if it's written it must be true/ Little Rituals

*Although I write in the first person narrative, part of these writings are from thoughts other people and I have shared, based on similar experiences that I could relate to... to 'experience mentally and emotionally', as actors do. Being a writer, I guess I have a way of putting things that helps to convey thoughts better than some others have... so I've been told, now and then, through the years,... Therefore this is to give them a voice, as well as myself, and to bring the fragments together in a story that has a continuity which is easier to follow ... I think there are some points here that are worth thinking about... Maybe even more than once... RLR
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* I suppose everyone has their own kind of rituals ... in addition to whatever ones they have in regards to their particular religion... and one of mine was taking bad feelings or thoughts and throwing them down the drain, or toilet, and washing them out, out , out to sea, to be removed, purified, in the salt water of the oceans of the world. In comparison, it made me realize, too, how petty my negative feelings were, in relation to all the beauty of the world, the land, the oceans, and all on and in them. It made me think of how much bigger all creation was, in comparison to our planet, and all the stars in the sky that I could see. No matter how big and real my problems were, or are, although they must be delt with, and not to be sluffed off, as if they do not exist, it helped me to get a better perspective on things when I took the time to ponder this, even for a few minutes... while washing my hands. This is one I still use from time to time.

* Some people keep "diaries". As a teenager, I remembered hearing of how someone's diary had been found when they had died, and sometimes my life seemed so uneventful that I would make it seem more exciting by adding things that were not really accurate. To me a diary was more like a storybook. I didn't really think of them as being intended to record my real life. They were in the form of a little book. They usually came with a key so you could lock them. It made them seem all the more like something for an adventure ... and not just to record the daily life which everyone I knew already knew about. They weren't in the form of some TO DO list or something. They were little books with blank pages and lines ... for writing a story in.

But I remember an instance where someone had read one of them, and how they confronted me about things they read in it. They said they believed it to be true, because it being a diary, I must have felt it was my secret journal ... hiding truths but writing about them as if to make a record of my secret life... of things I did or that happened that I didn't want anyone else to know. ( They were sorely amiss. )

But they were private, personal not because they were deep, dark secrets, but because they were NOT true, or at least not really accurate. My fantasy world, more or less ... and usually not even a one that I necessarily wanted, but it was fun to read about ... something I wrote about someone who was me but not me.

I had started out just jotting a line or two without any explanation. But over time, I began to write a paragraph or two. Sometimes I'd say I had a date with this or that person and how they KISSED me. Sometimes I wrote something as if it was a love story, but really it was just the love of one friend for another... and not romantic. Other times it was the WHAT IF kind of story where a boy I knew and I pretended WHAT IF WE GOT MARRIED SOME DAY? Which might well have been telling the truth, but what we had talked about was a story. Playing pretend. It was just a scenario ... Trying to see how it would feel ... to learn something about one another, and ourselves.

They rarely went beyond such simple things that kids today would have to laugh at their innocence... but to me they were things you didn't just go tell someone about. You wrote these ... as stories. If you went out and said you did this and that, and your friends knew it wasn't so, because you were with them, and you all played kickball all afternoon ( although, yes, during a break you and so and so DID sit on the stone wall and share a soda ) they'd laugh and call you a LIAR or a storyteller with a wild imagination, but not intending it as a compliment.

But WRITING such things WAS telling a story. The actual truth would have been we had been sitting on the wall, side by side, sharing a soda, and left smiling at one another saying we had a nice talk and a fun afternoon, and let's do it again sometime, and that was IT. If anyone were to read it at some point in the future, when what was written there didn't really affect anyone, how boring that would be! ( Furthermore, I believed that others would respect this as my personal property, so I saw no real need to keep it locked, and didn't really think anyone who knew me at all would believe half the things that were in them. If by some chance, someone DID read them, they would likely laugh, and tease me, and I'd be embarrassed, but that would be IT... so I thought... )

I rarely went on actual "dates"... but I knew that other people did, so if I was going to write a story, I'd put something in that might sound more expected of me, something "normal "... and something a lot of others would relate to. This was to be THE STORY of my life... Strange as it may seem, that's what I thought a diary was for. It had that kind of "theatrical air" about it... the little book, gilted edges on the pages, the lock and key.. .though I, generally, kept the key WITH the book... so how secretive was I really trying to be? It was a kind of an adventure just to have it and write embellished stories in it. Like a legend it contained SOME truth so in that sence it was a personal journal, too.

Well, during the aforementioned confrontation, I said that if I didn't want anyone to know why would I ever put them into writing? If they were truly deep, dark secrets, I would remember them and that would be enough. I said that I wanted people in the future to hear exciting tales, and not read about the ins and outs of my daily life, which either sounded boring, or miserable, or something less than interesting as far as I was concerned. After all, I was a teenager. But, usually, I didn't even write much in them. ( Ah HA, I must have been being cryptic! ) Often times there were a number of empty pages, since each page had a date at the top of it, and if I didn't have anything to say that day, I didn't write in it. They were those little ones with barely enough space for a paragraph ... so I'd just write a couple of lines... which probably left a lot to the imagination, which could be read into without much trouble ... but in fact there was nothing there ... even less than was actually IN them.

I kept them, because to me they were something of myself ... rather like some people keep cards and letters. ( Well, I did that too ... still have a lot of them, in fact ... and if anyone read the responses from my friends to things I had written in letters to them, they could easily have put two and two together, seeing that something was amiss. They were really my memoirs, even if not an autobiography. ) I'd look back on these diaries now and then and have to laugh. They were so simple. I was so young...

Sad to say, later on, I found that another one had been read by someone who seemed to take it as having been REAL... "the truth". Here were secrets about my life that I hadn't told! "You had a boyfriend that you saw every day that whole summer by the looks of this! " ( Well actually I had wished I did! ) But did it really matter? SIGH... Apparently, it did... because I had told him how my life had really been, but when he found this sitting on the table in the livingroom, he took it to be something I accidently left there, probably looking back remembering him and still dreaming about him... and if that was the real truth and everything else was a lie... and THIS MUST be the truth because it was in a diary!

Never mind that it wasn't locked at the time... because, you see, as HE TOLD ME, I had accidently left it there... having been reading it when noone was around. Then he came over, and when I hastened to answer the door, I lept up forgetting it ... Horrible me ... the truth had outed ... but then again, no, it never really did ... because he didn't listen, and that was that...but in the long-run, probably for the better ...


* In later years, I liked to write stories, or at least I tried to, inbetween this and that, as often as I could. They were, in part, based on things in my life, that of others I knew, or things I had heard about, and laced with imagination to bring them all together. Usually they became boxes of papers filled with partial manuscripts and many ideas , which I'd shove under the bed. Under the bed NOT because they were a secret to kept hidden... but because they were out of the way... until the evening, usually, when I had time to pull them out again, if I wasn't to tired to do so.

Unfortunately, they too were treated with suspicion, and finally I was confronted about them! Well, sometimes, until you can think of names you really want to use, you use the names of people you know to play certain parts ... sometimes it's not hard to see them playing that role, but other times not ... but in any case, I was accused of writing slanderous things about this person. I must not have wanted them to know what I had written because they were hidden under the bed ... hidden under the bed ... that being something akin to a vault at the bank, apparently... again, I SIGH. Of course, this person knew I was a writer, but obviously knew nothing about how a writer processes things.

My questions would be> Why did you go looking under my bed in the first place?, and when you came upon these things I had written, why did you not tell me you had done so? When did you find the time to pick some of them out, and how did you get out of the house with them???!

Sometimes I had had the feeling that someone had been going through them as some pages seemed to be missing, but then again who, and when, and why?

Apparently MY suspicions were true, but based on the fact that I noticed that pages, ones I was quite sure I had put in a certain order, were out of place now... but since I hadn't always numbered them, I was never quite sure... until I was confronted... and that was the mutual end of another relationship.

* I, also, used to write things down... things other people said or did that were disturbing to me, and things that happened to me, and I'd burn them. Because they were as real things in this world, I made these notes on a piece of paper ( many times in a looseleaf notebook that I also used to record appointments, grocery lists, things that needed repair, when library books were due back, and assorted other things ) I wrote them down on paper as a record of them from this world being sent back to the UNIVERSE for purifying.

I often wrote them just as others had said them to ME. For instance: JOEY IS A TOTAL GEEK. When writing this which only I was going to read, why would I add quotation marks, adding> SAID MARY?? After all I knew who had said it. Sometimes I'd write: WHY WOULD I WANT THAT? I'D BE A FOOL TO WANT A COAT LIKE THAT ONE! as I was remembering someone trying to tell me that they thought it looked horrible on me and trying to get me to wearing one THEY got me instead.

These were things that disturbed me greatly, that I wanted turned the other way around, or voided completely... for the most part, the opposite of how I felt or what I wanted, or believed, or whatever. But, again, no doubt, for someone looking for a reason to accuse, or play a prank, they could have been taken as things I had said if I didn't hasten to burn them for one reason or another... and sometimes other things did come up before I did so.

Looking back now, I see that it is possible that there was a time when someone else did read them, although they surely were none of their business. I had no reason to believe anyone would go through my things like that, in my own home, even if I did leave my papers on the table when I had to leave the room for a moment, and I have to wonder what their motive would be and who would do that. Perhaps they were looking to find out what my schedule for the week was, or how much I paid on car insurance, or what??? It wasn't honorable, that's for sure.

And, perhaps, thinking this was like a diary ( You know A DIARY where the TRUTH is kept secret... sigh...) if they read those things, they would say AH HA! NOW I KNOW HOW YOU REALLY FEEL! I think this is highly possible for reasons that aren't easy to explain, or prove, however. For one thing, they never confronted me about it, but I did I have a few others accuse me of saying something I didn't say and never would have said about them, which made no sence to me at the time, yet they insisted that they knew the truth, and it didn't occur to me at the time that someone might have done that.

Somewhere I had read, or heard, of someone doing this little, psychological, cleansing ritual with paper and fire, ( not intended as anything other than that, thank-you ) and it sounded like a good way to vent my disgust without hurting anyone. Well I still think it can be, but I would suggest that if there is anyone out there who does this, make haste to put them to the fire as soon as you make a record of them, lest someone use them to cause YOU trouble.

* These are things many writers probably have had to endure... including kids who write essays in school or college ( poets, lyricists, etc. included ) In fact, I know it has happened there too. ANYTHING YOU WRITE, CAN, AND MAY WELL BE USED AGAINST YOU, even analyzed by expert troublemakers looking for hidden agendas and intentions... maybe even in a court of law...

> SO this thought would SEEM to be "tis better to imply than to say it like it is and never ever write a note, even if only intended for yourself to re-read ... because> Even if it's not published, the harm it can be as bad a s a lawsuit, as painful as being hit by a truck and living through it, and as bad as being judged without the benefit of a trial or jury and sentenced to hell for a crime you didn't commit ... because after all, they know the TRUTH now and nothing you say will ever change that!! So maybe you should never ever write ANYTHING... especially if it has your name on it..."

>>>>>> But how DO I feel about this?

The TRUTH of the situation, if encountered, is the best option, (if you are even allowed to speak your piece, and even if they don't believe you ) with rare exception ... or you too can get lost in the maze of suspicions. It's enough to have other people twisting things you say all around and throwing it back at you, and worse if you succumb to it too ... If it's true, it's true... and stick to it... because other people can twist anything if they want to... but their stories are like vines growing on a sturdy Oak... they will fall away, but the tree will remain long after. (YOU are the sturdy Oak... at least I hope you are. ) Stand up for yourself, unless it's a matter of actual life and death perhaps, and don't let anyone make you ashamed or afraid to be who you are... because if you do, then a part of you, YOUR TRUTH, YOUR LIFE, YOUR DREAMS, YOUR PERSONAL IDENTITY has already been replaced by who THEY are... and THEIR contorted, fabricated perceptions of YOUR REALITY ...

*Well, time has passed... I make my notes of the day, journals, which tend to be my appointment and" things to be done lists", but they are also of things that have happened in a day. Usually they are only my experiences events and rarely about things I have heard or felt... except that I have recorded the blessings and my feelings about them, or made a simple note of something that happened and bothered me, so I could think back and see what I might have done differently or how I might have corrected a problem.

>>> AND NOW, having written my piece, to be used by anyone who has experienced similar things but hasn't found the words or time to express it, I think I will wash my hands of this...
.... out, out, out to sea for purifying! " = )

old witch HAZEL... the hurricane

I guess I would be remiss if I didn't include something about a hurricane, what with IRENE due to visit us, personally, in a few hours...

So far we're just getting a LOT of rain, which started out as a steady rain earlier in the evening, though it had rained here and there yesterday and today as well. At 4 AM I still have the window here in my room, open, listening to the sound of it. It sounds so nice... for the moment. (No sooner did I say that, than the rains got heavier.)

My older son and I got groceries yesterday. We usually go on Thursdays, but other things came up this time. At least we didn't have to go out and get something special in case the power goes out... We just planned the week's groceries around it. If the power goes, once the storm is over, we can cook and heat water on the gas grill, and thankfully it's still warm outside... so no need to worry about freezing to death, or having to shovel and have a heart attack or something... but the flooding might get to us. Wind is wind, no matter the season though and with trees nearby that's a concern... but then again, if it's strong enough, or if there's a tornado, it might send a small car flying through the air... I just hope it's not mine.

I've lived through a few hurricanes. I remember two especially well because although we made it through alright, each was marked by an event that was a result of the storm ... one I'll never forget... the first one I experienced being Hazel in 1954 ... then Donna in 1960.

In 1954 I was around 4 years old. I remember my (older) brother and I used to play in the basement of our little house on a country road here. ( My younger brother was about a year old then. ) Bit by bit, day by day, more toys went to the cellar to become a world of our own. I set up housekeeping there until finally, ALL my toys were down there the day before Hazel hit.

Mostly I remember my brother loving to ride his tricycle there; but we made chalk drawings on the smoooth concrete floor sometimes, too. Although Mom always left the kitchen door open so she could hear us while she worked, we could make all the noise we wanted to, playing our little record player and skipping, or whatever we wanted to do. It was so nice and clean and solid... cozy, in a BIG way!

That evening we went to dinner at my Grandparent's house a few miles away. ( People used to do that once a month or more back then. ) It was raining when we went there, but I don't remember there being any thunder and lightning, which as far as a child is concerned, is the scarey part. I'd seen rain before, even with wind. It wasn't scarey to me... just chilly and wet, and a bit exciting sometimes.

We got home past 9 pm and although I was sleepy and had napped in the car on the way home, I wanted to get my toys and bring them back to my room. I'd heard some talk of a storm coming,but noone seemed to act alarmed. As a small child all I knew was that if there was a storm coming they belonged safe with me for the night... like I'd be, as long as I was with my parents.

Mom and Dad were tired and really didn't want to tote toys back upstairs after they'd gotten home. They just wanted to get us to sleep so they could go rest, and keep an eye on the storm.. But I said, "please!" and my brother turned to me without hesitating, saying he would help me. He had a few things down there too that were usually in our room... so, with a sigh, my parents looked at one another and said they'd help, if it made me feel better... " but then get right to bed" ... "ok"

In the middle of the night, I remember a light in the hallway entering the room, and sounds of my parents' voices. My mother said the storm was very strong and we were going to sleep in the car tonight... just to bring my blanket and pillow. Nothing to worry about. We'd all nestle together cozy and warm until morning, when the storm stopped. (... like just in case the Big Bad Wolf huffed and puffed and blew the house down.)

They were calm and I didn't sence any fear. It was just something different. As a small child I didn't know that these things were rare occurances, and extremely dangerous. My parents treated it as a matter of course, and we followed. I got my blanket and pillow and started toward the kitchen, half asleep, and suddenly remembered my little bedtime buddy. I HAD to have HER! It was when I turned to go back that my mother's voice had a sound of urgency in it... I whimpered a bit, and she said ok, she'd go with me, but we had to hurry up because Dad was running the car to keep it warm for us, and we didn't want to leave him out there alone for too long... something like that.

It was just a few feet from the kitchen door to the car, but I remember the wind and rain hitting me as she hustled me through it. The car never felt so warm and cozy after that, nestled up in the backseat, of the big, hefty, American-made sedan, with my older brother. ( My baby brother was aleep in my mother's arms in the front seat. ) She and Dad were talking softly, and barely audible with the wind and rain beating on the roof. In no time at all, I was fast asleep again...

I don't remember why I woke up, but the rain had stopped and the wind had gone. My father said he'd go in and check the house out. They said they'd heard it creaking and moaning in the night, and that's why they'd felt it best to sleep in that car... but it was still standing so she supposed we'd go back inside in a few minutes, as soon as Dad came back.

My brother and I hadn't been afraid because my parents hadn't shown us any fear. To us it was just a great adventure. We could hear the stream to the back of the property roaring, and it sounded exciting. We laughed a little. It had crept up nearly to the back porch. THAT was fun! NOW we had a stream AND a LAKE for sailing our toy boats on!

Dad returned and said it wasn't moaning now, and everything seemed ok... even the power hadn't gone out... but he calmly told my mother that the basement was flooded.

Again there is a bit of a lapse of memory, but I remember Dad opening the door to show us what it looked like, at our urging. It was maybe a foot from the floor above it... but on the one end where the fuse box was, it was a bit lower. It was just enough to spare it and all the wires ... high and dry. I remember them remarking about how THAT was some kind of miracle... in addition to the fact that the house hadn't been damaged at all.

As I stood there in amazement, I thanked my brother for offering to help me bring my things up the night before. My parents' were suddenly reminded of that, in the midst of everything, else, and thanked him too. He was a HERO.

For some reason ( probably exhaustion, and the fact that we had a sump pump, and they didn't expect the storm to dump THAT much water ) my parents hadn't thought of the basement flooding apparently... or they would told US we'd better get our things out of there before going to bed, and probably would have come home earlier. Somehow I just senced they needed to come back upstairs. I felt VERY strongly about it. As a child of 4, I SURELY didn't know they would all have drowned if they had been left there overnight. In fact we'd left them there on other occassions when there were thunderstorms overnight... but then again, these were ALL of my toys... and I just senced something.

Looking at the flooded cellar, my brother and I began to laugh about how we had an indoor swimming pool now. We asked if we could go swimming in it. My mother said NO... that it was FAR too deep... WAY over our heads. Mom said to remember how high the last two steps were... and then we looked again and realized it was almost as deep as Dad was tall, there by the stairs.

We went into our room to play, and I could hear my parents talking low... about the water ... They were trying to decide what to do about getting it OUT. I heard Dad mention the sump pump and how it must have burned out trying to keep up with it.

A neighbor came over and the two men talked. I remember hearing something about what would happen if it HADN'T actually burned out, or blown a fuse, and what might have happened if it tried to kick on, and sent electricity through the water... and burned the house down.

So we were told to hush because Dad was going to go disconnect it, and to do that he had to go through the water. We were told that if it tried to click on, it would send electricity through the water and Dad would be electrocuted. ( For some reason I could see the electricity going out into the water, and Dad freezing up and falling lifeless into it.) So we stood beside my mother, at the top of the stairs watching... silently praying, as little children do. We barely breathed and didn't move a muscle, as we watched him decend the stairs and push through the water to disconnect it. We watched as he held his breath and dipped into it for a moment, reemerged, then pushed back through it with his "catch of the day".

But looking back now, I suppose they knew better. They weren't fools. Anyway, I think they were counting that it had burned out or blown a fuse as another blessing. But I also remember whispers of how we needed to learn things from this. I think that while they hadn't wanted to really alarm us with all that when we needed to be sleeping, and not fussing and crying over it in the night, it was, no doubt, obvious to them, that we didn't realize the seriousness of it... and they used that to make a point.

At some point later, I heard Dad tell Mom that the fire company was pumping out basements all over town, and they couldn't be there until late in the afternoon. He had walked down the road to the one that was only a few hundred feet from our house to ask about that. He told us to keep a look-out for them.

Around suppertime, they finally came. It was exciting to know that these men in their black rubber coats and hats, and big red fire truck, were coming to our house to make everything right again. We watched and listened but stayed out of the way when they finally arrived. Dad opened the outside cellar doors, and we watched as they took a long hose from the truck, with a special screened nozzle on it, and put it in the flooded basement. The engine began to chug, and the pumper was filing with the water.

I have to wonder, now, where the water WENT, after they pumped it out... (I guess it was pumped into the rushing stream. I remember Dad going out back and checking on it off and on all day... saying how much it gone down , and things like that. I just don't remember where it DID go... ) But I DO remember it took them about an hour. For whatever reason, my mother was waiting until they were finished to make supper.

After that, as we sat at the table in the nice cozy little house, all together, safe again, they told us not to go NEAR the stream until they told us it was okay. We were not to even go out back until they said we could. Dad said it was rushing like a freight train and would carry us off so fast that noone would even have time to save us... and we'd be pulled down and bump into things, and drown. I understood what that meant. I had gasped on a mouthful when I was in the bathtub once or twice, and that was uncomfortable enough... and then I knew it meant not seeing them again, too... and how sad they'd be.

Of course there is always more to tell, and this is just one story, but I learned a LOT from that storm... old witch HAZEL... which we later joked was where the WITCH HAZEL water came from.

Donna was another bad one, but for a different reason, and not such a pleasant one... but I'll have to wait to tell you about that sometime later... after this one has passed. The sun will come up soon, and I want to go see how the creek across the way is doing... We may well have another stream with a lake ... I just hope it stays over there, across the road............

Soooo .... Okay, IRENE, what's YOUR story going to be???

It's a CHEERY rainy, dark and damp day!

I don't know why people ( especially those on TV ) refer to rainy days as DREARY all the time. I wish they'd stop with the negative adjectives!!! ( Do weather people get paid by the word too?? I know that actors do ... ) Even when I had to be outside on very rainy days, I rarely thought of them as dreary. They were part of the variety of life... like the four seasons here in the north. Granted, if you want to go swimming and lay on the beach or something, they can be a real drag, but we had picnics despite the rain.... it might be harder when there are things you HAVE to do but it's not like you have to shovel or worry about the ice!

[ I feel for those who HAVE to be out in so-called "BAD weather" though. There are some jobs that are harder to do when it rains, or impossible in some cases, but that's true of winter weather too... And here's a thought> Any roofer will tell you that when it's hot and sunny and there's not a cloud in the sky THOSE are the days they dread most. But if you don't HAVE to be outside in it, enjoy the variety... even if it rains on your parade today... ]

Yes, a picnic on a rainy day ...

When I was growing up there were no propane stoves... only charcoal briquettes or wood. Part of the fun was the challenge of keeping dry and warm, and getting the food cooked. It always tasted so much better cooked outside, and more satisfying after a bit of a work-out on a chilly, rainy day. Ah, the joy of something cooking in open fire on the grill, on a stick, or among the coals, and of sipping something warm, after getting a bit wet... Ah, feeling the rain on my face and hands as we put a tarp up to keep the rain off. The rain and dampness would continue, and sometimes a DOWNPOUR, but under the tarp, we were dry and enjoying the moment, and the warmth of a nice, bright fire.

We usually started out using briquettes but would add bits of tiny branches a bit at a time ... As the pile of coals got hotter and bigger, we put larger pieces on. Ah, the red/golden glow amid the black and dark grey ashes; the heat radiating forth in the dark, dampness; the smell of the wood; the sound of the crackling and hissing of the wood as it burned, and the sound of the rain coming down... all the many tones of it! ALL the contrasts....

Of course, we would look for the driest wood we could find, putting it near the fire to dry some more, if possible, and that was part of the fun, too. We poked and prodded the fire, blew on it, added to it, sometimes poured little streams of water on it to watch the steam, and yes, of course, we cooked on it, which was delightful, but mostly we watched it and played with it... quiet JOY!

I daresay that if I used a propane stove, for a picnic on a rainy day,the whole experience would be more like a chore then fun! (But it's good to have for backup... or before you get the fire going... for hot drinks.)

Yes, even on a rainy, damp day, toasting marshmallows was FUN! ... and even though sometimes it was really so chilly that being near the fire only meant being toasted on one side and frosted on the other, it was still challenging. Feeling uncomfortable like that only made it feel so much better when we got home. Of course, we knew we would be going home to shower at the end of the day, to get cozy, and sleep in soft warm beds, in a house where it was dry.... It wasn't like being stuck in a situation like that for weeks or months or something... but this IS about enjoying A rainy day, or a few days. It's not about actual survival issues.

Of course, you might not want to go and do that, or can't for one reason or another, but you can get some recipes out and whip something up... or paint, or read a good book, or just ponder the sounds and sights of the rain falling and be glad it's still warm... or go the the gym where it doesn't matter what the weather is doing and you can still RUN or RIDE A BIKE ... maybe get a tan. Just because it's rainy doesn't mean the fun has to end... and if you are alone, as long as you are dry and warm, have something to eat, and something ( books, paper and pens, a telephone, radio, TV or the WEB .... etc ) to work with where you are, you need not feel lonely. Open a window and listen to life around you... and feel it!

from the valley to the mountains... a journal page to a friend

Hey Dude!

Ah the storms> Yes, I don't know where the big ones are hitting but they're not here either... just the rain, not even wind usually. The sky grew as black as night around suppertime last night, and Jay said there was an ALERT, and the line showed up as hitting HERE on the radar, but somehow it missed us... WE have trees around the house here too, as I think I told you. That has long been a concern for me... even in other places I lived. I always think it is best not to have a tree higher than the rooftop NEAR the house since it WILL die at some point, and it may fall on the house before you can afford to have it removed... If a tree is going to reach 50', plant it 50' from the house, or don't plant it at all is how I feel about it... IF you have the choice and didn't just move there... flying limbs and things are enough to worry about... and pick up... GLAD THEY AREN'T HITTING THERE TOO BADLY TOO, of course... The power flickers here a lot of the time too... In fact, it seems that weather there, and the effects of it, are like they are here a LOT... HERE IN THE VALLEY vs THERE IN THE MOUNTAINS ... ponder... I don't get it ... hmmm

Being a bit reclusive??? Yes, well I don't think there is really anything bad about being a bit reclusive and only talking through e-mail a lot of the time. I know that I was never keen on social gatherings, for the most part. Oh, going to places where there are a lot of people is one thing, but interacting in groups is another. I think most people feel that way really. I think that e-mail is a more natural form of communication than people might realize, even if it does use modern technology.

Years ago life was a lot more mellow and people didn't see other people all that much... except those who lived in cities. I suppose those who could take that pace and be really IN it are those who got rich... the competitive sorts. If you think about it, they always say that you have to go to the big cities to really accomplish big things. But there were many rural people and they mostly saw one another at the local fair, at church on Sundays, and once a week, or once a month when they did errands in town. I know that as a mother I was alone a LOT and the phone was too annoying to talk on for long, so it was me and my sons, and the school most of the time they were growing up... which was too limiting, but many other mothers went through it too... yes, I think it's more natural to be alone a lot, and perhaps better for us. If we are constantly socializing then we can't be thinking our own thoughts and allowing others to enter... from THE UNIVERSE.

Children who learn a lot seem to be the ones who are alone and find other ways to keep themselves busy. The A student is alone a lot studying (unless they are cheating ) and that's when I learned to play guitar... You can't be thinking deeply and really accomplishing things and be socializing, though it may be PART of your job. I tend to think that most people like to know someone is there and hear sounds of other people, but that at least 2/3 of the time we need our own space. - They try to make it seem like there's something wrong with people who like to be alone... but there's not. We just might not have the skills to communicate FAST and appropriately in a world where that ONE TIME can make the difference... but then, that can be much like assemblyline work... It needs a balance, but it's not the same for everyone, and not the same all the time, but I still think alone is really more natural. >>>SO the internet tends to be the best of both worlds... unless you hate technology or typing ; )

Ah the old Dick Tracy watches!! LOL... YES! My younger brother and I used to pretend we had them... and we used walkie talkies and all that... We used smoke signals and all sorts of things, but that was our dream... the magical device that could communicate with anyone from anywhere... and now we have cellphones... and ipods...( and laptops! ) amazing things ; )

... but I still think that, for the most part, true communicating with another person, yourself, or the Universe is best QUIETLY, in your own time, and one-to-one ..................................

with a smile > Dudette * = )