Dateline: Oct. 26, 2020; Lady Proverbs, somewhere on the Oregon Coast
Yeah, 2020 sucks, blah, blah. My summary: Dad cancer, Dad died, COVID birthed, lived with 90 year-old Mom 4 months (sorry long-suffering husband-o-mine), retired at 61 ’cause I was simply done with it all, moved to coast, planned new pre-fab house, dementia grabbed Mom in a tsunami and Mom Jeckle and Mom Hyde roared in, worked with sibs on her memory care, everyone hurts from it, us and Mom. Third fucking strike for 2020.
So, yeah, being in Oregon and all, self-medication is legal, low cost and boy do edibles come in handy when Mom-stress, politics-stress, and retirement bullshit stress reaches the brain, the heart and the bowels. Don’t those clouds look pretty?
Not sure if this blog will amount to much, but I do think women of my era can get lost in the shuffle of the more “interesting” age categories. I was fucking exciting too, you know, when I was young and living in Africa and doing shit that was so dangerous it scares me now almost 40 years later. And I was cute too, that was kinda fun, although I didn’t appreciate it until I look at the old photos and wonder, what the fuck happened? Guess it’s just the march of time, right.
But then I don’t really care that much. No face lifts for this Oregon gal. Like it or lump it, this is my visage, people.
This should be fun. Hope I keep up with my blog and I’m not a scattered and inattentive Gemini running along the beach and combing for pretty shells instead of working on my novel or writing this blog. Yeah, I do that living at the beach shit too. That’s cool.
As I strolled along the Seine last fall, I noticed the lack of safety fences along the river’s lower walking paths. It didn’t concern me, I’m a cautious gal, but it immediately brought to mind how thoroughly Americans have fenced in our scenic spots. I guess that’s the difference between us and our French cousins:…
It wasn’t until a few years before she died when my Mom told me she walked down the aisle alone when she got married in Mt. Angel. The church where my parents were married was and still is a beautiful, ornate Catholic Church in a small farming valley in Oregon, a match for another somewhere…
Everyone kept saying I was brave. That was after I decided, somewhat rashly, to travel to Paris and Berlin three months after my husband died. I didn’t feel brave. I felt stupid suddenly, desperate, the dull heaviness of grief turning my decision-making process into mush. The synapses weren’t snapping. My brain was a viscous porridge…
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