Anyone alive today and with the capacity to think, reason, and remember knows where they were and what they were doing on that date. I had been with Southwestern Bell a little over a year and had finally landed a transfer to an inside job, out of manholes, out of the weather, and on the ground, not 30 feet up on some skinny telephone pole with tiny pieces of steel on my boots dug into the wood as far as they could possibly go.
I worked in what was then known as the Luther Central Office. In those days, we had letters in the phone numbers: LU for Luther or RI for Riverside or TE for Temple. I can still remember my girlfriends (now wife) number, TE-81662.
The Luther office was located in downtown Tulsa, the others scattered all over the city. My job had the title of Frameman. The frame was a monstrous hunk of wood, metal, and wires, about 15 feet high and half a block long. Let’s say a new customer wants a phone. There were no such things as computers where…Continue
After having temperatures threatening to enter back into the 90-degree range earlier this month, D.C.-area residents are now enjoying milder temperatures and foliage exploding with color. Finally!
This week for the Weekly Spotlight, let's all share a post inspired by or about fall. Dig into your archives or post something you wrote this season. I can't wait to read all the entries!
Just a reminder of the process:
My mom told me that I am afraid to love.
I am afraid she is right.
I put my dog to sleep this morning. I should say we, my family, though it was only three of us because my oldest son chose not to go. I don’t blame him. If my husband and other son hadn’t needed me, I would not have been there, either.
I hear people say things all the time about how it was peaceful. Quiet. They knew it was time. That it just looks like their pet went to sleep.
And I suppose for people who live on the surface, all those things are true. Yes. It was peaceful. It was quiet. But it was also awful. Horrible. Traumatic. Sickening. Death. It rips at you from the inside out and never stops. Never.
It’s never stopped since my sister died 20 years ago.
I can’t believe I just wrote that. I actually had to do the math. Twenty years. TWENTY years ago my 11-year-old sister was taken off of life support.
It was peaceful. It was quiet. …Continue
I love painting my nails because it quiets my mind and allows me to focus on one thing. My mind is usually running as fast as the little hamsters can go, and there is something about brushing a layer of polish on my nails that makes it all stop for a few minutes. If I had the time, I would paint my nails every day.
When I was pregnant, I painted my then-husband's toenails. He didn't want to go to work in the warehouse with painted fingernails, so I settled for just the toes. I couldn't reach my own, so it was really kind of him to give me those extra few minutes of a quieted mind.
I had my baby—a boy—and was thrilled when he started to show an interest in my colorful nails. It wasn't long until he was requesting his nails be painted to look “like mommy's.” Not only did it give me a few peaceful moments, but it gave us a chance to bond. In his…Continue
I knew it would happen sooner or later. It was predictable and cliché that at some point once I reached adulthood I would become my mother. I shouldn’t act like that is a dreadful thing to become. Really, it isn’t. There are far worse things that I could imagine becoming than a replica of my mother: a member of the crime scene cleaning crew, the port-a-potty collector or that person at the zoo who has the horrible task of helping an elephant with its constipation issues. If you don’t know how this is done then I dare you to Google it. See – it is really horrible, right? Who would want to be that person? Really, there could be far worse things to be than my mother.
My mom is a kind and generous human being. She is one of the most selfless people that I know. It actually makes me nauseated at times, but perhaps that is a symptom of jealousy. The ease at which she gives her empathy to people is something that I lack and when I do try to be empathetic it comes off raw and…Continue
My father found my sister hanging under the door, eyes bulging. I see my son, my flaxen haired son, in her noose. It doesn’t matter which way he whips, it only makes the rope knot tighter. Hysterical, he called my mother seconds after the paramedics. She knew the message when the operator paged saying her ex-husband was on the phone.
Dad used fly to Arizona to dry my grandmother out. I understood ‘alcoholism’ before I turned five. But none of us understood ‘bipolar’. None of us understood that my five foot ten grandfather left because my four foot six grandmother came after him with a knife in the dark. And I see my baby standing at the foot, no the head of my bed, with a sharp. The blade burns my throat. My sister tried to kill her husband, her boyfriend, her own daughter before she settled on herself. My…Continue
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