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Nearly a week of wind, wind, wind! Forty MPH gusts – almost knocked me on my butt at lunch today. The the tree above caught my eye as I left the building – all the trees are in a perpetual northward lean.

Due to a cut-back in my drug habit, I’ve been near to chewing the wood-work for the last week. Withdrawal. It’s a bitch. Let me ’splain.

For the last six months I’ve been a drug whore. That is to say, I’ve been participating in a drug study and have been a guinea pig for a combination of two drugs with the plan to combine them into one at the end of the study and pending FDA approval.

I agreed to the study because it promised the relief of pain, not to mention free doctor stuff and money in my pocket for my participation. Plus, I was already taking one of the drugs so, what the hell, pile on another. Free drugs, free xrays, free ECGs, free Doctor probings and a little green for things like Flips and such – what more could a girl ask for?

The study was supposed to last for a year, but was cut short because the drug company deemed it no longer profitable. It’d incurred a substantial fourth quarter loss in its bottom line, therefore was cutting its losses. And cutting off my drug supply. Thank you, Bushonomics.

So, I was put on a week of half doses until I’m cut free entirely next week. Now, one of the drugs – the pain-killer – had literature that stated it was non-narcotic. However, right now I’m doubting that claim. When I find myself sitting and rocking – even while I type – while at the same time longing for sleep, as well as wanting to claw my way through the wall…. well, I’m thinking there’s got to be a wee bit o’ narcotic in that wee bit o’ pill to be experiencing withdrawal symptoms.

Of course, I do not mean to make light of what it REALLY means to experience narcotic withdrawal. I’m getting only a tiny, tiny, teeninsie, taste of that. But that tiny taste of hell is enough to reinforce my resolve to never venture into that realm and count my lucky stars I dodged it in my hippie youthdom.

Speaking of which – my co-worker, being an avid NPR fan, pointed out that Friday, April 4th, was an ironic day in history. “Oh, do tell,” I’m implored him as we strolled in to work. As it is, on that day in history, forty years ago, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated and the peace symbol was born. Ironic indeed.

I also listened to an NPR report – the day before – on the way to work. I only heard the last part of it, as the Rev. Samuel Billy Kyles remembered, forty years ago, listening as King delivered his portentous “Mountaintop” speech. Kyles was only a few feet away from Rev. King.

I am not religious. In fact, by way of a lifetime of exploring, reading, contemplating, debating, questioning and even being born again, I am now an affirmed atheist. But, I still weep when I hear that speech. It is a transcendent speech. A speech for the ages, while at the same time a deeply personal affirmation of faith. A faith that I cannot and will not question or criticize.

Martin Luther King, Jr. not only had faith in his god, but faith in human nature. He believed that somehow, some day, we humans would transcend. We would get past our differences and find common ground. A simple, but profound faith and seemingly, for the times, an impossible faith.

On April 4, 1968 I was a sixteen year old junior in high-school. I remember shock. I remember fear. I remember the images on the nightly news. Little did I know what that day and another assassination two months later would do to shape the person I was becoming. A generation was poised to set the nation on it’s ear and I was one, small, insignificant member of it trying to figure it all out.

As Rev. Kyles pointed out, some would say we haven’t progressed very far in those forty years since – that it’s worse now then it was then. His response:

…the only reason you can say that is because you were not here then… Think of how far we have come – it was illegal for my ancestors to read during slavery… [my ancestors] came to this country in chains…

And now an African-American has a real shot of being our next president.

But, even with that, Rev. Kyles reminds us that there is still much to do. “Each generation will have it’s portion, and that helps to keep the dream alive.”

I am fortunate that I lived in a time that had such leaders as Martin Luther King, Jr. A time of great, yet turbulent, change. But, change for the good.

I am fortunate I live in a time of such potential as that of Barack Obama. Time will tell, whether he becomes our nation’s next president or not, if he will be a leader who brings change. Change for the good. Change that is desperately needed today.

I would encourage you, dear reader, to take some time and listen to Dr. King’s speech. Reflect on where we are now, and what is yet to be done. You can play a part in keeping the dream alive. You just have to figure it out.

It’s baseball season. The first ball of the season has been thrown. I don’t know who threw it, but I bet whoever it was, the ball was thrown better than could I. I’m not good at throwing baseballs, or footballs, or basketballs. What I am good at throwing is conniptions. I threw a good one this evening.

Angry at myself for losing something that was near and dear, I attempted to distract myself by gathering up the items that needed to go to the recycling bin. A couple of Simply Orange bottles, a diet coke bottle, a plastic to-go container, a tuna can and a pile of junk mail. They wouldn’t cooperate and, in a flash, ended up on the floor and half-way across the room.

I then slammed into the bathroom and took my displaced wrath out on the clogged toilet that has been holding on to its prize as if it were Gollum with the ring finally in his grasp. I succeeded only in splashing water all over the floor and pumping my blood pressure to the brink of popping a vein.

My only pleasure was in squashing some ants that had dared to invade my kitchen space. I am not a Buddhist.

That is all.

I’m a day late – yesterday was the anniversary of Roe v Wade. Thirty five years ago the Supreme Court recognized a woman’s right to choose whether or not to end a pregnancy. I was twenty-one years old.

I am profoundly pro-choice and understand it is never an easy one. At least not for anyone who has a conscience. The Supreme Court decision was a good one and this anniversary reminds me that we must continue to fight the good fight to prevent a return to an era of back alley butchers and bent hangers.

I read the words of another woman today who eloquently expresses the deeper meaning of that landmark decision thirty five years ago. Go, read.

My internet neighbor (and, oh, how wonderful it would be to really share a neighborhood!) launched another one of those nasty memes. Alas, I kinda have fun with those things, so I took a stroll through my birthday – April 29 – on Wikipedia (which is a major god in the internet pantheon, second only to god Google).

I like the very first item – a role, by the way, I would’ve loved to have added to my resume (Shaw’s Joan), but never got the chance:

1429 – Joan of Arc arrives to relieve the Siege of Orléans.

The second entry reminded me of my favorite Star Trek movie – “The Wrath of Khan” – a gold star to the first person who knows why (no fair Googling):

1770 – James Cook arrives at and names Botany Bay, Australia

It was a busy day in 1945:

1945 – World War II: The German Army in Italy unconditionally surrenders to the Allies.
1945 – World War II: Start of Operation Manna.
1945 – Adolf Hitler marries his long-time partner Eva Braun in a Berlin bunker and designates Admiral Karl Dönitz as his successor.
1945 – The Dachau concentration camp is liberated by United States troops.

I was in the spring semester of my second year in college in Columbia, Missouri when this happened:

1970 – Vietnam War: United States and South Vietnamese forces invade Cambodia to hunt Viet Cong.

I was once really into baseball, but I don’t think I saw this game (I was probably doing a children’s show, or in rehearsal for something):

1986 – Roger Clemens sets a major league baseball record with 20 strikeouts in nine innings against the Seattle Mariners.

When this happened, I remember thinking “I won’t have a problem remembering the date of this sad bit of history” but, had forgotten it until I saw it in Wikipedia:

1992 – Los Angeles riots: Riots in Los Angeles, California, follow the acquittal of police officers charged with excessive force in the beating of Rodney King. Over the next three days 54 people are killed and hundreds of buildings are destroyed.

These guy share my birthday. Now I know why I identified so much with the whine “Marsha, Marsha Marsha!,” had a great appreciation for the Seinfeld show and, um, well don’t have much for Mulgrew. I didn’t like her on “Voyager”:

1954 – Jerry Seinfeld, American comedian
1955 – Kate Mulgrew, American actress
1958 – Eve Plumb, American actress

Astologically (and pretty darn accurate):

Individuals born under this sign are thought to have a calm, patient, reliable, loyal, affectionate, sensuous, ambitious, and determined character, but one which is also prone to hedonism, laziness, inflexibility, jealousy, and antipathy.

And of course who am I to deny this:

The opposite sign to Taurus is Scorpio and the two signs are widely considered to be the most sexually responsive of all zodiacal members.

Monday.

That’s what this day has been. Pure, unadulterated Monday.

An employee, who a few years ago freed herself from the hellhole that is my workplace, was welcomed back this morning with a cake and a fruit salad. The fruit salad was appropriate because I thought she was absolutely fruity for wanting to come back.

I snapped at my supervisor because I was tired of her ignorance.

I shut my office door because my co-worker’s latest annoying trait is TALKING AS LOUD AS SHE CAN. ALL. THE. TIME.

I wanted to tongue lash a client because she needs to buck up and stop being a victim.

That last part is the only aspect of my day and my lousy attitude I truly feel bad about.

I need to not be working. At least not this job. Not the eight to five. I need to be retired. Or, if not retired, acting my ass off on stage, or pounding away at the computer putting my mad CSS skills to work. Or writing, writing, writing. Or working on becoming a real photographer. Or spending a month here. Or, or, or…. anything but what I’m chained to right now.

Yes. It’s been a Monday. Through and through.

I haven’t intentionally been ignoring this blog. I’ve just been running at full steam the last couple of weeks. This is my busiest time of year work-wise.

I attended two high-school graduations, a nursing pinning ceremony and I have another nursing ceremony tomorrow eve. This is a great time of year. The high school graduations are the best. The kids I work with usually have a lot of obstacles to clear in order to taste even a tiny bit of success, so I get a great deal of satisfaction in seeing someone who’s beat the odds be handed a hard earned diploma.

This year, one graduate in particular is a kid whose mother gave up on her a year ago, who couldn’t be bothered to drive her to summer school. I and my co-workers stepped up and made sure she got to school and, with a little convincing, she got into an independent living program. As I watched her walk at her graduation, I couldn’t have been more proud of her if she’d been my own child.

The memory of my own high school graduation is really vague. I was experiencing a period of high drama at the end of my senior year (1969 – w00t!). I’d just broken up with my boyfriend which caused all kinds of teen-aged trauma – to the extreme. “If he kills himself, then I’ll kill myself…” “If you kill yourself, then I’ll kill myself…” “Well, if he kills himself and you and you kill yourselves then….” Shakespeare would’ve been proud. There was even speculation that the mass suicides would make the cover of Life magazine.

I ended up being grounded by my parents who, largely clueless, just couldn’t deal with the histrionics. I was to go to the graduation then straight home. All I remember was sitting there and watching one of the jocks walk up for his diploma and listening to the cheers. I have absolutely no recollection of making the walk myself. Our class was so huge, it’s entirely possible that we didn’t walk, that the only diplomas given out were to top students and the athletic stars. I later learned that my parents weren’t even there. They said they weren’t able to get in it was so crowded. I’ve never been convinced that was entirely true.

Just as I was never convinced my Dad was on a sales trip for work which caused him to miss my sixth grade graduation. But both parents were there for my college graduation – 1972. Many of us sported red arm bands worn in protest to the US bombings of Cambodia. I was also part of a small group who technically did not graduate until the end of the summer (I had some credits to, er, recover). We had to sit off to the side and were instructed not to stand for recognition at the end of the ceremony, nor were we to flip our tassels.

Well, I would have none of that. My inner rebel roused and I sent word down the row that we would stand and be recognized and we would most definitely flip our damn tassels. And that we did. The rest of the graduation weekend was spent packing and loading up my three years of college life. It was lonely, though. I was never part of any tight group of friends while there and and those groups were spending their time saying goodbye to each other and sharing those BFF moments.

So – I make the effort to get to the graduation ceremonies of the kids who’ve come through our program. I cheer and w00t for them – sometimes I’m the only one cheering. They all get cards and a hearty congratulations. My reward is the huge smiles and an occasional “Wow, you came to my graduation!”

If you’re ever in need of a little renewal, or are looking for a way to banish the blues, I highly recommend going to a high-school graduation ceremony. It’s certainly served me well as my own brand of B-12 spirit boost.

The young sailor stared at the picture on the mantle. “That’s the girl I’m going to marry,” he said. “Who is she?”

He was eventually introduced to her. Her name was Hazel Simpson, but everyone called her Suzy and she was no ordinary woman. She learned to fly at age seventeen and had rubbed elbows with the likes of Wiley Post and Will Rogers.

Defying the wishes of a strict father, she’d left home at a young age, co-piloting an aircraft cross-country to California. She was from a family of wealth, he of more humble beginnings. A small town lad, the sailor realized he had his work cut out for him if he was going to win the heart of Miss Simpson.

The young couple soon fell into a rhythm of earnest courtship, hitting up the the Trocadero in West Hollywood, or the Troc as it was more familiarly known. They didn’t often make it inside, finding themselves embroiled in conversation that would last for hours in the front seat of the sailor’s car.

The sailor’s ebullient charm and determination eventually won the heart and hand of Miss Simpson. She said yes to his proposal right before he shipped out to Honolulu and his post at Pearl Harbor.

The next time they would see each other, instead of the affable sailor she’d bid farewell to nearly two years pevious, she would greet the sober man who’d survived the horrors of the morning of December 7th, 1941.

She had concerns about this changed man to whom she was about to make a life time commitment, but she set those concerns aside, and in the Little Brown Church, as they called it, they were wed in the company of a few friends. A month later, he reported for duty on the newly commissioned escort carrier Liscome Bay.

Barely three months after that, in the wee hours of a south pacific morning, the sailor was struggling for his life as he shinnied up a searing steam-pipe moments after the carrier had been struck by torpedo.

He didn’t know how he made it off the ship. Less than half of the crew survived, he was one among them who’d been fished out of the pacific waters, severely burned and clinging to life by a thread.

On the mainland, the sailor’s young bride had been back on the job, working at Lockheed Vega designing the aircraft that would help to advance the country’s war efforts, when she got word her husband’s ship had gone down. There was no news, however, as to whether he survived.

After an agonizing wait, she finally got the news that he was in a hospital in Hawaii. Some time later, he was shipped home to recuperate.

He kept his commission, working a desk job after his recuperation, until shortly after the war ended.
—————————————–

It was those experiences, the coming of age during a time of war, facing its horrors, surviving what so many others didn’t – it was those experiences that served to define the character of the man who was my father.

Although those experiences irrevocably changed him, he never lost his optimism, never lost the spirit which made my mother fall in love with him. He was always reluctant to talk about those times, however it was always there, the backdrop to a life of devotion, unwavering duty and integrity.

Of course he wasn’t perfect, but even the finest gems are not unflawed. He kept his feelings tightly boxed, but he always had a story to tell and had a sense of humor as large as all outdoors.

It was that sense of humor that became our family’s hallmark and provided the bridge that carried us over, around and through our various dysfunctions. Laughter is the glue that bonds us.

Fiercely loyal and unforgiving of betrayal, he kept his vow to his war bride, weathering the storms of marriage and all of its twists and turns until he said farewell to his Suzy fifty-eight years later.

It’s now time to say farewell to him. His ninety years on this earth have left their mark. No-one who has ever met him will soon forget him. I am glad I got to be his daughter, glad for what he taught me and proud of the man he was.

Bye, daddy. I love you. You did your job well. Be at peace.