It was a day

selective focus photo of obalte green leafed plants during rain

Photo by Bibhukalyan Acharya on

Yesterday ended up being a day off for cleaning.

I walked into my closet and it was a mess of clothes on the floor and boxes spread around so that when I pushed on the door I couldn’t get into it.

I live in a small apartment so when one room is messy it spreads to the other rooms. I walked away from it and started the dishwasher. I had started cooking again. It’s hard to to cook in the summer here with the heat. But a few days ago I had made chicken stock and red roasted pepper sauce so I would have it in the freezer when I wanted to make my style of spaghetti or pizza.

So it started with cleaning up the messes on the counters and then scrubbing the floor. I just got a new steam mop and it picks up dirt that I can’t get in other ways. When I got the kitchen to a semblance of organization, then I went to that closet. I washed clothes and put things away. I threw plastic boxes on shelves.

There were consequences. My back started to hurt about halfway through cleaning. I try not to remember how I used to be able to clean an apartment in a couple of days from top to bottom. I’m looking at the carpets today. They need a good vacuum and maybe a little steam cleaning. At least I figured out a way to do it. I’m not sure if my body will hold out for another hard day of cleaning.

In the middle of all this, when I usually take the dog for a walk, the rain came down hard and heavy. It’s what happens in our winter. This morning the sun is shining and the temperature is a balmy 52 degrees Fahrenheit.

I went anyway, pushing my black dog buggy. Foxy, my black chihuahua-terrier mix, loves to go outside, but she doesn’t enjoy getting wet. She definitely doesn’t have any Labrador genes in there. We were a sight. I was wrapped up with a black wool coat, black scarf, and a blue hat to keep the rain off of me. She was in a small carriage with a cover over her. She was quite happy there.

When we finally got back, everything had to dry on towels. The buggy was wet from top to bottom and the dog was dry. I now understand why wool is the cloth of choice in rainy places. The water had rolled off my coat. I only had to hang the coat up to dry with the hat and scarf. I changed my socks, but I came out mostly dry.

Once I had a few minutes to sit and hold the doggy in my overstuffed rocking chair, I had time to think of brain glitches and memories. Before I had chemo at 41 for Wegener’s Granulomatosis (also called GPA) the memories were sharp, clear, and emotionally laden. After the chemo, those memories that were clear became fuzzy and indistinct as if they happened to someone else. The emotional content was gone.

In some ways that was good because I have stories that would curl your hair.

Let’s just say that my mother shows the signs of the “narcissistic personality” even though she has not been diagnosed.

It took a couple of years after taking cytoxan (I took it for a year) before I began to feel anything but anxiety and fear. My late-hubby tried hard to make me feel safe. When I started to write again about four years after my diagnosis and treatment, I started to gain my emotions one step at a time. Cytoxan made it hard to remember from day to day.

Plus I have found that immuno-suppressants (it’s chemo… don’t let the doctor’s fool you) does the same thing. It fuzzes the memories and the softer emotions. Then add into it the “Mandela effect.” I was shocked when I saw that the “Berenstein bears” was Berenstain bears.

I have two theories about it– one is collapsing timelines and the other is dimensional travel. It sounds pretty woo-woo until you start reading about Quantum mechanics. I have wondered for a long time if we can unconsciously travel. This idea gets into “astral” travel and “remote viewing.” It feels like we are living in the age when science and the occult are starting to touch.

In the collapsing timeline theory, I think more people believe one thing than another so it collapses to the believers. In the Mandela story, I remember hearing a rumor that Mandela had died, but he was presented as living. So in my timeline and memories he didn’t die. Although with him being so far away from so many people, who knew unless a body was produced?

In the dimensional travel theory, I think consciously or unconsciously a few people will travel to their opposite number. I have a few memories that change abruptly or even people who changed abruptly. That change could be that I went from a self-centered child to a noticing child. My opportunities changed abruptly too. In this dimension I have had to finagle and push for every success. Nothing has come easy. I remember times when opportunities were easy.

I wonder if somewhere else I became a scientist who studied the brain. I wondered if somewhere I was singing opera. I wondered if I became an astronaut. By the way, I didn’t give up that dream until I went into the Navy and found that the Air Force supplied NASA with pilots. In my Mandela effect I was sure the Navy was the supplier.

All of those were dreams and ambitions I had as a young child. The one dream I am fulfilling is the dream of writing.

Sarah Hoyt wrote “Who are you really? What I mean is if you met yourself at seven, are you the same person?.” The rest of the blog is here.

I am not that same person. I think I would have listened to that child of six who was making her goals and planning her life and thought she was sweet and precocious. Would I believe that she would become an electronics tech in the US Navy, earn an English literature degree, be a writer? No. I would have been like the adults around me and said that she would change her mind when she met boys. She would probably get married and have a ton of children.

Maybe in another life, I did just that.


Now for a  little promotion

Hero of Corsindor 2018-2

Hero of Corsindor is now on Amazon kindle for pre-order.

In the kingdom of Corsindor, the prince is lost, the king is dead, and the queen is holding the reins of government against disloyal nobles. They want a puppet to consolidate their power over the land. The queen has only one ally, who is not human.

There are rumors that the borders have been closed. Plus the long-lost prince, who knows nothing of ruling, is returning. Corsindor is being attacked from within and without by nightstalkers.

Shira, a foundling, trained by the Ahrah, Corsindor’s neighbors, is sent find out the conditions in Corsindor. Warrior and child of another world – her job is to confront the demons and reduce the chaos in the world. Will she survive?

Will she be tempted to take it all?


In the waiting room

adults airport black and white business

Photo by Aldo Garza on

When I hit the front gate of the base yesterday, I asked for building 20. Two months ago I had called the Pass and ID office for an appointment.

There was disbelief in the man’s voice. “First come. first served,” he said.

I asked for directions. “The same place as always,” was his answer.

I had to explain that the last time I got an ID, I was in Carson City, NV. It was easy to find the office. I just went to the building next to where my hubby worked, cross the gym, and up the stairs in the back. It was a small base so the building was easy to find.

“Just ask the guard at the gate,” he said.

So yesterday, after I handed my ID that would expire in twenty days, I asked. The gate guard was younger, less world-weary, than that anonymous voice on the phone. He kindly gave me good directions.

So I sat in a hard chair filled with waiting soldiers and a few civilians. I guess I am technically a civilian now even though I am a veteran. I did serve six years in the Navy.

I noticed that the cream walls hadn’t been painted in a long time. The chairs were older. The male and female soldiers wore neatly pressed camouflage with their ranks prominent on their upper arms.

My late hubby would have laughed at AF warriors wearing camou. He believed after being in Vietnam for three tours that rank patches should not be on them. It just made it easier for the enemy to shoot the officers, he would say.

As I waited for an hour, I was surprised at the shabbiness of this building. No one seemed to notice how old everything had gotten. I remember when this base had been shinier.

Then a young soldier sitting by me called me “Ma’am.”

I smiled. I couldn’t fool myself anymore. I was getting older with wrinkles. Not unlike this room.

Talk Like a Pirate Day

otto-tune It has been two years since I held his hand as he slipped away from me. His christian name was Edward Dave Tune, but I called him Otto.

He wasn’t a Saint. His sense of humor was what took him through life and it is the one thing that I miss the most. So it is fitting that he died on “Talk like a Pirate Day.”

I used to have dreams that we buy an RV and go from State to State– sometimes in my dreams we would fly from planet to planet and find new places and new scenery.

He was the one that had no fear. He would stand on roofs and the edge of mountains. I am the cautious one. I would stand behind him on the cliffs so I wouldn’t fall. I miss that he would protect me. Up until I met him, I had never had anyone protect me. My exterior is tough because I have had to be that way. It was the same for him. He could scare people with just a look.

Inside I considered him my soft teddy bear. With him I was a better person, a kinder person. So I think of him with a tinge of sadness because I miss him so gawd damn much. I was much better with him. Yet,  I am so grateful that we had twenty-two years together.

RIP my sweetie.

Childhood lesson – a villanelle

I cannot color in the lines
or hold a crayon in my hand;
my drawings cannot be refined.

“Look mother, see my great design.”
Your frowning face, a reprimand–
I cannot color in the lines.

You clean my art with turpentine;
the lipstick mess seems to expand.
My drawings cannot be refined.

My next attempt at redesign–
my crayon art was in freehand.
I cannot color in the lines.

The sigh, my art has been declined.
The sidewalk art was scrubbed by hand.
My drawings cannot be refined.

I yearn to draw the changing lines
of mountains, trees and feathered bands–
I cannot color in the lines;
my drawings cannot be refined.