I’ve been thinking really hard about some tough decisions. I’m tired of being unhappy, tired of fighting when I have no fight left to give. I’m tired of hearing through the grapevine about things that I should know first hand, or that I would prefer not to know.

My life is in turmoil, and I sort of have control over that. Dare I say that I’m letting myself down, and along the way disappointing those that I love most.

Where do I begin? Where is this road going to take me? What have I got to lose? So many questions that only I can answer, but often times I’m afraid of the answers that are within me.

As I try to find my authentic self I’ve come to realize that the one that professes love for me secretly hates me, the real me. What’s left to this life? Dare I step out?


So I’ve heard it said …

When a cardinal appears on a cold, lonely winter’s day, it is a loved one from Heaven stopping to say “Hello.”

As I was fixing a cup of coffee I noticed this cardinal outside of my kitchen window. I stopped what I was doing and had a private conversation with the winged fellow, and then I finished my task, still, he was sitting in the winter brush of our crab apple bush.

Placing my coffee on my desk I went to the sliding glass door and still he sat upon that bush. I slowly got the camera, and he posed for his photo opportunity.

I uploaded the pictures that I took and just checked again, still he is there. I consider the horrendous few weeks that I have had, dealing with depression, winter blues, and insights that I wish I didn’t have to have to gain wisdom and I wonder, “Mom, is that you? Are you watching out for me?”

Of course, I will never know, but a prayer, a wish, and a hope can’t hurt.


No filters used, just a straight up shot of a cardinal in our crab apple bush.

B-B-Blizzard of 1983

A blizzard warning did nothing toward stopping Dad from taking us kids camping. The day was blustery and it was February 11, 1983; the weatherman was calling for Philadelphia’s worst snowfall, ever! They predicted about 24 inches of snow for the weekend, and we were going camping anyway.

Our motorhome shimmied under the pressure of blizzard winds, and I was riding shotgun as Dad maneuvered the gigantic machine through blinding snow. Mom had begged him not to go, to stay home, just this one weekend, but Dad didn’t want to let me down. This weekend, we had been looking forward to it since last month; he only had one weekend off a month and that was the weekend we looked for every month, because we knew that camping was on the agenda.

Dad hollered over the 8-track player, “Turn the music down, I need to concentrate.”

I reached over and ejected C.W. McCall’s tape. Straightening in my seat I had a flash of thought, maybe I should be wearing my seatbelt; the thought was followed by me seeming to suck all of the oxygen out of the motorhome in one quick gasp.

Before us was a bright yellow sign marking the end of the road, we had to go left or right, we weren’t going to make it in either direction. On Dad’s side of the road was a neon yellow Jeep Wrangler sliding, slipping, and trying to avoid crashing into us. The dense snowfall made brakes useless and I watched as the Jeep tore through drifts of snow and Dad turned the steering wheel this way and that to avoid the other vehicle.

I wanted to cry, but I knew a nine-year-old doesn’t cry over silly things like this, or do they!?

After what seemed to be hours of the vehicles dancing upon the road, both came to a halt, mere inches from making contact. Dad cursed, something we rarely heard, but his nervousness seemed to shut down his vocal filter. He stepped from the motorhome, as I finally strapped my seatbelt with an unfamiliar click. I felt safe, maybe a bit late, but safe.

Dad entered the motorhome through the back door and pulled a snow shovel out of the shower, and I slipped my hands into my gloves. Together, the Jeep driver, Dad and I dug through the drifts of heavy, wet snow to free the vehicles.

As we dug a State Police Trooper pulled up to us, his gumball light barely visible in the heavy snowfall.

“Is everything okay?” he questioned.

I stopped using my hands to shovel for a moment, realizing how badly they hurt I removed my soaked gloves; shoving my hands into my pants pockets.

Dad spoke, “Yeah, I just missed the entrance to Tohickon Campground a few miles back.”

By this time the vehicles were freed from the icy depths of Mother Nature, so I climbed into the warm confines of the motorhome.

The Trooper led us to the entrance of our favorite campground, where he walked up to the driver’s side window of our motorhome. “They’re all locked up,” he said, as if we couldn’t see that for ourselves.

“No problem,” Dad said as he reached into the glove compartment, “we have the combination to the lock.”

I watched in awe at the dexterity of Dad’s freezing hands as he quickly turned out the combination and unlocked the gate.

The Trooper could have left us there, but he wasn’t quite done being the kind of officer that should be well commended. “How about I drive you to your site and we can dig you into your parking spot?”

With ease we climbed into the officer’s warm car and drove to a site of my choosing. Once there, the officer and Dad dug a spot for us to wait out the Blizzard of 1983. When we were settled in we realized that we had nothing to do all weekend, except campfires and board games; just the way we liked it.


It has come to my attention that some feel that I have a ridiculous request on GoFundMe, mostly because I’m “rich” according to their thoughts.

Without throwing around figures I’m going to state some facts:

  • All of my family currently have medical bills that must be paid
  • Utilities, let me remind you that we DO NOT have cable or satellite, despite living in a rural community where television is inaccessible without these.
  • Food, we have to eat on occasion!
  • Clothing, because it is illegal to run around naked.
  • Air fare 3 to 4 times a year to visit with my dad, because he is 89 and I don’t know how long I will have him, and flying is safer and cheaper when traveling alone.
  • I am currently not working, due to extensive medical appointments, unfortunately, my day only has 24 hours in it.

Now, please, I invite you to go check out my GoFundMe Campaign, where you will note my request is listed under “wishes and dreams.” Clearly, my request is not a necessity, because those are my responsibility. I am merely asking for you to assist me with a tool that will make my life far simpler. As a mom, my requests are few and far between, but when I do ask, it has nothing to do with finances as much as I’m worth it. Every once in a while it is imperative to do something for one’s self, to show that we care, because if we don’t care, who will!?!?

If you still find my request ridiculous, then don’t donate. If you can’t spare a buck or two, then don’t donate. If you feel strongly that I’m begging, then don’t donate. Don’t stifle my wishes and dreams along the way, because you know damn well that you have them too.

Thanks to a Generous Donation

So, my husband didn’t have a bird over my GoFundMe Campaign, in fact, he seemed somewhat supportive.

Thanks to a dear friend and his generous donation I only need $53 to meet my goal of $128 for a smart pen.

As I push this campaign many are asking “What is a smart pen?” Well, for a writer it is a must have tool, or a college student, or a to-do lister, or a human! The one that I use is a Livescribe Echo 2GB, and it records what you write so that you can upload it to your computer at a later time. With your handwriting uploaded you can then click a button and transcribe everything into typed text. It also records audio as you take notes, and stores a dictionary right in the pen! It is amazing, and I’m kind of having withdraws from missing mine as I attempt to take notes and write my sequel to “Gloria’s Secret.”

So, if you have a few dollars to spare, a donation would be beyond appreciated. I don’t think even I can come up with the words to thank my previous donor, let alone others that help to support my wish of an easier task of writing massive amounts of notes!

Help, or not.

Have you ever imagined a man having a bird? I hear that saying often, “He’s gonna have a bird!” Yet, I have never seen it, but somethings are about to change. If my husband really does have a bird, I promise to video tape it to prove it is possible.

What’s he going to have a bird about? Well, I did something without discussing it with him, and here it is: GoFundMe. Yes, I started a whoa is me page, because I’m not in a position to borrow money at the moment, so I’m requesting donations to make my life a touch easier.

Maybe I’m desperate, maybe I’m a dreamer, but certainly, I could use some help. So, feel free to check out my GoFundMe page and see why my husband is going to have a bird.

Free Thinking

I don’t really know what I’m going to write today, I’m just going to go with this and see where it gets me.

I’ve been struggling a lot lately … running my daughter to countless doctor’s appointments, sometimes driving 65 miles one way three or four times a week to Grand Rapids. Don’t get me wrong, I love watching and helping her to heal, and I wouldn’t have things any other way … well, there is that one thing, that glaringly simple thing:

I NEED HELP. I have been looking for work, but can’t seem to find anything, and I believe the reason for that is that my daughter needs me more than I need the money. So, when I’m driving back and forth, I kind of, sort of feel like I ought to be getting some help with the house.

I’ll give my husband credit where it is due, most weeks he works 12 hours a day, 7 days a week. Yet, recently he has had quite a few days off and still, no one that is at home can figure out that dinner time is approaching and maybe someone should cook. Nope, that’s my job, because they all have work and school. They have days off to relax, according to them I get to relax every day.

With everything heaping on top of me I finally blow a gasket and I bitch. The reaction is that someone slips an anxiety pill into my medication box. Granted, they are prescribed to me, and they are for an as needed basis. There’s just one problem, anxiety pills don’t stop others from being assholes, it just stops me from being awake to realize that they are being assholes.

My house is cluttered, because “As a wife and mother, you are not doing your job.” Oh, wait, was that him that knocked an empty soda bottle on to the floor? Sure was, and did he pick it up? Oh hell no! Is that his underwear laying on the floor 12 inches from the hamper? Sure is. It’s been there for two days now … I better pick it up before I get accused of not doing my job. Or maybe I should just bitch about it and see if he slips another pill into my box.

There are a lot of things wrong here, some I can see, and some are secrets that I’m just figuring out, but no matter how I look at it, I am merely here to be dominated by his existence. To ask for anything requires me to lower myself to what I see as a state of begging. Such as; winter in Michigan is a real bitch without boots, gloves, etc., but I’ll be damned if I am going to beg for things that are clearly needed.