Thursday, December 30, 2010


We write our history.


My favorite comment is see what's wrong at 5:08.

What's wrong at 5:08 is that Daddy has got some pit bull puppies, eight to be exact. See, that day when Ruby picked him, she was pregnant. And, well, she fell in love with Daddy and Daddy with her. Nothing would have changed maybe if he had known she was pregnant. Pregnant with eight puppies and let's just say we done got ourselves a situation here.

Nobody wants a pit bull puppy although someone did ask if they had papers and all I could say was, me and daddy will draw you up some nice ones with crayons and magic markers. I just hate that Daddy can't get rid of those puppies to good homes, people that will love them and raise them.

He asked me if I was taking four of 'em and I said, well sure Daddy.

And I guess you'll have to take ol' Ruby, too, on account that she needs to go with those puppies.

Well, sure Daddy. While I'm sitting here I'll just go ahead and load the gun for Billy Sue so she can shoot herself. Billy Sue, she's kinda an only child, Daddy.

I know, Boog, but I just don't know what I'm gonna do. I took 'em to the vets to see if they could get rid of 'em but they say, no they can't do it. They don't want no pit bull pups.

Daddy said he couldn't give someone $10 to take them away.

If you, you reading this, want Ruby and her pups, oh heck just one puppy, me and Daddy will work a deal with ya'.

Just email me at sheagoff at gmail dot com.

I'll even give you a personal email of gratitude. I don't know what it would say yet. But I'll figure it out.

And oh yeah, if you don't mind getting the word out with a blog or a facebook link or a mouth or a building or a sign or a train then we would be much obliged. Surely someone out there needs one single little puppy to teach love.



Warren and I, we fight like crazy. I see Warren practically as much if not more than most anyone. Warren and I work together in an office with a shop or a shop with an office, however you want to look at it. When Charlie once said, Shea, you and Warren are a hoot. I like to watch as you jab each other.

I responded, Oh Charlie, how can Warren and I not be at war? War is in his name.

In fact, I love mine and Warren's war. I love how we struggle to get our point across 'cause our points are so different but then sometimes the same. We kinda stand for what we believe in everywhere we go. That really is beautiful if you think about it, huh? I respect Warren like that. He's kinda cool that way.

And really what is a struggle if not a beautiful war fought within oneself? Warren and I battle within ourselves, make a stand then meet each other and play as friends.

I have been watching some documentaries of late stumbling upon Jean-Michel Basquiat and a movie of graffiti artists. Why did they paint someone else's property? I think.

Could it be that they didn't have the internet? Maybe there was something so important they had to say that they wanted to tell the world but there was no forum for such a big voice as a wall or a bridge or a sign or a billboard or a train. That had to be one of the greatest ways to get your message out to whoever wanted to see it.

And then I think, well gosh that is arrogant.

And yes, it is.

But then I guess I battle a belief that whatever anyone is doing is important. Whatever anyone is saying is important. I respect what they are saying, listen to how they say it and then say what I have to say. What is so great about them is that without 'em I wouldn't know what I had to say.

And what is what I have to say anyway? Simply a belief I carry but nothing I expect you to tote.

Warren is married to Llana and they are a beautiful couple of retirement age. Are there any laws out there to help me keep Warren? Does he really have to retire?

Gratitude 'cause today he is still with me.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010


It was difficult to go back today. In five extremely short days, or wait maybe they seemed long, I got into a rhythm, a jazzy upbeat. I slept when I wanted to. I ate when I wanted to. It felt incredibly selfish, safe as if I was enclosed in a nice little shell of me. We sorta did our thing, each allowing for the other's comfort without allowing for the other's level of comfort to discomfort us. And I think, for me, that is what family feels like. It is all cuddly and unconditional. You do what you need to do to be who you are and I do the same and never, not for one moment, do we lack in complete love.

That's a tall order, I think, but doable nonetheless.

Family feels like cooking, preparing a plate with ingredients from my parents. Shout out to the venison sausage with Corky's barbecue sauce. Thank you, Mom and Dad. It feels like laughter, stories, pacing, music, reading, writing and yeah, those little naps in between. Family feels like the hum of the heater, dusty wood floors, candlelight. It dances like music, moves into conversations with who now almost feels more like an old friend. We're at the cool spot, a time in our relationship when a story becomes a treasure as if it was what those pirates were always trying to steal in our childhood stories.

I will say I have become more grateful in this period. The smiles seem more precious, the laughter more melodic. It is a space containing dance and small flickering lights of flame. It is the crunch of leaves, the stillness after all the acorns have fallen. It is dark skies promising a cold rain where you have the excuse to stay in and stay warm. Might as well.

It is lazy and blankets, houseshoes and your favorite robe. The tap of that sole leaf on the window late at night. It is a new movie, a new story with your Dad. An afternoon of stories with your Mom. And you realize that you have friends who don't have one or the other or both so you enjoy them that much more. You whisper and smile and laugh and realize how fortunate you are.

It is warm coffee brewed better than you normally have it.

It is love and grace and giving and receiving although the receiving part is sometimes hard.

The thing is that I got some incredible gifts this year, that t-shirt with the artwork designed by Josh. Green in a nice, soft fabric, easily a favorite shirt. One I've already worn at least five times or five days. I don't know but it is great to have it on. Sarah got me a spot on her blog with my movie of the year. I do so hope she enjoys it. I got the coolest or should I say warmest socks in a bag so beautifully and artfully decorated by my Mom. And pants, nice LL Bean pants, cotton and comfy, and a pullover thick and warm. Both my parents threw some cash and some meat in my direction, one in a card and the other in a white plastic walmart bag that will stay in the family until it disintegrates, shuffled back and forth.

A rare photograph of Slater and me framed and put on a shelf with other precious pictures. Thank you, Nana. And the cash, it feels kinda guilty taking that from you but I tell myself it was a gift so I treat it as such. You're really too much for a Nana, more like an angel. It is the smell of the lotion Angie got me and the story with Granny. I'm so glad I have the story with Granny. It is Aunt Wanda and Uncle Buck and all the cousins, the fantastic cousins. It is laughter and Frank Sinatra.

It is a big bottle of whiskey given to me by Rusty and Rebecca.

It is the signs that Slater gave me to hang in the house, those that speak of love, peace and laughter. And a beautiful brown bowl I have already used to eat spaghetti out of. It is the perfect size. It is a spoon with a notch to fit on my saucepans so we don't have to put them on the stove. It is thoughtful and kind. Thank you, baby.

It is Wyatt and Jesse and Santa Claus.

Aunt Dottie and puppy chow.

Billy Sue's snoring.

Conversations with my brothers. Two invitations.

It is books given to you by a friend with whom you find you struggle which is strange 'cause they were so thoughtful and kind.

It is slow talks with your friends. A nap.

It is chocolate pie with a white cool whip topping.

It is sweet tea, no ice, and lounging.

It is the promise of a new year.

And today, when the pace changed, it was no worse or no better. It was the same but simply faster so I had to adjust my pace.

I call this morning coffee.


Tuesday, December 28, 2010


I have never been able to tell a good joke. Rusty can tell a good joke but not me. The only thing funny about me telling a joke is I am trying to tell it all the while warning people of the punchline or telling them about how I can't tell a joke.

Kinda like, There was this guy.

Really this is such a stupid joke but the only one I remember.

And he got off work.

Seriously don't hold this against me.

And he was crossing the street.

Dude, this joke is not even funny.

And on,
and on to what feels like infinity.

At the end neither one of us are impressed by a punchline, we just laugh 'cause the joke has reached it's not so funny conclusion. We celebrate that it is over.

So you gotta figure that if I can't tell a joke then why would I try to tell a story. Hell if I know. Yet I am going to try and tell a story to put in a book with at least ten incredible artists, photographers, musicians, writers and poets. Let us just say it is a bit of a daunting task. It can weigh heavy. These other people in this book? Well, all I will say is that it is an honor to stand next to them. To tell a story with them. They are some of the best.

My story is going to be to my great great great grandchild, or let's just say a person in the future with which I identify but will never meet. Maybe me later down the road, maybe Slater down the road. I don't know but right now I am trying to consider my audience. Who is that kid? That young adult? Maybe they are a full on adult. Are they a boy or a girl? Blue or brown eyes? Curly hair? Do they smile often? Dare I hope laugh?

What story do I tell them? Do I tell them a story about my grandfather? My Dad? My Mom? Slater? Jason? Josh? Kim? Angie? Priscilla? It seems like they should know everyone. So I wonder how to put everyone in my story, all the great characters of my life fitting into a compartment. And I think surely that is what I will do. I will need to write a story involving those characters. A funny story to make them smile.

And it could be that this blog will begin to represent some backstory where I struggle to make this perfect, finally get it to where I can walk away from it and, by the end of February, submit. Place in the world's hands my story to that person. Tell him, her, maybe a set of twins, the one thing I can tell them and walk away.

I'm sure there will be some gratitude.

Carving by Josh Miller

Sunday, December 26, 2010


Exactly five people on five different occasions told me that this year was their best Christmas yet. Funny, huh? I mean we're at war, politics are a mess, crime scenes are being played out over and over, the economy is spiraling into I don't know, complete and absolute destruction unless we throw all our money at something. Although once in a while we may have to look at each other and say, Are they really still talking about Brett Favre? Is he still playing? Oh. Good. Gosh. Walk away, man. Just walk away.

I told my Mom this Christmas that the last month of television had stained my writing. Watching the news made me want to talk to people who were crying. There are some incredibly bad stories out there and coupled with me reading The Confession by John Grisham it turned out to be a bit of a struggle. I mean, seriously, that was some pretty horrific shit.

If you don't already know I may need to tell you that I have spent the last year not watching television. I made a deal with a company, called my previous company to tell them we were breaking up with tears in my eyes may I add, and jumped off into a world of about forty channels on a television in one room which I barely ever entered. I would have sworn to you two years ago that I would never be able to do that. I needed television. What if another Seinfeld came on, what if the writers of Sex and the City admitted that they sold out the show and came back for some of the good writing in the earlier days, what if once in a while I wanted to watch a M.A.S.H. or Sanford and Son or All in the Family or The Golden Girls or Three's Company? What if Rob and Big had a reunion? What about House? The Office?

I stopped with the help of Netflix, a great stepdown program if you ask me.

And I started watching what was happening around me. You could say I got involved more locally, and the experience has been quite thrilling. Yes, there are still horror stories even locally, but if you look at those stories, get involved with the people, you can find some of the most incredible love stories and comedies of your life. Maybe you already knew that. But me, I had to turn off the damn TV.


Saturday, December 25, 2010


I took my Dad to a movie. A western, an old John Wayne movie where Joel and Ethan Coen rewrote, visualized, hired people and recreated what they had seen. And yes I admit that their last movie, A Serious Man, gave me reason to criticize which is not something I tend towards. I figure everyone has got their way of looking at something, it is their own choice just as it is mine. I like choice and figure they do too. I think I learned that from Westerns. I think people like John Wayne taught me that. And here's where I will say Jeff Bridges playing John Wayne is worthy of note. Well hell, I'll just say that I recommend that movie on that one point. Watch what Jeff Bridges does, watch how loyal he is and then say what loyalty is. John Wayne died but Jeff Bridges lives. Go see the movie.

Then again these boys, these brothers of Coen, who have so generously brought me Raising Arizona, Fargo, Miller's Crossing, The Man Who Wasn't There, The Big Lebowski, No Country for Old Men, O Brother Where Art Thou and who am I forgetting? The Coen Brothers brought legend in my time. Legend in my time is hard for a moviemaker. I can be quite critical of what I see. Or maybe I can be quite critical about what I am spending my money to see. understatement.

The thing is I got mad at the movie. Mad in front of my Dad who I took there for us to enjoy a great, old, John Wayne western made new.I got a little pissed off let's say because Josh Brolin (hello Josh Brolin) played the bad guy. The STUPID bad guy. Now I know that all bad guys are stupid 'cause why would you be a bad guy when you could be a good guy. But don't put Josh Brolin in that role 'cause I figure if Josh Brolin is going to a bad guy then he needs to be really BAD. And he wasn't. I mean, seriously, he was taken out by a fourteen year old girl with snakes around her.

Okay, so yeah maybe snakes were really a part of westerns and that western in particular but still I don't like snakes slithering or horses getting killed. And I know that horses getting killed was part of westerns but it always kinda pissed me off that the horse was just being loyal and the human was the one that had gotten them in the predicament and why did the horse have to be shot?

Anyway, I guess I'll recommend this movie. And I guess the Coen Brothers will never actually want a signed copy of my book but I would send them Miller's Crossing if I thought they would sign it and send it back 'cause that was some of the best photography and storytelling I ever did witness.


Friday, December 24, 2010


Here on Christmas Eve I am going to tell you your gift. Early, my reader, I really shouldn't tell you your gift before Christmas morning. But you and me, we're okay with that. We're cool that way.

Listen, shhhhhhhhhh, don't say anything.

Just listen to this.

Or wait, listen to this Priscilla.

Or all of you, just know I would get you those songs if I could.

Oh wait.

I could.

I just did.

I hope you dance.

Tap your foot.


Move your head to the beat.

Those Rat Pack boys, they did it well.


And Merry Christmas.

Addendum to the person who got Slater The World's Most Difficult Take Apart Puzzle: That's not funny!

Thursday, December 23, 2010


Are we having fun yet? Should we even be having fun?

The one huge problem I have had with so many religions is the constancy in their basis of suffering. Supposedly humans are connected by suffering. We all know it having experienced it in our individual ways. You, me, we have all suffered on a relative scale of suffering. Loss, pain, hunger. Suffering is a human experience and we as humans must accept it as such.

Well, that just sucks.

Why can't it always just be rainbows and butterflies and ice cream and laughter? Why can't it be long walks and dirt roads and creeks? The ripple the water makes when a small stone is thrown in a pond? Warm and cozy gathered around a fire? The last minutes of a football game in an outdoor arena as your team makes the touchdown? A joke with a friend? Great music?

Damn it. Why can't it all be like that?

The only way I can rationalize the answer is to say 'cause we wouldn't know 'em if we saw 'em. The only way I can accept pain is to say I suffer and know when I do not. And the suffering of the world I see is much greater than mine could ever be. I should enjoy every moment, every blink, every thing 'cause I have seen suffering and know I am not.


Tuesday, December 21, 2010


Do you feel rushed? I see rushed everywhere. Tired brought on by pressure, a change of routine when those of us who never have dinner together meet up and share a meal. It is as if life gains momentum from the earlier months and swings into some whirling action zooming past your head. You want to hold onto it, but you can't even catch it. And, well, holding on was just a dream anyway.

So here we are.

You reading.

Me writing.

Catching a moment. Waking up early without much worry of tomorrow. Making a cup of coffee just like I like it. Burning my new peppermint candle Slater gave me. Billy Sue snuggled up in a blanket cave enjoying her first of such since the ankle incident. Looking forward to a date with my Dad where we watch an old western made new again. Thinking about the past weekend when all the family huddled together in a beautiful home and shared a meal of epic proportions.

How did we get to this place, swirling around like this? And who in the hell has even a moment to ask? Maybe we do by reading and writing. Maybe this is where we meet to slow down and think about how great it all is. How beautiful those people, those places, those moments are.

Maybe this is where we say our big thank you.


Thursday, December 16, 2010


I hated once. Before the once I thought I had hated but I was wrong 'cause now I realize I had never felt that way before and have surely not gone back after. I now turn from that path, my eyes are lowered and I walk the other way.

The first time someone told me not to hate I was only a child, maybe seven or eight years old. My Aunt Wanda heard me say I hate you to my Papaw as I spun around and took off to my room 'cause he wasn't going to take me with him. He laughed but my Aunt Wanda followed me. Followed me right there to my room, looked down at me and in a very serious tone, not loud just serious, said, Shea, you do not hate. You do not say that word. That is a very bad word.

I was struck by her emphasis.

Yet not enough to keep me from hating that one time, some twenty odd years later.

As an eyewitness to my own account I will tell you it came to me while I wasn't looking, started as a sharp knife in my gut, birthed from a fear so intense it barely allowed me to breathe. It was as if I had been kicked so hard that I lay on the floor unmoved wondering if I even wanted to get back up. Eventually, actually rather suddenly, I knew I had to. I had to stand but with every tightening thread of movement, every thrust of blood through my veins that fear was turning into hate. That hate was turning into me.

I pray you never feel hate not because I fear for what or who you would hate but for you. But for you, I would pray for you, your own well being.

If I were ever to say that I believed in demons or bad spirits or something around us is just not right in this world I would say it is hate. For me now that word has incredible power, a power to destroy from within, a cancer of which there is no cure unless we as individuals recognize it within ourselves.

And how could we not when it is a burning so deep it consumes us, a molten rock of destruction. Nature shows us photographs of our own demise. So we see and we change. Change ourselves, not anyone else.

No, I won't sell you a self help video. I am not writing a book to tell you how to remove hate. This is no instruction manual. I claim to be an expert on nothing. In fact, at the end of the day you can often hear me make the remark, I don't know shit.

All I can say is that I don't hate and I once did. When I once did I prayed. I became distracted by prayer crying, please please please please take this away. Take this away. Don't allow me to hate.

It kept burning and I kept praying.

Years later I can say to you in this now of December 16, 2010. In this home. In this moment I do not hate, and I don't know how I got here but I can tell you with tears in my eyes that I am so very grateful for this place, this space, this warm, loving environment, this moment which flows over me like water. Like one of those beautiful, brilliant waterfalls rushing over rocks way above.

It is love.

And now I think I understand the power of words.


Wednesday, December 15, 2010


I think now can be a tough time. It is one of those things that I struggle with on Christmas.

I think it started after that first year I did Christmas on my own. My parents were overseas, Josh had moved into the dorm, Jason was at State and I was about twenty-three years old with Slater at two. I was gonna do it like Mama did. That house was gonna be Christmasy. Decked out. Lit up. Smelling like baked apples and cinnamon.

Have you ever seen a Southern Living magazine? Like that.

First I needed a tree 'cause I had a window for it so I went and bought an expensive live one from Canada maybe that cost me at least $85. No, I shouldn't have bought an $85 tree 'cause I was only making about $28,000 at that time working two jobs. And I had a boy to raise but I guess I felt like that was part of raising him.

Ya' know, throwing a big party for Jesus' birthday where the whole world would be the guests and we would have to buy presents for everyone and decorate our houses lavishly and gorge like hogs on foods we didn't let ourselves eat all year.

But then, I guess, one year 'bout five ago I decided the most important thing about Christmas was giving. Not necessarily presents but time as well. It is huddling up in the cold, rubbing your best friends' backs, smiling at each other, having dinner (sorry I cancelled last weekend, girls), sending an old friend a gift through the postal service.

It is a Merry Christmas and an extra big smile to the clerk at the store.

It is red and white and green.

It is coats and gloves and scarves. Rubbing your hands together to generate heat.

It is spending time in your life around people you love.

It is having your boy home.



It is Granny.

Not only is it Jesus' birthday but it's also Granny's birthday, and let me tell ya', my love of birthdays came from Granny. She celebrates another year and she looks great doing it too. Quite the beautiful woman with such excitement about life.

She has even more reason to celebrate this year. She had a tough year, some leg problems that turned her into something I'd never seen. That doctor gave her solitary confinement and she withered into quiet and recluse.


Until she fought back like Sarah Todd flies a plane. Like Woodstomp plays the blues. She fought and sang it and I saw her this past Thanksgiving. And. she. is. back.

She is shining.

Eyes sparkling.

Smile laughing.

Talking 'bout Patsy's kids. Shea, Jason and Josh.

And we're playing tricks on her, answering the phone in another voice like we're in character and then laughing with her 'cause she goes along. She is beautiful, radiant and this Christmas will also be a celebration that she's back.


Sunday, December 12, 2010


Jeff is or was a planner. He knows or knew exactly how much money it would take to send each of his three children to college. He was and still is in love with a beautiful woman, my cousin Renee.

Renee had a brain tumor. She doesn't anymore.

She had surgery.

I saw her in the recovery room, the very first time I had ever seen anyone change in an instant. Not Renee, she had not changed. Post surgery with a big white gauzed bandage around her head in a room of white and silver, placed center she still glowed. Smiled then chastised us for cutting the girls' trip short, said she might could have come later in the week. She had no idea the death sentence the doctor had just given her.

I told her there could have been no way we could have stayed in Florida without her.

So we chatted, as much chatting as you can do in a sterile environment. And Renee, it appeared, had not changed. A mass had been removed from her brain, there was physical evidence of the aftermath plastered on her head, yet she seemed so the same.

Jeff, on the other hand, had become something else. Not himself.

I can't look now at what that is or what that was and say good or bad. Just that it is. Just that Renee is still alive and laughs and works harder than most anyone I know raising a boy and a set of twin girls and being one of the best teachers in the state of Mississippi, the kind you request for your kid. She continues to be grace and beauty and love walking.

And Jeff does the exact same things as Renee. In fact, I consider them to be an incredible couple. Two people with whom you love to share a dinner or a vacation. Still, they are that. Yet Jeff, the is or was a planner, learned in an instant, a blink of the eye, a momentary cellular shift, that no amount of planning is going to ensure your end results. Sometimes life just throws some shit your way and all you're left with is hope.

But then again hope is better than no hope, huh?


Friday, December 10, 2010


Hi, you.

I think you need to relax.

I think it's been a hard week.

I think it seemed like everything was going against you.

I think it may have felt like you were being tested on every level.

I want you to be able to do what you like to do.

Sleep all day.

Play video games.

Take as many baths as you would like.

Text your friends.

Play with your dog.

Get food right out of the refrigerator.

'Cause you know, you've worked hard. You deserve it.

Come home, my sweet son.

And anybody else that reads this, I hope for you one day this weekend that you do all those things you work to do.

Connor Alexander of Woodstomp
Southaven Arena

Southaven, MS

Tonight. 7:00pm till midnight.

Bring $3.00 plus an unwrapped toy.

And watch Woodstomp.

Kids get toys and you get fun.

Ahhhhhh, the weekend. Early one for me.


Sunday, December 5, 2010


I am a bit of a mess scrambling around in a bundle of exposed nerves. I think I am responsible for the enjoyment of about thirty men gathered in a lodge after a paid hunt. Men with large bank accounts. This is not in any way, shape or form comfortable for me. I don't want to be held responsible for their enjoyment. Truth be known they are enjoying themselves and if it wasn't for some type of self torture I would be at home. Yet I am here providing entertainment to one woman.

She is managing generous activity in a room the size of my entire living space. A purple Crown Royal bag is a make-shift doo rag and the loose clothing is draped around her large body. Shoes are an issue since she stands on her feet all day. She always needs shoes. The way she rambles around this kitchen, maintaining at least seven or eight pots, two large ovens and a deep fryer is a remarkable feat. One of those things I'd like to sit with my friends and watch except that would make me some lazy white girl. Opting to not gaze at Cirque Du Soleil I ask if I can help.

She turns and smiles. And giggles.

You can pour those peas in that bowl, she points. Like my Mom she prepares with thought placing the serving pieces out on the island so I do what she says.

She is so calm, so steady.

I finish preparing the peas for show and she tells me I can sit them out on a large table in the dining room.

I do as instructed and am stopped by a couple of men standing in the area. They need something or are just wanting to talk about the place, the hunt. I smile, say as much as I know and quickly return to her through a swinging door that seems to separate heaven and hell for me.

Once again we do our routine with me voicing concerns, when will the quail be done? do we have corn on the cob? One guy asked for it. Are you gonna make some fried pies? I think we'll have a revolt if you don't. A stammering mess.

She turns and smiles. And giggles.

It'll be just fine, Shea. Everything'll be alright, her voice is soft and tender. Never raised, nothing about it denoting authority but everything about it providing a knowing I could never question. One of those people you wanna be. Like my Mom.

I didn't know Modena had died when I asked Willie about her that night we went to Foxfire. I had thought about stopping by her house on my way out to Holly Springs. I am glad now I didn't but I wish I had when she was still alive. My only excuse was I thought she may need shoes and what if I didn't have enough money to buy her some good ones. Truth be known I coulda cut back on the cigarettes and bought her a nice orthopedic pair. I tell myself she would forgive me but sometimes the hardest person to forgive is yourself so out of duty and complete humility you say a prayer for forgiveness and remember that giggle and that smile and how she said everything would be alright.

Willie recently told me a beautiful story about her and I marvel in the gift of a friendship which entails the knowledge of her. And I think this must be a gift.


Friday, December 3, 2010


During a recent scientific experiment of which I attempted to find the duration of time it would take for me to fall from the top step of the back entrance to my house down to the concrete floor of my carport, I concluded that the speed of light has nothing on that fall. The fall not only won the race but also sprained the ankle.

I thought it broke the ankle, but that was night before last.

The same night I ended up crawling up those steps after convincing Billy Sue that no, this is not a game where I put myself in a vulnerable position and you get to attack my face. You can't blame her since I had just gotten home from work, taken her out for the calling of nature and was coming back in the house to participate in the Mama's home/playtime thing we do. She thought this was a new version of the same game.

But no, it wasn't.

All I knew for sure is that I couldn't put any weight, pressure or allow a slight wind to blow over my right foot/ankle area so I immediately transformed into a hopping human. One good foot and alone with a dog waiting for me to take another fall. Fun like that should really be saved for the weekend.

Rusty brought crutches (I think everyone needs a friend with crutches handy) and both of us decided that the swelling could go down during the night and it wouldn't maybe hurt to wait before subjecting my ankle, vital information and health insurance to the American medical establishment. Best case scenario would be to wake up and realize it was a bad dream.

But sometimes, I guess, we don't get best case scenarios. We get it could be worse scenarios.

We get a fashionable black boot to hold our foot in place during all those holiday parties.

We get a dreamy ankle doctor. How lucky am I?

We discover our bones were tougher than we thought.

We get to spend the day with a friend who devotes her whole day to getting us to the doctor and making sure we're comfortable.

We are gifted with a visit from our Mom, who makes the four hour drive with food and plans to make life easier for a few days.

Yeah, it could be worse. No doubt 'bout it.


Wednesday, December 1, 2010

now again

I try to count the sounds. A heater is running. There is a hum to the refrigerator. And, of course, it's been mentioned here before, Billy Sue is right behind me snoring. Maybe I hear some type of cricket buzzing and wonder if I have tinnitus. No music right now, maybe later. Right now it is about what I hear.

I then look around. There is much light. The monitor, of course. A small candle to the left of the keyboard, providing some pretty nice lighting, I tell ya'. A tiny green pin of a light is facing me to the left of the monitor. Circles of red lights down the hall to the east, what looks like a flame from a fantastic little electric heater (energy efficient, I tell ya'). Past that is my electronics system, a scary little place for me, wires everywhere, VOIP ~ don't get me started, routers ~ it seems at least two. It's crazy. If any wire comes loose, my whole entire system could come down. We're hanging here, folks, on my technological knowledge. My computer guy is off at college. But, I tell myself, so far so good.

Get back to seeing. Or wait, feeling. It's chilly. I have on Slater's slip ons he left in the laundry room on his last visit so it's cold enough for socks and shoes. But nice. Nice in that a warm cup of coffee is delicious. One sugar (the white stuff) and two creams. The wood desk is quite large and feels welcoming. And, of course, I feel the tips of my fingers tapping away on the keyboard. Tap, tap, tap. It is a decent skill that helps me in my day job. It is quite beautiful.

My mind wanders. Wanders off the page, and I sit in thought. A compulsive type of thinking, thinking of the night job thinking of the day job. Thinking of people in my life. Nice, cool, awesome people. Lucky. I feel very, very lucky.

And if I could sing it, I'd sing this life like she does.

Effie Burt by Shea (I've got to get in touch with Effie). She rocks.


And, oh yes, I am having a give away. I am giving away ten of my books from No, you don't have to leave a comment. They are numbered, and I've already decided who I am giving them to 'cause one day when I'm all big and famous they can sell them for a zillion dollars, or no, they won't 'cause they'll hold them dear to their heart. There were ten. And I wish I had enough money for 100.