Life With Family

  The Universe or fate or whatever you want to call it has a funny way of taking the reins whenever I make plans. I'm not much of a planner; setting goals isn't something I normally do on my own. One could argue that more practice on my part might subdue the universes hi jinks, but that's my old school superstition talking, I think. Anyway, I recently came to a point where I realized I really need to do something to rectify my unstable financial status. I came up with a few ideas, plans to pay off some debt a little at a time, with the ultimate goal of bringing my bank account current so I can apply for some credit.
I was rather pleased with myself and my new-found sense of adult responsibility. I began to believe those positive affirmations we all hear ad nauseum. I am responsible, I am capable, I am lovable. A regular Stuart Smalley, oh yes.
My sunshiny radiance was short lived. The first sign of impending gloom came within 24 hours when my internet got suspended. I had paid the bill but failed to notice the 15 dollar a month rate increase. It helps to read your bills before you pay them I guess. Then no sooner than I had completed my indignant call to the internet provider I received a call from the electric company. It's that time of year where the moratorium on shut offs begins so they are out to settle up as many accounts as possible. I usually carry some balance until energy assistance comes through, but due to the brief but disruptive hissy fit in Congress such programs were put on hold for two weeks.
 I couldn't help but feel just a little demoralized. All of  a sudden I was in the midst of that gnawing feeling that no matter how well intentioned my plans I was doomed to struggle every day to keep my head above water. Not to mention the thought that if there were some sort of emergency I'd be screwed. Living on the edge wears away at you a little at a time like the proverbial drop of water on the stone. In addition to my often uphill battle with money I carry on in an equally challenging war with depression. Its always lurking just around the corner and financial worry feeds that beast very well.
Depression peeked it's head around the corner and began whispering it's usual litany of condemnation.
I am an adult, I should not only be able to support myself but should be able to help my adult children out if they need it too. But where do all these shoulds that Depression is so fond of come from? Who writes your script Mr Blusey Buzzkill?
For one thing they come from a different era. A time when jobs were plentiful and food was affordable. They also come from a culture that puts a somewhat narcissistic value on independence and individuality. John Wayne type stuff. The American way, ghosts of a culture that no longer exists. It's the privileged middle class white culture  (a thing of the past for most of us) that says every nuclear family has their own home and every individual has their own bedroom equipped with a tv, game system and whatever else they 'need'.  One thing my daughter learned by dating outside of her ethnicity is that many people commonly live with relatives. Nursing homes are a last resort and even daycare for children is provided by live in family. For those who have struggled family has been the glue that held them together, financially and emotionally. This same daughter, lives right across the street from me had an experience similar to mine, well laid plans for security that unexpectedly washed away from right under her feet. As we lamented our 'family curse' over coffee the inevitable and logical conclusion became clear. Her apartment is big enough for another person and if each of us cut our rent in half we could be left with some money after paying the pipers. We spend much of each day together anyway and I am my granddaughter's homework helper. We made the decision that I would move in with her. Or as she reassured me, we would move in together.
I'll admit I went through a couple of days of feeling defeated, feeling I had somehow screwed up my life as the whispers of impending depression continued to swirl around my head like gnats, persistent but useless. Ultimately I came to the conclusion that despite some mistakes I've made in the past, I really have done my best to stay respectfully afloat during the past few years of unemployment. Once that sense of shame faded I was able to see the benefits and joys of being a real part of a family again. All the things like meals together, story time at bedtime, move nights and even the chaos of disagreements are the fabric of family life and I have missed that these past few years. Empty nest is real folks, and for those who can afford to travel or develop exciting hobbies and interests maybe it doesn't feel quite so lonely, but I'm not one of those people right now. Having half the financial burden I've been carrying might allow me to enjoy some of those middle age benefits and I get to have the family part too. Best of both worlds.
So here I go into the next chapter, not a step back but forward and I am able to welcome  it with expectation and open arms.
Wish me luck.














© 2010-2013 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard

No Sounds of Silence

With my apologies to Simon and Garfunkel

Hello insomnia my old friend
It seems I've met you once again
There was a dream while I was sleeping
and the image is now fleeting
and the vision that was dancing in my brain
scant remains
but there's no sound
of silence
distant sirens scream and whine
the cops must be working overtime
and the drunkman in the alley still sings
of nonsense things
and there's no sound
of silence

 rise from bed and curse oh damn,
the kitchen clock reads 3 am
and the dog next door is barking at the bum
who only hums
and there's no sound
of silence

restlessly I pace the floor
and stub my toe against the door
and I struggle not to cry out in the night
it wouldn't be right
to break the silence that my neighbors must know
as they sleep, face in pillow

To my computer I will go
to seek out someone I know
perhaps from across the sea
another timezone it may be
a time where the sun shines in the day
far away
and I will find
no more silence

Alas the battery is uncharged
the distance now looms large
and the night sky is fading to the dawn
oh what went wrong
I only wanted
silence


© 2010-2013 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard

Single, Widowed, Divorced Female Seeks Self

I tend to be one of those people who posses the innate ability to make other people feel good about

being single. I can effortlessly produce the rationale for utilizing time alone to truly know and appreciate ones self. I tell people, and I truly believe, that when the time is right the right person will appear and that until that time forcing the issue is likely to upset the delicate balance of the universe and result in a mismatch that is doomed to fail. On my moodier or my more manic days my advice may arrive more crudely packaged, swathed in darkly cynical humor but the general idea is the same: just don't sweat it-enjoy the present as it is-someday your prince will come and if not you'll be so busy enjoying the present moment you'll never notice. I don't just say this stuff to make people feel better, I really believe it.
It's so much easier to reassure someone else that to grace ones self with the same comfort.
Most times I am reasonably happy being single...although I must admit the word 'single' kind of makes me cringe. There's something about it that implies that it is a temporary condition, that one is either actively seeking a permanent partner or is out to get laid as frequently as possible. "Swinging singles", a dated phrase from my youth, is indelibly etched in my mind. Although I have to say when faced with the options on identification forms, it feels better to say that than it does to say 'divorced'. My divorce happened so long ago I feels like it shouldn't count, like there should be a statute of limitations. I've considered "widowed", the sympathy it would garner is tempting and it sounds far more intriguing than the other two, especially at my age, I would simply have to over look the fact that my husband passed away over a decade after our divorce so that's kind of a white lie as they say.  "Never married" is a nice option they sometimes offer. It carries an air of mystery....why would a woman of her age never have married and what kind of exciting free spirited life did she lead? hmmmm? But that would be more of an actual outright lie, not so white.
No matter how you slice it or what you name it I am indeed, unpartnered, single, divorced and in a way widowed (but not really) and all of a sudden it's starting to feel lonely. Maybe it was exciting for a while because it was different. After all I have been in some sort of relationship for most of my adult life. I tended to go rather quickly from one to the other and in some cases had that little overlap just to make sure I didn't have to wonder what to say on those information forms. Now, in the past decade or so, the stretches between relationships seem to grow longer, quieter, more comfortable. And in those stretches of time, my requirements to change that status become more refined. Over time they have 'refined' to the point of being almost absurd in their specificity as my life becomes more settled in routine and quirky habit less welcome to change or disruption. There are fewer points that are negotiable. The dog sleeps on the bed. The butter stays out on the counter. I'll pick up my underwear when I damn well feel like it and maybe I do want to be up at 3 am reading. On the other hand there are so many areas where I am extremely flexible and/ or easy maintenance. Never forget that you as the potentially partnered, are half the equation.
Just for fun I started a list of characteristics that I would want in a mate. This is a pretty common exercise in counseling or other self help type programs. Optimally the list then gets divided into negotiable and non negotiable traits at some point, but I figure why bother even messing round and including non negotiable in the first place right? Just cut to the chase. So anyway, I started my MANifesto, got about a dozen items into the list, realized I was describing myself and that's when I left off. Haven't touched it since. It's still there of course and like all good manifestos it probably should sit and stew in between additions so that's what it's doing now. At least until I can come up with some non physical i.e. obvious trait that would differentiate this person from myself. Otherwise I may be stuck being my own dream date. Maybe I'll just start filling in my own name in that space that says "spouse", it probably wouldn't be the worst fib on the form.


© 2010-2013 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard

The Importance of Being Bradley

I'm feeling almost sick waiting on the verdict of the hearing. I don't write about politics or the news

very often on here. There's plenty of that to go around and more than enough opportunity to voice my opinions on such matters. For here, I tend to focus on the personal and that which is personal, yet shared, among my peers. But in my heart this case feels personal and it has since the story first broke, when I first saw that very young man being led in handcuffs to what would become a seemingly endless confinement to a tiny cell. I've spent time in a holding cell, about 48 hours, and it damn near drove me mad. I can't even fathom what two years in such a place would do to a person.
I know there are a lot of people who care and who do take it personally as well. This case and it's outcome will be a turning point in our country, just as the release of the Collateral Murder video was also a turning point. Those of us who know veterans and have heard their stories weren't terribly surprised by what we saw. Most vets will tell you these things, and worse, much worse, happen all the time. There was something that was disturbingly 'safe' about having that knowledge restricted to a select bit of the population. Like incest, you want to keep it hidden away and that first confession, no matter how healing it is, feels like having a layer of skin ripped off.
 I had a friend who was in Vietnam who told me about taking trophies, human ears, and wearing them strung around their necks like jewelry. War does that to people, it makes them do things you would never imagine them doing. This man was one of the kindest most caring people I knew and yet he had at one time sliced ears right off peoples heads. He told me that if someone was in the road when a truck of troops came along that person would be run over and left to die. It didn't matter if that person was a child or an elderly person, which they usually were. There were other things too that he wouldn't talk about but I can imagine.
Most people don't want to know these things. I don't want to know these things and yet I feel it's my duty to know them because I live in a country that perpetrates more war than any other. I want to know these things so that I never forget why I oppose war in any way possible, even if most of them don't feel very effective.
There's another layer to this story and it's even more personal. I have children about Bradley's age. I have always taught them principles of honesty and integrity. You know, do the right thing and you will be rewarded, at least if only with the knowledge and satisfaction that you took the high road. How can I tell them that now? How can I tell them to intervene if they see injustice if they see an innocent young man go to prison for life for doing just that? It's one thing to teach your kids that life isn't always fair but this goes far beyond unfair.
Obviously Bradley's parents taught him the same kinds of values, and now they have lost their son because no matter how this all turns out he will never be the same guy.But in the midst of all the grief and anguish I hope they will always be proud that their son changed this country forever in a way that needed to be changed. The scab has been ripped off, the flesh is still raw and now its up to us as a nation to decide how to heal the wounds of war and injustice.
© 2010-2013 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard

Noisy Neighbors and Nocturnal Nusance

I am jarred awake, torn from the peaceful fog of slumber, by the sound of the back door slamming. Heavy boots pound up the stairs sounding like a petulant toddler stomping. Over my head boots drop to the floor in a way that sounds as if their owner had held them high over head before letting them succumb to gravity. Scenarios play through my mind. In one neighbor grins sadistically as he does this chuckling like Bond Villain. In another he watches like a simpleton, a strand of drool sliding from his dopey grin, as the shoe falls, marveling at the miracle that is gravity. Does he do that? I wonder, hold them up high and drop them? Why?
Now footsteps, not steps, stomps, hammer overhead back and forth back and forth. Who does that? walks back and forth through their apartment over and over again. We have been plagued with ants again this summer. My more generous self speculates that he might be exterminating the little pests, one sorry ant at a time. But again this is something small children do, not grown adults with tattoos and chest hair and girlfriends who screech like banshees during sex. Thankfully it sounds as though the banshee has not accompanied him home this evening. Maybe this is the cause for the petulance.
I have already complained, both to my neighbors and when that failed, to the landlord. To their credit, the neighbors no longer have late night parties, they no longer play loud music into the wee hours of the morning; music that drowns out, to them, the cries of "Bro open the door" that emanate from somewhere in the back patio. I am grateful for that, I really am and now I wonder am I asking too much of them? Am I being unrealistic to expect that someone simply walk up the stairs, that they close the door rather than slam it? I also remember than in my youth I was not always the quietest most ideal neighbor. A simpler interpretation of Karma might say I have it coming, to lie awake every night at bar time pondering the ethics of neighborliness.
Sometimes I plot revenge. Depending on my mood it can range from whimsical pranks to homicidal conspiracy. I decide against homicide figuring I might want to save that for a situation more worthy. The mind wanders down dark paths in the sleepless middle of the night. As I finally drift off to sleep I send silent prayers to the gods of ants hoping they will venture upstairs and invade his breakfast.

© 2010-2013 Nanakoosa’s Place, authored by Jennifer Hazard