“Let them praise the name of the Lord, for His name alone is excellent: His glory is above the earth and heaven.” (Psalm 148:13)
Now, let me preface this post with saying I am eternally grateful to finally be earning enough to pay my bills each month, to work at a job that challenges me in so many good ways, and to feel so much a part of this community that I have come to love. I truly am blessed. And turning this foreclosure thing around for a second time is nothing short of a miracle. Amen!
However, there’s another way that my work challenges me, which I am hoping will also be a good thing in time, but is causing me no end of headaches and heartaches: I can’t incorporate any meaningful routine into my days.
OCD tripping me up again…?
Not work’s fault, but the childhood trauma that helped the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder to develop in the first place. Twenty years of therapy didn’t “cure” me of it. It only taught me how to manage it…somewhat. But I still struggle with that fine line between better time management overall and knowing when I’m becoming obsessive about that time.
There’s also a side of me that berates myself for being “lazy” when some niggling part of me says maybe it’s “burnout” and my body simply cannot = can + NOT go at my usual breakneck pace. Some of it may be age and menopause. However, the past decade has been one challenge after another: multiple losses of beloved family members; job loss/unemployment; under-employment; a major injury; foreclosure threats and everything seeming to break/leak, etc. all at once on the home front. I’ll have a whole new house by the time I’m done…just in time to bury me with astronomical mortgage payments. Not lamenting holding onto home either, just the increase in payments from falling behind in the first place.
And through it all, I earned first a Bachelor’s degree, and then a Master’s degree, writing the first draft of my first novel as my thesis (it’s in the middle of revisions right now before going off to beta-readers).
However, I also want to show up again every Tuesday and Thursday with a new post. I want to start writing herbal posts again. I want to get back to the heart of what this blog has been and why it was started in the first place. But I have yet to incorporate a routine that will allow it. Part of the reason is that my schedule changes day-to-day and from week-to-week at work.
Sure, our business hours stay the same each week, but my duties and responsibilities change with the seasons, and I’m in the library several hours a week when we’re not open. Again, not a lamentation. Some of those hours are to host multiple writer’s workshops and book clubs, all of which I started to encourage more patronage. We increased patronage this year by half as much again as last year, so that’s a major boon.
Yeah, I probably am Burnt. Out.
Years ago, when I worked in Corporate America, I used to take a week’s vacation, and the first few days of that vacation, I let myself sleep as much as I wanted. After a couple of days, I was refreshed and back to my old vigor. Perhaps that’s what I need now.
Or perhaps the chronic introvert needs some serious time to simply retreat from the world for a few days. Not necessarily in sleep, but simply “time out”.
And maybe, just maybe, yeah, the perfectionist needs to quit trying to “perfect” everything all at once and focus on one area of life first: my health and well-being, and then take a few baby steps towards another area of life once I’m feeling more like myself.
Only then will it be possible to carve out a routine that works without burning me out again.
In the meantime, as with my foreclosure process, I leave it all in His hands. What will be, will be. And I trust Him with whatever the outcome. And that statement right there? That’s the best testament of healing of all: I trust Him. That same childhood trauma that gave me OCD also threw my trust in the dirt, stomped all over it and left it in the gutter. That I can actively give up control of any kind says a lot about His healing, His timing, His plans. Maybe I don’t need a routine after all. After all, it’s His will, not my own.
“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes: and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.” (Revelation 21:4)
A year ago today I was MESSED UP. I only acknowledge this now after reading last New Year’s belated post (I neglected to even create a New Year’s Eve post until January 2nd!). I mentioned the loss of Faith (no pun intended) the Plymouth Barred Rock chicken in that post, but not the loss of either rooster. Not a big deal when stacked up against the loss of my Aunt Sandy and Uncle George, but still worth noting.
This year, not only are we rooster-less at The Herbal Hare Tomestead, we’re also goat-less, having lost our beloved Felicity, the last of our Nigerian Dwarfs in early spring. As with Chester, whom we lost towards the end of 2023, age was a factor. But, I think without one of her own, loneliness may have also been a factor. Sure, chickens and ducks shared her world, and humans, too, but she and Chester were the last two for so long, I know she mourned the loss of him right alongside the rest of us.
In addition to Felicity, MIG and Radar (roosters), we lost the last of our Black Australorps, Phantom; the last of our Buff Orpington chickens, Diamond; Taffy, our Silkie chicken, Basa, one of our Polish crested hens, and Strawberry the Pekin duck, who I am sad to say, lost her life from one of our remaining chickens. It happens. It sucks. And it breaks my heart. But I will forever wonder if I could’ve done anything better/different. Was the new coop too small? It didn’t seem so with chickens and ducks having separate houses and only sharing the barnyard together, something they have done their whole lives. As for the others? We are a homestead of geriatric critters. The uncertainty of whether we would keep the farm, or lose it to foreclosure, meant I haven’t restocked for a number of years in case we were forced to rehome them. I’ve simply been caring for those that remain, helping them to live their best lives for whatever time they have left.
It may stay that way.
Despite the tab labeled, “The Dream”, I am also acknowledging my own aging process. No, I’m far from ancient, but my lower spine gave me a painful reminder that I’m no more a young, sprung chicken than my feathered friends when it came to burying Chester and Felicity’s remains. As their name suggests, Nigerian Dwarfs are a smaller breed of goat. Felicity wasn’t so bad. However, Chester was rather large for the breed. He was wethered by his previous owner because he was too large for the breed and any offspring might’ve been too large for a standard-sized Nigerian Dwarf doe to safely birth.
Felicity
He was also too large for someone 55+ to be lifting and then lowering into a grave.
All of that being said, I’m not giving up on my dreams. I’m simply being careful not to spread myself out too thin going forward, weighing options, and considering the future. Also, the recent threat of foreclosure, the loss of loved ones, and a thesis to complete for graduation last August, have all wreaked havoc on me (Can you say “burnout”?). It may be a while before I’m ready to take on a fully-fledged farm again…and when I do, I’m considering only bees and bunnies. Time will tell…
Of course, we’re not completely out of this season of loss. As we lost my father’s sister, Sandy, and her husband, George, last year, my mother lost one of her sisters, my Aunt Donna, this year.
It has been very hard trying to be strong for Mom, while also mourning the loss of another beloved aunt. I’ve mentioned often about having a stepfather who wanted “too much to do with me” as a child. When I first opened up about the abuse, Auntie Donna was with Mom when I told her. She was a well of support in the weeks and months that followed, even to going with me to therapy one afternoon.
More importantly, she was Mom’s closest sister. Mom is one of 11 children in what I can only describe as a very dysfunctional family (and, yes, I know that term has been bandied about far too much over the years…). Good people, all of them, but they don’t talk. They take offense too easily. Despite being sisters and brothers, they have the equivalent of high school “clicks” amongst them. And income, or the lack thereof, has often been a determining factor in who gets to be in which “click”. Mom has been widowed and living with me for over 10 years now. Only one other sister calls to check up on her from time to time. To say that she’s feeling this loss keenly is putting it mildly. I can only hope that 2025 will be a better year for our family…and yours!
Auntie Donna
To be honest, I don’t know if He is finished with this season of loss with us or not, but I think this year’s word will be “Hope”. I am hopeful about so many things, I don’t know where to begin listing them…despite the recent losses. On that score, I am also grateful to have been able to share my life with these loved ones for as long as I did. Maybe I took some of them for granted. Maybe I could’ve been there for them more than I was, but my love for them was always deep and never-ending…and it always will be.
So here’s to 2025…a year of Hope.
As for the usual song of the year? I’ve decided this year that I will be sharing a new video/song, as well as a line of Scripture, every day on my social media accounts, so there isn’t any one song this time around. And that’s okay.
Happy New Year, Everyone! May God bless you & keep you!
“The righteous flourish like the palm tree and grow like a cedar in Lebanon. They are planted in the house of the Lord; they flourish in the courts of our God. They still bear fruit in old age; they are ever full of sap and green, to declare that the Lord is upright; He is my rock, and there is no unrighteousness in Him.” (Psalm 92:12-15)
I turned 58 last Wednesday. Not a milestone of any kind, and a day like any other. The many Facebook posts and text messages wishing me a “Happy Birthday!” were about the only occasions to mark it (outside of dinner on Sunday with Mom and a friend). None of this is a lamentation of any kind. I am grateful for all the well-wishing. But, damn, if I don’t feel every inch of those 58 years these days!
Aside from the usual aches and pains that accompany aging…especially those of us who have long abandoned our yoga practice…it’s the heartache that also accompanies this aging process. As the old saying goes: “Growing old ain’t for sissies!”
It’s the faces no longer here, which seems to occur with more rapidity as the years advance. It’s also the changes in relationships.
And, along those veins, a lamentation against modern technology and the havoc it can wreak. I.e. We are far more open about our thoughts and feelings on social media than we are in person. We say things maybe we wouldn’t. And, for those of us who have always been the dour church mouse in the corner, we speak up for ourselves where, in person, we’d probably continue to take the verbal abuse.
My bestie since middle school unfriended me because she didn’t agree with whom I cast my vote for in the presidential election. That’s her right not to agree with my choice. But it was the insinuation posted on Facebook that she wouldn’t trust old friends with the whereabouts of Anne Frank that stung. I haven’t become this racist, homophobe, wannabe fascist because my more conservative side has emerged in the face of certain social changes. Whatever your skin tone, religious beliefs, country of origin, gender, or sexual orientation, you are welcome at my table as a friend…and always will be. If someone slights you because of who you are, I will still fight by your side for fair treatment. As long as you treat me and mine with the same respect and courtesy, that will never change. I will add whatever your political views to the list above, too.
I don’t care about any of that. I care about YOU.
There’s been a lot of reflection this past week. And a realization that my bestie hasn’t picked up the phone to call me just to chat in almost 10 years. I assumed it had to do with the “convenience” of social media. But, over the years, my calls to her have almost always gone to voicemail…and never a returned call. Those rare times that she has answered, it was as though she couldn’t wait to get off the phone again. I’ve wracked my brain for some sort of incident that might have precluded this behavior. We’ve never had an angry exchange of words. And I’ve never known my bestie to be shy about expressing her feelings…even before social media.
I could be entirely barking up the wrong tree: she got married about 10 years ago. For those new to the blog, I grew up with a stepfather who, to keep it G-rated, wanted a little too much to do with me. He was also an alcoholic and, when under the influence, would fly into rages. Little by little, he pulled Mom away from the influence of others in her life: friends, family members. I can’t help wondering, when looking back over these recent years, if my voting preferences weren’t simply a final excuse to cut me out of her life…because maybe her new husband is doing what my stepfather did and constantly reminding her of “offenses” that were never really offenses to pull her away from others (i.e. a control issue).
The changes in our relationship over the years haven’t been lost on me but, knowing how strong of an inferiority complex I have from the aforementioned childhood, I’ve always assumed maybe I was being overly-sensitive. I’ve always trusted that our friendship was solid enough that, if there was ever a real problem between us, we could talk about it.
The other possibility is she’s afraid of saying something more hurtful and destroying the relationship altogether. And I’ll give her that. It’s a rather childish response, and a hurtful one, but I can accept it.
I just hope she knows I’m still here if she needs a friend to talk to (incidentally, my bestie and I live half a continent away from each other…not exactly a ride across town to see what’s up) if my earlier suspicions are correct.
These are the complexities of getting older, of seeing friendships change…some for the better, some withering away. It’s especially heartbreaking in this age of advanced technology that, while it has its uses, like everything, it also has its evil side. Relationships are always changing and evolving, always has been that way, but today, it’s much easier to slam the cyber door shut than it was the physical one in generations’ past.
I love my bestie. I love a lot of other friends who have gotten angry over my recent political choices. We don’t have to agree with each other, but we should be willing to look past those differences of opinion to the person inside. When we shut our hearts, and our minds…and our screens…against any effort to understand at all the what and why that may be driving those choices, we open the door to the adversary even more broadly. With today’s technology, he’s wringing his hands with glee and ecstasy the more divided we become…as individuals, as a nation, as a world on the cusp of nuclear war.
I hate how complex life seems to get the older I get. I feel my age more and more as the world changes around me…and feel a sense of rebellion against it. I understand my parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles more as I age, the clinging on to fond memories…and the feeling of being forgotten by a society that scoffs at those memories.
My door is still open to my bestie. My hope and prayer is that, once the mad fades away with time, she’ll “friend” me again, answer my calls and/or return them. If she needs a friend to talk to, I hope she knows, I will always be there for her. Perhaps she won’t understand it, will mock me as a door mat, or some such. She doesn’t seem to understand the concept of forgiveness, of loving the whole person despite their sins. She’s an atheist to this born-again Christian, so perhaps this was bound to happen with such a differing worldview. But I will always love her…despite those differences.
That’s one of the many blessings of getting older: you understand what matters most. It’s the people who share all those memories, who share however many trips around the sun we get to travel in this life that matter. And, because they do, I refuse to close that cyber door in return…or any physical doors. Life is too short.
“They will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green.” (Psalms 92:14)
My Poppop was a wealth of knowledge. He wrote for the Providence Journal Bulletin for 40 years and was even nominated for a Pulitzer’s Prize for his work. As an investigative reporter, he rubbed elbows with some of the best…and some of the worst. His obituary speaks proudly of the organized crime ring that he helped take down through his reporting. He also interviewed Henry Ford for the Ford Motor Company’s 50th Anniversary; I have some of the stationary and memorabilia from that event.
But none of that is why I loved him.
Obviously, I get my love of writing from my paternal grandfather. In part, my love of music (he played multiple instruments), as it runs on both sides of the family. I get my love of learning from Poppop, too. And my chess-playing ability. I’ve squared off with some of the best. I haven’t always won, but I’ve always made them work for the win. (Of course, I haven’t played in a while, but I’m confident it’s like riding a bike…)
Going to my paternal grandparents’ home each weekend was a magical time for me. Yeah, I’m honest enough to admit they spoiled me, but I’m going with age and experience on their part on how to teach children the wonders of the world.
Some of my fondest memories of Poppop are of Saturday nights sitting beside him on the couch while he read stories to me, or listened to me read them aloud to him, while occasionally blowing in my ear to make me giggle from the tickle of it. Sometimes he simply shared little tidbits of knowledge with me: “What letter of the alphabet is the most used in the English language?” I may have been 5 when he posed this question to me. I remember saying “A”. The correct answer is “E”.
When he wasn’t banging away at the keyboard of his manual typewriter, he was sitting out in the yard, smoking his cigar, and watching the birds. He was an avid birdwatcher (I am, too). He kept an assortment of bird feeders well-stocked and a bird bath to which a ceramic cardinal and ceramic blue jay perched alongside their living “cousins”. (One of the first knick knacks that I ever purchased for myself was a cardinal and a blue jay sitting on a branch…)
He tried to teach me to play the piano a time or two, but I wasn’t receptive to that teaching (something I rue to this day…).
However, I never left my grandparents’ home on Sunday evening without my Poppop driving his big old black Buick sedan to the railroad tracks on Kilvert Street in Warwick, Rhode Island. We would sit in the parking lot beside a tenement there (from which I rented an apartment years later!) and wait. Almost the whole family–Poppop, Nanny (my grandmother), Aunt Margie and Mom & I (sadly, my father, his son, never wanted to be a part of my weekend)–went along for the ride. We sat and we waited until those railroad lights started flashing and the arm came down to stop traffic going over the tracks. Once the train went by, we drove down the other end of the road to another parking lot–usually the bank’s–and watched one jet take off and another land, all with a sense of wonder over the marvels of modern technology.
Poppop’s 119th birthday was this past Sunday. Alcoholism took him from us too soon at the age of 68. But, despite this social “disease”, he lived a life well. He will forever be my “Poppop”.
“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)
Another year winding down to a close. This is often, in my mind at least, a time to reflect upon the year that’s passing.
I’ve been shying away from that.
It’s been a tough year filled with uncertainty…and some losses that have cut me to the bone. Yet it’s also been a year that’s filled me with hope…even as my prayer life has hit one of those dead zones.
This time last year I was staring down the face of foreclosure, scared silly I’d lose my babies, the cat, goat, chicken and duck “babies” that share this homestead with Mom and I. I wasn’t even sure where Mom and I were going to go if we lost the home. I promised myself–and Him–that if He saved my home again, I would shout His praises from the rooftop. There’s been a praise and song in my heart, but I’ve retreated so far inward, well, I’m hoping the Bible studies I’m taking on Wednesday nights at church will help me navigate this spiritual desert. Right now everything is just numb…yet maybe a little raw, too.
This time last year we also had intermittent running water. Then from April until late-July we didn’t have any running water at all. Praise God–and Robert–for helping us get the water back on. And my heart was truly singing during and after that first hot shower in a very long time!
Of course, New Year’s Eve is always that time when I remember those I’ve lost throughout the year. Close to home, we lost Mountain Dew Duck, Jeep the Rooster, Faith, the last of our Plymouth Barred Rock chickens, and our sweet and lovable Nigerian Dwarf goat, Chester. Also, Herman the barn cat disappeared about a month ago. He’s been gone before, but usually not more than a few days, a week at best. Herman was incredibly shy. We tried capturing him, but he knew what a live trap was and avoided it like the plague.
On the human side, in April I also lost my Aunt Sandy, which if you’ve been following my blog, you probably saw the post about that. Her husband, my Uncle George, followed her in July. I might be able to find something metaphoric in the times of their passing vs. the water shutting completely off and then, praise the Lord, coming back on. However, it’s too great a mental exercise right now.
You see, this has been my time to weep, to mourn, to give up (or, in my case, give it up (to God!)), to be silent. It’s been the worry over the home; the stress of so many repairs and replacements; the grief…this last is the hardest. And now the feeling of being overwhelmed as I try to clean up, shape up, pick up the pieces and move on…while also in the midst of the first of three thesis classes. Go figure!
Then just before Christmas, a friend of a friend found mention on the probate court website of another friend’s estate. Duncan had not been heard from since August and we had been very worried about him. He lived alone and he wasn’t returning phone calls. A few visits to his home showed no one was there and no one had contacted my friend to let him know what happened. Whether Duncan passed away at home, or later in a hospital, we may never know. He was never a visitor to the homestead, but his best friend is, and his loss is still felt.
Despite all of this, all of the struggles and the losses of family and friends, both human and humane, I truly do feel blessed. Blessed to have shared at least part of my life with everyone mentioned here…and I praise God for those who are still here to share this life with me. Here’s to hoping 2024 will be a much happier year!
“I tell you the truth, anyone who gives you a cup of water in My Name because you belong to Christ will certainly not lose his reward.” (Mark 9:41)
First of all, I want to give a shout out to all of my Celtic, Wiccan, and Pagan friends reading this: Happy Beltane/Bealtaine! May 1st is the midpoint between the spring equinox and the summer solstice in the northern hemisphere and it mark’s the first day of summer in Gaelic Ireland. Throughout Ireland, as well as Scotland and the Isle of Man, celebrations may include bonfires, the decorating of homes with early spring flowers, and a visit to some holy wells. As with any celebration, there is usually a feast involved.
Here in the U.S., May 1st is May Day. Though I don’t know of any schools still doing this, my mother remembers dancing around the maypole as a child. I’m guessing the real meaning of the dance (to increase and celebrate fertility) may be the reason this celebration has fallen out of popularity in the mainstream. But Happy May Day, as well!
Now for my usual Monday meanderings…
On a positive note, I managed to make the last of the three trial mortgage payments last week. Now I wait and see if the mortgage company is still willing to reinstate it. The proverbial bear crept into my bearing (no pun intended). Snippy, impatient, irritated—and that’s just for starters. On top of that, our intermittent water source decided to act up. We had no running water for much of the week. Once again I wished for one of those hand-pumps like Laura Ingalls Wilder would’ve used. They’re costly to install but then, so is a new well-pump, water softener, and hot water tank—all of which we desperately need. Ditto for new electrical lines to replace the ones chewed by our latest resident rodent population. The bathroom ceiling hasn’t leaked in some time (crossing fingers) but, the basement door has rotted out; there’s a gaping hole in the bottom…hence, the rodent population’s easy access in and out (among others). We need a new roof, gutters, and the barn door needs replacing along with the basement door.
Rotted out basement door
To top things off, as many of you know, I lost one of my favorite aunts recently. Two of my best friends lost their aunt yesterday; I knew Carol, loved her as almost a second aunt. They say this comes in threes; I sincerely hope not.
I came home from work on Thursday to find Felicity, one of my geriatric goats, had somehow managed to get her head stuck between the stanchion and the wall next to it. I have no idea how long she was there but, she must’ve bumped and bruised her throat a bit trying to get loose. She wouldn’t eat. Nothing appeared broken but, I had to make a run up to the local Walmart for some baby food so that I could at least get some nourishment into her body while her sore throat healed. She is now back to her usual feisty self eating solid foods again. She also polished off quite a lot of Japanese knotweed yesterday, which contains a mucilage that will help her heal even faster. Thank God! But she had me worrying for a few days. The gap between stanchion and wall has since been blocked.
And now Luna, one of our cats, has something sticky all along her left side. No idea what it is but, Mom says she came flying out of the garage-turned-barn like a bat out of hell and has been a little neurotic ever since. We checked her over. She’s not injured in any way, just sticky and matted. We’ve only been allowed to clean her up in short spurts before she’s had enough but, in time, I’m sure we’ll sort it all out.
When I say I am bodaciously tired out, I sincerely mean it. Here’s to hoping the coming week will be a little better, fewer upsets, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a few things done.
On some positive notes, the rhubarb we planted a couple of years’ ago is growing beautifully; I can’t wait to make my first pie out of it. The broad-leaf chives have spread further and smell divine. The Egyptian onions are making a comeback. And the apple mint is threatening to take over the front yard. These are small victories that make some of the aforementioned hardships at least tolerable. And, thankfully, the heavy rains last night didn’t knock off all of the blossoms. Below is the magnolia tree in all of its glory! I planted it as a little 12” sapling over 10 years’ ago; I love seeing it in bloom.
RhubarbMagnolia in Bloom
I sincerely hope everyone reading this had a better week last week…and will have an even better week going forward.
“But I, by your great mercy, will come into your house; in reverence will I bow down toward your holy temple.” (Psalm 5:7)
First of all, I want to say “thank you” to everyone for your patience, and for the kind words in regard to the loss of my Auntie Sandra Chelak (nee Burbank). It’s never easy to lose someone you love, but some hit harder than others. This is one of those times.
My Auntie Sandy was a very special lady. Yes, I’m biased by my love for her. However, the outpouring of love from family, friends, her former students, neighbors, etc. is a measure of just how many lives she touched…and in profound ways. She loved people. She loved to laugh and have a good time. She was outgoing, funny, and a gifted artist who loved to play bridge. She was also an avid gardener and a spade was a shovel. You knew exactly where you stood with her…in a good way. She was open and honest, and didn’t take any b.s., but she was also kind and generous. She loved deeply and was the glue that held everyone together. She was also a woman of deep faith. And I have no doubt that she is with Jesus at this very moment.
Again, I may be a bit biased, but she deserves every accolade she has received this past week as news of her passing spreads across the U.S. And I do mean that in a literal sense. Throughout their many years of marriage, my aunt and uncle lived in New Jersey, Maryland, Virginia, and most recently, Arizona. She was from Rhode Island. Her niece here (moi) is in Connecticut. Another niece is in Mississippi. And, I believe, her husband, my Uncle George, has family in Pennsylvania.
They say distance has a tendency to blunt grief. I suppose, on some levels, that’s true. Though she has never been far from my thoughts over the years, it’s true that I get up each morning and my days are still fairly the same. We didn’t live in the same house, the same town, or even the same region of the country. When they were younger, Auntie Sandy and Uncle George made frequent road trips East every couple of years to check on her eldest sister, Marjorie, who was in an assisted living facility, and to visit family and friends along the way. We would spend a wonderful day together, catching up, sharing laughs and memories, and making more. And there were always letters, cards, and phone calls back and forth.
It hurts every time I think, “Oh, I have to ask Auntie Sandy about that” or “I have to share this with her next time we talk”, etc. It hurts to know I will never have her wise counsel on the other end of the phone again…though I will always hear that beloved voice in my memories.
Her son, my cousin, Gary, called me last night. At first it was tough; words just seem so inadequate at times like this. But then the memories started pouring out. We laughed over an afternoon he and Auntie spent together learning how to make crepes for the first time…after she’d just promised her bridge club crepes for tea the next day! There was a bittersweet sigh over the paper dolls she drew for cousins, Miriam and Melanie, and I at a family gathering at our grandparents’ house; Gary was still a baby at the time. The laughter, the memories–both happy and bittersweet–were so healing. It’s exactly what she would’ve wanted.
There was a poem/letter read by actress Patricia Neal on an episode of Little House on the Prairie entitled: Remember Me.
“Remember me with smiles and laughter for that is how I will remember you. If you can only remember me with tears, then don’t remember me at all.”
That about sums it up, but my heart will still be quite heavy for a while. She used to read this blog; I hope she’s still reading it from heaven. I love you, Auntie Sandy…until we meet again:
Aunt Sandy, approx. 14 years of age, circa 1951? My grandmother in the background, hanging her clothes on the line.Aunt Sandy is far left, standing as Maid-of-Honor for her sister, Janet (Not sure the year; early 1960s?)Aunt Sandy and Uncle George on their wedding day.Aunt Sandy and Uncle George some years’ later, still happily marriedAunt Sandy and her beloved dog, Gypsy.Aunt Sandy and Uncle George in more recent years.The last photo I have of Aunt Sandy taken last year at age 84/85. She would’ve been 86 this August 1st.
May God bless you & keep you!
Works Cited
“Remember Me.” Little House on the Prairie, written and directed by Michael Landon, developed for television by Blanche Hanalis, Ed Friendly Productions, NBC, 1975.
“We give thanks to you, O God, we give thanks, for your name is near; men tell of your wonderful deeds.” (Psalm 75:1)
…for your patience!
I had planned another Wednesday’s Weed Walk today but just received news last night from my cousin in Arizona of the passing of my beloved aunt, Sandra Chelak (nee Burbank). Wednesday’s Weed Walk may become either a Friday’s Flora and Fauna, or get pushed back to next week. I trust you will understand.
“For you have a new life. It was not passed on to you from your parents, for the life they gave you will fade away. This new one will last forever, for it comes from Christ, God’s ever-living Message to men.” (1 Peter 1:23)
I find myself unable to think of a word, or biblical phrase, to define this year. I’ve thought of “Intention”. “Trust”. “Discipline”. I need to work on all of these…and a phrase/verse from the Bible to help remind me.
Wow.
I guess I really am mired in depression. See? I need to work on that trust issue for sure!
But, as always, on New Years’, I like to take a moment to reflect on the year past and remember those loved ones who will never again grace The Herbal Hare in life.
Praise the Lord, my human family has been hale and hearty this year. =) However, we did lose the boss of the barnyard this past spring. Sgt. Feathers, my Polish crested rooster, is protecting his ladies in heaven these days. And while his sons, Radar and MIG, and grandson, Jeep, are doing their best to carry on with protecting our living flock, it seems strange not to hear his trumpeting anymore…followed closely by a little, squeaky half-pint of a crowing. Tank, the little Silkie, who, having followed so closely at Sgt. Feathers’ heels in life, followed his commander closely in death, too. I lost them within a few days of each other. With Sgt. Feathers, it had been expected; every day was a gift. He was quite old for a roo (10) and had started walking almost hunched over like the old man he was. Tank, however, is a mystery. No sign of illness or injury. But, because they like to peck the ground, parasites are always an issue…no matter how clean and careful you are with their environment.
Sgt. FeathersTank
We also lost two beloved felines this year.
Only a few days after I posted last New Year’s memorial, Mom’s cat, Rosco, left us. Rosco had an interesting life. He was found atop a house in Illinois during all the flooding in the Midwest over a decade ago. No clue who his owners were, he was brought to a local shelter. Mom and my stepfather were shopping at PetSmart one weekend. The store was hosting an adoption clinic this day. Mom saw Rosco and fell in love. But my stepfather said, “No, no more cats!”. She worked on him as they wandered the store and, as they reached the checkout, he relented.
But Rosco had already been adopted…
…by their upstairs neighbor in the apartment complex where they lived! Said neighbor did not take good care of him though. Mom watched in horror as this declawed kitty had his front paws intentionally raked over the rough bark of a tree, lost weight due to inadequate feeding, and lastly was kicked by the neighbor’s boyfriend. Mom saw them outside with him on a leash, marched over, picked Rosco up and walked away with him. When the couple protested and threatened to call the police, Mom challenged them to go right ahead so she and the other neighbors could all tell the police how cruel they had been to this little guy. Poor Rosco had to have his jaw wired from the kick. And had to be fed frequent, tiny meals for awhile until his shrunken stomach could handle more substantial amounts of food. He grew to expect the frequent feedings though. He was quite fat by the end of his days…except his tail, which stood up skinny and reminiscent of the wire used to guide the bumper cars at a fair. He rode shotgun on the dashboard of Mom’s minivan when she traveled across country from Missouri to Connecticut to move in with me back in 2014. His “hoot” will be missed (Rosco’s jaw remained misshapen due to the abuse he endured before Mom rescued him and he could not articulate a more traditional “Me-ow!”).
Rosco
Lastly, Kirby. We lost him in May 2021. Kirby came to “visit” for the first time in the spring of 2014. I heard some of the resident felines howling in protest in the kitchen, went to investigate, and saw a bright-eyed little face peeking in over the window ledge. He did this for several nights…all while I protested I did not *need* another cat. He probably belongs to a neighbor, he’s just passing through, etc. But he kept coming back. And, finally, I determined that, yes, God had planted another stray kitty in my path. I started feeding him, gaining his trust. It took a few months (!!??!) before I was able to trap him and get him indoors. And then another couple of weeks of him being isolated in a room by himself until I could get him to a vet.
He howled all the way to the vet office, ripped open his toes trying to claw his way out of the travel cage, and then shot out of the cage and placed bloody runnels down the exam room walls as soon as the doc opened the cage. He had to be sedated so she could examine him, patch up his mangled toes, neuter and give him his shots. I seriously thought this was one baby who was too feral for a forever indoor home.
He proved me wrong.
Mom had just arrived with Rosco and Max, her blue heeler we lost a couple of years’ ago, and Kirby and Rosco became bosom buddies, along with Paz, my geriatric tuxedo. Then, a few months’ later, when a pregnant Priscilla was dumped off on the farm, he minded her babies like the proud surrogate Papa he became to them. He, Ozzy, Emmylou, and Alice Cooper became inseparable, and he was a sort of ambassador to every poor feline this farm has taken in since.
However, I proved him wrong, too. I told him he would love laps someday…and I was right. Once he was reassured that he was loved and there would always be someone to care for him, he was the ultimate cuddle kitty. =)
Kirby with his adopted “sons”, Alice Cooper and Ozzy Osbourne (l to r)
Both Rosco and Kirby, Priscilla late last December, and earlier in 2020, my Pearl, all developed kidney and heart disease rather suddenly after using Seresto collars. I don’t know if there is a correlation, though I did see an article in USA Today in regard, stating that these collars are being linked to possible kidney and heart disease; I have not found the link to that article today but, I did find a more recent news article about how certain lawmakers are asking that these collars be recalled. There have been reported incidents in the thousands as regards these collars so, please, proceed with caution if you are using them for your pets. I have included the link below so you may read it for yourselves. My then-vet suggested the kidney and heart failure was simply due to their age. Granted, Pearl was 16 when she passed; Kirby and Rosco both estimated at 12-13 years’ of age. Priscilla, however, was only 7, a bit too young, in my opinion and experience, to be struck with organ failure. No sign of illness in any of them prior to these sudden downturns…and I do mean sudden. Rosco had been playing with me like a young kitten just 3 days’ earlier when all of a sudden, he just stopped eating and started shutting down. We have since found a new vet as the “old” one refused to take my concerns seriously when I voiced them to him. I may be wrong about the collars but, it seems, I am not alone in my concerns with them.
Kirby; the best ones are the ones who choose you (sigh!)
In addition to these memorials, I think it is safe to say that 2021 was even more challenging than 2020. I’ve alienated a lot of friends due to my stance as regards mandating getting jabbed with something that neither protects one from contracting an illness, nor prevents one from spreading it. I’ve been a Democrat all of my life; I am seriously considering at least becoming “unaffiliated” as I cannot abide the hate and vitriol being spewed about by others of the party. The fear-mongering by mainstream media; the attempts to force us into a police, or authoritarian state; the lack of respect for others who do not share the same views have left a bitter taste in my mouth. I actually owe President Trump an apology for being so anti-Trump during his tenure. While he will never be a favorite of mine, yeah, it really was a witch hunt…one, I am ashamed to say, I contributed to widely on social media.
I don’t know what this new year will bring. The media continues to cry for the arrest, ostracism, and abuse of those who either cannot, or will not, take their (in my opinion) poison**. Gasoline is up to $3.60 per gallon here in New England for regular unleaded; I’m sure it will rise even higher as we approach summer. Empty shelves grace the local Walmart and grocery stores, and there’s sticker shock when you do find what you’re looking for. On a more personal note, while foreclosure is still eminent here at The Herbal Hare, I find myself even more committed to homesteading, and now prepping, than ever before. I cannot help but think a collapse of some sort is eminent. I pray I am wrong, but it doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing. Perhaps you’re all thinking, there goes another whacked out conspiracy theorist. But, maybe, just maybe, there’s something to those conspiracies. (No, I don’t think little green men are injecting tracking devices under our skin, but I do see changes in government, in our society, that make me think I may have to carry around special papers proclaiming myself “free” (passport anyone?), or don a special band marking me as some sort of enemy (face masks?))
However, I am committed to building a community of like-minded people, too. None of us are islands unto ourselves; we need community. Perhaps the word I’m looking for this year is “tribe”. Regardless of whether or not you agree with me on a social or political level, when all is said and done, this year I feel it is especially important to at least be kind to one another. We are all struggling during this turmoil. And our tribe, or family, is who we choose to care for.
But this is all just what I think. I invite you to share, whether you agree or not, in the comments below. I do ask that you be respectful of others, and of this blog, by refraining from profanity, name-calling, bullying or belittling; again, we are all one family, each a very special part of the body of Christ, none of us whole without the other. That being said, regardless of what you believe (or not!); how you look; who you love; socioeconomic status, or current “jab” status, all are welcome…to this blog, to this community, in my home and in my heart. We got through 2021 together, we can get through 2022 as well…and, hopefully, come out the backside of it in a much better place than we are going in.
Wishing everyone much love, much hope, peace, prosperity and, above all, a deep and abiding faith for the New Year! May God bless you & keep you!
**A note: though my opinion leans towards choice when it comes to matters of health, to everyone who has been *poked*, please know that I respect your choice to do so. It is your body and you have to do what is best for you and yours. I am not “anti” pokes; I am anti mandating personal autonomy. For everyone obsessed with forcing others to do as you do, stop for one moment, please, and think how you would feel if suddenly a mandate was issued that said you were no longer *allowed* to get poked, even though you feel in your heart it is the right thing to do for you and yours.
Again, may God bless you & keep you! Stay safe & stay free!
“The path of the godly leads away from evil; he who follows that path is safe” (Proverbs 16:17)
I had just come back from the company cafeteria with a cup of tea when a co-worker hollered over the foam-filled cubicle wall, “Oh, my God! Did you see that?” And then a cacophony of voices asking, “What?” “Yes, OMG!” “Holy crap…my sister/mother/brother just texted me; look at this!” “What happened?” and “This can’t be real.”
And, yet, it was.
As the images scrolled across every screen in our corporate facility, I remember glancing at the plate-glass window behind me and trying to imagine what it would be like to see a large commercial airplane heading straight for me. Granted, I was on the ground floor and our facility sprawled rather than rising up to touch the skyline but, at that point, I believed anything could happen. I thought of the family and friends those people would never see again…because, in that instance, you would know there was no escape.
Glancing at the clock on the PC, I picked up my extension (I wouldn’t join the ranks of cellphone users for many years to come), and called my parents’ house in Warwick. I knew they weren’t flying anywhere but, you know, you couldn’t help but check-in with all of your loved ones at a time like this. Every other extension was lit up with the same type of phone calls. Nobody was working on September 11, 2001…outside of first responders and hospital personnel. And, as news footage rolled, janitors, cafeteria workers, assemblers, accountants, executives and technical engineers stood shoulder-to-shoulder to watch in horror.
Mom wasn’t up yet. My stepfather had just awakened, poured a cup of coffee and turned on the TV. His two-plus-packs-a-day-early-morning-gravel declared, “It looks like something out of a Sci-Fi film”. As he could likely quote dialog from Star Trek, I agreed with this assessment. I still had that feeling of otherworldliness myself; it would not wear off for some time. For me, it was more like Freddy Kruger meets Godzilla, or something equally as fantastical and unbelievable.
My stepfather woke my mother up. It felt good just to hear their voices as I watched new footage rolling of people trapped in the upper floors of the Twin Towers jumping to their deaths.
Suddenly, my Mom mentioned a new neighbor of theirs who had sat outside with them a few nights’ earlier, showing off a new tattoo. She remembered it depicted an airplane flying into a pair of towers…
They hung up to call the local police station.
Nobody ever responded, took them seriously…even after they discovered only hours later that the couple had moved out in the middle of the night on September 10th.
Later, as the list of casualties scrolled across every news outlet feed, I learned that Mom had an old high school friend on board one of the planes. Carol was en route to her daughter’s wedding. I can’t imagine her last thoughts…or that of her daughter on what should have been a day filled with joy, not sorrow. And, as my mother’s side of the family is mostly police officers, I couldn’t help but grieve for those who lost their lives trying to save others, while also admiring the bravery that every emergency worker displayed as they rushed in, heedless of their own safety.
Of course, with the renewed sense of patriotism after these attacks, and the pretty much unanimous approval for our commander-in-chief to invade the Middle East, came a great fear in the hearts of many for anyone of Middle Eastern heritage. Or anyone just sporting a head covering of some sort. Memes spread via email hating on anyone Muslim or Middle Eastern…or both. I understood the fear behind it but, when one such meme surfaced quoting passages from the Quran, I decided to risk some censure. The quote and the book didn’t even exist in the Quran (and forgive my faulty memory for not remembering the fake quote from 20 years’ ago). Though I am Christian, I have a copy of the Quran in my home and have read it cover-to-cover. I double checked and then copied down text from the numbered passage the meme claimed as “gospel”.
Yup. I got reamed. Family, friends…was I crazy?
No. Just trying to do what I thought Jesus would do: counter the lie with the truth…and stop the persecution of innocent people. While all members of Al Qaeda and the Taliban identify as Muslim, not every Muslim is a member of Al Qaeda or the Taliban. It’s like members of the Ku Klux Klan claiming to be Christian, but not every Christian is a member of the KKK. Both are fringe extremists of their respective religions and cultures.
I was called un-American for pointing out the error in the aforementioned meme. I had a brother deployed to the Middle East right after 9/11. Of course, I was worried sick over his safety, and that of his brothers- and sisters-in-arms. Of course, I supported (and still support) our troops, our police officers, firefighters, EMT’s and other emergency workers.
And I always will.
As I sit here remembering 09/11/2001, my heart grieves for Every. Single. Life lost in this terrorist attack. I grieve and pray for all of the unsuspecting executives and office workers, maintenance and food preppers, blue color and white color, who went to work that morning never realizing what that day would bring…or the ultimate sacrifice they would have to make. I pray for the passengers and crew aboard each airline. I pray for the emergency workers and first responders who gave so selflessly. I pray for the lives lost over the last 20 years due to the myriad pollutants inhaled during and after the attack. I pray for all of our soldiers, many who also gave the ultimate sacrifice to defend our country, and for those who came back less than whole with limbs missing, sight and/or hearing destroyed, suffering from PTSD and, like so many of our vets from Vietnam, found themselves homeless upon their return to the U.S. (we can do better than this America…). And, yes, I also pray for those caught in a cycle of hate for their heritage and/or beliefs since this attack, whether Muslim or Sikh or any other individual mistaken and mistrusted for something they had no more control over than any other American.
Twenty years…
The children of the soldiers deployed in 2001 are now old enough to be soldiers themselves. 13 of them died as our current administration finally pulled out of Afghanistan. Yes, it was time and past for this war to end.
More criticism: I’ve been told I have no idea how hard it is to pull a whole army out of a country like that and I shouldn’t judge…even though thousands of American citizens and Afghan allies were left behind. I should focus on the, I believe the number is over 120,000, people that were rescued. Focus on the positive; this has never been done before (yeah, there’s an echo chamber here from the previous administration…). Those left behind are essentially hostages now. And, no, I really don’t know how hard it is to pull out of a country like that. But my brother could’ve been one of those 13. And I believe my critics are missing the point completely as we all mourn the loss of who I pray will finally be the last of those lost since 9/11 and the seemingly endless war that has followed in its wake.
The Herbal Hare Tomestead and Animal Sanctuary 