Great Balls of Fire

I spent my weekend off sick; never fails, the first beautiful weekend of Spring I get sick with a hell of a cold. I don’t know if this has something to do with the pollen carousing through the air in search of prime plants to fertilize and mistaking my moist nasal passages for stigma; flowers growing out of my nose, now that would be something to see. Whatever the reason I found myself weakened, therefore spending most my time prone on the couch.

Between catnaps with my cats I spent my time streaming Netflix and perusing youtube.The inane and insane antics of the cast of “The Office” took my mind off my misery for hours on end. In one of my more serious and able to focus modes, I watched a few movies, most notable, Goya’s Ghosts (can never get enough of Javier Bardem, damn you Penelope). At one point during my various youtube excursions I stumbled upon a gem: Jerry Lee Lewis along with Chuck Berry, Keith Richards, and my favorite guitar strummer of them all, Stevie Ray Vaughan; I thought for a moment I died and went to heaven. Watch Stevie in this, he's outplaying everyone of those cats (except for The Killer on the piano).  Even ole Keith is looking at him for direction.

SRV never lived long enough to establish himself within the mainstream of guitar greats. If he had lived a few more years he most assuredly would have become a “big fish in a big pond”. At the time of his death (returning to his hotel in Chicago from a concert with guitar gods Eric Clapton and Buddy Guy in southeast Wisconsin, the helicopter he was riding in crashed against a hill within the Alpine Ski Resort) he stood on the verge of this. Being a humble man he would have most likely shirked this off and just played cause that’s what he was driven to do.

Stevie’s devoted followers consider him #1 within his sphere. I dare say so do many of the guitar greats alive today (Below a clip of Eric Clapton speaking of SRV and than playing Stevies Ain't Going To Give Up On Love at Stevie's memorial concert May 11, 1995). A day never passes for this blues- southern man lovin’ woman that does not include a bit of Stevie. His spirit resides forever within the scorching and riveting chords of his music.

I have inserted Stevie himself doing his take on the song he created just to make this point: truthfully, now Clapton fans, who is "God" when it comes to the guitar?

Pale Queen of the Silent Night

I have spent most of my nights this past week working the graveyard shift. Definitely not a problem for me for I was born under the sign of Cancer, hence a child of the moon. I bide my time until the dusk, knowing that once the sun descends to another land I and my fellow creatures of the night can enshroud ourselves within the soothing silence and blissful solitude bequeathed upon those who prefer the shadows to the light.

“I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.”
Vincent Van Gogh 

Curious to why this shift is called graveyard I did a quick search and found two points of view. The first site stated that years ago people could be mistakenly pronounced dead, resulting in their grave (pun intended) misfortune to find themselves buried alive. Someone came up with the brilliant idea to furnish caskets with bells so the horror- stricken hopefully temporary grave dwellers could alert those hired for this extremely vital duty to hastily dig them back up to the land of the living. They kept vigil day and night, working the graveyard shift. A more modern explanation of the term states that “your skin is clammy, there's sand behind your eyeballs, and the world is creepily silent, like the graveyard.” As one who has worked this shift off and on for years I prefer the former not only for its colorful slant and historical value but also because I don’t appreciate the latter’s view that my skin is clammy. So not true.

I stand watch while my residents sleep. I “work” alone and welcome this respite from the hustle and bustle of my usual 2pm to 10pm shift. I keep busy with various tasks, but at a much slower pace for my physiology has naturally slowed down its pace. And when I start to feel confined I step outside and find solace in the grandeur of Father Sky and bathe in the restorative power of Mother Earth. During Tuesday’s wee hours I was gifted with a frozen concoction that hung from the trees like dazzling crystals. Wednesday early morn brought me teeny tiny snowballs from the Sky that settled on the Earth like tiny individual pearls (not hard like ice pellets but soft as snow). Thursday arrived sprinkling the black pavement with glittering specks of diamond dust along with the eerie keening/barking of a pack of coyotes in the distant hills. Tonight I sit at home enjoying a wondrous spectacle of soft snow tumbling from the Sky, blanketing everything in a velvety cloak of pristine white. Tomorrow it will become sullied by cars and snow blowers but I will remember tonight.

An Answer to Sarah's Question

Sunspot Sarah

As we  journeyed along a southwestern Wisconsin highway amidst brown lifeless fields  one chilly, bleak and foggy January day a few years back, my niece Sarah, a Floridian, looked at me through her designer sunglasses (despite the gray skies) and asked dubiously, “How can you stand living up here?” I don’t recall my answer; I probably mumbled something profound such as, “I don’t know, it’s what I’m used to."

As I become older I have pondered this question many times, particularly this time of year. I answer thus: I choose to remain in a land that encompasses the four seasons. Each season possesses its own unique enchantments. Winter, in my mind, expresses itself with austerity along with majesty. The sunsets are nothing less than majestic; gazing at the bare black tree branches silhouetted against a sky adorned in glowing oranges, pinks, and lavenders has mesmerized me to the extent that I seek out that time of day. And it blesses me. The Wisconsin countryside we viewed that gray January day, well, I have seen that same countryside cloaked in a glistening mantle of snow, displaying hues of blue under a full winter moon. I am humbled by the sight. The sight of snow descending from the sky, whether tumbling playfully or dangerously plummeting, always excites me on some level even though I know treacherous driving and strenuous shoveling will follow. It’s so worth it for the sight of fresh fallen snow reposing on the ground and blanketing pine trees, along with the fresh crispness of the air, does certainly take one’s breath away while renewing one’s spirit.

By the time February rolls around most of us are longing for spring; cabin fever has set in along with a yearning to catch a glimpse of green. February can fool us, giving us a brief respite from the biting winds and freezing temps, a fickle month that we know well. It won’t be until we are into March that we will finally sight the purple and golden crocuses peeking from the snow. And as the days march towards April milder air prevails and the sight of tiny buds emerging like pimples on the branches of trees gives us confidence that spring has finally arrived. With the appearance of hearty tulips and genial daffodils we know the days are dutifully numbered until fragrant and luscious lilacs abound. And that assuredly proclaims spring. The scents and warmer temps seduces even the most hardened Midwesterner to ease up and smile for no particular reason other than it’s just great to be alive.

These past years spring has hurled into summer. These are lazy hazy days where the sun doesn’t set till it has kissed each and every living thing. Kids rule during this season; from sunup to sundown they chase everything from toads to fireflies. Rules are lifted for both young and old; vacations rule. The trees stand sentry dressed in their green garb, giving sanctuary to squirrels, birds and any creature weary from the heat of the day. People up here spend days and nights relishing the river; boating, fishing, or just watching it roll on by. And smack dab in the middle of the season many gather on the north side of town to observe a spectacular display of fireworks. Some party a bit too much, but then they play as hard as they work. And towards the end of July we begin to notice that the sun does not hang around as long as it did just a few weeks before. And too soon the stores are plied with school supplies and aisles of fresh off the truck back to school garb.

Even though the days can still emit heat hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, the nights start to cool down and we smell fall in the air. The aroma of the earth along with overripe produce and flora arouse in us instinctively the surge towards this season. Our bodies and minds begin to wind down; we go back to school or buckle down to a more arduous work mode. Amidst this internal change we are given a spectacular external display as the trees burst into specters of gold, red and yellow. Pumpkin along with various other squash dishes appear on tables and us cooks search for new hearty soup recipes. And as the days grow shorter and cooler we savor the crisp morning air and at night gaze at star studded skies. We have gorged on summer and now, like all of nature we are slowing down, and are glad for it. We hunker down and look forward to the hoopla of the ensuing holidays and know that they will pass too quickly and the cycle will begin again.

Etta James: Matriarch of the Blues (1938 - 2012)

                                                                                

                        Aint no pity in the naked city,
                        This bitter earth, cold and gritty.
                        Somewhere down the line
                        I’ll dry my tears,
                        Come rain or come shine.

                        Gotta be a mean mother,
                        Gonna take it to the limit;
                        The blues is my business.
                        Come what may
                        I’ll fly away.                            

                       How strong is a woman?
                       The blues don’t care.
                       Gonna tell it like it is;
                       Got my mojo workin’
                       Oh happy day.                                                             

                       Hush hush,
                       Don’t worry ‘bout me.
                       Tears of joy at last.
                       What, I say
                       I’ll sail away.        

                                                                   
                                                                                   

                                                                                   
                                                                               
                                                                                   
                                                     
                                                                                   

Mismatch.com

Most of my time I physically exist at home or at work (although in my mind I travel the world and sometimes beyond). Occasionally I go out and meet for coffee or lunch with a friend or spend more than enough time visiting various favorite shopping spots. As a single woman over the age of forty-five I no longer frequent bars for in my opinion, gathered from what I have seen and heard, those that do are either  cougars, alcoholics, looking for love in all the wrong places, or just don’t know any better. Also I enjoy my home and can find many diversions to keep me contentedly occupied.  My point: I do not have many opportunities to meet those of the opposite sex. Therefore I have apprehensively signed on to the online dating service, Mismatch.com.

When one signs up (and pays a fee) one is given the opportunity to create a username, post photos, and create a written profile. Usernames can sometimes alert one perusing the sight to decline any “winks” or emails sent by those with such pseudonyms as ItalianStallion, Barfly, Honeyman, 69rex, Wildnotmild, Harleybiker (not my thing), Luvtokissu, Spacealien, and my favorite, Wellhung54. Although, I must add that most likely for every Jack there is a Jill. The photos speak for themselves; men use their possessions to lure women: posing as masculinely as possible in front of sports cars, spacious homes, Harleys, and yachts. However the most calculated ploys of ensnaring the opposite sex are through the profiles. Again, bear in my mind that this does not pertain to everyone; I’m sure truth does surface in perhaps a handful of these subjective summaries. It would be so much more interesting if every profile had to include a paragraph written by an ex.

The adjectives that pop up most in profiles are: sensitive, easy-going, funny, loyal, faithful, and caring; just to mention a few. These men (and probably women too) sound so incredible it’s a wonder they can leave the house for all the potential suitors lined up outside their doors. Their former mates truly must have misplaced their minds to let such “catches” go. I bet you are thinking at this point, “And what about you, AmySueRose, I can just imagine what line of crap you posted to entice the innocent.” And my answer to this would be to copy and paste my profile for any reader to see: Living in Dubuque has given me an appreciation of history. I love exploring the region and my dream is to travel along the entire Mississippi River. I possess an innate curiosity regarding just about everything. I am seldom if ever bored; for the world has so much to offer. I find myself attracted to those who view life with a sense of humor and are able to appreciate the ordinary, along with the special, facets of life. I have come clean, so there.

Believe it or not I have accumulated many winks and emails. A few of these have progressed to actual dates. The first guy seemed nice enough, big blues fan, built his own boat, and willing to travel seventy miles to meet me. And a nice fella, just no spark and I also could not envision myself spending every weekend careening down the Mississippi with an inebriated captain. That one sunk before it even left the dock. Then I was approached by a German linguistics/retired financier who pimped his mansion, horses, and travelogue pix along with intellectually stimulating emails. I met him for breakfast and hardly got a word in edgewise. As for appearance, well as I described him for my sister, a cross between Chris Farley and Henry VIII. It didn’t help matters that he continuously flirted with our waitress, a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. Nicht Cool.

I emailed with a man whom preferred to talk via telephone because I suspect writing was not his forte. Neither was interesting conversation. We agreed a number of times to meet and every time he would call with an excuse why he could not honor that. I had enough of that; shit or get off the pot, as I say. The third man I had the pleasure of meeting spent the five hours we sat in a local coffee shop/bar expounding upon himself. I could barely get a word in edgewise and when I did I don’t think it found itself to his cerebral cortex for there did not seem to be much room for anything other than himself. I gave him another go and went to his home (two walls of his TV room were adorned with self-portraits) to sup with members of his family who were absolutely delightful. Pity I couldn’t date his family. Also the tits and ass calendar in his downstairs bathroom along with a closet full of girlie magazines did nothing to render warm feelings within the cockles of my heart. The objectification of women as mere objects of sexual gratification does not impress this post-women’s lib gal. I like to think men may actually be attracted to me not only for my female anatomy but for my mind. That’s enormously important in this day and age, guys.

Well, now you have it, the update of my experiences on Mismatch.com. I am not one to kiss and tell however on these occasions there were no kisses.

The Greatest Generation Indeed

Tom Brokaw bestows on those who were born following the First World War the title The Greatest Generation. I whole heartedly concur with this distinguished journalist regarding the people who profoundly influenced my generation: my parents and their peers who struggled during the Great Depression. Then just when the hard times were starting to turn around, they were called to defend our nation against Hitler along with his cohort in evil, Mussolini, and the army of the rising sun.

I have not formally studied the history of World War II however I spent Sunday nights sitting alongside my father watching World at War. This of course does not allot me carte blanche to analyze and discuss the military campaigns and political maneuverings of this massive conflict. However it did plant a seed of interest in me regarding the struggles and stories of those citizens who toughed it out on both foreign soil as well as on the home front.  

For the past twenty years I have worked closely with survivors of those times. As time progresses on we lose more and more of these wise and hearty souls. And sadly, many who are still with us today are unable to articulate their personal sagas due to various debilitating illnesses. Yes, I can go to any library or peruse online the many sites that devote cyberspace to reminiscences of those who were there but that does not come close to hearing these priceless stories firsthand along with the opportunity to gaze into the eyes that saw so much. Sometimes I garner more from the pauses and the faraway look in their eyes; for they speak volumes.

Take, for instance, my mom who grew up in a rural community, the poorest of the poor. Her father died in 1929 leaving her mother to support and bring up nine children on her own. Her stories were truly heartbreaking. She would tell us of wearing dresses her sister Irene sewed from potato sacks and having to go down to the rectory to obtain left over scraps for a family who otherwise would have gone to bed hungry; a humiliating experience for a young girl. Her memories of Christmas differ vastly from mine; they were fortunate if they received an orange and a few pieces of candy. Her teeth and those of  her siblings rotted from lack of dairy products and other important nutrients; by the time they were in their twenties they all had partials. What really floors me though is that these children of dire poverty all grew up to be fine upstanding hardworking affluent people. Her five brothers all served overseas in the war, and the girls worked hard at jobs to help support the family. My grandmother, Elisabeth, along with many other men and women in similar circumstances should have been awarded diamond studded medals for their perseverance and toil. Most likely they would have declined such honors, being children and grandchildren of pioneers and immigrants they did what they had to do and did not expect a thing in return.

Stories of hardship during the war years abound from my clients and residents. One lady related to me the other day how her husband was away for four years. Four years! And then she said the words I have heard so many times, "He never talked about it when he came home." Then she continued and told me how a relative stationed in the desert finally received a new pair of socks in the mail. When he took off his boots to put them on all that was left of his old pair were the rims rolled over his boots. Imagine having your boots on so long your socks rotted away. And since I’m on the topic of feet I’ll never forget a gentleman I took care of in his home who was captured by the Germans and spent a great deal of the war in a German POW camp. He suffered many adversities, not the least frostbitten feet which gave him problems the rest of his life. Did he ruminate regarding this? No, he came home, worked hard, provided a beautiful home for his family and died in his nineties. My dad laughs about picking weevils out of the food, if you didn’t get them all out; well they were a good source of protein.

And of course there were the ladies keeping the fires burning on the home front. They went without so much and came up with imaginative methods of using their ration coupons to their best advantage. They faithfully wrote their sweethearts letters, never knowing if they would receive them. After my mother’s death we found a box of these letters and a diary buried underneath clothes in her dresser. I think many women of that era kept those treasured letters, correspondence that gave them a little ray of hope that their loved one was perhaps still alive. Some of us are have heard the nickname Rosie the Riveter; in fact many Rosies and Maries along with Leonas, Ritas and an untold number of women  found work in factories throughout the USA due to the shortage of manpower. My godmother Ruth spent her days serving her country and awaiting her fiancée working in the butter factory where she labored and talked her days away until Melvin came home. And of course I cannot neglect to mention the courageous women who joined the men overseas in various positions; especially the nurses,who risked their lives behind the scenes to take care of the wounded. Not only were their roles medical in nature but also spiritual, for many tenderly gave from their souls to heal their wounded brethren. 

I have seen many newsreel and photos of this long grueling war. However the film, Saving Private Ryan, really brought the gruesome reality of this war home to me. The opening scenes depicting the soldiers landing and storming Omaha beach left me shaken. Those young men, kids, scared to death but yet moving around those hideous hurtles while being blown to pieces. It’s a difficult scene to wrap one’s mind around. One of my clients recently travelled to Washington D.C. with a plane load of brother and sister veterans. A short trip, but nevertheless an opportunity for them to view the National World War II Memorial built in their honor. He returned proudly wearing his red cap and showing off his memorabilia. I wish I could have thrown him a ticker tape parade.

Amy's Day Off

Upon awakening this morning I sprang out of bed; a day of freedom to pursue whatever my heart desires, which usually amounts to nothing but a hill of beans (strange saying). Never mind that it’s Thursday and I work the weekend. What matters most is the moment and knowing I do not punch a time clock today.

Nevertheless I must honor one frame of time this morning. I am scheduled to see my shrink. No analyzing, no plodding through my past here, just a few minutes of small talk and then write me a script, Doc, and I’m out the door. Today however brought a break from the routine. When I arrived and attempted to open the office door I found it locked. A few seconds pass and then I hear a buzz which I assume will allow me to enter. Enter I did. From what I gathered from the hushed whispers a lockdown had occurred due to some poor crazy motherf….. peeved at one of the witchdoctors. I compose a plan while I pretend to read my magazine: a burst of adrenaline will allow me to catapult myself over the secretary’s counter and I will seek protection from the raging M16 he surely will use on his rampage. Or should I play hero and fling myself at him, blindsiding him and causing him to drop his weapon. If I fail at this endeavor I most likely will be shot dead at close range. My bravery will surely be honored and perhaps my progeny will be awarded a medal by the president at a special ceremony commemorating my valiant deed. Nah, the former plan makes me look saner and when going to a shrink that’s what one strives to do. God forbid he should think me suicidal. Through another locked door I go and enter the inner sanctum of Lunaticland. My doctor did seem a tad disconcerted and not his usual entertaining convivial self, however he was not too flustered to neglect to sing a few bars of Once in Love With Amy. If he neglected to sing me that little ditty, well, that would have caused me much concern. Upon leaving I spotted two deputies, one outside the office door and one posted at the elevator on the ground floor. I considered sticking around awhile longer, who knows maybe I would bump into Diane Sawyer covering the carnage for the evening’s news. But no, I couldn’t waste a moment more on my precious day off so off I went to the . . . Mall.

Two times a year I trek to the Mall, well maybe three times: during the holiday surge, after the holiday surge, and sometime during the weeks following the Forth of July. Not that this latter holiday has become a major day of commercial greed thus far, but rather to purchase my summer wardrobe at a fraction of the preseason cost. For those of you that spend your lives in the closet for whatever reason, the stores have hoards of clothing they must clear before they can bring out their next season’s collections.

I know precisely what store I want to hit so I park in the lot closet to one of their many entrances. As I go in I note the monstrous purple and red hippopotami pillows which will guarantee I will exit the proper door as to find my car in that vast sea of expensive real estate set aside for us Americans who spend more on our vehicles every year than most people in third world countries spend in a lifetime. Will we be accountable for this in the afterlife? I don't know. Cars equipped with video games, huge three to four garage homes that could house entire clans, food that kings and queens of past ages would salivate over, high tech toys which we replace every year regardless of price or practicality, well, I could go on and on riding this tangent however that is not the gist of my story.

I find suitable and affordable blouses (half off the original price). Now that I work in an environment where I am required to dress in an appropriate manner, which means no jeans, tee shirts and scruffy sneakers I have become quite the little fashion diva. I bring my booty up to the cash register and am rung up by the rudest young woman on the planet. Not even a hello, mind you. She sneezes and I say, “Bless you” which she totally ignores. If this ill-mannered lass had to depend on tips for a living she would be living in a van down by the river. But then, maybe she does considering what many of these mega conglomerate chain department stores pay their help; a justifiable and understandable reason for her insolent attitude.

Rather than go with my original plan of leaving after this one stop I venture out into the mall for there are no hordes of seasonal or weekend shoppers. Every now and then when I shop at the local Hy-Vee I think, what if a starving person from Sudan was suddenly transported through time and space and landed right smack in the middle of this expanse of alimentary excess. I think of this now, someone from a poor struggling nation who has never been to the big city. The glitz and overabundance of merchandise can be mind boggling to even a few of us who live in the good old US of A.

I window shop for what seems like blocks, dodging the oldsters who use the mall as their personal fitness track. For God sakes, people, its fifty-one freakin’ degrees out today, go out and get a breath of fresh air and maybe see some shrubbery, or God forbid, the cloudless turquoise splendor overhead known as the sky. I am drawn to the pink gaudy entrance to Victoria’s Secret and topple inside, my eyes drawn to the gigantic posters of models with emaciated faces wearing lacy bits of material barely covering their ample bosoms. Many female shoppers and one man ( perv or what?) are voraciously rummaging through boxes of lingerie (some bras are covered in rhinestones, how innovative is that, I ask myself). I have observed enough of this seedy scene and head south to Younkers where hopefully a saner lot browses and shops. By this time my nose and eyes are flowing streams of watery substance, further proof to me that I am either allergic to people or shopping or perhaps to people shopping. By this time I have reduced the many tissues in my pockets to soppy mushy pieces of dubious matter. I must look like a junkie jonesing for her next fix. It’s definitely time to leave. I turn around and swiftly head back, however not too fast to miss out on a quick peek into Betty Jane’s Chocolates and spy the bags of double dippers displayed on a bottom shelf in a corner of the quaint shop. My mind engages in a quick discourse and decides I have enough chocolate at home, even though a part of my psyche tells me there can never be enough chocolate to satisfy a bona fide chocolate addict (maybe I’m jonesing for my chocolate fix for the meager chocolate chips buried in the cookie I had for breakfast must surely be wearing off by now). I bypass the alluring confections, the lyrics sung by my doctor earlier, “Ply her with bonbons, poetry, and flowers” capering in my head.

I barely find my exit and make a fast break to my car where I keep a fresh supply of tissues in the glove department. For all my distress of the morning I decide to compensate myself with a trip through the drive-thru at Wendy’s where I order a one fourth pound cheese burger, hold the mayo please, and a frosty. My request of no mayo holds up the line and when handed my meal at the second window I make a hasty exit for fear the irate customers behind me will pull me from my car and beat and stomp me to death for the delay. I’m telling you, danger follows me wherever I go. Once home I flop in my easy chair and delve into lunch ala Wendy’s. Afterwards my crucial tasks of the day are scooping the cat poop out of the litter boxes and doing three loads of laundry. Ah, tis great to be home!