Some after Christmas thoughts...

Now that it’s over, I think it’s time to discuss the issue of Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and such.

I have no problem when someone says happy holidays to me. None. I am a non-practicing Catholic, and I do know Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Christ. So in the spirit of Christ- I think I can be magnanimous and tolerant and sensitive to people who do not practice Christianity- or any religion at all, if that be the case.

As always, I see more than black and white- I see a million shades of grey. (And yes I like to spell grey with an e.) I’m not sure why this is even an issue. It bothers me enough to write about though.

On Christmas day, my son and I went to the movies. I said Merry Christmas to the kid that sold me my popcorn and he replied in kind. “Merry Christmas to you too.” My son mentioned to me that he had no problem with Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Happy Kwanza (yes, we know Kwanza is a made up holiday) - he is an atheist who practices some of the teachings of Buddha, but not all. I had been thinking about writing this but had not discussed my annoyance with the general population over this issue, with him at all. Yet he too found it disturbing that people could not just be kind to each other for a few days over various intermingling holidays.

Jews, Christians, Muslims and Atheists alike have made this an issue, shoving their belief’s down the others gullet. And that makes me wonder why people can’t just take the month of December to be kind to one another. Be tolerant. I’m so sure that would be what Jesus would want, what Allah would want, what God would want, what Buddha would want- so why, oh why is this so difficult for people?

A Christian woman once told me – when my son was on his way to Iraq- that if he got killed he would not go to heaven because he was not born again. I wanted to smack her. I really did (although I never would do anything like that). I did not care if she was Christian… she was pure evil to me. Instead- I cried. She hurt me to my core. I was mad at all Christians for a long time after that. I didn’t understand that so many Christians themselves do not understand the teachings- the bible- and the spirit with which words were written.

To me- it’s insanity to think that God would choose any religion over another- or a God who would not let someone into heaven who put his life on the line for others. Yet it really mattered not- because my son himself does not believe in heaven.

I believe in life after life- I believe we continue to come back in body after body until we get life right. Until we let go of the material world, until we learn tolerance and love for all human and animal kind. I don’t know where I am in this imaginary scale- but I know I strive to get life right. And so does my son. The Catholic’s didn’t teach me this belief- in fact, I don’t know that anyone did, but I have always believed that my soul is on a journey. The day my son was born I looked into his face- his slanted eyes staring back at me like he had known me a million years and not just one hour and I said to whoever was there- he is an old soul. I believe I was right. While he has no one he calls God, he is kind, generous, and thoughtful and would surely lay down his life for another.

I have been to some dark places in my life, yet I have hope for humanity. I really do. Sometimes though, I feel like I am beating my head against a wall trying to understand why some people don’t do the things that would in my book at least, make them good human beings. I don’t mean the evil bastards that kill children, or the crazies who wipe out random strangers for sport. I know there is no simple explanation for that… I mean the Christian’s, the Orthodox Jews, the scientific Atheist, the Reverent holier than thou, who can not find it within themselves to say a mere thank you when someone holds their door open, or offer a smile at a ragged cashier at Safeway or say Happy Hanukkah or Merry Christmas and mean it.

So my after the holiday rant is actually a request. Think about this next year. I know it’s presumptuous of me to think I know what God wants… but I really he think that God does not have a preference for religious beliefs, or any type of people. He would rather we be kind to each other than buy each other gifts. He would rather we treat each other well then after church go home and kick the dog. In fact, you don’t even have to wait for the holidays. Start today.

Just be kind.

It's On the Tip of my Tongue

I have this thought… it’s on the tip of my tongue. I feel it embracing me, leading me and trying to help me understand what it wants. But I just can’t make out the words. Not unlike my life in real time- if my hearing aids aren’t in my ears, chances are I will miss what you are saying.

I wait for the epiphany that is sure to come. I look for it too on faces, in the news, even on TV. Sometimes I just sit quiet and hope it will strike me like lightening- only without killing me. I hope like crazy I am not one of those people who gets these amazing revelations 10 minutes before they die because that just won’t give me time to jot it all down.

Now I say all this but I have to tell you- I am the first one to tell other people to stop thinking about life and just do it. I hole up here with my sick and decrepit animals and my deranged puppy, living like a crazy old writer/dog lady, rarely going to social events or even a movie theater anymore. But I’ve done plenty, I lived 10 lives in my first 40 years and my goal now is to make sense of it all, document events before history changes them and find the patterns- break the molds, influence change, instigate hope- fix something.

It’s on the tip of my tongue- I just know it.

Thanks Mom

Yesterday was the 25th anniversary of my mother’s death. She died far too young- only 53 years old. She also wasted much of her life on unhappiness.

I rarely write about my mother because it makes me sad. I do miss her and I wait for her to appear in dreams. It’s been years since I have had a dream conversation with my mom. The last one was a great one though.

I was sitting in a chair- and my mother pulled the chair backwards (how kids are wont to do). In the dream, I was scared I would fall- but then I asked her. “This is about trust isn’t it?” “Yes, it is” she said, “You need to start trusting people.”

That dream actually did change me- and how I perceived the world. I’m still wary- I doubt any city kid like myself can shake the innate knowledge that not everyone is trustworthy. But it changed how I viewed bosses, people I work with and relationships in my life. And it made me remember something someone else said to me once. “Don’t you trust me?” I asked my old boyfriend. “I trust you to be who you are.” He replied. Understanding who people are is truly an important aspect of trust. Understanding yourself though is equally significant.

So, on this 25th anniversary of my mothers death- I am trying to remember her lessons. The gifts she gave me never felt like gifts at the time. As hard to manage as I was- she predicted I would be a writer, and often said I could manage anything or do anything I put my mind to. She recognized early on that my stubborn streak would serve me well and become perseverance as I matured. I was her problem child, of that there is no doubt. I smoked, drank, and never asked for permission to do anything after I was 12 or 13. I was rebellious and if she asked me a question, I would defiantly reply with the truth. “Do you think your [step] father loves me?” She once asked me. “No mom- I don’t.” I did not hesitate one second. I can’t say I would answer any differently now.

My mother died from a virus that went to her heart. A broken heart really. My brother had died 2 years prior and most of her left then. If it were not for my brother’s daughter, born after his death, I don’t think she would have lived as long as she did. My mom, sisters’ and I took care of the baby (Joanna) for the first year of her life- then one day her mom picked her up and didn’t bring her back. My mother searched all over California for her- sometimes coming within hours of her location- only to come up empty, Joanna’s mom fleeing the scene. Her last search was in a horrible rainstorm in late November of 1984. I was pregnant with Nick and when I went to see my mom in the hospital, she asked me if I had found Joanna. “No mom, but I will.” I said. Then she told me about a dream she had. She dreamed she was a midwife and had helped deliver a baby girl. She said they named her Carol, for Christmas. She died a few days later, two weeks short of the anniversary of my brother’s death.

I found our Joanna 5 years later.

People that knew my mother will remember some good and some bad things. She was not well most of her life, suicidal and manic (gifts from her parents) she was hard to be around sometimes. Growing up with her was like walking on eggshells- we always knew a crack was coming. She was hardest on me. She had a great laugh and a sharp wit. She was smart. She was lost. She was broken. She was beautiful.

In retrospect, I see many lessons. Lessons about love; Don’t be jealous or petty or insecure. Lessons about parenting; be there, be there, be there. And don’t be so critical! Lessons about life; don’t waste it, it’s too short to be unhappy.

Earlier today, when I started writing this, I received a phone call from an old friend. It was an interesting phone call in that we talked about dreams (actual dreams not wants) and the power of the psyche to grab information from the universe. I didn’t mention I was writing this- but that was the direction I was going in when I sat down at this computer.

I think the best thing my mother ever gave me was my intuition. I tried to drown it when I was younger- but now I rely on it like the best friend that it is. Now when I think of someone, living or passed on, I try to send a message. I miss you, I love you. I’ll see you in my dreams.

The Bubble People

Some days, I am surrounded by optimists’. Oh, not most of my friends- most of them are as crotchety as I am. But people I know. People who like bubbles and insist on happiness at all times. Frankly- they are annoying. I really can’t say I know one person who has not had some difficulty in their life. Sad events, loss of loved ones- financial woes- or all of the above. If you look at the numbers, life ain’t so rosy. Sometimes, you just have to look at the facts and acknowledge them for things to change and get better. Say it out loud. Life is shitty sometimes.

Yet we plug along- well most of us plug along. Sure- I see rainbows occasionally. I see acts of kindness for no apparent reason. I see the good stuff- and I file it. But I file the bad too. The senseless murders, wars, child abductions, mothers killing their children, friends killing friends-the permeate evil making its way around the world.

In the last few weeks numerous acts of violence have caught my eye and turned my stomach. A little 5 year old in my former home of North Carolina, was found dead in the woods. Shaniya Davis’s, mother- and I use the term mother loosely- accused of trafficking her baby for sex and an aunt refusing to believe that her sister could harm her baby. Someone must have known this woman was a crappy mother – at best. But those rose colored glasses people are so wont to wear protected the villain and not the victim- the 5 year old child whose short life must have been a living hell.

Yesterday- a friend of mine posted on facebook about a friend of his murdered in his home. The man was a former Marine and a Las Vegas police officer. He interrupted a robbery attempt standing in his own garage when he had just returned from work. Shots were fired and in the end Trevor Nettleton was dead, but his family inside the house, his wife, visiting mother and two children were safe. He was the third Las Vegas Metro Police Officer killed in 6 months.

Today, I was walking my sister’s German Shepherd. Bella is a good dog. She is wary of strangers but normally friendly. Today, Bella growled at a man on the trail and would not stop until he moved aside. My immediate reaction was to say, “No Bella, it’s okay”. I thought for a second though and realized maybe her instincts are better than mine- so instead I said “good girl”. I know the man heard me and I’m sorry if it offended him. But I would rather be sorry than dead.

People tell me I am negative- even my own son, a bit of a skeptic himself, said so last week. Maybe I am. I prefer to think of myself as a realist. Do I expect the worst from everyone? No, not really, but I am ready for it if it comes.

I believe that many of the horrible acts of crime committed are committed because people don’t want to see or get involved. I don’t know about you, but I report suspicious people in the neighborhood or suspected drunk drivers. I keep my eyes open at the grocery store, department stores, and parking lots. I don’t like surprises.

To believe the world or even any part of the world is free of malevolence is just ignorant.

It seems to me- most of the prayers for peace and goodwill go unanswered. I’m not blaming God- or Satan either. I blame people- and I blame people that won’t open their eyes and see things the way they are as well as people doing the violent, despicable acts.

If you think keeping a smile on your face and ignoring the hatred and vile incidents humankind is capable of will make the evil disappear- you are wrong. But…the 10 % of me that is optimistic wishes you were right.

Just Say Thanks

These last two Veterans Days have been a little different for me. I’ve always admired our military heroes, the men and women who have sacrificed their time, energy and some- their limbs and life to serve our country. I have always thanked them for their service when given the opportunity or lent a helping hand when I was able.

The faces of veterans are changing though. Beside a craggy-faced sixty- something from the Vietnam War, or octogenarian- plus from WW2, are twenty-three and thirty year olds. While many of their friends were in school having keg parties, most of our new veterans were in Iraq or Afghanistan serving their country. My own son is twenty-four years old and a combat veteran.

What I have learned since my son and the son’s and daughter’s of my friends became Inactive Reserve Status, is with the end of their military career; where staying alive was a primary concern, often comes new problems. From PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), physical disabilities and mapping the VA bureaucracy, to finding jobs, translating rifleman or tow-gunner to a resume, dealing with people that don’t know how to work as a team or how to give it their all; or finally mourning their losses. Being a veteran can be hard work. Many of them find it difficult to function in a world where there are so few rules. Some of them need help.

I thought when my son got out of the Marine Corps people would line up to hire him. Who wouldn’t want a man that could work four or five days in a row with no sleep? Or make decisions with bullets flying at his head, or someone that had never called in sick? I was surprised and disappointed to find that some applications wouldn’t allow him to include his military status or history. He decided to go back to school instead of explain the four-year gap in work history to people who didn’t care.

This Veterans Day I salute and thank all veterans that ever served our great country. I realize now, they were all once young and somebody's children.

For more information on how you can support the troops and our veterans, visit my website

http://www.katiewigingtonwrites.com/SupportTheTroops.html

http://www.va.gov/

http://www.vfw.org/

And if you get a chance- just say thank you – it means the world to those who have served.

Russian River Summers

My mother was a sun worshiper. Every summer she would pack us up and take us to Russian River for however long she could afford. Sometimes a week sometimes two, if we ever stayed a month I don’t remember.

When I think back now it really wasn’t much of a vacation for her. She still cooked up a storm and still had to clean up after us. Then as we got older, it got easier in some ways and harder in others.

We usually stayed at the Hi-Tone Motel. My mother’s cousin Tony Luchessi owned and operated the motel with his wife and son, Isabel and Rich. We all loved Uncle Tony. He was an affectionate Italian who never appeared to be anything but happy. Tony built a house in the back of the property, overlooking the kidney shaped pool, and we stayed in the house. There were four of us kids, my brother John, sisters Linda and Angie, me, my mom and alternating fathers- old and new, visiting when they could.

The stories generally swirl around my head in no chronological order. I’m sure sometimes I mess up the years in a roughly ten-year time span of my early life. But certain incidents I recall as clear as a bell.

We always had cousins or people who my mom said were cousins at the motel and all over Russian River. All the adults were called auntie and uncle- although to this day I don’t know if half of them were actually related to us- even though I do remember that most of them were Italian.

I got my very first and last spanking from my dad in Russian River at “Uncle Bob’s house. My dad had brought my sister Linda, his new sister in law Carol and me to Bob’s house for a weekend. I was about seven years old and when Linda and Carol, both 12 and nearly 12, got to go off without me. I threw a tantrum. My dad took me to the bathroom, put me over his knee, and gave me two or three whacks on my butt. I was used to my mom’s swift backhands, but my dad had never hit me. I don’t think I talked to him the rest of our time there. I held grudges when I was young.

The Hi-Tone Motel was located on Old River Road, halfway between downtown Rio Nido and downtown Guerneville. There was nothing much to do when we were there other than bother Uncle Tony who frequently gave me jobs like cleaning the pool ring with Ajax cleanser and a cloth or helping Aunt Isabel make pizza for the gang. I got to put the salami on the dough. Occasionally my brother and I would go play pee-wee golf but most of the time I just wanted to swim. My mom once told me that the year I taught myself to dive I spent 8 hours one day just diving. My stomach and face were beet red from the belly flops but by the end of the day I was diving like a pro. Other times I perfected my underwater techniques, holding my breath and diving for pennies- something that would come in handy later in life.

One of the most standout days for me is when my father saved my little sister’s life. Angie was just a baby- and like all top-heavy babies, when she leaned over the deep end to look in the pool- in she went. There were several people there- all good swimmers, but none as quick and alert as my Dad. He had her scooped up so fast she never knew she was in trouble. My sister, who had a different father, always had a soft spot for my dad- I wonder if somehow she felt the cosmic connection they had.

I think it was the following year that my sister Linda became the recipient of my bad attitude then, in turn, I was the recipient of my mom’s uncontrolled rage.

I had found a puppy in the field behind us. I’m not sure if I was alone or with my brother but of course I brought the puppy back to the “cabin”. It was some kind of mutt, a ginger color with a brown muzzle and he or she took right to me. I can no longer remember how I or we convinced my mother to let us keep the puppy. Maybe she was just too tired to fight me knowing I would never give up when it came to a dog. The pup however, made a mistake when later he pooped in the house. My sister Linda told me I had to clean it up. Well I didn’t think that was part of the deal I guess- or maybe I just didn’t like Linda telling me what to do. Eventually I got some newspaper and picked up the poop – and just to have the last word- pretended to throw it at Linda. “Here” I said. Unfortunately- for the pup- and me the runny poop went flying off the paper and hit Linda right in the neck. She ran screaming to my mom and I was severely punished - worse than the crime called for. And the pup was sent elsewhere. I’m sure I hated Linda and my mom for the rest of that summer vacation.

The following summer was a bad one too. I can’t remember what my mom’s marital status was at the time. I am guessing split up from my stepdad for one reason or another. She was a head turner and never let moss grow under her feet in-between men. So that summer she was dating someone younger than her and I remember even at eleven years old thinking he was very good looking. When she went out on her date-I had a total melt down. I’m not sure what it was about- but if I were to guess now it would be I felt unloved. I decided to steal the car and go for a ride. Well I guess I had trouble starting it or maybe getting it out of the driveway. My Uncle Tony took the keys and then I really flipped out- and then some Aunt- whose name I don’t remember- was smart enough to take over and instead of fighting with an eleven year old- took me out for a malt. I remember talking to her- telling her my problems whatever they were. She was warm and compassionate – calmed me down and in retrospect- I think she may have had a chat with my mom because I was never punished for trying to take the car.

The next summer was my best. I had my first two-piece bathing suit and even a little something to put in it. My “cousin” Patrick was there and he was the cutest boy I had ever seen. He had blond hair, beautiful green eyes and a golden boy tan. I don’t know how old he was but I think about sixteen. I followed him everywhere. He would be downstairs in his room reading comic books at night- and I would just go sit in his room- just to be near him was enough for me.

One sunny day when we were all at the pool and Patrick was actually paying attention to me, I postponed going upstairs to the rest room just as long as I could- my bladder was bursting. When I finally did go up there I was in a big hurry- and started tugging my bottoms off on the way into the dark cabin bathroom. I sat my fanny down on the toilet seat without a thought- and all of a sudden, something big I mean BIG hit my privates. I put the seat down and tried to flush while pulling my drawers up as fast as I could- and screaming to the top of my lungs. I could hear the thing hitting the top of the toilet seat and my screams grew louder and drew attention. My cousin Patrick, Uncle Tony, mom, sister and brother all came running. When I told my Uncle and Patrick what happened they thought it must have been a bird. So off they went to rescue the bird. Then I heard a yelp come out of one of them and my Uncle Tony swearing something in Italian. It turned out Mothra was living in the toilet. If you remember the Japanese horror film of the giant moth you will know what I am talking about. That moth was so big it would not flush. My Uncle said it was the size of a small bird. I was molested by Mothra, but saved by my heroes. That summer erased all the bad ones.

I don’t know why we stopped going to Russian River. Maybe because Linda got married - maybe because we moved to Marin and we didn’t need to be in search of the sun anymore. Or maybe Uncle Tony got too old and sold the business. Whatever the reason I’m glad I have the memories. I remember my mom looking voluptuous and beautiful in her black bathing suit on her bronze body and her fancy sunglasses, turning heads in her convertible. I remember my sister Linda with her perfect figure and her thick brown wavy hair, going to Rio Nido to the dances where she would probably break a few hearts. I remember my brother Johnny following Uncle Tony around with tools in hand- helping fix things. And my sister Angie, in her little bathing suit bending over the pool and tumbling in or me playing with her in the shallow end for hours at a time. And I remember me- practicing swimming and diving and holding my breath- as if my life depended on it. Maybe it did.

Dream Lover

Once in a while, people, like my family and friends ask me: “ Don’t you ever get lonely-alone all the time?” My answers vary. The truth is… sometimes I do get lonely. But not so much that I would settle for less than what I need or want in a companion.

I sure wouldn’t mind someone to eat dinner, go to a movie or talk about a good books with, who could rub my back too. But the truth is- writing is my lover. Writing is what obsesses me and makes me happy or sad. It drives me to get up in the morning and stay up late so I don't miss too many hours of an already too short day.

Today I am cleaning house… but here I am. I’m taking a break because I have no less than five stories going through my head today. I can’t turn them off. Like a bothersome lover who needs some attention- I must stop everything and do what I do before he will leave me alone. I don’t really mind though- because I love to write.

Ego aside-(which is hard to do for a writer) I think I was born to write. Not that I think I am particularly good at it- I think I’m fair. I just have a need to sit down and put words on paper. They don’t have to be my words. The words can belong to any character. I don’t have to believe all these words or live by them. They are just there- wanting to be somewhere else. Sometimes they are my words and I do live by them. But that’s a different kind of writing- like today- a purge- so I can get back to real life or what you call real life.

When people ask me what I write- I tell them anything and everything. Some days I write recipes or silly children’s rhymes, other days I write literary fiction and sometimes letters to strangers. It doesn’t really matter to me. I just need to do it. The same goes for reading- although I am less fervent now then 20 years ago, if there is nothing for me to read I will read the cereal box, the cleanser can and whatever else these old eyes can make out. I read junk mail.

My days consist of fleeting moments of reality that interrupt my fantasy world of characters with annoying regularity. Logically I know I can’t stay in character so I have silent conversations like the crazy ladies of Market St. in San Francisco. I’m in my own little world.

I try to keep myself together. I pretend to be normal. Sometimes I catch someone looking at me in a flirty way and I think wow, he must be desperate. Still though- it brightens my day to know I can still turn a head now and then- even if that head belongs on a 70 year old.

This romance with words has taken a toll on me though. It’s not like I don’t know that. I have aged. I am wrinkled, fat and a bit cantankerous. I’m really only happy when I have finished writing something. If I still smoked- I would light up a cigarette every time I finished writing something.

So, if I were to meet someone today- he would have to take a back seat to my real lover. He would have to be smart, secure and have a great sense of humor. He would have to love all my flaws and ever so gently tell me when I wrote something crappy. He would have to be patient while I flipped and flopped on thought process and when I stayed up all night researching the life of a snail or trying to find out who is in charge of dispensing toiletries to Marine recruits. Honestly- I would find me to be a pain in the ass.

Now, maybe I can go back to cleaning for a bit. This is how days get away from me. Just like this.