15 times in 19 minutes

My little transistor radio I used to listen to the morning news, and the headline that shouts announcements from the same station. 

At the beginning of every week, I look forward to the first local news report from our hometown radio station.

Well, I used to look forward to it.

I can’t remember exactly when I started to dread it, when I noticed a dark cloud coming over me, but it didn’t take long to figure it out. It was when the newscaster repeated the same phrase over and over and over. And over.

COVID-19, he said. Many, many, MANY times.

I tried to tell myself that surely one of his colleagues or friends or listeners would let him know about it. There were so many other ways to get the news about *that* out without repeating the same thing. But each day I was disappointed, and I could barely make it through a broadcast without wanting to run outside into traffic.

Besides, maybe someone had told him. And maybe he didn’t care, or he had to do it because the powers that be told him to. Maybe he didn’t write his own copy, and he didn’t like it anymore than I did.

I still don’t know the answer to any of that, but here’s what happened Friday. During the first story of the morning, That Phrase was used nine times in just over a minute. During a segment about senior citizen delivered noon meals, it was mentioned once. A Chamber of Commerce piece mentioned it, along with “pandemic”, then a segment on the Thomson Prison included three mentions, plus “pandemic” again. Oh, and one more: in a piece about the popcorn sales at our local theater and their monetary donations to the food bank, well, there it was again – once.

I checked my watch and saw that between 6:32 a.m. and 6:51 a.m., COVID-19 was mentioned 15 times. No wonder I was barely hanging on.

I’m writing this on Saturday morning, and my discomfort about this whole thing was starting to fade – until I read the Saturday comics. This whole *thing* has worked its way into everything. No matter where we turn, It’s there. Then you go to a place where you hope to get a laugh and a little relief, and, well, how about that? It’s permeated the comics. Yes, indeed. Dagwood, talking bears, little girls wearing face masks – you name it, there it is.

How are we supposed to escape this? Where can we turn? If I listen to my favorite country station, the ads bring it up, it’s come up in country songs (Six Feet Apart), the radio hosts talk about it.

I’ve changed a few things in order to avoid the nonstop babble. I record most of the TV I watch. I listen to ad-free country music on Comcast. I have a playlist that is nothing but 101 songs played on a loop. Or, I take a nap and dream about a world before everything went sideways.

Books are another escape. I’m reading several at the moment, and along with my playlist, I can be in the world but not a part of the madness.

I’m not an ostrich. I don’t stick my head in the sand and ignore what’s going on around me. But this has gone on long enough. It’s done enough damage to my peace of mind, to once-close relationships and friendships, to the people I still love even though we no longer speak. This awful turn of events has, in some cases, done irreparable damage with the time it’s taken from loved ones that they will never, ever get back.

So, I think – no, I know – that on Monday, I won’t be tuning in to the local radio station. I like to think that I know when to stop walking into a situation I know to be harmful to me. I hope you do, too.

Margi
Saturday, June 6, 2020

Random thoughts on a Thursday night

I used to spend a lot of time outside with Gary and the dog, staring at the sky and daydreaming. I miss that.

I’ve been journaling for decades. And by that I mean I’ve bought or have been given journals to write in, and yet, well.

It makes my tummy do a flip when I gather some of them together – all sizes and shapes. Some have padded covers, some are hard, some are really big and unwieldy. I’ve even gone out during back-to-school sales and bought a bunch of spiral bound notebooks simply because they were ten cents each. Sheesh. I ended up giving a bunch of them to my sister for her new job as reporter at the newspaper where I worked for over 13 years.

(Speaking of that, Sis just got started, got two days into it, when BAM!, the world ground to a halt and we all pretty much ended up being prisoners in our own homes, but that’s another story.)

Back to the tummy flip. The reason that happens is because almost none of the journals were finished. I had the highest hopes of filling up one a year. How hard could it be?

I’ve found priceless memories inside some of these gems. There are facts in there that I would never remember now. I say facts because I wrote them down as they happened. Hey, if I miss a journal entry now by a day or two I don’t trust myself to remember something unless it was also written on a calendar, or I can double-check by using my phone to check calls made or texts sent.

I’m saying all of this to make a point: I’ve started a new way to journal. I’m using a program called Dabble. It’s something I ran across when I tried (and failed) National Novel Writing Camp a month or so ago. (See what I mean about the memory thing?) I like its simplicity, and I checked with our local print shop to see how easy it would be to send a finished copy to them to have it bound. Granted, the book I plan to send them about Gary is in another format, but still. I have the same option with Dabble so I’ll use it.

I guess I like this program because I have it on almost every device. It refuses to be compatible with one laptop, but that’s okay. I do write in it almost every day, but since I started it in early May, I call it, “My Incomplete Journal of 2020”.

After I write the last entry on December 31, I will get it set to be printed and spiral-bound. I’ll pick a photo for the cover and send it all on to the printer. Then, I’ll start the 2021 journal.

One could say that now I have enough time to write as many books as I want. It’s funny, though. Journaling is very different than writing fiction. I no longer have a desire to make up things. I love reading made-up stories, but I no longer want to write them. Instead, I record what’s going on around me and “out there”.

Out there. Scary, huh? And yet, I demand the right to be free to come and go as I please. Yes, I know I can, even if it’s physically impossible right now. Until then, I’ll part the curtains, look out onto a changed world, and write down what I see (and feel) before it all changes – again.

Margi
Thursday, June 4, 2020

I didn’t mean it like that

Sarah Jane often appears in my dreams

 

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

A few days ago I wrote something on my Facebook wall that made a few folks worry about me. I should have known better.

The words went something like, “Is there anyone else who can’t wait to fall asleep and dream so they have someone to talk to?”

Thing is, I meant that in the most literal way. I have vivid dreams, and I remember most of them. They are truly weird, most of the time. Before I go to bed, I always pray for God to protect me while I sleep and in my dreams. Sometimes I even ask Him to protect me in my “weird dreams.” After all, He knows how weird they are too, right?

Often Gary and the kids are there. Those are the best. We talk, do things, drive around, shop – usually for groceries. I find us living in the house on Tenney Street, or here where I now live. Many times our dogs are with us – Sarah Jane, Blackie, Cujo.

The other night there were cats. One in particular walked toward Gary and me, meowed loudly, and demanded attention. Truth be told, it was a little frightening. But Gary told me that we should take the cat in, and that led to several other cats. There were dogs, too, but they didn’t stand out like the cats did.

In this dream we lived in the house on Tenney. Our heat registers were flat in the floor (as they were in real life), and one thing that bothered me (yeah, there was more than one thing) was that the cats came inside before I had a chance to get supplies – like litter boxes. No problem, apparently, because they just went to the bathroom on top of the registers.

Throughout our lives we’ve adopted many cats. I know the importance of keeping a clean litter box. I’m kind of fastidious about it, which is probably why I can’t have a cat now. I tend to check the box far too often and tire myself out cleaning it. I assume those of you who have had cats know what it’s like to have cats go potty in other places. As I watched the kitty in my dream, all I could do was ask myself why I didn’t smell anything. Well, duh. It was a dream. Whew.

It is awfully quiet around here. By that I mean, there’s no one else alive in my home. There’s television and radio, and one of the two is on most of the time. At night I often ask Alexa to play blizzard sounds, or wind, train, or thunderstorm sounds. If it’s been a while, I’ll ask for my country playlist. You have to realize, though, it’s not the same as having a living, human being to talk to.

I’m not the only one living this way. And I’m handling it as best I can. I haven’t gone off the deep end, no matter what it sounds like. I do my best to think pleasant thoughts before drifting off each night, and I’m happy to say that a book idea came to me the other night.

As I write this, it’s over an hour after midnight. My sleep cycle is messed up again, or is it? Who’s to say what’s normal at this time in my life? What is normal? Who cares?

Anyway, please don’t concern yourself with an old(er) woman who likes to catch up with memories in her dreams, and who takes that opportunity to enjoy a little company and conversation. It’s not a sad thing; in fact, my dreams are pretty funny sometimes. Like the one where Gary and I adopted a brown and white Great Dane. I have no clue if there is such a thing, but there you go.

In dreams, anything can happen.

Margi
Sunday, April 5, 2020

Yes, what was lost has been found

The last Christmas party with Clint at our home

Was it really March 2? Three weeks ago? It feels more like a few minutes.

That’s when, at 5:51 p.m., I was told that our oldest son has been found. After over 17 years, I finally had an answer – of sorts.

I was told where he is. I was told something else, too, but I won’t be sharing his location or what else was said. I know there are those who have kept Clint on their prayer list for years and I want to let you know that this prayer has been answered.

I’ve been struggling mightily about how to share this news. I have to do so while keeping the crux of what I know under wraps – even from myself. I can’t dwell on it at the moment or I’ll lose what sanity I have left.

There are those who have spread the word that Gary and I have known where Clint has been all of these years, that we were protecting him from the authorities. Our grandchildren were told this, too, and believed it. And yet…

…Gary died not knowing where his son was. Or if he was even alive. I can only imagine the conversation we would have had upon finally learning where Clint is. Maybe if that had happened I wouldn’t be locking up what I know until I feel I can handle it.

It’s a weird feeling to compartmentalize what I was told, to share just the fact that I know where he is, and nothing else. I guess it’s something I’ve become good at and I have to wonder if that’s a good thing.

Someday, maybe when I’m sitting outside on a warm summer evening, I’ll let my mind wander and the memory from March 2 will pop up. No one will be around and I will be able to let whatever I’m feeling break free. I will, with God’s help, try to deal with what happens.

Until then, thank you all for your prayers. I believe God’s timing is perfect. I believe I will eventually deal with what I now know.

Margi
Monday, March 23, 2020

The call came Monday

I got the call at 5:51 p.m. on Monday, March 2. The ringing of the phone jerked me out of a sound sleep. Yes, I was asleep, curled up in bed. This past week has been the second anniversary of the last week of Gary’s life.

I don’t know if you remember, but I do. He went into the hospital for a small procedure on February 27, 2018, was discharged on Saturday, March 3, and was gone on Monday, March 5.

It surprised me that after months of not crying, suddenly I was feeling blue and the tears started. When I realized it was late February, the answer as to why was obvious. No need to fight it; just brace for the wave.

Let’s go back to the call. It’s a call that’s changed my life. I haven’t yet decided if what I was told has more good to it than bad. The call lasted a minute. For that minute, and a few afterward, I forgot the grief I was going through.

I called the two people I’m closest to and they were just as dumbfounded as I. One of them burst into tears, as I had done, then we talked a bit. When I hung up, I sat in a daze for a while.

After that? Well, after that I shoved what I now knew deep inside and locked it away. I simply can’t deal with it right now because once I go down that road there will be no turning back.

I don’t mean to be melodramatic here, even if it’s coming off that way. It’s just that I need to have a place to type out what thoughts I have at the moment. I’m coming out of dealing with the biggest loss of my life. Yes, I know we lost our youngest in 1978; I’ve had decades to come to terms with losing Luke. There’s a hole in my heart for him, too.

I was sitting here thinking about what to make for breakfast tomorrow. I go into detail in my mind, and as I pictured myself cooking, putting everything on a plate, and sitting down it hit me again: there will be just the one place-setting. And of course, the tears came.

They’re gone now. They don’t last as long and my thoughts turn to how thankful I am for the memories. There are so many! There better be after over 45 years, right?

Someday, when I’m ready, I’ll take that Monday message and begin that journey. It’s going to be a long one, yes, and I have at least two people to help me along the way.

Thank God for family.

Margi
Saturday, March 7, 2020

I want to feel my heart again

I miss sitting outside with my pooch.

I’m sitting here kinda watching The Price is Right. In other words, it’s on but mostly for background noise. When the showcase portion comes on, I’ll pay attention.

I think I’m turning into *that* old lady. The one with a dull routine. Murder, She Wrote at 7, Dateline at 8, Let’s Make a Deal at 9, The Price is Right at 10, news at 11, and some form of true crime for most of the rest of the day.

At the same time the shows are on, I’m checking Facebook, reading, playing Gummy Drop, or working on my latest color-by-number project.

Like I said, a dull routine. At least I start the day with a devotional. Oh, and coffee. Can’t forget the coffee.

I’m searching for what to write. I’m searching for what to do. My mobility is somewhat limited, and I’m praying that gets better every day. When the weather does wonky things, the pain can be almost unbearable. We all know that’s true for lots of folks.

Do you ever feel like you’re drifting aimlessly, looking for what it is you should be doing? What if this is what I’m supposed to be doing? It’s not a bad existence, right?

It’s just that I don’t think we’re supposed to merely exist. I do a lot of praying, and not just for myself. I pray for family, friends, strangers. And I miss my favorite aunt who was my prayer warrior. I have a special memory of her that I promise to write about one day soon.

In the meantime, I’ll enjoy this dull routine, this existence, until things change.

There is one thing. I’ve put feelers out there about adopting a small dog. When that happens, I’ll have lots to share. When that happens, I believe I’ll start feeling my heart again.

Margi
Monday, March 20, 2020

Too busy? No, not always.

Our favorite – Aunt Vonnie – frosting her cake for our visit around the kitchen table.

Busy, busy, busy. My favorite aunt would apologize over and over about being too busy (with work) to do other things, like shopping or visiting or some other fun thing.

I would find my temper getting away from me. I couldn’t stand that reason. It was used too often, I thought. But honestly, she was in real estate and her schedule wasn’t her own.

I wouldn’t have lasted a month at that job, and I told her that. We both laughed; it was true.

In this new phase of life I’m finding that many of my widow friends are busy people. They work, belong to a number of clubs and organizations, babysit their great-grandchildren. They have lives. Busy ones.

I wasn’t able to continue working, I’ve little to no interest in joining a club, and as far as I know, I don’t have any great-grandchildren. At this point in my physical condition, I couldn’t take care of a small child.

It’s not like I have no interests. I read a lot, take notes for future books, and dabble in writing. November was good because of National Novel Writing Month. I wanted to be a part of the tens of thousands who were writing their fingers off trying to put out 50,000 words in a month.

During this time when other widows were busy, I was sitting around “reflecting”. That got me into trouble because it led to daily pity parties. There wasn’t much to take my mind off of being alone. I ran into memories with every step I took. Sleep eluded me. There wasn’t work or club meetings or anything else to occupy my mind.

I admire those women who picked themselves up and kept going. They kept living. They taught me that life goes on, something I knew intellectually but failed to put into practice.

Most things that carried to the extreme are probably not good for us. Keeping our minds occupied with outside interests sounds wonderful, and healthful.

Someday, hopefully soon, I’ll jump into that kind of life and occupy my mind and heart with more of the world around me.

Margi
Tuesday, February 18, 2020

Like Johnny and June

“…and when you’re gone, I wanna go too. Like Johnny and June.” (from Johnny and June, by Heidi Newfield)

I felt that way when Gary died. I wanted nothing more than to be with him. Feelings of disbelief were a part of my daily life, from when I woke up to when I tried to sleep at night.

There were one or two people who knew how I felt because we talked about it. They understood, and as far as I know neither of them tried to have me committed anywhere for my own safety.

I’m not sure what made me look it up, but one day I Googled about the possibility of dying from a broken heart. Seems it’s quite the possibility, and it scared me just a bit. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to go. I was scared because I thought it was a way to bring about my own death. No.

On March 5th, it will be two years. Truth be told, most days I handle being alone well. There are days and nights when that’s simply not true. I wander around here, wondering how in the world I could be a productive person ever again.

I know I won’t be going back to work. That’s over, and I’m fine with that. I was sure I would get jealous of anyone who took my place. Turns out I couldn’t care less. As I’ve said before, writing features was NOT one of my favorite things. It was my least favorite thing.

Sure, if there was a piece to be done about dogs, cats, or writers – well, okay. Everything else was just too hard for me. Sit me in a courtroom to listen to cops, attorneys, judges, and defendants – that I enjoyed.

So, here I am now, listening to my country playlist and Johnny and June comes on. I can remember hearing that lyric above, and I can remember feeling that way. Ever so slowly over the past almost two years, my mindset has changed. There are far fewer tears and sleepless nights, yet….

I’m trying to figure out what to do with my life. Blog about it? Write a book? Yeah, there are a few books in various stages of completion but I miss writing fiction. Should I start a series? Am I too old for that? Will the words come if I get out of the house and write at a coffee shop or library?

Or should I move my writing space to the room where Gary spent so much time? Right now it’s more of a library/laundry room, but what if…?

I don’t believe my ability to forge ahead has anything to do with outside influences or age or places. I believe it’s inside me somewhere and I just can’t seem to find it.

I pray that someday soon I’ll stumble upon it. I want my life to mean something again.

Margi
Monday, February 17, 2020

 

I know how it feels

Happy times. I pray I’ll find him someday. Someone knows something.

I really didn’t want to read beyond the headline. Someone’s son was missing, and I know how that feels.

In this case, he’s been missing almost three months. Our son has been missing since March, 2003. I used to say mid-December of 2002, but that’s because it was the last time his dad, brother, and I saw Clint in person. We heard from him by phone in March of 2003. We had no clue he was going to just…disappear.

I was upset about this woman’s son, and by the rude comments questioning why she waited three months to report this. How is that relevant to a worried mom? How about offering prayers, sharing her post, giving hope?

I’ll tell you something. During my last stint working for the paper I was in the courtroom waiting for things to get started when I spotted a detective from here in town. I told him about Clint and he suggested I file a missing persons report. He told me after I did that, it would get to him and he would go from there.

Trouble was, I ended up having the police department phone being answered by the one officer I did not want to give this information to. I started explaining what I was told, and by whom, and he interrupted me. “You do realize Clint is not technically ‘missing’,” he said. In my stupor of surprise, I think I agreed with him. Sometimes I wonder how I can be so stupid.

Go ahead and look up the definition of a missing person. It’s exactly what my son is, what that woman’s son is. I’m ever so thankful she was able to get a report filed, and I’m angry with myself for letting that officer stop me in my tracks.

Those of you with children can only imagine what it’s like to not know where your son or daughter is. Clint’s dad died not knowing where our firstborn is. Maybe I will too.

Yes, Officer, Clint is missing. I’m sorry you don’t see it that way. I could have used your help.

Margi
Sunday, February 9, 2020

Meh.

Maybe if I sit here and be still, maybe I’ll want to write again.

I truly believe my sweetheart in Heaven is pain-free, happy, and never, ever has a sad moment.

I don’t subscribe to the thought that, “Boy, I bet he isn’t too happy with the way some people are treating you”. I know he doesn’t know, and I’m more than fine with that.

I also don’t think he sees the wonderful things people do for me. After over 45 years together, I know how he would feel if he was here. But he’s not, and I have to take care of myself most of the time. I’m beginning to be okay with that.

I found out that no matter how many days in a row you cry (for me, it was well over 365), he’s not coming back. He’s not here to watch TV, eat a meal, go for a drive. I actually typed that sentence without going into hysterics.

My sleep cycle is finally coming around to where it was years ago. There’s no need for a pill every night to help me sleep, but the pain is still strong so those are taken when needed.

There is one thing, though. My motivation to do the one thing I loved to do is mostly gone. I finally have the time and tools to write whenever I want, except I don’t want to.

I just feel…meh.

I used to have ideas flying around inside my head. I used to pick up story ideas almost everywhere I went. I didn’t even have to actually go anywhere; the plots or poems or whatever just came to me. The world was too full, I couldn’t write fast enough, and besides, I didn’t have the time to.

Days stretch into nights. My schedule? I have none. Story ideas? Nope. Blog ideas? I have many, many of those. And now and then I work on the memoir of my sweetheart, the book I plan to give to our son someday.

I want that feeling back – the one where I can’t wait to get to the pen and paper, the computer. I want the words to spill out onto the page. I want to create characters and worlds, highs and lows.

Yes, I wrote a “novel” in November. I could work on that, I guess. It’s strongly suggested that after writing our book that we let it sit for a month, to get fresh perspective.

I don’t know what the answer is. I do know I have the time and equipment I need, but now the most important thing is missing.

Will it come back? I honestly don’t know.

One can only hope – and pray.

Margi
Monday, January 20, 2020