Oncologist Visit

On each and every visit I had been confronted with incredibly strong women looking death straight in the eye and laughing. Most of my visits were filled with laughter, around the tears at times, but laughter none the less. I have to tell you that if any of your mothers, sisters, aunts, lovers or mistresses happens to need an oncologist and lives in the state of Georgia, I know where I would send them. These people are wonderful.

We planned a picnic during one of my visits, honestly planned a picnic while in the waiting room. It will always, for me, be the picnic that never was. Fantasy picnic, if you would. Two ladies awaiting test results, one for a preoperative appointment, one mother there supporting her 52 year old daughter and me. We were going to have a picnic, one day.

One of the ladies was from Italy, another's accent screamed New York, in a husky whisper she spoke of balaclava. My mouth was watering just to think of all the flavors from all of the delicious recipes promised at our picnic. We even invited a couple of the nurses who laughed uproariously and promised to join us. I was in charge of desert, visions of cheese cake and lemon meringue pie danced in my head, I promised these deserts would be some of the best I had ever made, even if only to myself.

It was not so much that we wanted to have a picnic, or even to see each other again that was so exciting. It was the planning. When people plan like we did, they want to know that there is something the next hour, the next day, the next month, the next week even the next year, something. Something was all that we were looking for. A fantasy picnic is what we found.

I know that cancer is an enthusiast disease, that it can, and will, attack those from all walks of life, regardless of age, race, sex, education, religion, income, and orientation, sexual or otherwise. It was practically the only thing that these ladies and I had in common, it was enough.

2000 Volvo S70SE - and it is mine

Well, after much blood, sweat and tears I finally have a reliable car that I would feel safe taking anywhere! I am a happy lady. Want proof?

Prague, Ostrava, Frydek Mistek, Czech Republic

I am once again asking my three readers to look into their knowledge banks and come up with some wonderful places/things to see on vacation.

The next trip will be to Prague, Czech Republic. Don't ask why, just accept that I go on some pretty cool adventures.We will spend five days in Prague, take the train to Ostrava and then onto Frydek/Mistek for a couple of days in the small town environment.

I already have my trusty Rick Steve's guide. What a cool job that he has! What I am looking for from you, my trusty reader(s) is insight into the real thing. I will, of course, hit the big tourist traps, but what about that little out of the way restaurant with the best espresso you have ever tasted? Perhaps it is an art gallery, or theatre you just fell in love with? I want to know. To help inspire you I will add some pictures which JJ has already taken in Ostrava and surrounding areas.

100 Words, Again

I honestly hope that all three of my readers take a few minutes to listen, read or, perhaps, write something for what is quickly becoming one of my favorite contests.....FOUND HERE.

Dragon Strikes in Park
Early Monday afternoon newly formed Boyscout Troop 714, from Detroit Michigan, was planning a simple Fourth of July party, Mexican style. A quick meeting in the park suddenly turned to tragedy when the dragon struck yet again.
Volunteer parent, Janet Turner, was the only survivor of the attack. Troop leader, Melinda Cox, was heralded as a hero for using a pinata costume and distracting the dragon long enough for Janet to escape by building an airplane, according to directions found in the boyscout handbook, and flying away. The plane crashed, killing the other sixteen parents onboard.

Teacher

He was washing his hands. A simple act, one done millions of times, water, soap, scrub, wring, pool, rinse, rinse some more, turn water off, dry hands...

The simple things, the quiet times...that is when he finds himself, on occasion, thinking of her. The acts done thousands of times, the lessons he now gives, what he teaches his own.

“You butter the bread, not the pan.” or “The way a bed is made is the way the maker sleeps.” even “Floss before you brush, but only at night.”

With his hands dry, towel still in hand, he sits at the kitchen table lost in memory. Twenty two years without her, those years have gone by in the blink of an eye. So many lessons learned, remembered and passed on without conscience thought given to the source.

“This is what remains.” he thinks and smiles looking around the kitchen. Allowing himself to remember many of those lessons about food, about books, about babies, about life. Much was learned, more was forgotten.

Go, vote........think of it as practice

Just click here......

100 Words, its like the plague or something!

So, I was over at Ellison's site looking for tales of adventure. What I found was this little contest. Intrigued, I decided to give it a try...... a try is what we (I) ended up with....... will someone please tell me how to make a flipping MP3? GOSH! I have a story, pretty good story telling voice and no way to understand the technology to put the two together! I made a sound file.. ends with wav, not MP3.

Oh well, you can read my story below:

“Rode hard and put up wet.”

She heard it very clearly, chose to ignore. What good would come of confrontation? “Hell,” she thinks to herself with a chuckle “that weekend in New Orleans, 85, rode hard and put up was exactly what we were, and damn proud of it.” Her smile fades with the expression of remembrance, that was a long time ago, so long ago.

Years of the chase made her somber, not sober, somber yes. Head in hands now, red dreadlocks brushing the table, sagging bosom heaving with sobs. Another smoke, another shot, another night. Whiskey & me.

Drunk Painting

A sport that I highly recommend! Depending on the results seen in the morning, this opinion is subject to change!

Now, off to cook dinner . . .

A Chair

"Have you ever been inspired by a chair?" She asks with that twinkle in her eyes, telling him more, all, and nothing without uttering a word.

"Perhaps I have, who knows?"

"How do you know?" She whispers. "What truly inspires and what is merely muddying up the water?"

"Why do you ask so many questions?" He says now with understanding, his lips do not form the smile lingering in his tone.

"Why do you give so few answers?"

He knows these are the words uttered, if only for his ears. Swelling with joy and sorrow, mingling within his blood, consuming his being.

"A study in contradictions." isn't that what she always said he was to her? Perhaps this proves her right, yet again?

His sun is setting. His sun.

Here is the proof,
of something more
of something less
of metamorphosis.