Help! I'm Out of Control!

I’ve already broken my 2016 New Years resolution - twice - and it’s only the 3rd of January.

habituation - the act or process of making habitual or accustomed

addiction - a strong and harmful need to regularly have something

compulsivity - caused by a desire that is too strong to resist : impossible to stop or control

I struggle for the correct word- strong enough to demonstrate my absolute shame at my lack of control and not too strong as I've a reluctance to make light of humans with genuine, uncontrollable addiction problems.

I ask myself questions about my problem:

• Is it impulsive? yes somewhat...
• uncontrollable? not really yet...
• obsessive? not quite, but almost...
• chronic? not yet, I think...
• habit forming? define “habit"

I have various stacks of books about the house that I fully intend to read - at some point in my remaining years. Yet I just ordered four more yesterday and two more today.  I simply couldn’t control the impulse.

Many who find themselves out of control, look for culpability. Who or what can I blame? Was it my mother’s fault? Was it the tennis instructor who years back told me, “Perhaps you should try a sport that doesn’t require hand-eye coordination.”?

I choose to blame the internet. It starts out innocent enough with me reading book reviews by the New York Times, the New Yorker, the Washington Post, NPR, Bill Gates’ blog, or such. Then as I attempt to use online information to discover more about a particular book or author, I follow one link to another to another until I find myself woefully lost, like Hansel and Gretel when the birds ate their track of crumbs.

My research usually turns up a completely different book or author than the one with which I began my quest. I have lists all over the place of books I hope to beg, buy, borrow or steal one day. I vowed that this year would be different. I vowed that I would finish each and every book in my various mounds before I took another book into my home. But, I tell you I'm hopeless!

I remember a co-worker, John, when I worked at the university, a cigarette smoker, who reasoned that his smoking was okay since it was his only vice. “I don’t drink. I don’t chase women. I’m hardworking and a darn good parent. I deserve something."

And that’s usually how it goes with such vices. We excuse them away.

My shame will resurface in the next week or so, when the postal service delivers the packages of books to my home and Faithful Husband - who is fully aware of my array of stacks as he occasionally trips over them - will hand the books over to me, uncertain if he should feel compassion for my weakness as he witnesses my attempt to fill some void that is within me. He must notice the urgency with which I unwrap the books and almost breathe them in. But, he will also know, as do I, that I have once again fallen victim to my indulgences.

I once did the seemingly impossible, impossible for me anyway. I quit all caffeine for seven years - SEVEN YEARS. Let me explain that at the time I went caffeine-free I was a person for whom it was necessary to have a cup of coffee in the morning just to go out and have a cup of coffee. Anyway it seems I had this fibrous tissue in my body and my doctor said all I had to do was give up all caffeine and "like magic" it would go away.

I decided at the time to just go cold-turkey and as I sat at my desk on day-one, a Catholic priest from the university stopped in my office sometime mid-morning. I could see the alarm on his face as he asked if I was okay. “I’m fine. I decided to give up caffeine and this is my first day without.” “Yes, um, uh-huh, but um, perhaps you should try to gradually wean yourself. You don’t look well at all."

I’ll give it a few months I thought. I’d always believed in the power of fasting or the Lenten ritual of “giving something up” for 30-40 days. I’d always found the experience helpful in sort of resetting things internally, giving me control that’d I’d seemed to have lost. Who can’t quit something for 30 measly days? Right? Anyway, with the caffeine I reasoned, and I thought it was valid at the time, that I never drank coffee as a child and yet my body then had the ability to function in a perfectly satisfying way without it. When I told this to the priest, he said, “Hmm, you know, you may have something there!"

The months stretched on and I found a hidden benefit as I’d seemed to completely lose my occasional craving for chocolate. It must have been the caffeine in the chocolate I was longing for and not the candy. I kept at it, proud of myself, actually. A year later a trip to the doctor showed that the fibrous tissue was still there. “Well, sometimes it takes a bit longer to see the results. You keep it up!” And the year stretched into more years, but there was never an improvement to the dense tissue. At the seven year point I asked the doctor just how much longer it would take. “Well, Ranell, some people have an acute condition that is not at all related to caffeine intake. I’m afraid you fall into that category. Sorry!"

“What!? That’s it?! Are you kidding me? I suffered for seven years for nothing?"

As I type this I am on my third cup of coffee. I mean after all it’s Sunday. And I don’t have many other vices, outside of book buying. I’m a devoted wife, I don’t smoke cigarettes, I don’t drink to excess, well not too often anyway, I don’t chase men… I mean I deserve something don’t I?

One of many stacks

And beside my stacks I have them stashed in drawers and closets, not unlike some alcoholics stash their bottles

At what point will I have more books than I can read in a lifetime?

My List of Enjoyably Useful Things from 2015

[This isn’t an Oprah-like “buy the stuff I like” ad list - and that's a good thing because I certainly don't have an Oprah-like following ;-) It’s done purely for my own snicks.]

# 8  My Nespresso Espresso Maker

I can make a cheaper Flat-White at home, one that tastes every bit as good as Starbucks.

#7  Alexa, our Amazon Echo Speaker

She’s way more fun than those sea-monkeys I sent away for as a child and I like her even if she clearly demonstrates a preference for Reliable Husband's voice over mine.

# 6  Our Remote Control Thermostat...

Which allows us to control the heat or air-conditioning in our home from anywhere we have a phone signal.

#5  My Stand-Up-Paddle Board...

the human-powered, hands-down favorite of our guests last summer.

# 4  Netflix/Amazon Prime/FireStick/PBS’s online streaming and a Super Thin Amplified hdtv 50-mile Range Antenna

Streaming and free local antenna tv enabled us to “cut" the cable cord.- Well, figuratively that is -When Reliable Husband called to cancel they begged wheedled encouraged him to reconsider, offering to put us on “vacation suspension” for 6 months in the hopes we’ll meanwhile come to our senses.

# 3  The Great British Baking Show

And cutting the cord is how I found this show - having never been one to watch cooking shows or any of that Dancing-with-the-Star-like Hollywood competitive “reality” television, I surprised even myself with the watching of this one, a show that I salivated in anticipation of, then devoured, digested, and licked my lips and fingers with each and every delicious episode.

# 2  Simply Salsa...

by Jennifer, a sister of a dear friend of the family. She started selling her homemade salsa at farmer’s markets as a “side hustle” - Her product was picked up by the Greater Chicago area Mariano’s last year and is now being test marketed at the Orland Park area Costco. Being a home cook myself, who makes a pretty mean salsa, I’d say it’s “simply" the only salsa I’d ever consider buying.

Drumroll, please...

# 1  The Slow but Amazing Makeover of ALDI

I’ll admit when they first rolled on the market some years back, I was extremely skeptical as I looked down my nose at their generic-looking, knock-off foodstuff, which you then have to purchase with cold hard cash and bag yourself, using your own bags. You have to even ‘rent’ the grocery cart for a refundable quarter. But they’ve always had pretty good produce, though usually only the basics. And yet they seem to be expanding every year as they add more organic, upscale, and fair trade and UTZ certified products. These products are a bit more affordable for the basic American family who cares about this stuff. I’m very fussy about where I buy my groceries but surprisingly find myself including Aldi for food purchases on a somewhat regular basis

(And an honorable mention goes to my new MacBookPro. It makes me just love modern technology.)

Ain't One Bit-Fit

After reading a newspaper article about a product, Practical-Husband immediately bought one online. His explanation? “I don’t know- I just liked the idea.” He’s used it every single day for the past two years.

The object being a wearable device that monitors and records his fitness activity. It is a fancy pedometer that has accelerometer and altimeter measuring capabilities, and in some of the upscale newer models the ability to track heart, pulse and sweat rates, heretofore not readily available on just any old mobile sensor. Practical-Husband bought a Polar Loop. At the same time our younger son purchased a JawBone and soon after that his girlfriend/now fiancee bought one. And many of their millennial friends had soon purchased them. They come with many names: FitBit, Garmin Vivo, Nike-something-or-other, etc. It turns out that activity tracking is quickly becoming a billion dollar industry.

Oh and I forgot, as if we didn't have enough to worry about with proper activity levels, nutrition, world peace and all, the monitors also measure quality of sleep.

But, not me! No! I completely resisted any urge to track my physical activity or my inactivity for a couple of years.

***

About a month ago I was shopping for last minute Christmas bargains when I spotted a Polar A300 on the clearance shelf. "Polar A300, hmm," I thought. But, what really caught my eye was the bright red markdown sticker that Target uses and which conveniently indicates the percentage of price reduction. There it was, the elusive 70 percent discount! I quickly placed it in my cart, and soon catching up with Practical-Husband a few aisles later, we had a confab on our selections. I showed him my Polar A300. His only comment upon seeing the price was, “Where?" as he sped off in the direction I pointed to seek another. No such luck, buddy, I had the only one.

I’ve been faithfully wearing it each day and I must admit that I’ve been more physically active since getting one. For me it’s as simple as looking at the display and thinking, “Wait a minute! What the heck? I know I can do better than this!"

But…, another part of me says, “But, it oughtn’t have to be that way- oughtn't it be ingrained in me by now?"

***

I think of the Andy Griffith episode where Andy helps a female county nurse in getting a local farmer, Rafe Hollister, to submit to a tetanus shot. She feels Rafe's positive influence on other farmers will aid her in getting 100 percent compliance for shots.

Rafe, in his own words “ain’t never been to a doctor" in his life. "I came into this world with my mama, and I'll leave with the undertaker. I don’t see no use to cluttering things up in between".

***

Andy: [showing Rafe different medical tools from the nurse’s bag] This is a stethoscope. Know what it does? 

Rafe: Nah. 

Andy: It lets you hear your heartbeat. Wanna hear your heartbeat? 

Rafe: What for? I know my heart’s beatin’.

Andy: Well, I know but- 

Rafe: I'm alive ain't I? 

Andy: Well, yeah but- 

Rafe: Well, then my heart’s beatin'! 

Andy: Just listen to it. [putting the earpiece on Rafe's head and the bell to Rafe's chest] See? Now listen to mine. [Moves bell to his own chest] See, ain't that somethin'? 

Rafe: All right, now we know we're BOTH alive!

Andy: [showing Rafe a thermometer] Do you know what this is?

Rafe: Looks like something for syphoning cider. [I’m sure the censors substituted 'cider' for 'moonshine' here.]

Andy: It’s a thermometer.

Rafe: I got one on my hen house-  only it’s bigger.

Andy: This here's a thermometer for people. Lets 'em know when they got a fever.

Rafe: I know when I got a fever-  I'm hot!

Andy: This lets you know how hot.

Rafe: I know how hot I am when I'm hot- I’m dang hot!… Besides, being hot ain’t being sick. Sooner or later you’re bound to get cold again. If you get too cold, then you’re dead, but you don’t need no thermometer to tell you that.

***

My PolarFit has just informed me, via a vibrating message, as I sit typing that “IT’S TIME TO MOVE!"

“Ok, already,” I tell her. “I felt like a cup of tea anyway” as I stroll into my kitchen.

“Ha-ha! Not exactly what I meant,” she continues. “You’ll still need to walk 7 1/2 miles or jog 53 minutes to get that tea.” 

And then: “At least drink that standing up!” she sighs as I soon sit back down with my tea.

It was once a 50 percent reduction, but I caught it at 70!

***

I don’t get it. Since when did sitting and thinking become so bad for us as humans? I input all of the information correctly when I register and use the syncing app for my PolarFlow, you know like age, weight, height, usual amount of activity, etc. But she doesn’t even cut me one bit of slack for being a 63 year old woman. She sneers at me when I shovel the heavy snow from the walk, “Hah! You call that exercise?” I received only a few hundred “steps” credit for that half hour of arm, shoulder and back-breaking effort. Still, I meekly proclaim, “Wait and see, I’ll try harder tomorrow. I promise!”

I could swear I saw this in all caps!

And I do, strapping on the cross-country skis first thing in the morning and blazing my own path for at least 45 minutes. "That's it?!” I ask her. "A measly 4,000 of your so-called ‘steps'? Forget it! I'm going to finish reading that Ishiguro book about the buried giant. A half hour later she’s buzzing me again to get up and move, just like she does anytime I sit in the car for any length of time. Does she have any idea what it’s like to live in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of winter, where decent grocery shops are all 25-50 miles away? I wear her to ladies' bowling league, thinking I'll be on my feet for two hours and part of that time I'll be hurling a 12 pound ball, but when I check for "steps" I could swear she'd subtracted some. I check with Practical-Husband, who laughs, "Don't worry. There are ways around her. I put her on when I mow the lawn. (He uses a ride-on mower for a 3/4 acre lot) She gives me 20,000 steps just for sitting on a mower!" 

Okay, so I can’t walk or run outside as the streets are an icy-covered snowy mess and "Hello, Polar! Did I mention that I’m a 63 year old lady whose bones are probably osteo-something!?" I try 40 minutes of yoga, Steve Ross hatha yoga that leaves me perspiring and with my muscles feeling very Gumby-like - all for a lousy 678 steps. Fine, I'll pull out the Wii-Fit from the closet and set it up. And I do, doing 30 minutes of activity, but still do not meet my “goal.” I add 2x4 block risers to the underside of the WiiFit balance board and hop on for another session. Bingo! I reach my goal! But, where is the vibrating congratulations? I press a bunch of buttons and finally I see, “Goal reached.” Where is the confetti? the applause?

***

Anyway, my point is: I should be able, by this age in my life, to discern when I’ve had enough exercise. I know the near-breathlessness that comes from running, or from walking up a few flights of stairs. I know the good fatigue that follows long walks on the hilly land that surrounds our home and the even hillier Richmond, VA terrain; or fatigue from four straight hours of de-sodding a plot of ground in preparation of a new garden using only hand tools and my own manual strength. I know that I sleep better, I digest food better, my mind functions better, and all from lots of physical movement. And I oughtn’t rely on this  band and an app to help me stay motivated. -But, for whatever reason it works. And so I’ll continue to use it.

you've got a ways to go

***

I went for my annual physical check up with my doctor in December. A new nurse did my check-in. She’d forgotten to put me on the scale before she took me to the exam room, where I was now already clad in a paper gown. She couldn’t very well drag me back out into the hall to where the scale was, so as she input the data, she asked, “So how much do you weigh?”

Me: I have no idea.

Nurse: What do you mean?

Me: Well, I never weigh myself. I don’t even own a scale. I leave that nonsense for my annual check up.

Nurse: Well, okay. How much did you weigh at your visit last year?

Me: I don’t remember. I don’t pay much attention to my weight. But, whatever it was the doctor has never mentioned it as a problem.

Nurse: [shaking her head] How do you know if you are gaining or losing weight?

Me: I can tell by the way my clothes fit. But they always seem to fit and since I always wear the same size, I guess I’d say I'm about the same weight as I’ve always been.

***

I completely get Rafe Hollister... And I know that Rafe would never have worn an activity tracker. He knew when he was active, and he knew when he was asleep.

Christmas in Privatopia

This is our first Christmas in Privatopia. Although we’ve lived here full-time for four years, we've always celebrated the day either in Chicago or Virginia.

No coy-wolfs bayed last night as the clouds obscured the full moon. There is no wind present as I sip my second espresso and glance outside. And here’s one for the books, thanks to record-breaking El Niño and global warming our Privatopia golf course is still "officially" open. 

I open the back door to take a photo of the idled, from lack of wind, flag on the fifth green. I’m fairly certain no golfers will appear today, but you really never know around here. It seems eerily quiet outside. I turn to go back inside when I see that there is a whitetail deer near the flagstick. I hadn't even noticed her curiously eyeing me. In fact there are several deer spread about, all watching for any suspicious behavior on my part. I take a few snapshots then leave them in peace.

We celebrated the eve of Christmas Eve with our Chicago family, spending the night in our faux-condo, before heading home. Fatigued from the joyful festivities, last minute shopping, gift wrapping, Christmas-feast cooking, gift opening, overeating and clean-up we zipped straight home, making no stops. I awoke today with the realization that I'd made no plans for our Christmas dinner.  I never got around to thinking that far ahead. No grocery stores or restaurants are open within at least a 25-plus mile radius. Besides who wants to grocery shop on Christmas Day? I panic for a moment. But a quick check of the freezer turns up some short ribs with which to make a stock to which I’ll add vegetables and barley for a hearty soup. My larder contains everything I need to make delicious homemade bread. I also spied in the freezer the wild-caught sea scallops, and in the refrigerator the asparagus that I had planned on bringing to our Chicago celebration, but had run out of time and energy to prepare and thus dropped them from the menu. I have a taste for something with an Asian flair and those two main ingredients should serve me well to that end. With my main dish I’m picturing pan-fried dumplings, with which to start, and a zesty Thai cucumber salad on the side, in addition to some fragrant Jasmine rice. We have plenty of homemade cookies and candy left from our partying for dessert, plus a bottle of fancy “unoaked” Chardonnay we received as a gift. So we are all set for a proper celebratory meal.

***

What if you got everything for which you’d ever wished? What if you married the spouse of your dreams and the marriage took, took the way a healthy tree takes to fertile ground that receives appropriate water and sunshine, and perhaps a bit of fertilizer? What if you looked around yourself and saw a safe, sound, comfortable and warm home, with a great view to boot? What if you had, at any given time, all the food at your fingertips that you needed to make a nice meal? What if your marriage produced three great children who, as adults now, were in happy, strong supportive relationships, with in-law children you'd come to love as dearly as if they were your own, oh and then had the cutest, awesomest grandchildren ever - like I mean if you could hand-pick them from all the children ever, they would be the exact ones you'd select!? And what if every single one of your children and grandchildren were also comfortably housed, suitably well fed, educated and clothed? What if you wanted for nothing but still good things continued to come your way?

***

Dear Santa, 

We’re all good here in Privatopia. We want for nothing. And since we know you’re so busy and all, feel free to go ahead and bypass our house as you make the rounds this Christmas. 

Sincerely your old pal, Rae 

p.s. If you get a chance, you know later in the summer or sometime when things ease up for you, drop me a line and let me know - you know, from one senior citizen to another - just how you keep your locks so glisteningly white.

***

Like I said we have this record-breaking El Niño and global warming thing happening, so any dreams of a White Christmas have been dashed. But since I relish life just the way it is, here is my wish to you:

May your days be merry and keen

and may all your Christmases be green.

Flash Blogging

Every now and again I post something and remove it within a few hours, a bit longer than a “flash in the pan.” Not around as long as a Tibetan mandala (nor as painstakingly created), but something not meant to stay. Thoughts come and go, like the seasons. Sometimes it feels good to write it down, then figuratively tear it up, or toss it in the fire and watch the ashes rise.

Bye-bye to “A Bonfire, a Glock and Bunco." And oh boy, it was a good one. Too bad you missed it.

from hallowed ground - a ghost story

You know how you can remember your exact location when you hear certain news? Like when I was  sitting at my desk in my 6th grade classroom in November of 1963 and the PA system crackled as our principal said, “Students, it is with great sorrow that I inform you that our president, John F. Kennedy, has been shot and pronounced dead...”

Years later, I remember, exactly mind you, standing in my living room, just steps from the very room by the way, where Karen had once tried to kiss me, except that I recoiled and then she acted like I’d been somehow mistaken about the whole matter. Anyway that’s where I was standing when our mutual friend, Larry, told me Karen had moved, "lock, stock and barrel" to Boulder, Colorado. Colorado seemed so far away. But, that was me, I was never much for traveling.

“Was it some amazing job offer?” I asked Larry.

“I don’t think so, Darlin'. I think this was all just a ‘spur of the moment’ thing.' “

“Yeah, well I can’t believe she didn’t stop by to say goodbye, or at least call me. Does she even know anyone in Colorado?”

“Not that I know of, Sweetie,” his voice buoying on "know of" and falling on "Sweetie". I’d never been good at identifying gays, but anyone could have recognized the signs in Larry.

Later I searched an old U. S. atlas we had in the apartment. You know, kind of  looked it up. I traced the route she’d probably have taken with my finger. Boulder is just over 1,000 miles from Chicago.

Karen and I had been friends since grammar school. She was in the same grade as me in school but a year and a half older in age. We were fast friends by the time I was 12. I came from a large family and Karen lived alone with her mother, who worked full time. We spent whole summers hanging out together at their usually empty home. This was right around the time I became interested in boys- Wait! Did I tell you that she was what they call drop-dead gorgeous? She was half Irish and half Native American. She had green eyes, long, thick straight brown hair, and those high, prominent cheekbones most people consider a beauty trait. My problem was that every boy I even remotely liked ended up smitten with Karen.

Even though she was plenty smart, Karen didn’t do well in school. Halfway through our junior year in high school, while I was prepping for college, Karen dropped out to take a job as a waitress. It was a career she stuck with for the rest of her life. And somehow she always managed to get hired at the swankiest “in” spots. She was serving alcohol to patrons long before she was of the legal age of 21. While I held down any old minimum wage part-time job I could manage to land, while still living at home and taking classes at a nearby campus, she’d be raking in hundreds of dollars per night in tips.

Though it was clear we were growing apart at this point, we’d still find the occasional night to sit up together chatting until dawn. It was then that she’d tell me about the pilot, lawyer, or local television personality she’d met at work and was currently dating, though she never seemed to stay very long with any particular one.

Finally I met a guy who didn’t immediately lose interest in me and fall for Karen, not only that, but my parents adored him. It was shortly after I introduced the two of them that Karen and I were sitting up having one of our now only occasional confabs late into the night. I think we were looking at a photo album. As I recall, we were sitting directly across from one another, with the album half on each of our touching knees, laughing aloud at some distant memory we’d shared, when Karen, out of the blue, reached over, took my face into her hands and put her slightly open mouth towards my face. I pulled back from her, just before our lips touched. I remember being thoroughly confused. She stammered at first, then laughed and dismissed the whole thing as a joke with “Aww, I was just fooling with you,” and “You should have seen your face!”

She sent me one a single letter from Boulder, the Christmas after the year she moved, to tell me she was now relocating to California. And then another letter the Christmas after that in California to tell me that she’d met some guy in a rock band. About that time I sent her an invitation to my wedding, begging her to phone me so I could ask her to be my maid of honor. She replied via a postcard stating that her mom, who’d moved out to California somewhere nearby Karen, was ill and that thus, Karen would need to stay near her mom.

She never answered my follow-up letter which included photos of my wedding, nor any letter or card I sent after that.

It had been years since I heard from our mutual friend, Larry, so I was surprised when he called me, asking me to meet him for lunch. We met near my workplace and there, he told me that Karen, who it turns out had never married anyone, including that rock musician, had died from cancer and that she’d asked to be cremated and buried at the Indian reservation in northern Wisconsin, where both she and her mom had been born.

I made arrangements to attend the service, going online to book a hotel room for my husband and I, but it turned out the only decent place nearby was the local casino resort on the reservation itself.

Larry had sent driving directions to the reservation burial ground which was nestled in a stand of jack pines just off the banks of the local river. I recalled her stories of swimming in the river as a young child as we drove through the area. The tiny beach adjacent to the saw mill she’d talked about looked so much smaller than her descriptions.

We parked our car and walked toward the group of about 25 or 30 people gathered near the burial site. Larry was there and introduced us around. Karen’s uncle, a full-blooded tribal elder, presided. He spoke both in English and in their tribal tongue, carefully explaining the rite. A tribal group danced to a drumbeat with ("or for," I wasn’t quite sure) Karen's spirit to encourage her on her journey to the next world.

Near the burial spot was a small pile of sage leaves, tree bark and tobacco. They would be burned, her uncle explained, to help us in the healing of our loss and to aid in Karen’s passage. The tobacco smoke would carry our prayers to the Great Spirit, the sage would purify her body and soul, I somehow missed the explanation of the tree bark, perhaps it was the part for our healing. Her uncle fanned the burning embers with an eagle feather and I watched as the smoke curled toward heaven. Another man sang in their native tongue.

After the ceremony, her uncle explained that we would all, individually, take some of the unburnt tobacco and place it on the open grave holding her urn of ashes and that, at this time, we could pause as long as necessary to say our final farewell to Karen. After we expressed our final wishes and dropped our tobacco offering we were to turn away immediately and leave. He spoke in a grave tone as he emphasized, “At this point whatever you do, do NOT turn and look back at the grave. Go to your car or walk out of the cemetery but DO NOT look back.” He was quiet for a moment, perhaps letting us absorb this information, then he continued, “This is a critical moment for Karen. She is in a state of confusion now, but we must not discourage her in anyway from taking her firsts steps on her journey to her new world. Remember, DO NOT look back.” Again he was momentarily silent, then he cautioned, "We also don't want to give her an opportunity to try to take any of us with her. This will be a temptation for her."

One by one we filed by the open grave, each pausing, paying our respects and dropping our tobacco offering on Karen’s urn. And each person that I saw dutifully turned and walked away. Did anyone look back? I don’t know. I only know that I took her uncle at his word and I did not look back.

We had dinner with Karen’s friends and family at the nearby Catholic church hall. It had been a long day, a long drive and my husband and I were both exhausted, so we said our goodbyes and left for our room at the casino resort, arranging to meet Larry there for a drink. We walked around the casino until Larry arrived, then sat with him in the bar and had some wine, discussing how we were all moved by the service.

We bid good-bye to Larry, as he was leaving pre-dawn, and retired to our room. My husband took a shower first and said he would “catch up on the news.” He was sound asleep when I stepped out of the shower. I turned the television off, turned out the lights, except for the lamp by my side of the king-size bed. It had a three-way bulb which I set at the dimmest light. I pulled out a novel from my overnight bag. Maybe it was the wine, but the overpowering fatigue I’d felt earlier was completely gone. I had a suspicion it would be a while before I’d be able to fall asleep.

I was reading my book when I felt a chill. I put the book down to pull the blanket and sheet up over my shoulders, when I noticed Karen sitting in the corner of the room, looking directly at me.

“Oh, I must be dreaming,” I thought, but when I looked around the room, everything was exactly the same, our bags were on the luggage rack, the lamp on my bedside was lit, my husband was fast asleep, my book was next to my pillow, just where I'd placed it moments ago… I felt a feeling of being halfway between alertly awake and just awakening, a strange drowsy feeling.

She said nothing, so I spoke up, “You’re not supposed to be here, Karen. So I’m going to close my eyes, turn my back to you. You need to go, Karen.” I shut my eyes. I rolled over and buried myself in the sheet and blanket. Yet, I could feel her noiselessly move across the room to my side of the bed.

“You need to go, Karen," I repeated. "You need to go to the next world.” I could feel her reach out to me. And then I felt her, still surprisingly warm, hand grab my arm. I shut my eyes even tighter and curled up in a fetal position. Roughly pushing her hand away from my arm, I said in a firm voice, “Don’t be afraid. Go on, Karen, go. You are not supposed to be here.”

I lie there for a long time, deliberately not moving, but aware that she was still present. I didn’t move and I didn’t speak. At some point I must have fallen asleep. I opened my eyes and the room was lightened from the morning sun. I could hear my husband rustling in the bathroom. He poked his head into the room and said, “Hey, I’m going downstairs to look for some coffee for us.”

When he left I got up and opened the shades, washed my face and laughed at my memory of Karen’s ghost. How silly of me, I thought. That was really some humdinger of a dream.

My husband came back with our coffee. He’d also managed to find some yogurt, an orange and a banana. He put the goods on the table, saying, “I slept great. How about you?”

I reached out for my coffee, smiling, eager to tell him of my realistic but crazy dream, when he stepped back and asked with some concern, “Whoa, what happened to you? How did you get those scratches on your arm?”

I looked down to see red abrasions and scratches that looked like I'd been grabbed by some wild animal.

A Walk in the Cemetery

I rose predawn for the 4 1/2 hour drive to visit an aging priest. He'd been "assigned" to finish out his priestly duties, which now mostly consisted of praying, at his religious order's retirement center. The grounds of this senior care home were nestled in a secluded rural area of Michigan with  beautiful gardens and pathways on the sprawling acreage. It was a breathtakingly beautiful mid-October day. We'd been talking about the approach of Halloween, or maybe it was All Saint's Day, I don't remember. I also don't remember who initiated the idea, was it me? or was it him? Either way, we decided to take a walk to the cemetery. It seemed fitting at the time.

We walked slowly. He was in his late 70s, as I recall, and not in the best of health, as he was slow in recovering from a surgery he'd had.

"Do you know any of these guys?" I asked as we passed the headstones of the male-only cemetery.

He snorted and replied, "Oh, do I!"

He pointed with his cane as we passed the gravestones, his face changing from smile to smirk to surly scowl, calling out the names of his now deceased brothers-in-faith.

If close enough, he would not-so-gently double tap the headstone, mutter the man's name followed by a proclamation, in this instance, "That sissy! Hah! They should have buried him in a dress."

"That thick-headed dimwit! Ha-ha!" each "ha" matching the double tap of his walking cane with the stone, "Aah, but a candidate for sainthood! He was venerable in his own mind and it was a miracle he made it through First Studies."

Tap-tap "This one was as arrogant as- as arrogant as- you know, I can't even think of a fitting analogy! Always late for class! He claimed he had trouble waking on time because he was a deep sleeper. Hah! He was weighed down with his own hubris. It was a wonder he could rise at all."

On it went. The name, the taps, the proclamation. "The drunk! For years we'd blamed the staff for the missing booze. When he died, they found empty bottles tucked all over his room."

There were a couple of more notable ones, but I'm at the point in my life where my aging memory cells fail me. Don't you wish you could record everything in life for posterity? Oh wait, I forgot, now we can. But, I had not a smartphone nor a selfie-stick at the time.

His pace slowed, almost to a standstill. He began to lift his cane, then stopped. His face softened to match his voice, as he gently pronounced the name. There was a pause as he gazed at the headstone, then uttered, "My Lord, but I miss that man." Abruptly, his face took on a curmudgeonly look as he did a 180 degree turn. I stood amazed his aging, still-mending body was capable of such a move. He barked in my direction, "It's cold. Let's go back."