sound of despair that only a puppy can make. So, I brought him inside with us. Honey gave him a cursory sniff and resettled herself. Two Spot curled his fat little body at my feet and went to sleep. And thus it was that I puppy-sat for several hours. I was his surrogate mother for a while, waking him every now and then to go outside and “Do number one,” as Crab Man says. Then we’d come back inside, Two Spot would drink a little water and go back to sleep. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Meanwhile, I was watching “Grace and Frankie” on Netflix and laughing my ass off. My afternoon was punctuated with calls and messages from some of my most important people: Addie, Fonda, Marnie, Kristy and Gretchen, Nancy, and my darling Sophie. And I was “mothering” a living being, a little blessing to help me through the day. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When Two Spot was once more situated in the basket of Crab Man’s bike, they peddled off, and I dressed and went to the gym. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I got back home, I cleaned up, and Honey and I drove down to the Village. Finding a parking space was almost impossible. Mallory street, which circles around to the pier and back, looked like a scene from <i>American Graffiti</i>—all manner of vehicles looping slowly, bumper to bumper. I finally found a space near the bike shop, two blocks from the pier. Dogs aren’t allowed on the pier, and Honey hates wind anyway, so she stayed in the car while I walked down to watch Lawrence’s ship pass on its way back out to sea.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thinking how fitting a tribute it would be to Parrish, I went to BlueWater and climbed the stairs to sit where we so often did, overlooking the pier and Saint Simons Sound. I had some wine and a sandwich, and about the time I finished, I saw the pilot boat approaching the pier, so I paid my check and went down to walk back out and see Lawrence for a minute. I ran into him just as I left the restaurant, and he walked me to my car. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him yesterday, but I’m glad I did. He was a comfort to me, another blessing.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I got home, I watched some more “Grace and Frankie,” laughed some more and finally fell into bed after midnight. I didn’t get up today until nearly noon. Ain’t I something?<br />
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© 2015 cj Schlottman</div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-20214306958394984322014-11-16T23:10:00.002-05:002014-11-16T23:10:43.347-05:00Stepping Back in Order to Step Forward<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 14px; min-height: 15px;">
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About a year ago, a few months after I moved home to Saint Simons Island, still staggering under the weight of the loss to my dear husband, Clint, I scheduled an appointment with my psychiatrist in Macon, where we lived for most of our marriage. I never loved Macon; I never even liked it very much. I had wonderful friends there and still do, but since we had a home here on The Island for all but four years of our married life, I claimed dual citizenship and never felt as though Macon were truly my home. It happened that I loved Clint more than I disliked Macon, so life was good there as long as I had him. In the years after his death, I began to feel like an exile, homeless in my own house. Riddled with an unrelenting and complicated grief, it would be four years before I came to the realization that I needed to move back home, back to the place where I attended elementary school and graduated from high school. My roots are here, and as you know if you read my last post, and I am again grounded and content.</div>
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As the day of my appointment approached last November, I got so anxious that I cancelled the trip. I simply could not make myself go, so I began having phone visits with my doctor, and I relied on phone calls and social media to keep up with my friends and family.</div>
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Several weeks ago, after what turned out to be a difficult summer and early fall with my son’s brain disorder and alcohol addiction, I scheduled a phone appointment with my doctor for November 13. </div>
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I was in the final stages of settling into my house, and one of the chores I had been putting off was going through the boxes of things that were in Clint’s desk when he died. As I sifted through the boxes and began replacing things in the desk, I had what I can only describe an epiphany, a moment of clarity and realization that most of the items should not be here with me. I painstakingly sifted through old photos and slides of Clint’s children, photos of him as a boy, his medical school class pictures, and newspaper clippings touting his youthful football prowess and his surgical role in the first kidney transplant in Southeast Asia. There were letters from his daughters when they were young, greeting cards he saved over the years, and all manner of memorabilia that predated our marriage. I came to the knowledge that these things to which I had been clinging so tightly are not mine - and they are not Clint. They predate the incredible time during which we fell in love and began a life together.</div>
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Keeping only those things that are a part of my life with Clint, I began to repack the boxes with all those items that I wanted to give to his children, grandchildren and yes, his great-grandchildren. I broke down and wept, big chocking sobs that shook me to my very center, each tear representing the dissolution of an unrealistic and unhealthy tie to a past that isn’t even my own. There was freedom and healing in those tears. Will I ever be completely healed? I think not, but I am confident in the knowledge that my wounds no longer continually ooze emptiness and sorrow and loss. They are real but they are no longer white hot reminders of everything I lost on June 8, 2009. I am learning to accept them as part of me without Clint in my life, reminders of the devotion we shared, the love that bound us together.</div>
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After tearfully rereading the dozens of cards and notes we shared over the years and the poems I wrote and dedicated to him, I tucked them into the desk drawer along with his love letters to me. I polished his brass statue of a laughing Buddha and placed it on an end table in the living room. His hole-in-one trophy is on a shelf in the den. Photos, some organized in albums, some not, of us traveling together to see Europe and watch whales in the Sea of Cortez and explore Alaska’s Southeast Passage as well albums of other trips - with and without family - are safely stashed away in the desk drawers. </div>
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Several days later, it occurred to me that I should actually go to Macon, to see my psychiatrist and deliver the family treasures to their rightful owners. But it was with some sense of dread that I changed my appointment to a face-to-face. In the days leading up to the trip, I became anxious, but I didn’t cancel. I had to revisit my past in order to move completely into the present.</div>
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So, on Wednesday afternoon, I drove to Macon. I was there for two nights, and while I was in town, I saw my dearest and oldest friends, Nancy and Frances, and my stepdaughters, Gretchen and Kristy. I had time with Marnie and with Sophie, the Angel who has been looking after me for over 40 years. I saw my doctor. After literally being unable to make the trip a year ago, the time was right and my anxiety faded. I gave Kristy the boxes of memories with a sense of purpose and completion and even joy, and I arrived home having delivered myself of an emotional load I didn’t even know I was carrying.</div>
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The parts of me that have been so locked down for five and a half years are emerging. I’m willing to venture outside the safety of my widowhood, and I’m eager to continue my quest for a life well lived as a individual, not as half of a couple. I harbor no belief that my wounds will ever completely close, but then again, they probably shouldn’t. They are a big part of who I am today and who I will be in the future. They are part of my story.</div>
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For today, Parrish is sober and stable, and we are looking forward to our first Thanksgiving in this house. Marnie will be joining us for our family tradition - a seafood feast of oysters and jambalaya with sweet potatoes and green bean casserole. We don’t really like turkey.</div>
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Copyright 2014</div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-20701647633372441952014-11-03T11:52:00.000-05:002014-11-05T15:38:46.976-05:00Home At Last<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 12px;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'My Underwood'; font-size: 14px;"> It has been along time since my post back in June, but that doesn’t mean I haven't been writing. I’m in the organizational stage of my memoir and will soon be ready to begin to bring it together into what I hope will be a good book, a valuable book about the challenges and rewards of having an adult child with a brain disorder, it’s impact on all of those who love him so much. It was a long, hot and arduous summer, but it is behind us, and I pray for continued peace. But, that’s a story for another time. </span><br />
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Fall has brought with it the departure of the Hummingbirds who graced my deck from the time I first hung the feeder. We moved into our new house on August 8, and three months later, we are finally settled, art on the walls, furniture placed - after several false starts. I am happy here. Our street is quiet, nestled under a canopy of live oaks and flanked by the marsh and a lovely tidal pond where Great Blue Herons and Great Egrets regularly fish for their dinner. Our bird feeder is a flurry of activity. Carolina Chickadees and Tufted Titmouse (there doesn’t seem to be a plural), Pine Warblers and all manner of Sparrows frequent the feeder. At this time of year, even Red-bellied Woodpeckers feed off the seed, and the ubiquitous Cardinal is a regular visitor. As I write, the Chickadees are buzzing down, one after another and in pairs, sometimes landing on the top of the feeder hook to position themselves for a run to fish out the sunflower seeds. The squirrels are happy with the corn we provide for them at the other end of the yard. Honey takes a sunbath nearly every day in our fenced back yard, which is just the right size.</div>
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On this chilly morning (50-something degrees), the sun is bright and the sky is a cloudless blue, shimmering like stained glass. After a windy weekend, the air is moving gently, just enough to ruffle the leaves on our evergreens. The neighborhood is rich in ligustrum, wax myrtle, oleander and old tall pine trees. It’s the perfect day for a bike ride, and we have one planned for later this morning. The Island is covered with bike paths, and we can pedal for miles on them.</div>
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The summer tourists have departed and the Georgia-Florida football onslaught of students and alumni and other rabid fans is behind us. The Island is quiet and peaceful and the pace of living has returned to its languid norm. </div>
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With “The Holidays” looming, I’m in cooking mode and ready to take down the Christmas China and start baking cheese straws and wedding cookies. This house feels like home, and I, after a little over a year back on The Island, finally feel grounded and settled and dug in. It’s a wonderful feeling, and I am grateful for it. </div>
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cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5338015056894587362.post-8502625677898702582014-09-22T12:51:00.000-04:002014-09-22T12:51:57.509-04:00I Bend my Own Rules 02/08/13<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">After Monday’s call from Parrish, I didn’t hear from him until some time Tuesday. He called to say he has a place to live and that he paid in advance for one month and that he paid his probation fees in full. It sounds like he is living in some sort of boarding house. I don’t know. I think I heard a large bird screeching in the background. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He said he was going to Social Security to change his address and try to get benefits in Georgia. He said he would go to River Edge, the community mental facility, and get started there. When he called (three times) last night, he asked for money and food. When I told him no, he launched into a diatribe about how he didn’t understand why I wouldn’t help him, telling me he could not believe I would let him go hungry and broke, without enough money to take the bus to Social Security. He ignored my every word as I repeated that he would have to make something happen, that every time I give him money, it leads to disaster.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The next call was worse. He attacked me for not being willing to go to the store and get him some food and take it to him. In the next breath he said he doesn’t need anything from me, accused me of being a Macon social butterfly who just wants him put away so I can go on my way and forget about him. He told me he has issues ranging back for years, that there are many reasons he should hate me. He denied being impaired and continued to ramble on, saying he is done with me, that there is no excuse for him to being in jail for 55 days, saying no one in his right mind would do that to him, that I needed to look into my dark self and see what I am. He said he never wants to see me again. There’s more, but these are the highlights.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">My reaction to all of this blather was eerily calm.</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">I am numb and disinterested in anything Parrish has to say.</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">I care about my son, but I have no inclination to help him go down the drain yet again.</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">Helping him is a planned disaster. </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">This morning he called and wanted to come over to get the bag with his things.</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">I said I would sit it by the garage door, and he could pick it up there.</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">It was no surprise that he came around the garage to the kitchen</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">door and banged on the window. </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">I debated going to my room and hiding until he went away.</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">I didn’t want to see him, but I was weak and opened the door and went outside to talk to him.</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">He was contrite, depressed and looked like hell. He said he walked from Riverside Drive, a few miles away.</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">He again asked for money and food and I immediately regretted the decision to answer the door.</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">He did not seem to remember his words of last night.</span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;">I offered to let him listen to them but he declined. </span><span style="font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He asked if he could have a cigarette and smoke it on the deck. I let him. The passive aggressive assault continued. I remembered I have a money order made out to him that I sent him when he was in jail. It was returned to me because he was already out when it was delivered. I gave it to him. He constantly complained of how tired he was, hinting that I should drive him home. I refused. I suggested he take the bus but he was not interested. He brooded for a while and I told him to go home. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">PS - Those of you who are tempted to scold me, you have every reason to do just that. I can take it.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">© 2013 cj schlottman</span></div>
cj Schlottmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18217936774632262633noreply@blogger.com5