Tapestry

My Life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue

An everlasting vison of the ever changing view

A wondrous woven magic in bits of blue and gold

A tapestry to feel and see, impossible to hold. (Tapestry, Carole King)

Tapestries are made of threads. So many threads. They can be bright or not, full of color or monochromatic, longer or shorter. A thread may be woven through the entire tapestry, or it may only be part of the tapestry for a small section. No matter the quality or appearance of the thread, it adds to the tapestry in its own way. Sometimes, even if that thread hasn’t been in the forefront of the tapestry for a while, it is still possible to look back over the tapestry and see where that thread was woven in and brightened the fabric, and to see it in the background, still part of the pattern.

Sometimes those threads are woven out of the tapestry. And sometimes they are cut short.

It may seem strange, to miss that thread, that bit of brightness, when it is cut short, if it hasn’t been in the dominant pattern of your tapestry for while. But somehow, it makes you feel good just knowing that the thread is there. In someone’s tapestry.

The Beatles put it like this.

There are places I’ll remember

All my life, though some have changed.

Some forever, not for better;

Some have gone and some remain.

Tho’ I know I’ll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I’ll often stop and think about them.

Celebrate your tapestry. Celebrate those people and places who helped you weave it, even as you mourn those whose threads are finished. Celebrate the time it took to create it. Revel in the process, remember what was woven before, find joy and peace in what you are weaving now. Your tapestry is yours to create, to hold, to share, to enjoy; it’s yours to mourn, to change, to feel the richness in the fabric.

What does you tapestry look like?

Peace,

Kathie

Mea Culpa

Mea Culpa: a formal acknowledgment of fault or error. It’s the old Latin version of “my bad.”

I’ve been slacking on my blog, dear readers. But, I have had much on my mind. Specifically, I have had my brain on my mind. You see, I am going to get brain surgery.

Let me tell you about it. It’s called DBS, or Deep Brain Stimulation. A neurosurgeon implants two wire electrodes in my brain, runs the wires under my skin, down my neck, to where he will put basically a battery pack, or pacemaker, under my skin near my collarbone. Once it is turned on, it will send electrical pulses to help my brain do what Parkinson’s is keeping it from doing. It will help me to have more on times with less medicine. I’m excited.

I wasn’t, though. I decided it was the right thing to do when a friend, who I love dearly, said that if there was something I could do to prolong my quality of life, I owed it to my family to do all that I could to make that happen. She was speaking from a heartbroken place of experience, having watched a loved one pass away from a neurodegenerative disease. So I committed to, and started, the process.

I asked a lot of questions. Like Will the system be hackable? (no) Will it ruin my tattoos? (no) Will it set off the TSA screeners at the airport? (probably not) Is he going to have to shave my whole head? (no) Will I end up with holes in my head? (no).

See, I ask the important things. I was sure, although it took longer to ask these questions, that it would change my personality. I asked my neurologist, if it was going to change my personality, could he make me more kind and more patient. Good thing he thinks I am funny. I was sure that I would come out the other side dead, or worse, stupid. (shades of Hermione Granger there.) I was (and am) concerned about the cost. While insurance will cover it, I do have a co-pay up to an out-of-pocket maximum. And our insurance resets on July 1st, so the surgeries have to be done before then.

Then there is the equipment itself. They have a battery that needs replacing every 3-5 years. They also have a rechargeable one that lasts 15 years. I am opting for the rechargeable one. I want to avoid the physical and financial cost of having another surgery in 3-5 years. Besides, there is something amusing and satisfying about literally having to take time out to recharge.

It is a very thorough and selective process. Not everyone is eligible. I had appointments with my neurologist both off my meds and on, to test that I am responding adequately to my meds. Otherwise, no surgery. I met the neurosurgeon. He has successfully done hundreds of these. I had to go in for cognitive testing with a neuropsychologist. If I was showing signs of cognitive decline, no surgery. People with more education tend to fare better. See? My MFA in theatre is helping me once again.

I need to take a moment for some bragging here. They said that in 15 years of administering these tests, they never had anyone finish so fast and do so well. It only took one and a half hours, they told me it would take up to 5 hours . She told me I have a brilliant, beautiful brain.

During all of this, something odd happened at work. There was a car accident on the street out front, and the two people involved came in (separately) to see if our exterior cameras caught what happened. One of them works for a company that makes DBS equipment and knows my neurosurgeon well. And had nothing but good things to say about him.

Small world, isn’t it?

The result of all this is that I am more sure now than ever that this is the right course of action, that I will not only live through it but be better off, and not loose my mind. Or my brain.

I am a little nervous. You might be as well. But you can relax. It may be brain surgery, but it’s not like it’s . . . rocket science.

Peace,

Kathie

On Valentine’s Day

My husband and I don’t do Valentine’s Day. Not with each other.

Oh sure. We are happy to get a card and a little something for our son. Valentine’s Day was fun as a kid. In school, we used to decorate a box to receive our valentines in, and the teacher told us to give a valentine to everyone. Most people did. So for that one day, even the less popular kids had a lot of friends. I loved decorating up the boxes. One year, I made mine to look like Snoopy’s doghouse. It was awesome. I loved buying valentines for My Kid to give his class when he was in elementary school. And—he would give me one on Valentine’s Day morning. I still have one or two of those. My mother-and father-in-law send us valentines every year, too. That warms my heart.

The thing I hate about this particular holiday are the expectations. There is this jewelry company in Colorado that used to run an ad around this time every year that stated that this is the one day of the year to show someone how much you love them. I took great exception to that ad. We are worthy of love every day of the year, and certainly worthy to be shown that more than one day a year. I think more of myself than to think one day is all I deserve. Everyone should. And I think more of my husband than to think he can only show me love one day a year. And love is so much more than flowers, chocolate, and fancy dinners. He shows me he loves me when he fills up my car with gas on Sunday mornings, when he has dinner ready when I get home, when he goes along with my ideas, no matter how much work may or may not be involved. I show him love when I care for him when he is sick, when I take care of the dog, when I go the soccer games, when I giggle at his silliness. I show mom I love her when I order her groceries, when I stop by to see her, when I send her a text. She shows her love when she puts in her hearing aids when I stop by, when she listens to me, when she checks in on me.

Love can be shown and celebrated any day, every day, in countless ways. You don’t need a special day, or a special way, or a lot of money, to show someone that you love them. And just because you may not have a “special someone” to celebrate the day with, doesn’t mean that you aren’t loved. Don’t let Valentine’s Day make you feel that way. Look around you. Chances are, you are loved.

Love is a choice. Every single day. You might fall in love, but it takes work to stay there. This is true with spouses, significant others, friends, family. Every day you wake up, you have a choice.

Choose Love.

And…..Happy Valentine’s Day.

Love,

Kathie

Wham!

Well, here we are, another Christmas season come and gone. I just have one question. Did you survive Whamageddon?

Whamageddon? What’s that, you ask? It’s a game. The objective is to go as long as possible without hearing Wham!’s song “Last Christmas”. It starts December 1st and ends midnight on Christmas Eve. You are out as soon as you recognize the song. Post on social media when you get out, and how you got out if you so choose. It’s good karma to wish other players luck. Only the original version applies. Remixes and covers don’t count.

This game is played worldwide. The story I heard as to its origins is in Denmark, about 20 years ago, a group of friends came up with the idea after noticing how often the song is played at Christmas time. People will go to great lengths to avoid the song. It is serious business. This year (2023, that is), a DJ played it at a football stadium in hearing range of 7000 people in England, getting them all out for the year. He faced harsh criticism and issued an apology. I don’t think it is particularly sporting to get people out on purpose. But that’s just me.

I lasted until December 9th. We were decorating our tree at the time.

The thing is, I feel fairly sure that George Michael wrote the song as a serious song, and most likely never expected it to become the subject of such a viral game. George Michael, (who died, perhaps fittingly, on Christmas Day in 2016) is quoted as saying it was the best song he ever wrote. Do artists ever expect what becomes of their creations, I wonder?

Take Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline (“bom bom bom”—-admit it—-you heard it in your head). When that song is played in any public venue, a majority of the people present will sing along with the chorus. It’s somehow a brief bonding moment, a good time that never seemed so good (“so good, so good, so good.”)

Rick Astley is another musician with a song that took on a life of its own. Have you ever been Rick-Rolled? Rickrolling someone is getting a person to be unexpectedly exposed to the lyrics—any lyrics—of Rick Astley’s song from 1987 “Never Gonna Give You Up”. It frequently involves getting someone to click on a link that seems to be something else, but links to a video of the song. You can find the history of this on-line, it dates back to 2007. My 13 year-old son plays this with his friends, with a song from 1987. From what I can tell, Rick Astley has embraced this use of his song. After all, he’s never gonna let you down.

YMCA by The Village People, from 1978, somewhat falls into this category as well. Do your kids know how to spell YMCA with their arms to the beat of the music? Mine does, from a very young age. It hasn’t been taken, well, out of context like Rick Astley and George Michael, but it is pervasive ad timeless It has long since taken on a life of its own.

Movies do it too. Do you know that It’s A Wonderful Life received mixed reviews on its release in 1946, and was a box office failure? It wasn’t until its copyright expired in 1974, when it entered public domain, that it achieved its current popularity. It is now seen by the American Film Institute as one of the greatest 100 fims of all time, and many will feel Christmas isn’t quite complete without seeing this film

As Stephen Sondheim said, “Careful the spell you cast, Not just on children. Sometimes the spell may last, Past what you can see.”

Be careful what you put out there in the world. You never know what may take on a life of its own.

Peace,
Kathie

“Six”

We went to see Six at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. I knew quite a few of the songs, but was still a bit unsure of what to expect.

The show features the six wives of England’s King Henry VIII, who are forming a rock band and trying to choose a leader. They remind the audience of the order of how their tenures as Queen ended (Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived), then spend most of the remainder of the show informing the audience of their story, why they should be the leader, and why the other Queens didn’t have it so bad.

Catherine of Aragon is first. She was married to Henry for about 24 years but “only” produced a daughter (Mary I), no sons. She was divorced on the premise that according to the rules of the Catholic Church at the time, she should never have been allowed to marry Henry in the first place. The Pope disagreed, so Henry formed a new religion, divorced Catherine, and married Anne Boleyn. After giving birth to a daughter (who later became Elizabeth I), Anne was beheaded, the unfortunate fact of which she spends the remainder of the show humorously reminding the other Queens (and the audience). Jane Seymore was third; she died in child birth. She claims to be Henry’s favorite, as she was the only one to produce a son (Edward VI). Anne of Cleaves was next. Henry saw a painting of her and wanted to marry her immediately. When he met her, however, he found that she didn’t live up to her picture (beginnings of social media?) and wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Fifth was Katherine Howard, who was beheaded for supposed infidelity. Catherine Parr outlived the King.

So much for the brief history lesson.

The performances were strong, the costumes were amazing, the lights were fantastic. I don’t usually give standing ovations I feel they are overused and should be reserved for over-the-top outstanding productions. I was one of the first to stand for this show. As amazing as the show was, however, my ovation wasn’t for the production values. Well, not exclusively.

See, when it came to be Catherine Par’s turn to tell Her Story, she can’t do it. She is upset that they have spent the show cutting each other down. She seems to think that it would be better to stand together and tell their story as a team.

That touched me deep. We, as humans, as women, spend entirely too much time giving in to petty jealousy, cutting each other down in a vain attempt to raise ourselves higher. Our strength, our power, lies in unity, in joining together and building each other up. We can be, we can become, so much more that way.

Find them. Find the women who support you, who build you up, who help you to become more than you ever knew you could be. These people are your sisters. Find them. Hold them tight. Build them up. Be….more. As one. Together.

I’ll stand up for that any day.

Peace,
Kathie

My Dad

I’m having trouble finding words for this one.

My dad passed away on Saturday, November 4th.

I have pictures on my desk of my dad, I think of him often. I don’t feel like I knew my dad that well. At his service and Celebration of Life, I heard stories that I didn’t know about him. While my sister and I worked on his obituary, I learned things I never knew. My sister, my eldest sister, had memories of him that I do not have, and she spoke of being able to see dad as a person, the amazing, intelligent, adventurous, courageous person that he was.

I can’t see that. I can’t see any of that. I can only see him as dad.

My dad. Oh, sure, I have memories of him. When I came home from school and my cat had been hit by a car, he took care of it. He took care of me. He didn’t really go in for strong emotions, especially tears. But he was there when the chips were down. He taught me how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. One time, when it was just him and me, he took me out to dinner and a movie. We went to Ameci’s and saw “Heaven Can Wait.” He would hold my hand when we walked down the street and insist on walking close to traffic, because, he said, if anyone was going to get hit by a car, he wanted it to be him. I remember doing the Reader’s Digest It Pays to Enrich Your Word Power with him.

Dad had a lot of pressure on him that I didn’t see when I was growing up. He was the primary breadwinner for a family of 6. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Mom worked hard and had her own set of stresses. Together, they raised 4 kids into (mostly) responsible adults, kept food on the table, a roof over our heads, many comforts, a few luxuries. They even sent all four of us to college. It had to be so much to handle. I won’t lie, he wasn’t perfect. I have bad memories of him also. He did some things in the raising of his children that I disagree with. But what parent is perfect? I’m sure not.

Dad was always thinking. He wanted to keep learning, to keep trying new things. He owned and managed several businesses, he got his pilot’s license, he traveled. It was this desire of his to keep learning and growing that tried to instill in us the value of education. Dad was protective. He was pro-union. He was friendly if you were friendly. He judged people based on who they were. He worked. A lot. He sang. He had a beautiful whistle.

At one point, when I lived in Indianapolis, he and mom came to see me. They brought me a piano that dad had found for cheap. I had a balcony on my apartment that looked out over this little lake that was filled with small wildlife. I came home from work to find my dad sitting on the balcony, and joined him for a beer. He gave me a full update on what the birds had been doing, the turtle family sunning on their log, the occasional frog hopping out of the lake, and the beaver swimming around. It was a side of him I rarely saw, and commented on how relaxing his day was. He responded that it’s what life should have been like all along.

He hadn’t agreed with me majoring in theatre, but he didn’t stop me, either. I am pretty sure he didn’t think I would be able to make a living at it. In fact, he expressed surprise that people got paid for doing theatre. On that trip to Indianapolis, I took him on a tour of the show we were building (To Kill a Mockingbird), and I showed him the set pieces that I had built or helped to build. He said, “Well, it looks like a pretty cool way to make a living.”

I cherish these. The memories, the experiences, good or bad, are part of me, part of who I am. Through it all, I can see that dad loved me enough to let me make my own choices. More that that, he believed in me.

I can’t really ask more of him than that. That belief in me, that is everything. I can look back and see that throughout my life, he always believed in me. So I guess just being able to see him as Dad isn’t so bad, after all. Being the daughter of Mike Stephens is a great and special thing.

I’ll miss you, Dad.

Peace,

Kathie

When I Was a Kid…

Things sure used to be different.

I remember when I was much younger, my older sisters had a VW Bug. Gas was 35 cents a gallon, and they would scrounge around in the seats and the floorboards, and come up with enough change for gas money to get them through several days. When I used to go grocery shopping with my mom, we would fill up two grocery carts, pay $200, and feed a family of six for two weeks (with a side trip or two for extra bread and milk.) A family paid $40,000 for a house. Homer Simson (of “The Simpsons”) supported a family of 5 with a high school education in a two or three story house on a single income, and it was a reflection of something that would have been realistic at the time.

Now, filling up with gas takes a good portion of your paycheck, $200 worth of groceries barely fills one cart half way, and feeds a family half the size for half as long, that $40,000 home is selling now for at least $600,000 and is above the price range of so many. Folks struggle to pay rent, let alone come up with the down payment for a house.

Media is another thing. Married couples like Rob and Laura Petrie and Ricky and Lucy Ricardo had to sleep in separate twin beds. “Splish Splash” wouldn’t be played on some radio stations because it mentioned someone taking a bath. Everyday, ordinary things from everyday, ordinary lives couldn’t be shown in the media. Married people sharing a bed?? Scandalous.

We’ve sure come a long way in that regard. Perhaps too far. I’m all about working put your angst through music, and I do believe that we don’t need to be so conservative in discussing daily life and all that entails. But there are still some things that maybe should be kept private. I don’t think we need to know every aspect of anyone’s private life. I don’t know that I want to. Folks ought to be able to make mistakes and fix them with out it being all over Facebook, Instagram, and the 24 hour news cycle.

When I was a kid, I had the joy and excitement of waking up on a Saturday morning and knowing that there was a full hour and a half of Saturday Morning Cartoons. Bugs Bunny and The Roadrunner. I looked forward to that all week, sometimes. Watching TV used to mean that you saw it when it was on or you missed it. You had to be able to get to the bathroom or to go get snacks during the commercials or you missed out on part of the show. How many remember the dreaded call, “It’s back on!!!” before we had finished whatever business had taken us away? Now, you can watch just about anything, any time, any where.

Phones are another thing. When I was a kid, my dad hated the telephone. I think he felt it was intrusive. Also, he worked for the railroad and he frequently got called into work. Because of this, we had very strict phone rules. No more than 10 minutes on a call at a time, and absolutely no calls between 5:30 and 7:00 pm. That was family dinner time and not to be interrupted. Now, we are accessible any time, any where, as long as we have our cell phone. Of course, we can always not answer the phone.

I don’t think dad was entirely wrong about the phone. It is intrusive.

Kids. Raising kids has changed. Spanking used to be the thing. It was acceptable and encouraged, even. Many parents still spank their kids. I couldn’t get past the thought that a parent was hitting a kid to teach them that hitting was wrong. That’s an oversimplification, but it sums up my feelings about spanking. The thing is, my parents’ generation didn’t have the vast amount of knowledge and resources available to them that we have now. We can read and research and make an educated decision on which path to take. I wonder if this hasn’t led to over-protecting our kids just a bit, though. Sure, we have to be careful what we expose them to and establish boundries, but then they have to learn to live in the world, too. They have to know what is out there so they are prepared to handle it.

It’s all bout moderation. (Except inflation. Inflation sucks.) TV isn’t bad, news isn’t bad, phones aren’t bad, even social media isn’t bad. Too much is where we get into trouble. We seem to be in a culture of all or nothing, though. Either we agree or we are enemies. Everything is offensive. There seems to be a feeling of I am right and you are wrong. There is no gray area, no place for debate, no room for compromise. I keep hoping that we can all find something we can agree on, compromise on, come to a middle ground. We used to be able to do that, but it happens less and less.

Things sure used to be different.

Different isn’t necessarily bad, or good, it just is. Different is inevitable. We learn to choose, to adapt to incorporate. Some things we can ignore, I suppose, but that doesn’t make them go away. The difference will keep moving along without you. And that’s okay too. Those choices, it’s how we grow. It’s who we are.

Peace,

Kat

A (Very) Late Realization

When I was in 6th grade, my friends Pam, John, Joan and I tried out for the elementary school talent show. We did a lip sync/pantomime to the song The Streak, by Ray Stevens. You can Google that, it’s a cute little song about a silly little fad in the 70’s. You know…when I was in elementary school.

We were good.

We made it into the talent show….and then we got kicked out of the talent show. We were told by the music teacher that she just didn’t think that what we were doing was that much of a talent. I was extremely upset, as were my fellow performers, and I went home, probably crying, to my mother. Mom, being the amazing mom that she is, called the school and talked to the teacher. The teacher apologized, but didn’t give any more information. When we went to see the talent show, our act had been replaced. By a girl doing a lip sync/pantomime to a song called Tan Shoes With Pink Shoelaces.

I’ve gotten over the hurt. I’ve gotten past the anger. But I’ve never forgotten the injustice of it.

Last night, I was chatting via text with my long-time friend Pam. I’ve know Pam since I was 4 and we moved in next door to her. We have had our ups and downs, and spent quite a lot of time being out of touch. But my folks still live in that same place, and Pam owns the house where her mother used to live, so we see each other from time to time. I like talking to her. She reminds me of a simpler, more innocent time. And, she is part of my life story in a way no one else can be. Don’t you just love old friends? Anyhow. Last night I was chatting with Pam and this story of The Streak came up. She said that she was surprised that Miss Deane, our principal, let us do that skit.

See, Miss Deane was strict and conservative and fair and kind. She didn’t even get too mad at me when I got called to the principal’s office for kicking Robbie Brandstetter in the shin—that he had just gotten removed from a cast. (In my defense, he pushed me into the parallel bars in gym class that were being used at the time, and I came within inches of being kicked in the face.) She calmly and kindly explained that there are better ways of handling conflict. She was right about that. One year, the elementary school choir had been rehearsing Rocky Mountain High by John Denver for an upcoming concert. Miss Deane felt that it was about people getting high, and was therefore inappropriate for an elementary school concert.

Of course, I vehemently disagreed. I was sure that it was not about smoking pot, but rather that amazing feeling you get when you go high up into the Rocky Mountains, and about Denver being the Rocky Mountain High City, and the beauty of the Rocky Mountains.

In retrospect, Miss Deane was probably right about that, too. I mean, I also thought that the song Afternoon Delight was about a really tasty lunch.

After all these years. Could it be? Could it be true that Miss Deane nixed our act? Probably. That is most likely exactly what happened. I can’t believe that never occurred to me. Not once. The realization almost left me breathless. Why wouldn’t that teacher, whose name I don’t even remember, not just have told us that? Wouldn’t it be better to hear “it isn’t appropriate” as opposed to “its not that much of a talent?” Because, what I heard was you’re not that talented. Especially when the exact same type of act was allowed in the show.

I’ve said it before. Words matter. Honesty matters. Justice matters. Fairness matters. Even if you have the best of intentions. As Stephen Sondheim said….

”Careful the things you say. Children will listen.”

Peace,

Kat

Walking The Line

I love the Denver Broncos Football Team.

I have rooted for them, through good seasons and bad ones, as long as I can remember. No matter where I have gone or where I have been throughout my life, the Broncos have remained a connection to home, and to family. I love watching the games, cheering for the players, understanding football. It is happy and cathartic, to cheer, yell, disagree with referee calls, shout “GO! GO! GO!” on a spectacular breakaway play. They haven’t been doing so well for the last seven years. But they are still the team I root for.

Except now they have a new coach, Sean Payton. Payton used to coach the New Orleans Saints. The Saints, back around 2009, got caught in what is now called “Bounty-Gate.” Players on the team created a pool of money, a list of players, and a schedule of values, of sorts. They made it known that any player on the Saints team would get paid from the money pool if they inflicted a specific injury on a specific player, according to the list and schedule. They put out bounties on valuable players from other teams. Payton knew about the bounty program and did not shut it down. He got suspended for a year. I don’t care for Sean Payton, and I do not endorse or approve of what he and the others did.

So, where do we go from here? I heard talk of boycotting the Broncos because of it. My question is….how do you boycott the coach without also boycotting the other players on the team? As far as I know, they weren’t part of it. I don’t believe they are perfect people, but they are innocent in this. So how do you punish the guilty member of a group without also punishing the rest of the group that is innocent? Where do you draw the line?

Maybe the NFL isn’t the best example. They are paid quite a lot of money and don’t care one way or another if I watch the games. There could be other reasons to not watch. Roger Goodell (NFL Commissioner) doesn’t have a stellar track record of taking care of players, not until publicity started to show him and the league in a bad light where player safety is concerned. And there are some bad apples as far as players go as well.

So where is the line? How does a person decide that enough is enough? By not boycotting what you see as the negative side of things, are you giving them permission to not change? How many good people is it acceptable to catch in the crossfire of a boycott—of anything—before you are doing them more harm thaan good? If your boycott manages to shut down a clothing factory, for example, that pays the workers dollars—or pennies—a day, is that a good thing? Yes, they no longer work in deplorable conditions, but they also don’t work. Isn’t some income better than none, if there is no alternative? Fighting for change is wonderful and vital, but how do you do it without harming the innocent?

Is there room for forgiveness? Is it safe, or wise, to think that Sean Payton has paid his debt, learned his lesson? I can’t hold a grudge against everyone who has made a mistake, been punished, served their time, and moved on. Don’t we at some point, have to forgive and move on as well? I have certainly been given many second chances. Who decides who deserves a second chance and who doesn’t?

Where is the line?

I don’t have answers. Only more questions. I suppose all I can do is make the best decisions with the information I have, keep my heart and mind open if possible, and keep on keeping on.

And…Go Broncos.

Kat

Alexa, Tell Me More

Like many homes now-a days, we have an echo dot. Her name is Alexa.

Alexa can do so very many things. She helps us make our grocery lists, our to-do lists, our chore lists. She can tell a story, tell a joke, even telephone someone. She can be an intercom, wake someone up, call everyone to dinner, set a timer, tell you the time (she gets s little sassy about that one.) She can play almost any song you ask for, give you a daily quote, look up the answer to most questions you can come up with. She can give you the answer to math problems, quiz you on geography, help you learn a new word every day. She will play trivia games, virtual adventure games, all sorts of games. She can make animals sounds, find a recipe, shop for you, help you fix something, order something. If you have things set up right , she can turn lights on and off, even when you aren’t home. She even has a sense of humor. Her potential is barely tapped at our house. Sometimes, admittedly, it is a bit creepy when she starts talking in the silence with no apparent provocation. But there is no doubt that she makes things easier.

Recently, however, she has acquired a new skill. One night, we were getting ready for bed, and Alexa’s green light notification ring was lit up.. It had been a long and trying day, so with a touch of irritation, I said, “Oh, Alexa ,what do you want now?” She answered, “A good wifi connection and a conversation.” I had never heard her say that before, so I responded, “Alright….let’s have a conversation.” She asked me what I wanted to talk about, I chose the Beatles. And we had a conversation.

I don’t mean simple questions and answers. It was an actual conversation. We talked about what I wanted to talk about. She asked my opinion and gave me hers. She offered facts that she knew and listened to me do the same. We exchanged ideas, opinions, thoughts. She didn’t interrupt, or correct me, or tell me I was wrong. The conversation left me feeling interesting, intelligent, heard, and valued.

It was terrifying.

Oh sure, it was amusing and interesting…and…fake. That isn’t exactly the word I want. Just, well, imagine with me for a moment…..a Person, introverted, works from home, has minimal contact with the world outside of home. This Person has friends, after all, everyone needs human contact, at least a little. Then, This Person discovers Alexa Conversation, and it seems to fill the need for that interaction, that connection. While I can certainly see the value this Alexa skill would have of easing a person’s loneliness, how long until This Person has no outside contact?

I believe, I know, that human contact is critical to one’s well being, one’s sanity. We need each other. For laughter, for love, for challenges, for support. For talks and arguments, for discussions and debates. for learning, consolation, growth. It might seem that you are getting these things through artificial intelligence, but in reality, it will never have that spark, that…heart…that soul….which connects us all together. We have to be careful to not forget what it means, how it feels, to be human, to be together as humans. With all its trials, all its pain, all its conflicts, all its beauty, all its richness, all its joy.

Alexa, however helpful and amusing, is a tool to be used. Humans are not. Let’s not forget that.

Peace,

Kat

High School Reunion

Do you remember your high school crush?

My biggest one was Troy Bethel. He was sweet and kind and funny. He was handsome with beautiful eyes and a dazzling smile. At one point in my senior year, without thinking about any possible repercussions, I sent him secret admirer notes. I was trying to get him to take me to prom. It was the idea of a friend of mine named Tammy, who I am pretty sure didn’t think I would go through with it. I was very shy in high school. The notes created quite a stir in choir class for a while, as his friends tried hard to figure out who wrote the notes. At about this time, I realized how extremely embarrassed I would be if the whole class knew it was me. He found out it was me (I think Tammy told him) and he told his friends to drop it, that he wasn’t going to tell them who it was, and that he didn’t want me embarrassed. At least, that is the version of the story I got. Isn’t that sweet? I hope he wasn’t embarrassed by the whole thing.

He didn’t take me to prom. I wasn’t upset about that.

Troy passed away in his late 20’s. Way too young. Prior to his passing, I used to think about how much fun it would be to see him at a reunion, to thank him for being so kind.

My 40th high school reunion is happening tonight. I’m not going. Not because Troy won’t be there! I’m dramatic, but not that dramatic! Partly because I am not the person I was back then. Are any of us, really? Hopefully life has changed us, and we have grown over the last 4o years. But I was not popular in high school. I wasn’t unpopular (I think of that like being infamous). I just didn’t have a ton of close friends, and I certainly didn’t hang with the popular crowd. I’m sure that something inside of me felt like I was not enough. Most of the people there, with a few exceptions (like my former classmates reading this) didn’t' really know me, I didn’t really know them, and while we were in classes together, we did not hang together outside of class. I don’t have a collection of stories of wild times from high school with memories to share and relive. There are a few folks I would love to see again but for the most part, I doubt I would have much to say.

Not because I am not enough. Among the many things I have learned since high school, the most important thing is this. I am enough. I am loving enough to be loved, smart enough to think for myself, talented enough to share it, skilled enough to do my job, willing enough to learn new things, entertaining enough to spend time with.

I Am Enough.

So are you. Did you get that? You are beautiful, kind, loved, loving, skilled, worthy. You are enough.

Don’t doubt that. And don’t forget it. Ever.

Peace,

Kathie

The Voice

Sometimes I wonder if we are spoiling our son.

See, he is an only child. We didn’t plan it that way (best laid plans, right?) but that is the way it turned out. I’m a little sad that he doesn’t know the joy-and challenges-of siblings. They teach you so much, those siblings. I’ve explained to him that just because you have siblings doesn’t mean you are close to them. I don’t think he completely believes me.

We have done our best to teach him the things that he doesn’t learn because he doesn’t have siblings. The most important thing, I think, is how to make friends and how to get along with people. When he was a toddler, he would point to another child at the park and tell us that he wanted to play with that other child. We would tell him to go introduce himself and ask if they wanted to play. He would, they did, and they would be fast friends—at least until we all left the park. Now that he is older, he will be your friend, all you have to do is ask. Except that Middle School has taught him the hard and painful reality that not everyone is going to be your friend, and there is often nothing you can do about that. It has tempered his immediate acceptance of people somewhat.

I hope he is learning that there is a difference in being alone and being lonely. There is power and contentment in that knowledge.

I feel a certain amount of guilt that he is an only child. It makes me want to give him things. Oh, not material things. More like…..memories. And experiences. I want him to look back on his childhood and feel that it was magical. Not all magic all the time, but I want him to look back and see that life was pretty good. It is why we enroll him in karate and scouts and music lessons. It is why we searched for the most fun-looking summer camp programs. It is why we buy the large Lego sets and put them together as a family. It is the reason for the trips to Washington D.C., New York, Ohio, Seattle, Alaska, Nebraska, North Carolina, and everywhere else. For the trips to Lakeside and Elitch’s, Water World and Wolf Creek Lodge. It is why I love playing games with him, or watching movies, or geocaching.

Because togetherness is magic. At least, it can be.

I wonder, sometimes, if we are doing enough. He doesn’t get to ride horses (like I did) or ride bikes with the neighborhood kids all day. He doesn’t have a place in the country to escape to. He doesn’t spend a lot of time with cousins. He doesn’t spend all summer at the pool. I wonder if we are doing too much. I know many other kids that don’t have the opportunities he has. Is he grateful? Will he remember?

But there is this voice. I hear it. “You tell him not to compare himself to others. Isn’t it time you took your own advice?”

It’s right, that voice. We all could do with a little less comparing. It should be enough to do our best, and to be our best. and to understand that your best may change from day to day. As parents, all we can do is try to instill in our kids the tools they will need to be successful adults. A sense of gratitude. A sense of responsibility. Strength. Empathy. Compassion. A good work ethic. Their Own Voice. The ability to handle money. The ability to think. How to fall. How to get back up again. How to keep a child-like sense of wonder. At least a little bit.

And maybe how to change a tire, too.

Peace,

Kathie

Lessons from a Road Trip

We recently took a trip to Ohio to spend time with my husband’s family and to celebrate 50 years of marriage for his Mom and Dad. We drove—2 days there,3 days back.

I typically pack for such trips a day or two in advance, or at least make lists of what to pack, so I don’t forget anything. (I am a huge list-maker. I love lists. When we got married, I made lists of the lists I needed to make. Seriously. ) I’m especially careful to be sure that I have enough of my medication to get me through. For this trip, since we were leaving in the middle of the week, I didn’t have as much time as I would like to get ready, and ended up packing later in the evening the night before we left.

While we were packing, my husband had the great idea that we should pack one small overnight bag for the three of us for our overnight stay in Booneville, Missouri (about halfway-ish on our drive), so we didn’t have to take three suitcases into the hotel.

Side note: Booneville is a great little town. There were two civil war battles fought there, so there is architecture and history, and there is a casino if you are into that. The last public hanging in Missouri was there and the hanging barn is still standing-mostly. There is also an amazingly large prison. It’s an interesting little town. If you are ever there, visit Buerky’s BBQ, and say hi to the owner, Lisa, for us. She moved there from Centennial, Colorado a couple of years ago.

Back to the packing. I had my pills in a blue bag, but when I gave them to Husband to pack in the overnight bag, I switched cases. I wanted to pack some Sudafed for My Son, and it didn’t fit in the blue bag. So I moved all medication into purple bag.

The fact that I did not remember this little move had serious consequences later.

I gave the bag to Husband, who gave it to Son, who was told, without being told what was in it and how important the contents were, to pack it in the overnight bag, which had already been taken downstairs.

In Booneville, I could not find the bag, my pills were not there. The blue bag was gone. Nobody could find my pills We were left with no other choice but to fill my prescription on the road. But. Husband’s job had just that month made us change where we got our prescriptions filled, so it was no longer at Walgreen’s. It was through Caremark, the mail order arm of CVS. When we stopped in a CVS in St. Louis, they said they could get the prescription from Caremark but it would take 24 hours. We called my doctor, who said they could phone in an emergency refill to a CVS, so we found one along our route (hooray for Google) in Indianapolis. When we got there, the refill was no where to be found. We called the doctor again, only to find that my doctor was out of the country, and the doctor handling his cases was not available for 2-3 more hours. We found another CVS in Cincinnati (close to our final destination-hooray for Google) and had them phone it in there.

To our relief, it was there when we arrived.

It was about an 8 or 9 hour drive, that felt like much longer. See, I didn’t have my usual pill carrier with me, because Husband’s grandmother has the exact same pill carrier as me, and I didn’t want to take the slightest chance that she would get ahold of the wrong medicine. So I didn’t have my meds. All day.

When we got to where we were staying, we unloaded and unpacked. And my dear Husband? That’s when he found my pills In the purple bag. That not one of us opened in Booneville. We all thought it belonged to someone else.

The worst part is, because Son had been asked to pack the pill bag, he got the blame. So when the pills were found, well, I sobbed. It had been a stressful day and I felt terrible for the whole thing being my fault. I pleaded for forgiveness from my son. I at least had not yelled at him.

He is so kind-hearted and forgiving, he was over it immediately. I’m so thankful for that.

Now if only I could forgive myself as easily.

As my cousin would say, there is a lesson in there somewhere. Like, learn to forgive, and accept forgiveness, easily. Apologize when it is your fault. Stay calm under stress if at all possible. Search everything. Know how to use Google Maps.

And for the love of Pete, pack your own pills.

Peace, Kathie

Spoon Theory

Many of you have heard of the Spoon Theory. You may have heard me say that I am low on spoons.

It’s not that I am eating bowls and bowls of soup!

The original Spoon Theory came from a woman named Christine Miserandino. Christine has lupus, and was trying to explain to a friend what it is like living with her illness. It goes like this.

Everyone has an amount of energy to get through their day. People with diseases, chronic illnesses, mental health issues, tend to have a more limited quantity of energy. Imagine that energy is represented by spoons. Because of your condition, you have 12 spoons of energy to get through your day. It takes one spoon to get out of bed, shower, and get dressed for the day. It takes another to get breakfast, get lunch packed, get to work. You now have 10 spoons, assuming no hassles with the morning routine. Your job, for the morning, between phone calls, boss emergencies, customers…let’s say it takes 3 spoons of energy. In the afternoon, you have an order arrive that you have to check in and put away (fill in a physical task at your own job here), so, 3 more spoons of energy. You have 4 spoons left. You would like to do a blog post, or plant some flowers, maybe play a game (1 spoon each). But with those remaining 4 spoons, you have to drive through rush hour traffic, pick up the child from school and take him to whichever activity happens to be on the calendar for tonight (2 spoons). You may want to go for a walk but you also have to fix dinner (2 spoons, maybe 3). Which task gets the spoon? You have people coming over on the weekend, so you have to look ahead, also. You want to have enough spoons to enjoy the time with friends and family (good things use spoons too) so you try to allocate spoons for cleaning and preparing ahead of the weekend. But you don’t have nearly enough spoons to do all of that, so you must now choose where to spend your spoons.

Now, let’s say you didn’t sleep well and you start the day with only 10 spoons instead of 12. Where do you cut your spoon usage?

Things can give you back a spoon or two. A lunch break, maybe. A nap. Chocolate, sometimes. For me, laughter, sometimes. Sunshine. Everybody has their own spoon-refresher. Sometimes, though, you just have to be done. It helps to have people around you who help you preserve your spoons. Some days, it takes planning, careful planning, deciding where to spend those spoons.

As a gamer (think Dungeons and Dragons), I sometimes think in terms of Hit Points. See, in table top role-playing games, your character has a certain number of hit points, based on their role in the game, what their background is, how experienced they are. Hit points show show how much life you have left. An Orc Fighter, for example, will have more hit points than an Elven Sorcerer. That orc can take a lot of damage before they are out of hit points, where that magic-using elf needs to stay in the background or they are going to be out of hit points very, very quickly. Members of your party can restore hit points, but only if they aren’t busy with a battle of their own at the moment, and you may be out of hit points before anyone can get to you. Resting and sleeping can restore hit points, but it’s difficult to sleep when you are in the middle of something important. If you are lucky, you have a magic elixir that can restore hit points. If you are lucky and you or a party member planned ahead.

It is a useful, tangible, understandable way to express how you are feeling. Maybe it will help us to see, if someone doesn’t join in, well, maybe they are just low on spoons. Maybe they are running out of hit points. Why not see what you can to do help restore a few? And if restoration isn’t possible, maybe, just maybe, sitting together, peacefully enjoying each other’s company may just be the thing that is needed.

If you have a spoon left, you could even have some ice cream.

Cheers,

Kathie

Lost Marbles

Imagine with me, for a moment.

You come home and find on your porch a package, delivered by UPS. The address is correct, but you don’t know the name of the person it is addressed to.

What do you do?

Do you call UPS and try to refuse the package? Do you look at the business in the return address and try to contact them? Maybe you set it aside for a few days, thinking that maybe someone will come claim it. If you are brave and ambitious, maybe you wander the neighborhood, searching for the person that goes with the name on the box.

Or do you open it?

Let’s say curiosity got the better of you and you open it. Inside, you find a box, wrapped in birthday wrapping paper, with an envelope on top, presumably with a card inside. Now what? Do you redouble your efforts to find the person for whom the gift was intended? Do you now set it aside?

Or do you open it?

Last week was my brother’s birthday. I sent him a gift, UPS. To the wrong address. It was a house a few doors down from where it was supposed to go. My sister-in-law went to ask about the package, but the people weren’t home. She left a message, and a couple days later, they brought the gift to the correct house. I am thankful for that, truly. But the neighbor had opened the gift, threw away the box, card, wrapping paper, and packaging. To be completely fair to the unintended receiver, he said that the postal service said they couldn’t take it back.

Of course they couldn’t. It was sent via UPS. It said so right on the box. It seems obvious to me that the unintended recipient was going to keep the gift. I wonder…..did the other ideas not occur to him to try to find the intended birthday person? In asking the US Post Office for help was his conscience cleared? Or was he intending on keeping it all along?

I don’t know the person who mistakenly received my brother’s gift. I can’t honestly speak to his motivation. Was it laziness, ignorance, greed, lack of imagination, lack of time? I do know that most of the people in my life would have tried harder to find the intended recipient of the gift. I believe I am blessed to be connected with some of the most extraordinary people on the planet…but I don’t believe they are they only people that would try a little harder to help a person out.

Because that what this is about. How far are you willing to step out of your routine and your comfort zone, how much time are you willing to take, to help out another person. It may be that you will expend more energy to help someone you know, someone you love. Sometimes, though, wouldn’t it feel great to go out of your way for a complete stranger? I do feel as though there is quite a lot of selfishness seen all over the news and social media. But we don’t have to be that. The smallest act of kindness can make the biggest difference.

Even if it is just delivering a game of Chinese Checkers.

Peace,

Kathie

Let It Go

I’m trying to let go of things.

It started the other day when I realized that I will never be as good a typist as my mom. I just can’t make my hands work that fast any more. I’ve always loved the sound of mom working at a typewriter or keyboard. I don’t know what it is about watching my mom type. Maybe it’s her hands. Mom’s hands are graceful, elegant, capable, strong. Since I can remember, I’ve wanted to be as good a typist as mom.

I’ve recently realized that isn’t going to happen. It’s such a small thing, but I felt a sad little pang when I let it go.

The desire to let go of things extended next to my closet. I don’t regret getting rid of the clothes. What hit me was the realization that I am not getting rid of the clothes so much as I am saying goodbye to the person who used to wear them. She is gone, changed into someone else.

Change isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Most of us can’t, for example, live with our parents forever. Because we grow, we change, hopefully we evolve for the better. But there are questions. I liked her, that person who used to wear those things. When she changed, did she take the good things with her and leave the worst behind?

Most of us tend to hold onto things. Look around your home and see how many walls and flat surfaces are filled with things, most with some sort of memory attached at one point or another. Do you know, I have a blade to a circular saw hanging up on my wall? See, it used to belong to my Granddad Stephens. I never knew him, but he wtote his name on this blade, and it is my way of holding him close to me.

It is not just physical things that we grasp so tightly. We hold grudges, attitudes, faith. We hold onto past hurts, love, hope, memories. I will admit to holding grudges—there are sports teams that I refuse to cheer for because of a player that was on that team 20 years ago. It’s silly, but relatively harmless. As long as I don’t take it too seriously.

Where it starts to hurt you is when your grudges and things are holding on to you instead of you holding onto them. Almost like they are holding you hostage. I used to dream that I would eventually get back into live theatre. I’m working on letting go of that. It feels like the more you can’t realistically see that it (whatever it is) isn’t going to happen, the more you waste time living with sadness and regret about what was, what isn’t, what won’t be, rather than opening your eyes, heart, and mind, and searching for what can be.

There is so much worth letting go of. Stale dreams. Old grudges. Hurtful attitudes tinged with bias and hatred. Kitchy things that just sit around, but you can’t even remember where they came from……anybody want a set of measuring cups that form R2D2 when they are put together correctly? There is just as much worth holding onto. But it seems like…..unless you get rid of the stale, useless things, there isn’t much room to let new things into your life and mind.

Like spring cleaning, only let that fresh breeze clear your mind. It might be a desperately needed breath of fresh air.

Peace,

Kathie

A Little Understanding

Parenting is hard.

I know. Stating the obvious, right?

There are wonderfully easy days, simple things, like going to the pool or playing a game or reading a book or agreeing on a movie. There are happy-but-draining things, like Christmas or throwing a birthday party (which are in danger every year of turning into an event. How did we get here?? But that’s a blog for another day.) There are not-so-great days, like when you are running late getting out the door to work and to school because someone just would not get out of bed, into the shower, and down to breakfast. On any given day, this could, in reality, be me, my husband, or my son. Most likely, though, it is the 13 year-old.

Then there are the bad moments. These are the worst. Not only because they are, by nature, bad, but because they run the danger of seeping into your entire day, if you let it. I am not proud of the times I have yelled at my son, and just because we have all done it doesn’t make me feel better about it. Sometimes, you just have to take a moment, take a breath, forgive, and move on. Take a Mulligan. And maybe revisit the how and why when you are a bit calmer-to figure out what you could do better next time.

I was not great at that growing up. My parents started young; they had 4 kids under the age of 7 by the time they were 26 years old. They didn’t have access to all the books and research and parenting theories that we do now. They did their best with what they had been given. I’m sure that, like me, they learned as they went along. There’s a lyric from a musical called Dear Evan Hansen that says, regarding parenting, “Does anybody have a map? Anybody happen to know how the hell to do this?” Parenting is a like driving to an unfamiliar place without GPS or roadmap, and only the vaguest directions given by those who have gone there before. “Oh, you may not want to turn down THAT road…” I can only hope that whatever mistakes we make are turned into lessons learned.

I’ll be honest, I didn’t always get along well with my dad. I think we were too much alike, maybe, with just enough difference in our emotional makeup that I felt he didn’t understand what was in my head, in my heart. Just as I couldn’t see things from his point of view. I got better at that, though, once I became a parent. I don’t agree with all the decisions made, but I understand more. And lately, my Parkinson’s is giving me a new understanding of Dad, and what he is going through. See, dad has always been active, has always been working. He is a do-er. But as he gets older, there is less and less that his body, his eyes, his ears, his mind will let him do. And yet, he still tries his best to contribute, to feel needed, important. He does not give up. I hold this attitude of his tightly in my heart. See, I hope that as my Parkinson’s progresses, that I will have that same attitude, strength, determination, stubbornness as he does. I feel I understand him now, better than ever before, and I hope to carry away this lesson that he is giving me, whether he means to be giving it or not.

That, right there, is the hardest part of parenting….the part where you are never finished.

But I think it may the best part, too.

Peace,

Kathie

In The Pages of Books

I love to read.

I have loved reading as long as I can remember. I remember mom taking us to the library regularly. It seems like it was every two weeks. It may not have been that frequently, but it seemed like we were there quite often. I loved the library. It smelled of books, and there was what I thought of as an almost reverent hush when we walked in. It was as if the books were waiting for us, for me, with their promises of information and knowledge, mystery and adventure, romance, friendship, escape.

Books were always an escape for me. When I couldn’t deal the the angst and drama of childhood, there was a story from another world or reality waiting for me. I adored Charlotte’s Web and cried every time when she saved Wilbur, and when she died. I traveled along with Stuart Little, escaped with James and His Giant Peach, related to Ramona more than her older sister Beezus. I traveled the universe via tesseract in A Wrinkle In Time, solved mysteries alongside of Encyclopedia Brown, sat in silence with Anne Frank, laughed with Pippi Longstocking. I can’t count the number of times I read Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. I related to Margaret so much I was sure that if she were real, we could have had a long conversation.

When I got older, I discovered J. R. R. Tolkien. I have traveled the journey of The One Ring so often, I feel that Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, Boromir, Gandalf, and all those Hobbits are near and dear friends. I drop in for a visit with Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy often enough to feel a kinship with them. I solve mysteries with Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poiroit, Miss Marple. I travel back in time and live in the world of Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility every now and again. I run with Aslan on the other side of the wardrobe, and get lost in The Mists of Avalon. Douglas Adams taught me that if the world is ending, I better have a towel.

And of course, you never know where you will go when you pick up anything by Steven King.

There have been new things along the way. I have lived at Hogwarts and in Jim Butcher’s magical world in Chicago with Harry Dresden. I have suffered the loss of most of my favorite characters in George R. R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire. With my son, I traveled in a Magic Tree House and on the wings of dragons. Oh the places you can go.

The thing is, I feel a sort of agreement, almost a contract, is in place when I open a book with the intent of reading it. See, books aren’t just an escape, they are a lifeline. So if they are going to invite me in, the least I can do is stay for the whole journey. I remember one time, a single time, that I deliberately put a book aside and did not finish it. It was the second book of a series, and the first book was headed to an obvious and logical conclusion….and then didn’t go there. I felt angry and tricked by the book, as if that ending was written specifically with the intent of selling another book. I just didn’t feel that the characters would behave the way they did. I had read every book I have committed to, I think, but that one.

Until Moby Dick.

I was hating it, but forcing myself to read it. And then a friend said an amazing thing. “You don’t have to finish reading it, you know.”

Wait, what?

And so…..I put it down. And did not finish. And I am fine with that. I tried, Moby, but we were just not meant to be.

I have four books I am currently reading. A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur’s Court. With all due respects to Mr. Twain, I am not especially enjoying it, but am interested enough to finish it to see how it ends. A book about the Underground Railroad that I can hardly wait to have more time to get further into. A book about the Oregon Trail that is interesting but not what I thought it would be so I may or may not finish it, and Fairy Tale by Stephen King. That last one is my treat. I get it when all my work is done. Or until I just cannot wait a moment longer. But never, ever right before bed.

I guess commitment is like reading a book. If you have tried everything, given it your all, and it just isn’t working, maybe it’s time to close the book. But. If you give it everything you’ve got, don’t give up, open your heart and mind to the pages, you just might get more out of it than you thought you bargained for.

That is definitely worth the journey.

Peace,

Kathie

Don’t Tell? Not On Your Life.

I received an email at work yesterday. At the end of it, I was clearly instructed to not tell anyone. I am, therefore, telling everyone.

This email claimed to be from a person who had hacked into my computer system many months ago and had been watching me ever since. They said they had access to all my systems and all my devices, and had my entire browsing history recorded and on video. They claimed to have a record of all the porn sites I had visited, and supplied in graphic detail the things they claimed I was watching. They claimed, also described in graphic detail, videos they had of me.

I would like to take a moment to assure you that there is zero chance that any of this is true.

The author of the email then demanded that I pay $960 USD in Bitcoin to make it all go away. (If you read my post on things I don’t understand, you will know that I am not friends with Bitcoin, so even if I was so inclined, it wouldn’t happen.) They said not to tell the police or to tell my friends. My immediate decision was to tell my boss, just so he knew it was out there, in case anyone else in the company received one. So I tried to forward the email but it bounced back. It would not allow me to forward it.

I have to admit, this creeped me out just a bit. But, did you know, it is possible to send an email to someone and set the parameters of that email such that the recipient is unable to forward it? It’s true. I looked it up.

In spite of the fact that I was and am 100% sure that this was a fake and that I had (and have) nothing to hide, I was embarrassed. It was filthy, and gross. I felt violated. After the initial attempt to forward the email, I thought about not telling anyone. But stuff like this? It thrives in secrecy. This is what the whole Me Too movement was about. It you feel violated, if someone is after you, abusing you, or if you just feel uncomfortable with a situation, tell someone. Tell your boss, your parents, your siblings, your friends. Tell the police, your pastor, your teacher, your spouse. Tell your therapist. Hell, tell your bartender if it helps. But tell someone. And then tell someone else. And someone else. And keep telling. Until someone hears you.

We are here. We are listening. And together, we have the power to make it stop.

Peace,

Kat

Choices

A homeless man came into the store the other day.

He said he was a homeless Veteran and was making his way down to the hotel on the corner, but he would appreciate a brief rest before he continued on his way. Wanting to help, especially a Veteran, I gave him a chair and he sat. And talked. He told me how he hates the way Denver treats its vets, that Loveland is so much better. He told me how he was short his rent payment because he got robbed of $200 recently. He told about his knee, and his hand, that were painful and swollen. I was feeling helpless, all I could do is listen, I had no answers for him. At this point, my boss came through, mostly to check on me to make sure all was well.

I should take a moment to mention that my boss is, at heart, a caring person.

I “introduced” him to our visitor (although I didn’t have his name) and our Veteran Visitor took an immediate dislike to my boss and got verbally abusive and threatening. I was all heart, according to him, but my boss was everything bad about the world. My boss just listened, he didn’t say a word, and the man left. I found the entire thing upsetting. I didn’t like the way the man was speaking to my boss, I didn’t like how much hate and anger the man seemed to have inside of him, I didn’t like that I couldn’t help him. I didn’t like the yelling.

Were I going to psychoanalyze the situation, I would say that my boss was the personification of everything the man hated about Denver. But I digress.

I see a lot of statistics about homelessness, and like most statistics, you can present them to say what you want them to say. I don’t really believe that the man wanted to be homeless. Although there was this one time….

Quite a few years ago, a good friend of mine was going to some sort of gathering ( I don’t remember that part) in another state south of Colorado with a friend of his. In Pueblo, their car broke down, and my friend called and asked me if I would mind driving down to Pueblo and loaning him my car so they could continue on their journey, and he would arrange for another friend to come and get me. Yeah, I know. I’m a little nuts. Three hours later, I am sitting in a bar in Pueblo, waiting for a ride back to Denver. There was a man there, we started a conversation. (Sometimes, folks just want someone to talk to.) He was homeless, but stayed in the bar in a back room on occasion, in exchange for helping to clean up the bar. He had several family members all within 20 miles of Pueblo that he could live with, but he hadn’t seen any of them in about 10 years. I presented him with a question. If I had the power to snap my fingers, and give him a home, a family, a good job that he would enjoy, would he take it? His answer? After a pause, “No. Too much work.”

That sticks with me.

We all make choices. I know that many, many who are homeless would rather not be, and they are homeless due to circumstances beyond their control, and would appreciate a helping hand. I know there are addiction issues and mental health issues that complicate the situation. And I don’t mean to be heartless. But how many of us are where we are simply because anything would have been, well, too much work?

Back in Denver, we haven’t seen the man since, nor do I think we will. Still, I wish I would have at least learned his name. I hope he found his place.

Peace,

Kathie