arethusa

"...from there to here..."

arethusa — Sun, 06 May 2018 04:57:16 GMT

Listening to this music brings out the words, which are never far away anyway. This music just whispers, "Write it, write the story of your journey from there to here."

So I close my eyes and let the music sweep me to that place where the story lives, that deep, dark, secret place where memories dwell. I remember this song, sitting in a chair in front of my old computer in my nightgown, soft, southern breeze blowing the curtains around, teasing me with promises that will never be kept. Alabama. I remember Alabama. I remember Glenn in the early days, before the madness descended and it all ended with him chasing me from room to room threatening to kill me. Me screaming into the phone "GET HERE!" to 911. I did think he'd kill me, but I saved myself by yelling, "He's got drugs and guns here!" at the poor operator on the other end, watching with relief as Glenn's mind switched gears in an instant and he ran back to where those things were hidden, then flying out the door to his car, his arms loaded, off to hide them, his vices safer at that moment than I was.

But in the beginning? Glenn wooed me. He swept me off my feet by making me feel beautiful and desirable. I was smart, he said, no man would ever love me as much as he did. I moved with a sensuality only women know by being adored and sexually gratified. Those were good days and even better nights.

This music, playing softly in my head, carried by magic through my headphones, or if not by magic, by some power I will never understand. These words and music defining my life as it was then. I felt safe, valued, important to someone else in ways I hadn't felt in decades.

"Am I a good person, Denise?" he asked me. Back before I fully witnessed his rage, felt it first-hand, understood just how evil he could be. I had to tell him the truth then, which I felt like a lead weight in my gut, without truly knowing just who he was. I told him the truth that I suspected but didn't know for sure; "No," I answered.

Another song comes on. Another memory of him slips slyly in. He's making love to me and I'm lost, just lost.

He's dead now, Glenn. I discovered it while researching genealogy, stumbling across his name in a Social Security death index.

I cried then.

I'm crying now.

When To Write

arethusa — Sun, 05 Mar 2017 06:36:54 GMT

There are times when the urge to write is overwhelming. Some nights when my thoughts are too loud for my head, when the past and the present collide and I have to give voice to them or I'll never get to sleep. It's not that I have a specific thing to say, it's that the act of my fingers flying over a keyboard is soothing, comforting, a release.

I have discovered that I love Twitter. I love having to condense my thought or response into a neat package containing exactly 140 characters. I relish the challenge of paring the non-stop flow of my thoughts into a small, concise series of sentences. The more I do it, the better I get at it. Of course, that's a subjective opinion. I"m sure there are other opinions which are in direct opposition to what I believe. That's okay. I have learned to examine criticism as objectively as poosible and discard it if it doesn't resonate.

I keep thinking of writing for money. How wonderful would it be to be able to provide for my own needs simply by releasing this endless flow of words inside me! Part of me says it's much too late for that dream, but another part of me still believes in the possibility of dreams realized. Unfortunately, the urge to write comes less frequently as I grow older. This is both a blessing and a curse.

I feel better now, as if I can safely climb into bed and watch a movie until I fall asleep. My dreams have been very vivid lately, filled with people from my past doing unpredictable things. I look forward to more dreams.

The Horror of Home Canning

arethusa — Thu, 24 Sep 2015 04:10:20 GMT

I had never canned a thing in my life until I moved back in with Knapper. He used to can venison meat when we were married, but he always went up to his parent's house to do it, so I never witnessed the process. After I moved back in with him, I got to see him can venison for the first time. I hate canned venison. If I'd liked it, I might have been more interested in the process. My loss.

I can green beans, corn, fresh-caught salmon that Knapper brings home, peaches, chicken, and tomatoes. I have a love/hate relationship with canning. I adore being able to go down into the basement and just grab a jar of tomatoes when I make chili. I am in love with the canned chicken breasts I preserve every chance I get. But it is highly labor intensive, this canning business. Today I canned tomato juice for the first time.

At first it seemed easy. When canning tomatoes themselves, the process involves washing them, blanching them for 1 minute in boiling water, submerging them in ice water, then peeling the skins and cutting them into the size you want to can them. A bushel basket of tomatoes fills my sink almost to overflowing. I can process 14 quart jars at a time in my pressure canner. That's a LOT of tomatoes. It's a lot of back-and-forth action between the stove and the sink and the timer. I am getting old and I don't have the stamina I once had. The process exhausts me. So I was pretty happy that I wouldn't have to blanch the tomatoes for juice. Little did I know how much more labor intensive the juicing process would be.

I happily washed the tomatoes while listening to my favorite music. I sang along at some points even. Then I sat down with the washed tomatoes, cored and cut them into quarters. After that is when the fun stopped. After the coring and cutting comes the boiling. The idea is to boil them for about 5 minutes until they get very soft and liquidy. That was a lot of back and forth. I did them in batches because I don't have a pot big enough to boil a bushel of tomatoes all at once. So I would boil a batch, pour the hot tomatoes into a huge stainless steel bowl I have, then start milling them. Milling tomatoes involves a food mill that you crank by hand which separates the skins and seeds (this is a lie, the seeds aren't separated at all, they just go through the mill and into the tomato juice. More on that later.) and produces thick juice. Cranking was fun for the first 2 minutes, then it got. Real old. This process is not for the person who doesn't like mess and clutter. By the time I was finished my kitchen looked like a murder crime scene with blotches of tomatoes and juice all over every surface. Maybe I'm just not a neat canner, but I never have this much of a mess when I can tomatoes. The process of transferring the hot tomatoes from the bowl to the food mill which rests on your bowl or pan is not neat. There's no way to do it neatly. Tomatoes gonna fall off your transferring device and land everywhere. The mill spatters sometimes. It's not pretty.

I finally got that part completed and then had nothing with which to strain the seeds from the juice. See, the seeds are small, but the food mill's holes are not. If they were small the process of milling the tomatoes would take for-freaking-ever. So the seeds exit with the juice and you're left with all this seedy juice to can. At that point I just wanted to be done, so the tomato juice was canned with the seeds. After I got the jars filled, the rims of the jars wiped, the lids and rings on and the jars put into the canner, water added and the fire started under it, I turned to face the biggest challenge of all: cleaning the kitchen.

I had 3 tubs I'd used to hold the tomatoes. I had used 4 large pots, plus the huge stainless steel bowl. There were cutting implements, transferring implements, the funnel used to fill the jars, and the food mill itself. Then it was time to wash the counters, the table, the chairs. Yes, the chairs. Then I wiped down the walls. Tomatoes do not give up their juice quietly; they scream and throw little pieces of themselves through the air to land in places you wouldn't imagine.

I started the process at 10 this morning. It ended at 5:30 this afternoon. I had gotten out some chicken breasts with the idea of butterflying them, filling them with cream cheese and broccoli and baking them for dinner. This did not happen. Knapper came home and fixed some of the butcher shop franks for himself and shared one with me. It was the first solid food I'd eaten all day.

The tomato juice looks lovely in the jars. I did this for my friend, Wendy. I'd promised her the tomatoes I had left over for juice. She could only come over to do them on the weekend, but the tomatoes weren't ready then, they were ready today. To wait for the weekend would have meant losing a large quantity of them to rot. I got 10 quarts out of a bushel of tomatoes. I had thought I'd give her all 10 quarts, but I'm going to keep 2 of them because after fighting that battle, I deserve them. I hope she understands.

Just Something I Almost Posted On Facebook

arethusa — Wed, 09 Sep 2015 03:47:02 GMT

Someone needs to explain to me how gay marriages affects religious liberty, because I just don't get it. How do gay couples marrying infringe on a person's right to practice their religion, or am I missing something? If the government can't interfere with my right to practice my religion, how can religion interfere with my right to my civil liberties, which I understand to mean the rights granted to me under the Constitution and Bill of Rights. I am seriously confused by this. The ability of people of the same sex to marry interferes with someone's ability to practice their religion how? I want facts, not opinions. Here's what I found when I Googled "what does religious liberty mean?"

“The Establishment clause protects against religion’s intrusion into government, while the Freedom of Religion clause protects against government’s intrusion into religion. Each clause requires the balancing of rights and, for better or worse, the courts generally act as the arbiter. Of note, these clauses and their balancing requirements exemplify the wisdom of their drafters.”
— Rick Callister, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, La Cañada, California, and

“The civil rights of none shall be abridged on account of religious belief or worship, nor shall any national religion be established, nor shall the full and equal rights of conscience be in any manner, or on any pretext, infringed.”
— James Madison's original draft of the First Amendment, 1789

The world is a crazy place, isn't it? A marriage license is not something ordained by God. It is a legal document produced by the local and state governments which says two people can be married. A marriage is something else. Whether that is ordained by God is for an individual to decide, depending on their religious beliefs.

“Behind these 16 words – ‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof’ – is a set of core values that Americans of all backgrounds can seize onto. The Founders set to create a lasting republic that could be governed by people of any religious creed. For Madison and Jefferson, religious liberty and freedom of conscience were beyond the powers of government; they were unalienable and untouchable by the state. And so they should remain.”
— Bruce T. Murray, author, Religious Liberty in America:
The First Amendment in Historical and Contemporary Perspective

So I sort of understand that issuing marriage licenses to gay couples could violate your religious beliefs, but if your job puts you in a position wherein your religious beliefs are compromised, why are you doing that job? Why would you WANT that job?

A Clumsy Manipulation

arethusa — Wed, 02 Sep 2015 03:33:48 GMT

"Grandma, Kameron got a game he can't play for his birthday."

Of course I ask why he can't play it and learn it's because he doesn't have enough memory on their XBox360.

"We need a flash drive, grandma." I'd given them one, the one I use to put photos on and take to Meijer or Walmart to make copies with. Apparently that's not big enough. No, "We need at least 8 gigs on it." The one I gave them was 14 gigs, but, whatever. They say it's not big enough.

As this was the first time I'd seen them in weeks, having destroyed my relationship with their mother by making a phone call to my great-granddaughter's other grandmother and voicing my concerns about the child's well-being, I'll give these kids anything they ask for, which they finally get around to doing. "Will you buy us a flash drive, grandma?" So after they left, I went quick as a bunny to Amazon and bought not just one, but two flash drives, one made specifically for XBox with 16 gigs, and another with 32 gigs. If that's not enough memory, they're out of luck.

School started for them on Monday. I wasn't expecting them to come to the house, being as I've destroyed my relationship with their parents, but at 3:45 my son comes in and surprises me. I admit to crying. I was given one of the longest hugs by him that he's ever given me, one from which I pulled away from first. We didn't have time to discuss what had happened, but he did tell me that he didn't want to do what he'd done, that he hated doing it, and that he'd missed me something awful. I told him that I understand that he had to side with his wife on the issue because she is his nuclear family now, his father and I being relegated to walk-on parts in the story of his life at this stage.

I didn't get to tell the boys that they will soon have their new flash drives. Their mother was waiting for them at the end of my driveway when they got off the bus. But maybe they'll be here tomorrow. I made brownies today, which I have hidden in the oven to keep their grandfather from eating them all before the boys get to taste them. I used a new recipe, an Alton Brown one, that is out of this world delicious. They're going to love them.

Lessons In The Key Of Life

arethusa — Thu, 27 Aug 2015 17:17:21 GMT

I learned many lessons from you in our short time together: Not to be so trusting, to always listen to my gut, if it seems too good to be true, it is, among many others. But the most important lesson I learned was the value of silence. Recently I've been seeing articles on the internet about how people break up with other people by "ghosting" them. It means to have absolutely no communication with someone of any kind; they call you, don't answer the phone, they text you, don't respond, that sort of thing. The internet makes it seem like a new "thing", but you ghosted me back in 1998 to perfection. The person on the other end can do absolutely nothing in response to silence, unless they're mentally unstable to begin with and start stalking your ass and going psycho on you, but most people, like me, eventually get the message and move on with their lives. It took me many years, but I moved on.

So, silence, that great answer to a problem you don't want to confront. Sometimes I confront; if the problem is important enough, if I'm feeling strong, if I feel passionately about whatever the issue is, but mostly I just do nothing and wait anxiously for the problem to work itself out. I am being silent. I am not initiating contact or forcing the issue, not making a pest of myself. I deleted them all from my Facebook, though I didn't block them. I don't talk about the problem unless I'm asked and then I just state what the problem was and what I did in response to it and what their response was. I am working on releasing it, all of it. I am no longer involved in the day-to-day lives, the drama, the joys and the work and the pain. I am working on becoming emotionally uninvested in the lives and outcomes of those who I am told are none of my concern. Because I can't find the middle ground, don't feel right not saying what I feel, can't bring myself to watch and say nothing, I am just "ghosting" them and the problem.

It's hard, but it feels like the exact right thing to do.

Relating To The Non-Related....Or Something

arethusa — Fri, 14 Aug 2015 03:04:55 GMT

So I have this huge family tree. I'd look up to see exactly how many people are in it, but I'm too lazy right now. Let's just say it's "vast". (Someone who connected with someone I had in my tree used that word when describing the tree and I like it. "Vast", like an ocean, like the heavens above.) Of course not everyone in the tree is related to me. I'm one of those genealogists who researches every single person in a family, their spouse, their spouse's parents and siblings, their spouse's parents parents and on and on and on. There is a method to my madness. Sometimes by researching every single member of a family, I'm able to find other of my own relations. It's amazing how many cousins married cousins, though of course that still goes on today...4th cousins marrying and whatnot. As my daughter-in-law says, "We're all related."

But there are strangers in my tree. There's a whole Ruby family that does not connect to mine in any way, except I'm sure they do, I just haven't been able to find the connection. Ruby, the actual surname Ruby, is not that common. And before you ask, no, I am not related to Jack Ruby. Jack Ruby was actually Jacob Leon Rubenstein. My Rubys are just Ruby. If you're interested in where the surname originated, read this

This whole other Ruby family is in my tree; mother, father, children, spouses, and on and on and on. Sometimes I work on them, but mostly I've moved on to other hunts, like the extended Lemon family that moved down into St Clair County, Michigan from their little berg of Lemonville in Canada. Lemons, Bakers, Macklems, Clines...I had no idea until I started working on them this past two weeks just how interconnected they all were.

But those other Rubys, they fascinate me. Sometimes I feel like I'm invading their privacy, snooping in their business which is no business of mine. Then I just remind myself they're dead and don't care anyway. And sometimes other people find them, other living people not related to my Rubys, and they message me and express their thanks at my having documented them. That always feels good.

It's funny, but sometimes it feels like these people want me to find them and document their lives. I like that feeling. The only bad thing about being the type of genealogist I am is that once I'm done with a family and move on, I tend to forget about them. This can be a problem when I start receiving updates from Find A Grave for people I've submitted corrections for. I look at the names and wonder, "Who the heck were they and why was I researching them?"

My Bed Is Too Hard And Other Things...

arethusa — Wed, 05 Aug 2015 14:27:45 GMT

I'm supposed to be canning green beans. They're up there, in the wash pan on the living room floor, accusing me of ignoring them. But to do them would mean I have to wash the jars, fill the jars, put the jars in the pressure canner, wait for the canner to release steam for 10 minutes, then put on the doohickey that keeps the steam inside the canner, then wait for it to start rattling, then time the rattling for 20 minutes. I'm exhausted just writing about it.

Kameron, one of my grandchildren, was here the night of the big storm. He's 12-going-on-32. He said to me, "Grandma, you must really like hard beds! This is such a hard bed!" He said this after sitting down next to me on my bed. He has no idea how hard the bed I lie in is. And I made it myself. He also doesn't know that I'm lucky to have a bed at all. I was supposed to have been dead, not living with his grandfather, my ex-husband, who is still a jerky-dick-ass. Yes, I admit he is still the person he always was. And while I sincerely love him, I don't like him at all as a person.

My brother Alan called last night and Knapper had to interrupt his computer-porn time to answer the phone. Poor Knapper. Alan is dying to know the reason why I cancelled our annual Lemon-Knapp Labor Day Reunion party. I won't tell him. I'm too embarrassed to explain that Knapper is not willing to pay $500 for the food it would take to feed everyone for the 4-day event. It's not like I blame Knapper, really. It is my family that comes, not his, and it isn't my money, it's his. And I guess it's hard for Knapper to pay "half a grand" for the privilege of being the Lord Of Everything and act like a guest while I and the others do all the work involved. He was relieved when I told him I'd cancelled it. My children thought he'd be furious, showing once again that they don't really understand how their father's mind works.

I will end this now and go wash the jars, stuff the sulking beans into the jars, put the jars in the pressure canner, wait for the canner to release steam for 10 minutes, then put on the doohickey that keeps the steam inside the canner, then wait for it to start rattling, then time the rattling for 20 minutes. Will this process stop the beans anger at being ignored? I don't know. But it will stop my guilt at ignoring them.

Oh, it's a day like any other...or something

arethusa — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 20:47:29 GMT

Only sometimes do I miss nursing. Not often, and usually when I'm watching ER (I bought seasons 1-9 on eBay and have been having an ER orgy lately.) or Grey's Anatomy. Other times, I don't miss being a nurse at all. My license is sitting on my dresser and every time I go into my closet I see it there, looking a bit lonesome and official. I officially burned out in 2011. I told them and told them I didn't want to work a lot, but they didn't listen. I worked so much that I was bringing home--BRINGING HOME--$1400 every two weeks. I'm an LPN. That's a lot of hours to work at an LPN'S wages. It was too many hours.

Now I'm home all the time and I'm a fantastic housewife. The house is always clean. The dishes are always done, laundry never piles up, I bake snacks for my grandkids, I basically do whatever I want. Life is good most of the time.

Sometimes it feels like the time I was away was a dream. March 6th was the 15th anniversary of my leaving Michigan for what I thought would be a better life. Sometimes it was better, but most of the time I felt like I'd ripped chunks of myself off on rusty nails and broken glass. Something always felt wrong. Yeah. That was me. Wrong. But I learned a lot. I grew up a lot. I made mistakes and trashed my life. But not so badly that I couldn't put the pieces back together in a functional way.

Still, it's March. And March is a strange month for me. It always will be. March changed me in an elemental way. But everyone gets changed in life, don't they? By life. I'm not special or unique. I'm just different. Kinda.

Or maybe not...

End Of The Night Ramblings

arethusa — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 05:06:02 GMT

It was a good day, and an even better night. Today was Knapper's birthday. He's 56. I'll follow him in 11 months and 3 days, turning 56 myself. And I wonder, where has the time gone? It seems like last week we were 18 and 19 and getting married, like yesterday when we were raising our sons. But the boys are in their 30's now, raising families of their own. And we are in our mid-50's.

The world has changed. Time has moved forward and we've been dragged along with it, being changed ourselves. Now we are grandparents as well as parents. And those grandchildren, they're our link to the future, just as our children are the links to our past.

Tonight I sang with Meadow who'll be two in February. I hugged and was hugged by Lizzie, who is 5. I talked with Joshie, who is 7. I laughed with Grace, who is 11. I wonder how they'll remember me when I'm gone. I wonder what their memories will be of this family that love created.

It was a good night.

Stuff (packs)

arethusa — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 18:52:32 GMT

New computer is nice. Reinstalling programs...not so much. Installing The Sims 2 and discovered I'm missing two of the booklets that have the serial numbers on them, without which I cannot install the programs. Nice. Not. Good news is one of the programs is only $10. Bad news is they (EA) makes you download and use this thing called Origin to download your programs, and their server is down. So..whatever.

I'm so tired all the time. And I'd forgotten how draining Knapper's pessimism is. All the time with the negativity! He's also easily frustrated with technology. Teaching him to use his cell phone is an exercise in patience for me, and I'm not patient. It's hard.

But I'm happy, for the most part. I'm home.

"...a mad mission..."

arethusa — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 16:31:09 GMT

I had a plan, an agenda when I came here about an hour and a half ago, but then I got caught up in the words, the words, the words that fell out of my fingers like drops of blood, like small, damaged pieces of my soul, ripped out and thrown on the whiteblankspace. So I got lost and sort of forgot what I was doing. I ended up revisiting my past, which is really what a journal is for, I think.

See, after many, many years of being gone, being crazy, finding a new path to the person I was becoming, I made my way back home to the people who, for some odd, strange, unknowable reason, love me. And they do love me. They hug me every chance they get. They buy me things and call me on the phone just to hear my voice. But this will soon pass and I will be as I once was; the person they have the most history with, the woman who wiped their tears, fed them, nurtured and loved them into being the people they are today.

Or something.

But I'm home. And I have a Michigan nursing license, for all the good it's doing me. I've been here a month and still don't have a job. And I want one badly. I want to live my life. I really do. I want to work and play and laugh and cry and live until the day I die. But, ironically, life keeps getting in the way. Who knew?? I have a fully paid for car, a computer, a flat screen television and a TiVo, and a very nice queen-size bed with many pillows and quilts. I have this desire to be who I used to be, but there's no going back apparently.

Jason's house is quiet. The day is overcast and windy. I'm watching the trees dance as I write this, and I'm listening to music. I'm supposed to go to Grand Rapids tomorrow and take a CPR class. Afterwards, I'm supposed to fill out all the W-thingys because I almost have a job with a nursing agency. But I don't have the $35 for the class or gas for the 47 mile trip to GR. So I don't know what to do. I'm asking myself again why life has to be so fucking hard. Why can't things be easier? Never mind, I know the answers. Because it's just what life is.

My daughter-in-law cut my hair yesterday. It was much too long. Now it is shorter and that feels right. Right, unlike what most of life feels like now.

You can go home again, but it won't be the same home and you won't be the same person you were when you left it. And that's a shame in one way and a blessing in another.