When someone tells me they don't dream, or can't remember their dreams, I find it a stretch to believe it. Oh, I don't think they're lying. It's just that I can remember in detail dreams I had when I was 3 years old. And the old question, "Do you dream in color?" I know I do. I see colors in my sleep more vividly than any during my waking hours.
For instance, take the strange dream I had the other night, as it ties all this together in a tidy package, albeit the wrapping is a bit bizarre:
Somehow I found myself in a hospital bed. All I kept thinking over and over again in my mind was, "Dear God, my memories are gone. My memories are gone. Please don't let that happen." Over and over again. And suddenly out of nowhere I was zooming down the highway on the back of a friend's motorcycle and to my left was hillside after hillside covered in the most brilliant blue imaginable. In the dream I knew what had happened. I had actually recovered a memory. A real-life memory that I had long forgotten from around 1989. A motorcycle camping trip with a dear friend in northern California, near Yosemite. We came around a corner and my breath was taken away by this gorgeous sight. I don't know if they were lupines or bluebells or what, but it was so beautiful you couldn't take it all in. I can still feel my eyes widening, trying to see it all at once. See it hard enough to memorize it because I certainly never did want to forget it.
The day after this dream, thoughts would pop into my head all day long. Things I had forgotten about all these years. Being caught in a thunderstorm at the top of a mountain and riding through hail until we found somewhere to pull over. Just pulling over somewhere to camp and feasting on sourdough bread and a bottle of wine we had bought at a Napa winery.
If dreams are our subconscious trying to speak to us, I think mine was telling me to resurface these happy times. Lately I need any happiness I can get and this served the purpose well. Lovely mellowed happiness without any fear of it being taken away.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
And a gecko morning to you!
Any of my Twitter followers has heard me mention Joe, my 8 year old, and has heard the story of our continuing efforts to keep a gecko alive for him. He has been laboring under the misapprehension that the current gecko is the same gecko we purchased 6 months ago. In truth, I've replaced it 3 times. Alas, on Friday we found another gecko dead in the bottom of its terrarium. Or so we thought...
Husband and I have a nightly ritual. He gets the kids' jim-jams on them, I make sure they brush their teeth. Then he turns down the covers for them while I spritz the gecko habitat with water, shut off the light, and cover the cage. The kids go to bed, we shut off their light, and that's that. On Friday, however, while the boys were brushing their teeth, I went to cover 'Zilla (as he is known) and he was lying lifeless on the glass at the bottom of his cage. Poor little thing. Didn't know whether to feel more sorry for 'Zilla or the softhearted Joe, who would be devastated to find out. I quickly covered the "corpse" with his hiding spot, a little plastic cave, so Joe wouldn't see it and spent the entire 3-day weekend pretending the gecko was alive.
So, let's skip right to Tuesday morning. Kids get off to school. Husband goes off to work. And I go up the stairs to clean the cage and get ready to go to the pet store to buy yet another "Zilla." I put a kitchen-size garbage bag over the end of the terrarium and tipped it up. Poor little dead gecko was stuck, hanging by only his two little front "hands." I shook the rest of the strata from the bottom of his cage into the garbage bag, got a paper towel to scrape up the bits of soil that were stuck to the bottom, and then reached in to gently remove 'Zilla and put him in the bag.
That little reptile immediately LEAPED from my hand as soon as I touched him and began running like mad all over the terrarium. I was speaking to my mother on the telephone and immediately screamed in her ear and dropped the telephone. I could hear her screaming "WHAT'S WRONG?? WHAT'S WRONG??" from the floor. As the top screen for the cage was in the bathtub across the hall, I didn't know what to do. The thing was still scrambling like mad over the walls of the terrarium. If I ran to get the screen, he might run out. If I carried the cage to the bathroom, he might run up the sleeve of my robe! I grabbed the Guitar Hero box lying nearby (which also came in useful later) and dropped it onto the top and ran for the screen. Phew! I picked up the phone & explained all to my mom and then sat down to catch my breath.
Once I had recovered somewhat, I decided I may as well clean the cage since it was empty of all strata, plants, etc. anyway. I was out of strata and this gecko hadn't had anything to eat for quite a while, so I took a quick shower, dressed, and ran to the pet store for crickets and a few other supplies.
I got back and set about cleaning the gecko habitat. First step in this is to remove the gecko. After locating a plastic tub to put 'Zilla in, I slid the screen back from the top of the cage a bit, slowly reached in, put my hand around him and eased him out of the terrarium. I breathed a sigh, as this was the most dreaded part of the whole operation. Geckos are quite wiggly and hard to catch. I imagined (stupidly I might add) that he was sluggish from his odd little dormant phase. I held him in my left hand and reached for the tub and lid with my right. Slowly, slowly I lowered the creature into the tub with one hand as I lowered the lid with the other. BAM! I lowered the lid! And WHOOP!!! There goes 'Zilla onto the wall. Scramble, scramble, scramble.
I was on the verge of tears. The cat was sleeping on the bed and I had visions of Rusty enjoying a nice reptilian meal. I tried to recover the creature, but he was just too fast for me. And then he ran underneath the overstuffed chair we keep in the boys' room. Oh great. I knew there was a tear in the upholstery at the bottom of this chair. If he got in there I'd never get him out.
I tipped the chair up and 'Zilla ran out. I grabbed the plastic tub and finally got it over the top of him. Now, how to keep him in there. Obviously I wasn't quick enough with the lid. I pressed the Guitar Hero box into service again.
I quickly scrubbed the cage and got it all ready for the gecko's return. Now for the hard part. I felt like I was trying to defuse a bomb. I slowly lifted up the plastic margarine tub and spied a wee little claw sticking out. Grrrr... This wouldn't be easy.
As it turned out, he jumped onto the top (bottom?) of the upturned tub and I slammed the lid on as fast as I could. I got him into the terrarium, got the screen on and TA-DA!! Done. For the next 2 weeks at any rate (sigh).
Suddenly, hamsters don't seem like so much work...
Husband and I have a nightly ritual. He gets the kids' jim-jams on them, I make sure they brush their teeth. Then he turns down the covers for them while I spritz the gecko habitat with water, shut off the light, and cover the cage. The kids go to bed, we shut off their light, and that's that. On Friday, however, while the boys were brushing their teeth, I went to cover 'Zilla (as he is known) and he was lying lifeless on the glass at the bottom of his cage. Poor little thing. Didn't know whether to feel more sorry for 'Zilla or the softhearted Joe, who would be devastated to find out. I quickly covered the "corpse" with his hiding spot, a little plastic cave, so Joe wouldn't see it and spent the entire 3-day weekend pretending the gecko was alive.
So, let's skip right to Tuesday morning. Kids get off to school. Husband goes off to work. And I go up the stairs to clean the cage and get ready to go to the pet store to buy yet another "Zilla." I put a kitchen-size garbage bag over the end of the terrarium and tipped it up. Poor little dead gecko was stuck, hanging by only his two little front "hands." I shook the rest of the strata from the bottom of his cage into the garbage bag, got a paper towel to scrape up the bits of soil that were stuck to the bottom, and then reached in to gently remove 'Zilla and put him in the bag.
That little reptile immediately LEAPED from my hand as soon as I touched him and began running like mad all over the terrarium. I was speaking to my mother on the telephone and immediately screamed in her ear and dropped the telephone. I could hear her screaming "WHAT'S WRONG?? WHAT'S WRONG??" from the floor. As the top screen for the cage was in the bathtub across the hall, I didn't know what to do. The thing was still scrambling like mad over the walls of the terrarium. If I ran to get the screen, he might run out. If I carried the cage to the bathroom, he might run up the sleeve of my robe! I grabbed the Guitar Hero box lying nearby (which also came in useful later) and dropped it onto the top and ran for the screen. Phew! I picked up the phone & explained all to my mom and then sat down to catch my breath.
Once I had recovered somewhat, I decided I may as well clean the cage since it was empty of all strata, plants, etc. anyway. I was out of strata and this gecko hadn't had anything to eat for quite a while, so I took a quick shower, dressed, and ran to the pet store for crickets and a few other supplies.
I got back and set about cleaning the gecko habitat. First step in this is to remove the gecko. After locating a plastic tub to put 'Zilla in, I slid the screen back from the top of the cage a bit, slowly reached in, put my hand around him and eased him out of the terrarium. I breathed a sigh, as this was the most dreaded part of the whole operation. Geckos are quite wiggly and hard to catch. I imagined (stupidly I might add) that he was sluggish from his odd little dormant phase. I held him in my left hand and reached for the tub and lid with my right. Slowly, slowly I lowered the creature into the tub with one hand as I lowered the lid with the other. BAM! I lowered the lid! And WHOOP!!! There goes 'Zilla onto the wall. Scramble, scramble, scramble.
I was on the verge of tears. The cat was sleeping on the bed and I had visions of Rusty enjoying a nice reptilian meal. I tried to recover the creature, but he was just too fast for me. And then he ran underneath the overstuffed chair we keep in the boys' room. Oh great. I knew there was a tear in the upholstery at the bottom of this chair. If he got in there I'd never get him out.
I tipped the chair up and 'Zilla ran out. I grabbed the plastic tub and finally got it over the top of him. Now, how to keep him in there. Obviously I wasn't quick enough with the lid. I pressed the Guitar Hero box into service again.
I quickly scrubbed the cage and got it all ready for the gecko's return. Now for the hard part. I felt like I was trying to defuse a bomb. I slowly lifted up the plastic margarine tub and spied a wee little claw sticking out. Grrrr... This wouldn't be easy.
As it turned out, he jumped onto the top (bottom?) of the upturned tub and I slammed the lid on as fast as I could. I got him into the terrarium, got the screen on and TA-DA!! Done. For the next 2 weeks at any rate (sigh).
Suddenly, hamsters don't seem like so much work...
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
The Battle of the Critters
The day dawned like any other. Reveille was at 0700. Uniform of the day had been sorted out the night before. The troops were mustered onto the yellow transport. Little did we realize the enemy was within our midst.
After the troops left on daily maneuvers, I began to sort things out at headquarters. Early morning is always a busy time for commanding officers. Suddenly the telephone rang. It was the corpsman at the front line with news of the invasion. The battle was on.
Hopping into my command vehicle (when will they give me a driver?), I made my way to to rescue my 2 soldiers from the front. Upon discussion with the corpsman, we agreed the best way to proceed was an all-out biological attack. I gathered my 2 soldiers and headed back to HQ to begin the onslaught.
Upon my return to HQ, I radioed the secretary of defense, Capt. Grandma, and dispatched her to the supply depot to obtain the necessary ammunition to defeat this insidious enemy. In the meantime, my troops and I began to prepare the battlefield, sweeping the rooms for hidden enemy, stripping the rooms of hiding places, and gathering the equipment necessary for hand-to-head combat.
After the troops left on daily maneuvers, I began to sort things out at headquarters. Early morning is always a busy time for commanding officers. Suddenly the telephone rang. It was the corpsman at the front line with news of the invasion. The battle was on.
Hopping into my command vehicle (when will they give me a driver?), I made my way to to rescue my 2 soldiers from the front. Upon discussion with the corpsman, we agreed the best way to proceed was an all-out biological attack. I gathered my 2 soldiers and headed back to HQ to begin the onslaught.
Upon my return to HQ, I radioed the secretary of defense, Capt. Grandma, and dispatched her to the supply depot to obtain the necessary ammunition to defeat this insidious enemy. In the meantime, my troops and I began to prepare the battlefield, sweeping the rooms for hidden enemy, stripping the rooms of hiding places, and gathering the equipment necessary for hand-to-head combat.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Twists & Turns
Once I was a vibrant young person, living life to the fullest, and while life posed problems occasionally, I always had the strength & perseverance to meet those problems head on. I traveled the world, indulged my dream of performing music, designed & sewed clothing, and truly enjoyed life. Now I'm 45, in the middle of nowhere, with no prospects of a creative livelihood ever again. Every day I have to face the fact that I'm probably going to be who I am right now for the rest of my life.
When Laura Ingalls Wilder was approached about writing her final book in the "Little House" series, "The First Four Years," she couldn't bring herself to do it. The memories of that time were too painful for her to remember and write about. She had to suffer through the loss of a child, loss of a farm, illness, crop failure, and many other tragedies during that time.
In no way have I suffered that much and yet I can understand how she felt. I'm struggling to keep up with home, family, finances, and the upcoming holidays through a haze of illness and pain. Keeping a brave face on for my boys becomes a harder task with each passing day. Husband is getting more and more frustrated with me as time goes on. I wake up each morning wondering if today is the day I will finally crack.
The point of all this is that I'm not blogging very much. Putting it down in words makes it all too black and white--I'm just holding on until I find a way out at this point. And no one really likes to read about other people's misery. So if you haven't seen an update from me in a while, you know why. Things will be better soon, I'm sure. I have to believe that or I wouldn't get out of bed in the morning. When I have happier things to write about I'll be back.
Thanks for listening!
Lydia
When Laura Ingalls Wilder was approached about writing her final book in the "Little House" series, "The First Four Years," she couldn't bring herself to do it. The memories of that time were too painful for her to remember and write about. She had to suffer through the loss of a child, loss of a farm, illness, crop failure, and many other tragedies during that time.
In no way have I suffered that much and yet I can understand how she felt. I'm struggling to keep up with home, family, finances, and the upcoming holidays through a haze of illness and pain. Keeping a brave face on for my boys becomes a harder task with each passing day. Husband is getting more and more frustrated with me as time goes on. I wake up each morning wondering if today is the day I will finally crack.
The point of all this is that I'm not blogging very much. Putting it down in words makes it all too black and white--I'm just holding on until I find a way out at this point. And no one really likes to read about other people's misery. So if you haven't seen an update from me in a while, you know why. Things will be better soon, I'm sure. I have to believe that or I wouldn't get out of bed in the morning. When I have happier things to write about I'll be back.
Thanks for listening!
Lydia
Monday, November 9, 2009
Amazing how you can have so many ideas floating in your head and once you sit down they all scatter away.
I suppose though, as Wednesday is Veterans' Day, I should say a word about some fallen shipmates of mine. They were actually "airdales" and flew the P3C Orion. There were 26 guys who flew out on 2 aircraft for a training mission. No one knows what happened. It was almost 19 years ago and I don't remember the exact particulars, except how they pertained to me.
I was in London when the phone rang at 2 in the morning. My former roommate from the squadron, Katy, was calling to let me know they were all gone. Gone in a flash. Gone without warning. One had left his girlfriend in the hospital, expecting to return in time for the birth of their twins the next day.
I was sitting alone in the dark, phone in hand, listening to name after name. Her fiance, Warren, had been among those killed. One of my dearest friends, "Spuds," was gone. Several guys I had dated were gone. All were dear, dear friends of mine. All too young. All too soon.
Veterans' Day rolls around and even now, with men and women facing death every day in Iraq and Afghanistan, I think people consider it a holiday for old men. There are veterans of every age, from 18 and up, who need to be remembered. And I think families should be remembered too. They sacrifice as well.
I'm not very eloquent, especially on this subject, as it is hard for me to write about, but please remember all the veterans and their families this Wednesday. The job they do is hard and thankless at times and should be honored, on Veterans' Day, and every other day of the year.
I suppose though, as Wednesday is Veterans' Day, I should say a word about some fallen shipmates of mine. They were actually "airdales" and flew the P3C Orion. There were 26 guys who flew out on 2 aircraft for a training mission. No one knows what happened. It was almost 19 years ago and I don't remember the exact particulars, except how they pertained to me.
I was in London when the phone rang at 2 in the morning. My former roommate from the squadron, Katy, was calling to let me know they were all gone. Gone in a flash. Gone without warning. One had left his girlfriend in the hospital, expecting to return in time for the birth of their twins the next day.
I was sitting alone in the dark, phone in hand, listening to name after name. Her fiance, Warren, had been among those killed. One of my dearest friends, "Spuds," was gone. Several guys I had dated were gone. All were dear, dear friends of mine. All too young. All too soon.
Veterans' Day rolls around and even now, with men and women facing death every day in Iraq and Afghanistan, I think people consider it a holiday for old men. There are veterans of every age, from 18 and up, who need to be remembered. And I think families should be remembered too. They sacrifice as well.
I'm not very eloquent, especially on this subject, as it is hard for me to write about, but please remember all the veterans and their families this Wednesday. The job they do is hard and thankless at times and should be honored, on Veterans' Day, and every other day of the year.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Holding Onto Yesterday
I have a collection of old magazines. Not People magazine from the Tom & Nicole days. Old magazines. American Needlewoman from 1914. Family Circle from 1956. Good Housekeeping from 1968. Even a few movie magazines with Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable. I dragged these from their trunk on a wet, rainy, Saturday recently and sat down by the fire for a good read. I've read them all a dozen times, but once or twice a year I find it comforting to look through them again.
This mystifies the husband. He is the type that prefers his news on the internet or CNN and only picks up a book if he is facing a long flight. Recently on a flight from Detroit to San Francisco, he finished the novel he was reading on our honeymoon (we've been married almost 13 years). So inevitably he will shake his head and ask, "Why do you keep those things?"
Why do I keep them? I don't consider why. Perhaps I like to remember my childhood. Could be I like to think of all the women that have taken enjoyment and advice from just such pages throughout the past century. Maybe I just like to envision a world where men wear hats. I just know that the pictures and words comfort me somehow.
I have books that do the same. I may have read them a hundred times over, but I can slip into them like a pair of ratty flannel pajamas and there I am safe from what can be a scary and worry-filled world.
The magazines are back in their trunk now. At the end of January, when ice covers everything and we've been under a foot of snow for what seems like forever, I'll dig them out again and sit in front of a fire with a cup of hot tea and the world will slip away again for me. For now it's enough to know they are there.
This mystifies the husband. He is the type that prefers his news on the internet or CNN and only picks up a book if he is facing a long flight. Recently on a flight from Detroit to San Francisco, he finished the novel he was reading on our honeymoon (we've been married almost 13 years). So inevitably he will shake his head and ask, "Why do you keep those things?"
Why do I keep them? I don't consider why. Perhaps I like to remember my childhood. Could be I like to think of all the women that have taken enjoyment and advice from just such pages throughout the past century. Maybe I just like to envision a world where men wear hats. I just know that the pictures and words comfort me somehow.
I have books that do the same. I may have read them a hundred times over, but I can slip into them like a pair of ratty flannel pajamas and there I am safe from what can be a scary and worry-filled world.
The magazines are back in their trunk now. At the end of January, when ice covers everything and we've been under a foot of snow for what seems like forever, I'll dig them out again and sit in front of a fire with a cup of hot tea and the world will slip away again for me. For now it's enough to know they are there.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Testing testing 1-2-3
As I have never blogged before, this is merely a test run for things to come. Don't really know what to "blog" or even who would care, but Twitter won't let me in this morning and the 8 y/o woke me up at an unG-dly hour, so thought I'd play around with this.
Spent a night filled with strange Impressionist-like dreams, quite fuzzy and unreal. Lots of cottonwood fluff floating on the air, and lots of me floating on air. Rather delightful, really.
So, first blog ever. Will promise better in the future. Here's a toast to another creative outlet to deal with life's frustrations.
Spent a night filled with strange Impressionist-like dreams, quite fuzzy and unreal. Lots of cottonwood fluff floating on the air, and lots of me floating on air. Rather delightful, really.
So, first blog ever. Will promise better in the future. Here's a toast to another creative outlet to deal with life's frustrations.
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