May 3 – Penteli Mountain

by Marilea Rabasa

My son and I loved to fly kites when he was growing up in Virginia. The right kind of wind could propel his paper bird high and far, with us right on its tail giving it enough slack to keep it soaring in the air currents.

He’s a grown man now, but I remember a day twenty-five years ago when we were living in Athens, Greece. We were driving home from his friend Chris’ house. Chris lived on Penteli Mountain, one of my favorite haunts outside of Athens. From the crest of this hill on a clear day in winter you could see the whole bowl of Athens, with the smog hovering overhead, and even beyond. This was where the Brits came to celebrate Boxer Day every December 26. They hiked up more for the whiskey than the view, but that’s another story.

As we turned the corner, we saw the tail of a kite peeking out from under a pile of rubbish. We knew it was a kite tail because it had flags zigzagging down the string. Also, everyone came to fly kites on Penteli Mountain in December when the weather changed. This kite had lost its wind and lay abandoned in the field, its owners having no more use for it.

And so, our curiosity taking over, we stopped the car, got out, and went to investigate. Right away our curiosity turned into compassion and we wanted to breathe new life into this broken and tattered old kite. I never thought that something inanimate could come to life. But at this time in my life there was a dying in me that I knew I had to defeat or it would defeat me. My son was part of this tragedy, and somehow we knew that the road to healing could start with repairing this kite and watching it fly again. A dust-covered old TV pinning it down to the ground was holding the kite hostage. Its colorful tail saved it from certain death.

So we took the kite home and repaired it with glue and tape. We waited for a good day with just enough wind to try and fly it. The day finally came, a clear sunny day with a nice breeze. Together we took the kite back to the mountain and flew it. We watched it continue to rise and float in the air until all the string was used up. We ran with it as it leaped in the wind. It was flying like it was brand new – a miracle!

We didn’t let that kite go. We brought it down and carefully put it in the car. We knew we would probably never fly it again, but we couldn’t let go of something that had taught us such an eloquent lesson: I was sure from that day on that there are second chances for those who have the heart to reach for them.

Marilea is a retired teacher. Toward the end of her career, she earned her Master of Arts in Teaching. “This was a critical step on my life journey because it concentrated on reflective practice. Now I have time to reflect back on my life and put my stories down on paper. I look forward to sharing them with you.”

April 4 – Keep Looking Through the Windshield

by Cathy Scibelli

Don’t let your rearview mirror be bigger than your windshield.

Anyone attempting to navigate through the rough terrain of a serious or chronic illness will understand that quote in a second. It is so tempting to keep looking in that rearview mirror because the view back there very often is so much more pleasant than what seems to lie ahead. It’s like coming back from a vacation in some tropical resort where everything was sunny, you felt great, and any worries you had in your everyday life were forgotten for a time. You look at the photos of your trip and say, “What I wouldn’t give to be back there again!”

But that quote is right–we can’t let our rearview mirror be bigger than our windshield because that only leads us into a detour where we bump along complaining and pitying ourselves and failing to see some of the great sights that lie ahead and the possibilities that can open up if we focus on the future and stop whining about the life we left behind in that rearview mirror.

In my personal experience, I’ve found the cancer highway is filled with ruts and potholes and dark tunnels. But along the route I’ve also picked up some “hitchhikers” who have turned out to be really fun and inspiring friends. I’ve discovered “new” cousins who I never had the chance to get to know when I was busy speeding along in my life at 100 miles per hour. Now that I’ve slowed down, I see a lot of sights I never noticed.

If I pay attention to what lies ahead, I often discover new avenues for my writing and new opportunities to share my passion for World’s Fair history. I admit that it’s not easy to keep looking ahead and sometimes it’s scary to wonder where the road will end. But it’s still better to keep looking through the windshield than to live regretting what you can never go back to.

Cathy Scibelli is a writer who enjoys exploring new avenues where she can use her experiences of living with metastatic breast cancer to inspire others to continue to “look ahead” with anticipation and not fear.

March 9 – The “Ring” of Death

by Patricia Roop Hollinger

The blinking red light on the answering machine was demanding to be listened to. “Aunt Pat, this is Matt. Call me as soon as possible.”

I knew there was yet another crisis in the life of my younger sister Elaine. In spite of being an American Airlines flight attendant, and LPN, and a Chiropractor she has battled with the demons of mental illness most of her life. In recent years the illness had won; thus leaving her without employment and living in subsidized housing.

As family members, we had each made our attempts to intervene when we feared she could possibly end her life. A semblance of health often restored for brief intervals.

I called Matt. “Aunt Pat, Mom was found dead in her shower today. I feel so guilty. I had taken a break from calling her daily recently.”

“And why might you have taken a break?” I asked. He knew the answer.

We all had taken breaks, for she heard TV’s that were not on, refrigerators running in the background, and breathing that hurt her ears.

My 99 year old mother was still sending her money. Believing and hoping that a cure could be found.

I knew this phone call was inevitable. I felt relief, sadness, and grief that a life so filled with promise and potential had ended so bereft and alone.

Flying to California was not an option.

My memorial was that of spending time with my 99 year old mother and older sister as we shared photos, stories, letters and the feelings of anger and love that her behaviours engendered in all of us.

I wrote her obituary for the local newspaper in Maryland; this is where she was Miss Francis Scott Key at her local high school.

Her children and former husband came together to clean out her apartment. Recalling numerous times when she “bolted” from their lives to unknown destinations and for unknown reasons, when her sense of humour had them rolling with laughter, when she slopped the hogs on the pig farm where they lived in Missouri, and when she climbed ladders to paint the farmhouse.

Last week her ashes were scattered in the Pacific Ocean where her mind, body and soul are free at last.

Patricia is a retired, after 23 years, Chaplain/Pastoral Counsellor/Licensed Clinical Professional Counsellor from Brook Lane Health Services. She married her high school heartthrob in 2010 after the death of both of their spouses. She loves books, playing piano, singing, cats, and nature. Patricia is “still a farm girl at heart.”

February 20 – A Big Red Bird is all that Remains of My Past

by Pat Bean

“It’s surprising how much memory is built around things unnoticed at the time.” — Barbara Kingsolver

Today, I hung all memories from the past on my wall.

The year was 1978 when I found myself single with two of my five children still left to support. It wasn’t an easy time, especially that first month when I had to borrow money to pay rent. Although there have been many difficult times since that day, as there are for all who occupy this planet, my life from this point forward only got better and better.

I spent the next 26 years finishing up a 37-year career in journalism, following it–and twice where my heart led me to go.

My career took me to the Star-Telegram in Fort Worth, Texas, for three years, then to Ogden, Utah, as features editor for the Standard-Examiner. I stayed for three years here before love took me to Las Vegas for eight months that included a stint working for the Las Vegas Sun.

When love betrayed me, I took myself away from the neon lights to Twin Falls, Idaho, where I stayed for two years as regional editor for the Times-News. It was then back to Ogden, where my former newspaper offered me a job as assistant city editor.

In 1987, I answered my heart once again and moved to Erda, Utah, and undertook a daily 56-mile commute to my job in Ogden. But in 1989, I moved back to Ogden alone, and happily stayed there until 2004, at which time I sold my home and bought my RV, Gypsy Lee.

With few exceptions, everything I owned was either packed into my 22-foot home on the road, sold or given away. The exceptions, mostly books, were eventually stored at my youngest daughter’s home here in Tucson, where I recently moved into a small apartment after almost nine years spent living on the road exploring America from sea to shining sea.

Sunday, my daughter brought me a few of those bins. And this morning, I hung the only remaining possession that remained from 1978 on the wall of my apartment.

As I stood back and looked at this simple sketch of a cardinal, which belonged to my grandmother, whom I adored and whom died when I was only ten years old, tears came into my eyes

The colored-pencil drawing, which even for a while accompanied me in my RV travels, held a lifetime of memories. It is the only thing I own that connects me to my past. As a person who prefers to look forward not backward, I have no regrets that there is nothing else.

But my heart tells me that this red bird may be the most precious thing I own today.

Pat Bean, who thinks of herself as a wondering-wanderer, is a former journalist who lived in an RV for almost nine years and recently moved into a third-floor apartment in Tucson. Her passions are writing, reading, hiking, birds, art, family and her canine companion, Pepper.

January 21 – A Daughter, Sand Angels, and the Sun

by Tania Pryputniewicz

I woke curmudgeonly grumpy from a tangle of blankets, one son’s knees grazing my spine, husband and Husky hugging the far wall. At my feet, my middle son. Parallel to the bed on the floor, my twelve year old daughter, hair smothered by pillows as I turned off the alarm. Transplanted from northern to southern California, I should have been overjoyed after three years of two-city living without my husband to be reunited under one roof.

But I’d acquired a hyper-vigilance due to raising our children alone–a “too-little-to-go-around” self whose reaction to any sentence starting with, “Mom” opened with, “What?…can’t you see I’m….” x, y, z. My daughter, with infinite patience last year, drew note after note decorated with rainbow letters, “Can I come down for tea with you tonight?” Fatigued, as hard as I tried, I felt locked in internal sorrow, afraid I’d never rise above our circumstances to be larger of heart.

I feel my shortcomings as a mom most intensely in relation to my daughter. Because we are both firstborns? Female? Because her brothers’ needs seem easier? I only know I’m more conflicted with her. And she has no qualms about letting me know how I’ve failed her. Which took me to some dark places last year (given the struggle to raise the children, work, hold down the fort, and stave off the ever present poet’s dream of writing a poem worthy of eternity).

But even as we wrangled, I understood the only way was “through”–not over, not around, not under, but through. The sun would rise; I’d try again. Some nights we had tea; others I deferred to stacks of student papers, dishes, or her brothers, especially during the month the littlest broke his elbow and needed surgery.

We’ve only been in the new city for two weeks, but my shoulders have dropped several inches now that two adults absorb the field of the kids’ needs. The one place that soothes all of us remains the ocean, mercifully close by here as it was up north, so instinctively, we keep the ritual.

Within moments, I’m photographing patterns–the retreating waves make sand angels below each beached pebble everywhere I look. My girl comes abreast of me and delights in the find. My husband salvages a purple bucket and one tiny green plastic soldier; the boys catapult down the sand dunes. The Husky runs leashless in wide arcs, nipping at the waves.

Dusk finds my daughter and I walking together. She’s willowy, lovely, inching towards adolescence. Hard to believe soon she’ll yearn less and less for my attention. I ask her to stop long enough for a double self-portrait. Finally, we get it right, shoulder to shoulder, positioning the setting sun so it crowns half of her face. We found that when you tilt just far enough apart, the light of the sun breaks into a gold-red fan of spokes across both faces like a blessing.

Tania lives in southern California with her husband, three children, husky, and two disoriented housecats still recovering from the move. A poet by night (MFA, Iowa Writers’ Workshop) and a writing teacher by day, she is heading into her second year of teaching Transformative Blogging for SCN (next class starts February 4th) and is writing a book for women bloggers.

January 15 – Kitchen Window Thoughts

by Laurinda Wheeler

This morning I caught myself, as I often do, staring out the kitchen window as I puttered my way around; washing dishes, putting things away and tidying the counters. My mind began to drift as I realized that what I was seeing is not my own, in many ways, nor is it what I wish to see.

I wish for the simpler times; simpler in ways that seem to justify the hard, back breaking, painful side that also fully encompassed that life. Worries and concerns that were, perhaps, life threatening, changing, but real. Work, a lot of it, that fostered true appreciation for what was had, held, cherished, consumed.

I think about how different, how special, beautiful and healthy this world could be if only things were just a little simpler, not to be confused with easier.

Later, as I walked down the street, a quick trip to the corner store, my mind was still challenging the world, weaving words together, thoughts I wanted to get out, when I began to take in the sounds of cars that were passing by; the whiiiirs of motors, the constant whispers, shelu, shelu, shelu, as tires tread through the muck of melting snow, the sudden blast of muffled music as a car speeds past.

And then, I was standing in the middle of an intersection, having been narrowly missed by a car that had mindlessly sped through the red light, as it came to a stop only two feet beside me.

The thoughts swirling around my mind cemented as truth.

The way that we are living should be different…

…it should be nothing like this!

Laurinda is a Stay at Home, Homeschooling Mom who is always trying to find time to write. She is also a contributor in SCN President, Pat LaPointe’s recent book, The Woman I’ve Become.

January 14 – A CALL FOR HELP

by Patricia Roop Hollinger

“God, I am not in the mood for a formal prayer, but I need HELP!” This was my plea as I lay in my bed while my left shoulder throbbed with pain.

This was the same throbbing pain I experienced in my right hip as a result of Lyme’s disease. Within the span of three months a perfectly formed and functional hip dissolved into “mush.” Using a walker had become my method for mobility. After yet another MRI the technician exclaimed, “I don’t know how you are even walking with a walker.” The pain was controlled with Vicodin. Hip replacement surgery was scheduled ASAP.

I wasn’t even able to consider having a shoulder replacement.

With 7 hungry cats weaving in and out of my legs as bacon was frying for breakfast there was a “knock, knock, knock” on the kitchen door. “Who would be knocking on our door at this hour?” I exclaimed.

With reluctance I opened the door. “Hi!” said the familiar voice of Tony. “I just wondered if you needed any help.” I threw my arms around him and exclaimed, “So, you received the prayer request!”

Tony was my “lawnmower, fix whatever” person. This was the first time he arrived without first receiving a phone call from me. The cats and the bacon had to wait.

“My shoulder is killing me, my husband is ill and the lawn needs mowing” I exclaimed frantically. “But….you must know that there are deer tick back here in the woods. Cover up, spray yourselves with DEET.”

“Butch has already had Lymes,” Tony said matter of factly. “Lost his sight in one eye. Would have the other if I hadn’t found a Lyme’s literate M.D. in Hanover, PA.”

“What’s his name, phone number, address?” I cried, as I ran for a paper and pencil.

As soon as I had the necessary information I called the M.D., made an appointment and was treated successfully with 6 months of antibiotics accompanied by supplements and probiotics. My pain subsided and I have had no ensuing symptoms of the dreaded Lyme’s Disease.

Most of my prayers have not been answered so dramatically, but no one can tell me divine intervention was not at work that day.

Patricia has been a Chaplain/Pastoral Counselor/Licensed Clinical Professional Counselor for 23 years at same hospital where once was a consumer. “Seeker of the “truth” which has set me free. Third marriage to high school heartthrob 2010 the best yet. Musician, voracious reader and hopeful writer. Cats a must.”

January 12 – One Rainy Day in the Life of a California School Teacher

by Lisa Rizzo

Standing in the doorway, I watch the rain pour down. The gutter has come loose again, and a waterfall gushes right outside my classroom door. If it weren’t for the eave overhead, I would be drenched now, completely at the mercy of the water forming puddles on the uneven concrete. I stand outside in the rain because 60 years ago when this school was built in Northern California, someone had the bright idea of long banks of classrooms joined by covered walkways exposed to the elements.

The door to my classroom has recently begun to stick a little when opening, and I know that this means the screws at the bottom of the door are coming loose. I am an expert because this has happened two times in the past. Soon the door will either refuse to open or close–whichever action comes at the moment when the screws give way. Then I will be forced to call the district maintenance guys again, and they will put wood putty in the holes and re-screw the door. This will solve the problem for a couple more years before the whole process will have to be repeated. Just like the gutter that streams waterfalls outside my door.

Last year the maintenance guys spent days welding the gutter seams together as if their puny efforts could hold against the pressure of water pushing against the steel. The welds held last winter when we got only 37% of our normal rainfall, but this year the rains have already fallen long and hard. Nature is winning.

Standing in the doorway, I can see that the enormous puddle in the middle of the courtyard is growing. In the 22 years I have taught at this school, after each storm the water pools. Long ago the drains filled with roots from the bottlebrush tree that grows there. Every year when the water rises, unwary students slosh through it–sometimes above their ankles–until they learn to find a detour around it. I tell them we call this Lake Rizzo.

This year the leaks in the walkway roof are getting worse and it is harder to pass from one hallway to another without getting wet–without a stray drop down the back of my neck or in my eye.

And it is all this that makes this day seem almost unbearable. I might find the pressures of trying to teach in a beleaguered public school system more tolerable if I could walk down the hallway or stand at the door to greet my students and stay dry.

Lisa Rizzo is the author of In the Poem the Ocean (Big Table Publishing). Her work has appeared in such journals as 13th Moon, Earth’s Daughters, Bellowing Ark and Calyx, as well as her blog Poet Teacher Seeks World. She won 1st prize in the 2012 BAPC Poetry Contest. By day she teaches middle school in Northern California.

October 3 – Fall

by Melissa Dallago

Spring is commonly associated with a time of rebirth and renewal; a time of the robins returning to the trees and blossoming flowers. Fall is considered to be a time of harvesting the bounty and preparing for the coming winter. I do not ascribe to these sentiments of fall and spring. On the contrary, I consider fall to be a time of resurgence and rejuvenation, but then again, I am a fall baby born into this glorious season.

When fall arrives my spirit feels stronger; a sense of purpose enters my step. Fall is my time of year for being thankful for the joys in my life, a la Thanksgiving, but also of planting seeds for my future endeavors. Much like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon during springtime, I erupt from mine and burst forth onto the world during the fall.

I love my autumn colored clothes coming out of the closet for the cooler weather. I adore wearing my favorite boots for the first time in the year. I love the dry, cinnamon smell of the red and orange leaves. I especially enjoy celebrating Halloween with its black cats, witches and monsters. I start planning my costume months before, much like an early Christmas shopper. I wait in anticipation for the haunted houses to open so I can get the crap scared out of me. I also love Thanksgiving and my mom’s homemade cooking.

I relish in fall; embracing everything about it. So while others are turning their thoughts to the fast approaching winter, I dance through the falling leaves in my favorite boots, drinking hot apple cider, and giggling with the ghosts; celebrating my time of rebirth and renewal.

“My name is Melissa Dallago, and I live in Safety Harbor, Florida. I am a member of the Internet Chapter as well. I’m an aspiring writer and I am hoping to improve and grow in my writing.”

July 31 – Tuesday, 7/31/2012

by Cecily Mahoney

Today was a typical day. I started out checking, feeding the dogs, letting them out and in, out and in. (4 dogs, 2 leashes) While they were taking turns I dressed for work and prepared breakfast for the old fart and I. Oatmeal can only be dressed up so many ways, but a former heart attack patient eats what he’s told to eat, most of the time.

Breakfast is easiest.

As I get on the freeway for work I thank God again for the DOT repaving the freeway so the speed bumps we were hitting at 60 MPH are gone. It may only last a season, but it’s nice for now.

I get into work 35 minutes later, in spite of the mini traffic jam in front of the university, where they are building new dorms.

I promptly start checking for transportation requests from the providers for their elderly riders, and making sure my staff has the copies they need. I spend most of the day rechecking for the faxes as they come in, checking off what is completed and doing the work for the staff member absent.

Just as I get things ready to close down, I get the bi-weekly call from my daughter asking for enough money to get her through another two weeks. If that husband of hers could get work this wouldn’t be an issue, but now that they check credit scores for something as stupid as a stock boy job at the local grocery, there is no hope he’ll ever find work. I keep hoping that he won’t have to become the eternal student to become a graphic designer, but, he needs student loans to get the degree and they mess up a credit score big time. He is a good father and house-husband, but I wish he could find a job even part-time just to help out. As long as he’s out of work, I have to keep working to keep them out of the poor house (or my house). I want to retire.

I dream of writing a series of stories that get published monthly, that pay me monthly, and that people can’t wait to read. I dream of finally mastering the banjo, so I can play for my friends when they ask. Last but not least, I dream of my daughter being self-sufficient, raising her 3 kids without financial assistance from me, and having a loving husband that works also. I want to retire to the cabin in Southeastern Ohio, raise a few chickens, and not have an alarm clock. The chickens will NOT have a rooster. (They lay eggs with or without a rooster I’ve been told.)

That’s it for today. Tomorrow is Saturday, and we’re going to an Amish School auction. They’re fun, the food is good, and we can never afford what we want to buy. But bidding is fun. If I do buy something, I’ll write another addition to the blog. Cecily

Cecily works at a non-profit as a Medicaid specialist, Transportation Supervisor and all-purpose, know-it-all, supervisor keeping an eye on ten competent adults who check in with her periodically regarding the work they do. At home she is wife to the old fart, mother of one, grandmother of three and caretaker for four young and expressive dogs.