The Train, The Train 11-28-2012

This is a somehwhat progressive blog. Feel FREE to begin by clicking to my first post: Boologging Begins


I have ingested, digested, and re-gested the article I briefly mentioned in November’s "Free-Fall" post. The author compares people and their FREE wills to trains on tracks. If a moving train stays on its track, all is well; but if it strays from its track, it creates calamity and disaster.

 

Even though, for writing purposes, I mercilessly diss trains, I actually have a fondness for riding in them. For our 34th anniversary, my husband and I rode the train together from Chicago to STL. The quaint charm of the train and its amenities made that 5-hour trek comfortable and quite productive as we were each able to use our laptop computers. We flew past many nostalgic sites, including Illinois State University, where eons ago, following a beginning-of-the-schoolyear Chi Alpha activity, I met Jeff. We had our first date, and for 8 months we were close to inseparable until summer break. We married 11 months after our first date.

It seems appropriate to take this anniversary train trip with him, past our old stomping grounds, and remind myself that I am one of the lucky ones. As an adult child of an alcoholic I could have married an alcoholic or become one. 

 

The train quickly moves along, but an unplanned delay is imminent. Our stomachs begin to gurgle. Carry-on Rice Krispie treats and nuts prolong our need for solid food, but eventually I chuckle: Jeff, my stomach is speaking to me; let’s stretch our legs and check out the prices in the food car.

We stumble through one car and then another, arriving to the food car’s line for questionable, not-so-gourmet, $7.00, micro-waved "scary burgers." To stall our hunger, we reluctantly split one.

Our train suddenly applies its breaks, screeching slowly to a strained halt. Naturally, I'm a little jolted and ask: Jeff, what do you think is wrong? 

My concerns are relieved as the conductor announces we must move out of the way for a northbound, oncoming train. I have no fear as our monstrous train awkwardly and noisily moves in reverse, and then maneuvers forward, safely onto a side track. We wait for the other train to zip past, and then our train noisily and clunkily re-maneuvers back to the main track to continue southbound to STL, after a 30-minute delay.

During my confusing childhood I wish a conductor could have given me play-by-plays during screeching times and hours-long, night-time disruptions. I needed reasons for the chaos, and as an adult I searched for answers. I have come full-circle and see that it was after my parents' ebb-and-flow, fairy-tale-like, first 14 years of marriage; immediately after birthing child number 6, as Dad was nearing his vulnerable 40s...the volcano erupted. That is when our uninvited "guest" arrived (I was just 6 and my younger sibs were aged 5, 2, and newborn) and stayed for 11 unending years. It seemed like a lifetime.

Swinging back to the train ride, we appreciate our freedom to roam, but we are glad the ride is only temporary. The end-of-the-line, St. Louis stop is our anticipated destination as we eagerly change transportation modes… to our maneuverable Toyota Corolla. We enthusiastically stop for a reasonable Wendy's burger and then we, full-speed ahead, gallop home.

I do like riding in trains, every so often, but comparing spirited-me to an actual train on a track, a train track, or even being a passenger on a train, doesn’t feel right. I bristle at the idea of being inflexible and trapped, and I prefer to not be likened to a cold, hard, inanimate object. A train doesn’t live, breathe, or think. It has absolutely no FREE-will and is clueless. It can only run on preset tracks, has no soul, and runs on stinky diesel fuel. Nope, I will embrace my spirited-self.

The author’s idea of a track does, however, pique my interest. I embrace purpose, and mission, and competition…so I’m warming into comparing my free-will to a living, breathing, spirited animal…an animal that runs on a track…

Another thing for which I am grateful: Holiday lights.

I love the Christmas season, and it feels great to have November's writings posted. We are half-way around the track heading to the Sunday December 30th finish line! December 2nd's post bubbles with a story... Deo Volente.

SWAMP Thang! 11-21-2012

This is a somewhat progressive blog. Feel FREE to begin by clicking to my first post: Boologging Begins



Well, Thanksgiving is over, and I hope that all of you had a smooth holiday. I will vulnerably admit that I had a couple of pre-Thanksgiving, energetic melt-downs. I was anything but "Singing in the Rain." Fortunately, we had success with our experimental, cooked-in-the-car, crockpot turkey. Woot, woot!

As we traveled down the road cooking the turkey, we listened to an intriguing interview with philosophizing Chris Rock who theorizes that back in the 1950s-60s men saw their wives as weaker...so when their wives had meltdowns, it didn't surprise them, because, after all, women were the weaker sex. Today, men see women as equals and are less understanding of their wive's meltdowns. Hmmm...a little "rock" for thought anyway.

I am incredibly thankful for an understanding husband; I could care less whether I'm an equal, as long as I can have my meltdowns every so often. On the other hand, FREE-WILL is important because it allows me to become who I am meant to be. Free-will suggests that (with input from my husband) I can basically make my own decisions about the paths I strive to take. At the moment, I am on a sabbatical, mainly to focus on writing and blogging, with the added benefit of more time for family and revitalization.



Thomas the Train...passes by our chuch

I have blogged a lot about silly trains, and how they are in no way free; they must follow preset tracks as well as disturb others. A few weeks ago we were double-whammied by a train as we drove to church. For the first time ever, we were stopped by a Sunday 9:35 a.m. Thomas the Train. We hoped it would be a short delay, but the minutes kept ticking. At least the graffiti on the long, cold train was entertaining.

As we patiently wait, we see a crown drawn on one particular train car, and the word SWAMP on another. SWAMP clearly stands out because of its fat, curvy letters, plus an artistically-drawn foot. It is more distinctive than any of the other messages. Finally, after endless minutes, we are FREE to drive to church.

We continue our trek to church, now a few minutes later than expected, and I point to our left: Hey, there’s TtT. He has taken a curve and is moving along horizontally with us.

Jeff replies in disbelief, You don’t think...no way...surely TtT isn't…

At the crest of the street we have a birds-eye view of good ol' Thomas. He had circled around to the tracks by the church, double-whammy-delaying us...a record 10 minutes! Trains really do have a way of rudely zinging our schedules!!!
 

 

Like I have said before, trains have no free-will; yet, conversely, they are boss and cannot be bullied. The cold, metallic, humongous entities follow rigid, preset tracks, and they SWAMP Thang-like suck us into their timetable.

 

Rather than comparing FREE will to a train following a track (briefly mentioned in November's "FREE-Falling" post), I am feeling even more validated to compare my FREE will...to a…ur, um...more to come.

 

An amazing blessing for which I am grateful: #7 My talented, resourceful children.

 

My next post will be Wednesday, November 28th...I've seen quite a few Christmas trees up already. Just sayin'...  Deo Volente!

Singing in the Rain! 11-21-2012



This is a somewhat progressive blog. Feel FREE to begin by clicking to my first post: Boologging Begins



Happy Thanksgiving! It is a delicious time of year, and we've already started eating mega-spreads of food. My childhood Thanksgivings were always food-filled, with oyster dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, and once-a-year pumpkin pie...I would end up like the turkey...stuffed and taking a long nap! My enchanting Mom strived to make Thanksgivings family-filled. This year, we will gather as a small family unit, making a memory with our grown son at his home.

As I shared in October's "Boo-logging Begins" I do write a lot, but I'm not a writer. I have journals dating back 15 years stored in my bedroom. Sometimes I'm tempted to pitch them, because the babble, babble and yada, yada seem insignificant. In one especially intense entry I felt disillusioned by the circumstances of life; I felt betrayed by my journals and was close to burning all of those dusty books. Yet, something stopped me; I couldn't discard them because it would feel like I was cutting out my heart. I guess my husband or children will have to enjoy a blazing bonfire one day in my memory.

A few sentimental entries are in my old and cherished journals, and today I have an inclination to share one of them, from a few years ago. My husband and I were unexpectedly caught, half-way through one of our walks, in a sudden downpour. Bolts of lightning traveled horizontally above us, and some of them were too close for comfort. Jeff, we have to get to the boat house. I'm scared and don't feel safe walking with lightning so close!!

We sprint to the boat house and stay there just briefly, until the lightning lessens. We are cold, and frustrated, not looking forward to our 30-minute walk back to the car. It is a prime opportunity to begin blaming each other for our predicament: It's your fault we're caught in this thunderstorm. I told you it was going to rain! Good thing I brought an umbrella, just in case.

Rather than finding blame (why is it that petulance feels so...satisfying) we "bridle" our tongues to intentionally turn lemons into lemonade. It is apparent the downpour isn't going to be over soon, so we make the best of it. It is scary at first (because of sporadic lightning) and our teeth are chattering, but crazy Jeff says, Let's go for it, and I hesitantly cooperate.

We continue our walk and it magically morphs into a positive, Singing-in-the-Rain experience. For 30 minutes we walk arm-in-arm holding each other as close as possible under our small umbrella’s protection, with our steps mostly in sync, attempting to keep each other warm and relatively dry. We enjoy our FREE entertainment, listening to the pelts of rain hitting our shared umbrella. Who cares if our feet are soaked... it's only water!! Just make sure the camera stays dry. One of us who is a little obssessive just happened to bring a baggie to protect the camera. Just sayin'...

Why the wingo couldn't I (in my childhood)...have reacted differently, reaching out to my five siblings, using humor or something to lighten the atmosphere of our alcoholic home and turn lemons into lemonade??? Instead, I lived in my autrovert bubble. An aspiring writer's blog is at: elainesperfectstorm.blogspot.com   

Jeff and I were on a mission, walking together to safely reach our dry destination. Dare-devil Jeff faced the electrifying elements, and at opportune times I couldn't help but, Gene Kelly-like, skip and sing in the rain! We created a treasured journal entry...and now it is galloping through the blogosphere.  *A video clip from"Singing in the Rain is just a click away*

Another thing for which I am thankful: #8  Free SURPRISES at our nearby walking trail.

My "SWAMP Thang" post will be Sunday, November 25th (just one month before Christmas).... Deo Volente!

Talking TURKEY! 11-18-2012

This is a somewhat progressive blog. Feel FREE to begin by clicking to my first post: Boologging Begins

Talking TURKEY!

In my last post, “Blowing Off Steam,” I refer to needing to blow off steam from time to time. The same steamy weekend we experienced the power plant uproar, we observed, with many others, a steaming road rage incident. It occurred at a busy Ozarks signal light. Scenes like that don’t occur on our side of town!

We were horrified as an irate 40-year-old stood nosehair-to-nosehair with a defenseless elderly man. The yelling lunatic had stopped his truck, in the right-turn lane of traffic, delaying other drivers. He was acting like a Clint Eastwood character, strong-arming the helpless man. As we drove past, he was using his body to push the driver’s door into his surrendering victim, grabbing the elderly man’s arms forcing them upwards. He definitely wasn’t horsing around.

I became a side-seat driver screaming orders to Jeff: Stop, Jeff! I’m afraid for that helpless man! There's gonna be a shooting if someone doesn't stop that crazy loco!!!

Clear-thinking, always-composed Jeff replied: Diane, there are too many cars for me to stop quickly. Just give me a second. I wonder if the one man is drunk.

Rather than stopping in the middle of the street, we wisely pulled into the Price Cutter parking lot, ready to phone the cavalry; but, fortunately, within just a few more scary moments the lunatic backed off. That 40-year-old must have felt powerful in his brave exchange.

My reaction that day reminds me of fear-filled times, of my inebriated, 6-foot Father angrily interacting with my helpless, 5’2” Mom. Maybe I internally over-reacted to “Road rage” Dad. He was unpredictable when he was slurring and warring with Mom. An important note, I NEVER ever felt that Dad would harm me. Much of my childhood was spent observing frustrated Dad's non-verbal cues, honing into his emotional state. Head-strong Mom was physically helpless, but like a train, she had a one-track mind. We never were able to logically talk about it. Ever. I received little hints from Mom like: We better not buy this because Dad might...

This week a devastating tragedy occurred in Midland Texas. A train rammed full-speed into a parade float. The parade was honoring our military service people. When the track's guardrails began lowering and the train's horn blared, the veterans' natural instincts kicked in, responding to save others, but there was too little warning. Sadly, the train ended up killing four of our brave military men. They survived war, but not the barrelling locomotive.

I survived my parent's war, but my 20's could have been a train-wreck. In November's "Hic, Hiccup" post I explained that alcohol's stupor felt very comfortable, but unbearable migraines actually spared me. For too many years I felt clumsy, in a sober, autrovert fog. If not for my sensitivity to alcohol, I would have learned to rely on it rather than my...Trainer... He is helping to develop my natural stride and teaching me my "voice."

Returning to our Ozarks road-rager, he certainly would not try to bully a train, ramming into it on purpose. Nnnnneigh to that thought. As a wise coward he knows he would be talking TURKEY!  Midland, Texas shows us that one-track trains are powerfully destructive. I still prefer to compare my free-will to a...

Another thing for which I am grateful: #7  Thanksgiving, which gives me many reasons to...sing!!

My next post will be the food prep Wednesday before Thanksgiving; it will, indeed, be a very busy day! Deo Volente.

Blowing Off Steam!! 11-14-2012

This is a somewhat progressive blog. Feel FREE to begin by clicking to my first post: Boologging Begins

 

The great and powerful OZ!!

This is Veteran's Week, and I am grateful to the many, many brave people who have entered military service and positively affected my FREEDOM. I conveyed on Facebook thanks to family members for their heroic service, including Ron and Ben for their current, continuing service, and thanks to my Veteran Father Craig, and Father-in-law Marvin and his brother Jim. They allow me to continue tip-toeing into the topic of personal freedom, sharing safe-for-me, personal, Oz-arks tales.

My husband jogs at our nearby lake and never knows what he will encounter at the early-morning timeframe when he's on the wooded trail. Many times he has crossed paths with one particularly rugged exerciser who is a bit startling because he appears out of nowhere, running down a wooded hill or turning a quick corner, but he's quite entertaining. Jeff returns home chuckling because this guy is randomly and vigorously grunting as he carries or drags large, crazy things. One day he was "boulder-guy;" another day he was "tire man." Jeff wonders when he'll see the guy next, where, and lugging what outrageous inanimate object.

On a recent early-morning run Jeff startled zillions of migrating geese on the lake, creating synchronized whooshing, flapping, and cackling sounds, like an enormous thundercloud. The previous night we could actually hear those unison cackles from our home at bedtime. We never know what we will encounter next at the lake. Maybe that's why we like it so much.

On one booming Sunday afternoon we experienced anything but entertainment at the lake. A dynamic first occurred when, just minutes before we left our house for a walk, the roar of ten jet engines preparing for take-off began, and it continued.

I quickly shot many illogical questions to know-it-all Jeff: What is that LOUD noise? Are we being attacked? How can we find out where that deafening noise is coming from? Do you think it's safe to take a drive?

We bravely venture out in our car, and I'm surprised we don't see all of our neighbors in their front yards; there are a few curious ones visibly scratching their heads. We do encounter many inquisitive Oz-arks drivers slowly passing a nearby, ominous, thundering structure. Years ago I recall solo, night-time car rides past this structure that created helpless, "Oz"-like feelings in me. This day, many of the passers-by are thinking: Surely that power plant really is Oz, and it is about to blow!

We ended up walking anyway, thinking that any minute the astronomical, reverberating noise would stop. We couldn't help but walk at record, Olympic pace because of the roar's agitation. I couldn’t hear my MP3 music, but earnestly pressed the buds to my ears to somewhat protect my eardrums. It helped a little. The "booming" roar continued even after our 35-minute walk.

How could a power plant person randomly decide to overwhelmingly attack the noise space of hundreds of people? For an hour? The entire walk that bossy power plant seemed to FREELY use vociferous noise pollution as its "voice" to make a point:

I am the great and powerful Oz…and there is nothing you can do about it!!!!

The power plant really was a giant tea kettle ready to explode. We later learned that it was blowing off steam because of excess pressure. At times, I, too, have excess pressure and need to blow off steam!

On a light-hearted noted, a true story about President Reagan says he could be quite witty, and was visiting the Queen of England riding horses together when one of the horses blew off steam, releasing some LOUD flatulence.

After a few awkward moments the Queen embarrassingly said, I apologize! There are some things even royalty cannot control.

The quick-witted President chuckled, Why...thank you! If not for your apology, I would have thought the horse did it.

Another thing for which I am grateful: #6  Walks at our normally peaceful lake with my husband...feeling like royalty.

On Sunday, November 18th, I will share another blowing-off-steam, Ozarks incident…still chugging towards my topic of personal freedom. Deo Volente! 

I know there are a few of you out there reading... thank you from the top, middle, and bottom of my heart for your participation in my adventure.

Hic, hiccup! 11-11-2012

This is a somewhat progressive blog. Feel FREE to begin by clicking to my first post: Boologging Begins

In October's entry titled, Boologging Begins, I shared how scary it felt to blog, because I knew I would eventually share personal stories and feel exposed. For those of you who are familiar with The Matrix, I have opted to take..."the red pill." I will figuratively enter "the rabbit hole" and relinquish the safety of the matrix. I will be vulnerable and human...for a few paragraphs anyway!

After living in our small city for over 18 years, my husband and I attended our first Missouri State basketball game. We saw cheerleading bling, spotlights, and mega-advertising. Much more than occurs at my husband's private Christian university games. Memories of Illinois State University come to mind, attending my friend's swim meets. I also attended gymnastics meets to watch my high-achieving older brother perform all-around feats of strength and agility.

The year is 1973. I am a FREE-spirited, strong-willed [adult child of an alcoholic] freshman at ISU. I am a 2.5-hour drive from my parents and anyone who will tell me what to do with my weekends. My brother is an engaged junior and lives off-campus, so he is busy and far enough away to help me feel basically free. Woot woot! The photo below is the rambunctious Haynie Hall floor on which I lived my Freshman year. 

I was a vagabond between two floors because of my "W.U." roomie's hometown boyfriend who weekend-monopolized our dorm room

My floor is invited to a beginning-of-the school-year celebration with our brother floor in Wilkins Hall. I know very few people, and music is playing crazy loud. At first it feels uncomfortable as everyone is a bit uneasy. We plant ourselves along the sides of the room, like it is our mission to hold up the walls. Alcohol begins to flow freely and I taste one of my first beers. Yuck! It tastes rather nasty at first, but then begins to slide down the throat easily. I drink only one beer that evening, and it strongly affects me.

Hm mm. My lips feel a little like I’ve had dental Novocain. I slur when I talk and feel silly, like I want to dance and don a fashionable lampshade on my head. My normal, measured composure feels amazingly carefree. Where are my inhibitions? I laugh…a lot and babble a lot; and have tons of FUN, until…I better RUN to the nearest toilet. Hi ho, hi, ho...a heaving I go. I don’t remember feeling that awful before. The toilet is my nasty friend for a while. I pull myself up from the ground, and my "friends" and I trudge to our dorm rooms for restful sleep.

Fast-forward to the next morning: My head is killing me! I feel lousy! Oh, my… maybe some food will help.

I stumble to dress, eat late-morning nourishment, and press on to my part-time job and studies. I repeat this FREEING weekend activity quite a few times my freshman year. I LIKE how FREE I feel when I drink and it helps me fit in with the crowd.

If you were able to peruse November's post titled The "Voice"... can you believe it? Like Father; like daughter. I now realize it is one of the predicted outcomes for a child growing up in an alcoholic home. I inherited my Dad's addictive nature, and I craved the allure of anything to numb my insecurities and make me feel powerful. I needed alcohol's loosened voice. I needed liquor for striving-to-be-outgoing, tongue-tied me...to avoid discomfort. I wanted to fit in somewhere, and the drinking crowd seemed most available.

Inebriated, I was quite gregarious. The saying, The nut doesn’t fall far from the tree rang true for me… I was becoming comfortable with denial. Sober denial was passed from my grandparents to my parent's generation, and alcoholism was passed from my Dad to me. I was a coward who needed alcohol to loosen up. I longed for deep, safe connection and recognition, and alcohol seemed to be an appropriate counterfeit. Complex, vulnerable relationship was beyond my comprehension, and forget any possiblity to understand the art of negotiation.

I remember my normally quiet, melancholy Mom’s negotiation tactics with a store clerk. I purchased a cool watch with interchangeable bands and faces. It was amazing because I could make it match any outfit. It prematurely died, and well-meaning Mom attempted to exchange it. Back then return policies were less accommodating than today's Walmart. The clerk said: You can’t return this watch...you don't have the receipt.

Mom’s veins popped and her voice tightened as she uncontrollably whinnied: My daughter saved her allowance plus used her birthday money to buy this watch. You’ve taken advantage of her with this cheap item. Surely you can at least exchange it!!! It broke too quickly!

Rather than calmly asking to speak to the manager, Mom attempted cartwheels and flips to make the helpless clerk feel sorry for us. We left with no new watch. My dire need to observe the art of calm confrontation and negotiation was hijacked by her outburst. I ascertained that: disagreement equaled acrobatic, emotional eruptions to manipulate.

Back to dorm life and morning-after hangovers. By sophomore year I have changed dorm floors, to a more comfortable floor. Denial D finally reached the grievous-to-me conclusion that weekend fun would have to take a back seat to my body's severe negative reaction to alcohol…it dehydrates my already dehydrated body creating migraine-like headaches.

I was grieved, because alcohol could have been my social crutch. I was relationally crippled and needed numbing. I wanted denial. How would this 2o-year-old be able to handle the awkward, stressful, adult world…sober? Migraines stole my FREEDOM!

Oh, my. Back to the safe Matrix, which I have, most definitely, exited. I have descended the long tunnel and plunged "naked" into the cesspool. The crane is lifting me, for healthful decompression time. I must stop being vulnerable, for now anyway.

In the next few posts, I hope to "chug-a-lug," along a more comfortable blogging "track"...  I plan to circle back to my 20s when I feel safe...

Gift #5 for which I am grateful:  Being FREED to learn my “voice.”

My next blog will be Wednesday, November 14th.  Deo Volente...  Click here to view a quick clip of "The Matrix" Blue Pill versus Red Pill

The "Voice" 11-7-2012

This is a somewhat progressive blog. Feel FREE to begin by clicking to my first post:  Boologging Begins

 

CONGRATULATIONS to all of the Obama campaigners and supporters, including family and dear friends! 2012’s two capable candidates provided a nail-biting race.

I must admit, my dreams are dashed. My Dad was always a spirited Republican and I followed in his footsteps. Dad was a campaigner for Barry Goldwater, and I helped distribute flyers from the back of our red station wagon. My Red Republican dreams feel a bit like my 3.3-year-old Beta fish “Red” who died Saturday morning. I took a picture of him just in case it became appropriate for today’s blog. Oddly enough, my red laptop is also dying.

I was going to save today’s post until later because it shares sensitive information. The only reason I share any of my personal stories is to eventually segue to my topic of personal freedom. But today’s post-Election Day atmosphere is ripe for recalling October’s first, feisty and spirited town hall Presidential debate and transitions into family matters.

 It was exhilarating to view the two candidates sparring over the 4-year decline of U.S. oil drilling. I’ve heard it described as a muscular debate. I admire the candidates’ use of skillful words and powerful postures. Maybe if the possibility of a fist fight loomed, I wouldn’t have enjoyed it, but it never occurred to me that they could potentially engage in fisticuffs. Could that happen in pricey, silk suits?

Facebook Friend Kara posted her thoughts on the debate’s heated political bantering. It reminded her of childhood visits to her friends’ homes, hearing parental arguments. She felt like she was eavesdropping; hearing things she shouldn’t and invading their privacy.

I recall my first pre-teen visit to fiery, hormonal “Diandra’s” house, sitting in her small living room waiting for her to change clothes, and overhearing Diandra's loud outburst: Mother!!! Donna wore my red shirt without my permission. I can’t find it!!!

Whoa, I never spoke to my Mom like that! Immediately I hear Mother scream back: Diandra, your shirt is probably in the laundry. Quit fighting with your sister!! 

Whoa, Mom never spoke to me like that! The cat fight continued, loudly. Both sisters FREELY hissed at each other as Diandra screamed at the top of her lungs. Mother and her two daughters ranted and raved back and forth as I waited. Their high-pitched voices actually shook the walls of their small, Cracker-Jack-Box home. I felt like I was experiencing a private family moment, like they were running around naked.

Even though my family home was rambunctious with six energetic children, Diandra’s home felt distressing. My donnybrook home chose to embrace the sober, cold-shoulder tactic. All seemed Leave It To Beaver-like until alcohol loosened my striving, highly-educated Father’s tongue.

Warning!! This Reader's Digest, mini-condensed version of pscho-babble comes from 3 months of almost full-time, intensive, soul-searching research into family-history to figure out what the wingo created my dyscombobulated childhood; so, it might help to take a sip or two of bold coffee before reading this complex paragraph. Liquor helped my responsible Dad cope with busy days and unwind. He too-internalized many stresses:  1) Dad felt his work partner was taking advantage of his kind nature; 2) he had six children to feed, clothe and strive to raise well; 3) he passively and stubbornly bristled his glorybunned, widowed Mother's (my grandmother's) persistent advice to sanctify his life; and 4) he was suspicious of his quietly-enchanting, ethereal housewife’s daily activities. Liquor opened his "Evil-Twin" relational “voice.” If he was anxious, lonely, or suspicious he anesthetized. Dad numbed himself for FREEFALL, slurred outbursts and false allegations toward Mom. Dad mega-internalized everything and lacked the sober skills to calmy negotiate with his close relationships. My amiable, middle-class, naive parents were co-dependent, nurtured by Mom's helplessness and her subconscious father-abandonment issues.

Whew! That IS a mouth full! I love my (years-departed) parents, but Dad really did have addictive genetics and Mom had unhealthy coping skills that paralyzed me. If sharing glimpses of their story prevents anyone from following their footsteps, I believe my parents are whole-heartedly cheering.

Enough of that complex sludge for now... back to the Presidential debates, which on one hand were beneficial. On the other hand, random debaters are paid to disagree, so they find disagreeable things on which to disagree; I’m not fond of that. I do admire purposeful debates where people are fairly obedient to ground rules and use skillful words rather than decibels; and use logical arguments rather than manipulative sucker-punches and cold-cocks. The Presidential debates were at least somewhat informative, demonstrating how well the candidates did their homework as well as their response under pressure. Well wishes to President Obama as he leads our country!

Adding to my grateful list: #5 Painful 20s migraine headaches…I’ll explain why, on Sunday, November 11th... Deo Volente.

Free-Falling! 11-4-2012

This is a somewhat progressive blog. Feel FREE to begin by clicking to my first post: Boologging Begins

I am on a self-imposed, open-ended sabbatical from work. After 20 years, I’m FREE…of the morning grind of getting up at the ideal time to eat, dress, fight traffic, and arrive to work just before everyone else for that valued, close parking spot. After resigning my long-term position, I felt akin to October 2012’s Australian daredevil Fearless Felix during his out of control spin: Do I push that button and stay alive or fight the whole way down and break the speed of sound?

I have fought for the last 5 months to control my 56-year “spin;” I diligently worked through childhood issues to obtain closure by writing my historical, cathartic memoir and my breast cancer journey. Now I begin free-fall blogging. A topic has been spinning in the back of my mind for months that I will slowly develop over the next 2 months.

I drove to Chicago last week to visit family. The 9-hour drive can be lonely, so I purchased the 6-hour audio book, Lincoln, by David Herbert Donald, to accompany me in the car. Young teen Abraham Lincoln performed years of exhausting, slave-like labor for his aging father. His father even hired him out and kept Abe’s earnings. A PBS special theorizes that his back-breaking teen experiences compelled Lincoln to diligently fight to emancipate the slaves. He understood their plight and empathized with them.

My childhood compels me…to explore the sensitive topic of personal freedom.

A couple of weeks ago this grandma was thinking about bringing a small gift to Chicago for her one and only grandchild who loves Thomas the Train. Using an almost FREE thrift store purchase, an off-brand carrying case shaped like a train, I’m thinking about creating a fold-up track mat to store inside the case. Would a trimmed, folded Twister mat fit? How would I draw the tracks onto the mat? Should I instead go to Jo Ann’s Fabrics to buy Thomas fabric?

As I pondered at the dinette table, I noticed the murkiness of the backyard’s bird bath water. It was days since the water had been refreshed. I step outside and turn on the garden hose. This year we purchased one of those curly hoses to prevent kinking. It actually is almost kink-proof, but I learned the hard way to not forget to turn the water off at the spigot lest holes pop through the seams and flood the porch. Good! The birds have fresh water.

The next order of business for that day was to dress for treadmill walking as train track thoughts still chugged through my mind. Years ago I resourcefully created a crude treadmill desktop from its own packing material. It takes concentration and coordination to read and walk at the same time. It’s like patting your head and rubbing your stomach simultaneously. My invention works for this budding, multi-tasking blogger. I walked and re-read an article that a couple of months ago nurtured blogging thoughts.

Guess what free-will analogies are used in the article…a train on a track and also a kink in a garden hose. Aha!! It’s almost like that article followed that day’s thoughts. Warming into this FREE-fall adventure has been cautiously slow. I’m very responsible. When I commit to something, I do it, with my heart and soul.

In 2010 (encouraged by my husband) I resolved to post a Facebook photo a day for an entire year, to enhance my photography skills (today’s blog picture is from 2010). I was accountable to my Facebook friends to keep that resolution. I never realized the hours of labor that resolution would demand. On one hand I loved it; on the other hand I felt immeasurable freedom on January 1, 2011 when the daily, creative expectations were released.

I’m more careful with this resolution. Daily blogging is out of the question. That could feel like bondage and abrogate my sabbatical FREEDOM… I ELECT to post on my blog site once or twice a week until the end of the year; that is more realistic.

Gift #3 for which I am grateful: The FREEDOM to vote on Tuesday, November 6^th.

On Wednesday, November 7^th, Post-Election Day, I will post a Presidential entry that segues into a gingerly peek into my family background …Deo Volente!