Family, Friendship, Uncategorized

Learning To Walk Through Grief


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Dearest Readers:

Exactly two weeks ago today, I had to say goodbye to sweet, precious almost 14-year-old Sir Shakespeare Hemingway. While writing this, tears gush from my eyes. How I miss that precious little mini-schnauzer, my best friend who loved for me to rub his ears.

If you’ve never had to make the decision to say goodbye to your precious four-legged friends, you might not understand the tsunami of tears I’ve shed, along with the aching break of my heart.

People say I’m too sensitive. Tender hearted. He’s just a dog. Get over it. To them, I say – you are not my friend. You do not understand. Shakespeare was truly a member of my family. We took walks together, until Prince Marmaduke Shamus passed away in 2012. I continued walking Shakespeare after losing Shamey-Pooh…just not on a regular basis.

That was my mistake. Selfish and painful. Each time I attempted to walk after his loss, I missed Shamus so much. Now that I’ve lost Shakespeare I still have four-legged friends. I will take them for walks, in memory of sweet Shakespeare Hemingway, my little “Shake n Bake,” and I will move on. I haven’t a clue when the tsunami of tears will leave. I still feel Shakespeare’s presence. The other night, I heard a sigh. His spirit was here.

Earlier today, I felt something touch my leg, just like Shakespeare would do. Another tsunami of tears, and I struggled to breathe. At home, I’m finding myself a bit short of breath, so today, I forced myself to go away for a bit. I went shopping, or maybe I should say window shopping. I dropped by Petco, bursting into tears again. I rushed back home. Lately, I’m a hermit, lounging all day in pajamas. Truly not the person I desire to be.

I know I must walk through the grief, just like I did with Shamey-Pooh. Now, the question is how to walk through the grief.

As a writer, I should know how to handle myself during grief. I’ve lost many loved ones, including my dad in 1999 after a terminal illness. Losing Shakespeare is different. He depended on me and he loved me unconditionally. We shared 13 beautiful years together. I am so thankful for that and for how he always greeted me when I came home from trips or work. Rushing to be first, he leaped towards me, barking with excitement and happiness. The last few months of his life, he didn’t respond unless I clapped my hands three times. There were many times he refused to eat for an entire day. In 2015, he weighed 27.5 pounds. On the day he left, his weight was 17.6, losing 10 pounds in less than two years.

Yes, I will ache. My heart will burst with this indescribable pain, and the tsunami of tears will gush from my eyes. Tomorrow, I must attempt to take steps to walk through this grief. I have a new leash to use for Shadow, my giant schnauzer. Perhaps tomorrow will be a good day to walk – In Memory of Sir Shakespeare Hemingway. How I love you and miss you!

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Family, Rescuing Schnauzers, Uncategorized

In Memory Of – Sir Shakespeare Hemingway


Dearest Readers:

This week has been such a dreadful, sad week for me. Why? Most of you who read my blog regularly will know what an advocate I am for animals. On Tuesday, March 7, 2017, our family had to say goodbye to precious, Sir Shakespeare Hemingway.

035Sir Shakespeare Hemingway, April 11, 2003 – March 7, 2017

Oh how I remember the day he was born, April 11, 2003. We received a phone call letting us know we could drop by at our convenience to select the puppy we wanted. Shakespeare was nicknamed at birth as Piglet, since he was the largest puppy. That evening, Phil and I drove to the home to look at the new puppies. I touched each pup, rubbing ears, and whispering gently to each. When I touched Shakespeare (Piglet) and rubbed his ear, he responded with a moan! I knew Piglet would be our puppy. I smiled, hugged him a bit and said, “This is our pup. Hello Shakespeare Hemingway.”

Everyone laughed. “His name is a big as he is,” their young daughter said. “In six weeks you can take him home.”

I was so excited. I counted down the weeks, recording them in my calendar. On May 23, 2003, Shakespeare came home with us. He curled his little body on my chest and went to sleep as I rubbed his ears.

Whenever he got upset, felt badly or just wanted a bit of affection, he would come to me wanting me to rub his ears. He became close friends with our oldest giant schnauzer, Prince Marmaduke Shamus. They romped and played outside, enjoyed boat rides and walks. Shakespeare LOVED walking. Whenever he passed by the area where the leashes hung, he would jump up and hit a leash, as if to say, “Hey Mom. It’s time for us to take a walk.”

Walking continued until we lost Shamus on May 2, 2012. Shakespeare loved being leader of the pack. He rushed ahead every time we walked. Over the years, Shakespeare loved to cuddle on my hip in bed. If I asked him to move so I could sleep, he groaned and when I fell back to sleep, he attached to me again.

Growing into a husky, mini-schnauzer size, Shakespeare loved to eat. At dinner time, he would stand under our kitchen table, knowing we would not allow him to beg for food, but he was nearby IF we gave him a bite. He grew to be 30 pounds. Once, while at his wellness check-up, our veterinarian suggested we cut back on his food a bit and give him green beans.

“Oh…He loves green beans!”

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Our giant – Prince Marmaduke Shamus, lived with us from June 11,. 2001 – May 2, 2012

and Shakespeare, enjoying a walk

Every day with Shakespeare was a new experience. He would jump up to play, run around to play chase, and at Christmas time, he sniffed all the gifts until he found the gift wrapped doggie cookies. When he found it, he tore the gift wrap and chewed down, eating all of the cookies. When it was empty, he carried the empty container to me, as if to say, “May I have some more!” Every crumb was gone!

A few years ago, maybe in 2008, I started singing again. One morning, I was so wrapped up with a song, I didn’t notice Shakespeare until he tapped me with his paw. He was sitting up, listening to me singing, as if I was only singing to him. So, I sat down next to him and sang. When my husband came into the room, he watched us and said, “See, Shakespeare loves to hear you sing.”

Every time I sang after that day, I made certain to sing to Shakespeare.

We were bonded as one. Wherever I would go, Shakespeare wanted to go. When I went outside to enjoy the sunshine and work on my tan, Shakespeare followed. He would lie next to me on the ground, or he would jump on my chest. Silly boy!

He was independent. Charming. Trusting. Affectionate, and so funny! Shakespeare loved to spend time at home; however, when we left him in the breakfast room with the other dogs, if we failed to leave a light on and we arrived home in the dark, we could hear Shakespeare chewing us out as soon as we got out of the car. He would yelp at his highest pitch, as if he was saying to us: “How dare you to leave me in the dark. You know I don’t like the dark, and even if I am resting with the other dogs, I do not feel safe in the dark. DON’T LEAVE ME IN THE DARK AGAIN!”

I found a small vanity lamp, placing it in the breakfast room. Shakespeare would not be left in the dark again!

Approaching his senior years, he began losing weight, even though he was eating. The vets said he was OK. In 2015, his wellness check-up revealed he had lost a bit of weight. Even though he was husky, he was healthy. In September, 2016, after he was groomed, I noticed he was getting thin. In November, he would not eat occasionally. He didn’t want treats, nor did he want to play with Prince Midnight Shadow.

We cuddled a lot. His favorite spot was to be cuddled in a ball, next to my feet while I wrote. Often, I would touch him and rub him with my foot, and he moaned.

Two weeks ago, I noticed when he went outside to pee, he squatted. He could not lift his rear legs and when I picked him up, sometimes he would yelp. Shakespeare was quickly fading away.

I remembered when Shamus got so ill in May 2012. His wellness check-up was in February. He got a good report. All was fine. Everything changed in May. He would lie on the floor, his breathing was a bit too rapid and he flopped down on the ground after being outside. His stomach was puffy. I called the vet. That afternoon, I was totally unprepared for what we needed to do. I thought Shamus had another stomach blockage, only this time, it was much worse. He was bleeding internally. The vet suspected a tumor on his spleen but the x-rays could not reveal what was so wrong since there was so much blood. The vet looked at me. “I think it’s time to let him go,” she said. “If I do a blood transfusion and surgery, he will probably bleed out.”

How could I make that decision?  I phoned my husband. He rushed to my side, and we agreed that since he was terminal, letting him go would be the only humane thing to do. And so we said our goodbyes. Before the first injection, I sang to him. Choking and almost hysterical, my voice trembled. “I love you, Shamus. I love you so much my precious Shamey-Pooh.” I did not stay with him for the final injection. How I wish I did.

Since November, I’ve debated a thousand times to myself about making that same decision for Shakespeare, my little “Shake n Bake.” I watched him losing more weight. Not eating at times, and walking around only when he had to. Occasionally, he would play with Shadow, the giant we rescued six weeks after losing Shamey-Pooh. I told myself IF he goes without food for two days, it was time.

I knew Shakespeare needed to go to the vet, but I was horrified that I would hear again those horrifying words, “I think it’s time to let him go.”

I wasn’t ready! How could I make that decision again? If it was time to say goodbye to Shakespeare, I did not want to make that decision. In November, I made lists of the pros and cons for Shakespeare. Yes, he occasionally played with Shadow. Yes, he ate – just not every day. I realized he was getting thinner. And thinner.

On Tuesday, March 7, 2017, I could feel all of his ribs and his backbone. He would not eat. He didn’t eat on Monday either. It had been two days since he ate anything.

I made another list:

Is Shakespeare eating? Not on a regular basis.

Was he drinking water? Although I watched him, he didn’t appear to walk towards the water bowl.

Is he walking?  Did he get up to go outside? Only IF I coaxed him to go. He wasn’t interested in walking, even if I shook the leashes.

He was a bit hard of hearing and when he went outside, he would not come inside unless he heard me clapping my hands. When he did, he would slowly get up from his corner of the fence and come inside. Sometimes, he flopped down and I would get him. Although he did not like to be picked up, I realized I was carrying him more than he was walking.

Is he playing?  No. He would not play with me, or with Shadow. All he wanted to do was to flop down and sleep.

Was he enjoying anything? No. Not even a treat.

Did he stand at the gate by the kitchen watching me cook? No. Not now.

Tuesday morning, I came to the reality it was time — time to let Shakespeare go home.

“But he is at home,” I argued with myself.

The truth was he was shutting down. He was letting go. He was in pain and he was miserable.

I spoke with him, brushing his fur back so I could see his eyes. His eyes were glassy and lifeless.

I called the vet, telling them we thought it was time to let Shakespeare go, but I wanted to see the vet, have him check him over and let me know what he would do, if this was his family member.

My vet has a wonderful demeanor with animals. He greeted Shakespeare and checked him over. A few minutes later he said he suspected Shakespeare was in kidney failure. He wasn’t eating properly and was almost anorexic. He was basically lifeless. Probably lingering on because of us.

Then the vet shocked me, telling me that he had to make the same decision in February and allow his mutt to die with dignity.

Although I realized we were making the same decision, my heart is so broken I cannot stop the tears. A tsunami of tears rushes at me and I cannot fight back. I feel such emptiness. I’ve only slept a few hours every night since we lost Shakespeare. I feel guilt, and I have doubts that we made the right decision. While I rested yesterday morning, I felt something touch my hip. I placed my hand there to rub Shakespeare, only to realize he wasn’t there. Maybe his spirit was connecting with me.

Sudden thoughts entered my mind. Shakespeare was communicating with me. He told me he appreciated the loving home we gave him, and he appreciated that we were letting him go with dignity. He reminded me that he will always be with us in spirit, just like Shamus. He said he could move easier now, but he did miss us. He wanted to know if we could welcome him as a spirit. I patted my hip, talking to him, letting him know we still loved him and we missed him, but we were happy he wanted to return in spirit form. Yesterday afternoon, I heard Shakespeare barking. This morning, I imagined him snoring, and I moved my leg to touch him, only he wasn’t there.

Yes, I miss him, and while writing this another tsunami of tears attack me once again. Deep inside, I know I must go on. Now we have four dogs as family members. I am certain one day, I will probably adopt a rescue, but for now, I will focus on the needs of Shadow, Hank, Sandy Bear and Toby. Believe me, they expect a lot of attention.

Rest in peace my dear, precious Sir Shakespeare Hemingway. Run and play with Prince Marmaduke Shamus and please remain the spirit I so desperately need. You are resting on our mantle, next to Shamus. I love you and will always love you, my silly, Adorable Shake n Bake!

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Shakespeare, as a puppy, playing with his favorite toy.

Chattahoochee Child, Family, Uncategorized

Chattahoochee Child – Excerpt


Over the years, the expression “Blood is thicker than water,” gave me a new understanding about that fictitious statement. If the blood within my family circle as a child was thicker than water, I recognized our biological blood never existed.

            Savannah, my disabled sister, was always described as the least attractive and illiterate family member. When she was born, she was diagnosed with Symbrachydactyly, a condition referred to as webbed fingers. As she grew older, she found ways to use the condition to her advantage. Her right thumb refused to grow. Kids at school laughed at her and I was reminded not to hit her, or mistreat her because she was the damaged baby of our home. She would not reach the growth stature of other family members, and she would always suffer due to her disability. Violence wasn’t in my nature, so I never hit or shoved Savannah. On the other hand, Savannah learned to push, slap and shove me, simply because she was damaged goods, and she knew she could get away with any misbehavior, even though she was the oldest, not the baby.

            When she was a teenager, she excused her cruel, violent behaviors due to her not liking me and her little, undeveloped thumb.

            “You always think you’re prettier and better than me,” she spat.

            Smug inside myself, I laughed. “That’s where you’re mistaken, Savannah.”

            Pausing, I waited for her attack. “I don’t think I’m prettier than you, or better than you. I KNOW I’m both. I’m more popular than you with the boys and I have more friends. My grades in school are much better than your grades. So, dear sister – you are dead wrong about me!”

            Yes, I could’ve lowered my standards to her level and reminded her she was a bit ‘afflicted’ due to her ‘disabilities’ but I chose not to be the damaged goods falling from the apple tree.

            Now, as an adult, Savannah practiced violence constantly. When I visited, she looked at me, smug and ugly. “You still think you’re so much better than me. Look at you. Dressed in high heels and fine clothes. Just who the Hell do you think you are?”

            Choosing to ignore her, I walked away. She rushed after me, hitting me with a ruler on my back. I spun around.

            “I could do some real damage to you, Savannah, with my high heels. You do realize high heels are a good weapon. If you hit me again, I’ll call the police. I’ll have you arrested. I’ll not lower my standards to violence even though we grew up in a violent home. Obviously, you chose to walk in your mother’s shoes.”

            “Bitch. I can do whatever I want. I’m your sister.”

            “Blood only,” I spat. “You’re nothing to me.”

            Our mother met us at the door. “Just why did you come home to start fighting with your sister?” She asked.

            “I came home to make peace, not argue with her, or with you. She started this attack, not me. Obviously we can never make peace. Every time I see Savannah all she wants to do is to fight with me. I am nothing like either of you. I chose to break the mold.”

            I spun on my heels and headed to the door. Savannah rushed ahead of me.

            “Bitch. You’re not leaving until I’m done with you.” Her hand brushed my face hard, stinging like a fire or a bee sting. She shoved me, knocking me down.

            Gracefully, I stood up, brushing the dust and filth from my clothing. I smiled. “I’m leaving now. If you hit me again, I’ll call the cops.”

            “Bitch. You ain’t calling no body.”

            I pushed her away, rushing out the door.

My mother rushed to me. “I guess you’re leaving now.”

Curling my lips with a self-assured smile, I whispered. “I am leaving. I’m done with all of you. You’ll never hear from me again.”

            “Before you leave, could you give me some money? I need to buy some groceries.”

            I shook my head. “Mother, you are absolutely an unbelievable human being. I’ll not give you anything ever again. Goodbye.”

            I rushed to my car. Driving away I refused to look back, or to wave bye to the biological family I refused to become.

Chattahoochee Child, Domestic Abuse, Family, Uncategorized

Domestic Abuse — “A Family Matter”


Dearest Readers:

Below is an excerpt from “Chattahoochee Child.”

A FAMILY MATTER…

Domestic Violence…Domestic Abuse… Regardless what it is called, it is truly a vicious monster. A wild, destructive monster that roars with such anger and turbulence I vowed never to allow it to knock at my door as a grown up. There were times I felt domestic violence knocking at my door, especially whenever Garrett felt threatened by his green eyed monster of jealousy. At times I was horrified of my husband, especially on one occasion when we were fighting most of the day. He was in one of his PTSD rages, shouting at me, raising his fist, threatening, and when his anger got the best of him, he thrust his fist through the doorway of the hall. I jumped back.

“Was that directed at me?” I asked him, rubbing my face.

He smirked. “No. I’d never hit you.”

I raised a manicured finger at him. “If you ever hit me, our marriage will end. IMMEDIATELY. Domestic violence is something I will never forgive.”

Garrett rubbed his fist. “Whatever,” he said, walking away.

In my marriage I was blind sighted to domestic violence. I made excuses. He didn’t mean to swing at me. He didn’t mean to squeeze my arm so tightly, he left a bruise. I smiled at the wrong person. Garrett just doesn’t understand. I LOVE getting attention. He will never hurt me. It’s because he loves me so much… Always forgiving Garrett’s jealous rages, I tolerated his verbal abuse. Excusing his quick, hot temper as another rage from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I apologized for making him angry. Whenever men looked my way, I quickly glanced away. I did not want Garrett to lose his temper, or shout at me. I closed myself inside my home, afraid that if he called and I wasn’t home, he would retaliate with another shouting match.

Domestic violence I knew much about as a child, although at the time it did not have the title of domestic abuse or violence. It was labeled a “family matter…” It’s just the way marriage is… Shunned…Never mentioned. Ignored! As a married woman, never did I consider that my husband might become violent, and on the day that he thrust his fist through the door, I felt the fear that a victim of domestic violence fears and I promised myself that I would not become the next victim.

At the age of five-years-old, I saw domestic violence for the first time. My mother was outside, gossiping with neighborhood women at Joel Chandler Harris Homes in Atlanta, Georgia. I was inside our apartment playing with my doll babies when I heard my daddy shouting, calling in a harsh voice for my mother. I screamed at him, “Daddy, she’s outside talking to the neighbors.”

“Go get her.” My daddy demanded.

I rushed outside. “Mommy. Daddy wants you inside.”

My mother laughed. “He can come get me,” she said. One of the five women she was gossiping with snickered. “Guess you better get inside. Gotta keep the ruler of the house happy!” All of the women roared in unison.

Living in a housing project, the women were not exactly the Donna Reed style of women, dressed in fine clothing and high heels. My mother wore bed room slippers and a dirty housecoat. No makeup or lipstick. Two of the women were dressed in raggedy jeans and T-shirts. Their hair was messy and they smelled like dirty ashtrays. I decided on that date that I would always do my best to look my best – to groom myself like a woman and wear makeup and have my hair styled. Never did I want to be ‘frumpy’ or a plain Jane.

“Mommy,” I said, my voice rising a bit. “Daddy’s gonna get angry.”

The back door closed. My daddy rushed outside, waving his fist, shouting.

“Sa-rah!” He roared. “You get in here now.”

My mother did not move. Daddy rushed to her, grabbing her arm. She pushed away from him and he shoved her, knocking her to the ground where she hit her forehead on the concrete curb. The metal trash cans by her fell over. I saw blood on my mother’s forehead. Daddy grabbed her arm. “You get up…Now.” He barked.

My mother struggled to get up. I reached to help her. I touched her forehead. “Are you, Ok, Mommy?”

I stood between my parents, my arms crossed tightly in front of me, daring my daddy to reach for her again. “Daddy, don’t you ever do that again!”

My mother glared at me. “Hush, child.”

Daddy stomped back inside. Never did he show any concern for my mother. Mommy followed. The women standing nearby snickered amongst themselves and I realized I was the only one who came to my mother’s rescue. No one cared. Domestic violence was a family matter at that time. Everyone looked away, with exception of me.

One of the women turned to move away, whispering something about a family matter while exhaling smoke from her mouth. I didn’t understand her words, but I did know I didn’t like any of these shabbily dressed women, and I hoped that woman would choke on her cigarette smoke. I wanted to shout at them, asking why they didn’t help my mama. After all, I was a small child. Too young to help, too young to have any rights or say-so. I decided these women were nothing but trouble! ‘Poor white trash,’ I thought to myself…’Nothing but white trash!’ I followed the blood trail from my mother’s forehead back to our apartment.

After Mommy got inside, I got her a cold washcloth, placing it on her forehead.

She rested on the tattered sofa of our apartment, blood still pouring from her forehead. I brought her another washcloth.

“Get me a butter knife,” my mama screamed. I rushed to the kitchen. She placed the cold blade of the butter knife on her forehead.

“Don’t cut yourself, Mama. Please. You’re still bleeding.”

“The butter knife will make the swelling go down.”

That night when I said my nightly prayers, I prayed that my mama would be all right, and I ask God to make my daddy stop hitting and knocking my mother around. After my prayers, I made a promise to myself that I would never allow any man to ever hit me, or knock me down, like my daddy knocked my mother down. At the age of five-years-old, I became the referee to my parents.

Ten years later, I served as the referee for the final time… Arriving home from Russell High School in Atlanta, I rushed inside; anxious to tell my parents I had the lead in a play at school. I knocked on my parent’s door. No answer. I rushed to my room. A voice inside my head encouraged me to go back to my parent’s door. I knocked again. I heard the shuffling of feet, and a slap. I opened the door. My mother was standing hunched over, blue in the face, gasping for breath. A handprint was on the side of her face.

“What’s going on in here?” I asked. My mother was getting weaker. I rushed to her side. My dad stood by the bed, cursing and throwing mail at me.

“She’s made all these damned bills. They’re garnishing my wages. I can’t afford this. To Hell with her.”

Moving my mother to a chair, I sat her down and moved closer to my dad. “Don’t you ever hit her again? Do you hear me, Daddy? I’ve watched you over and over again hitting my mother, and I’ve watched her hitting you, but this has got to stop! One of you needs to leave this house and marriage. One of you needs to leave before someone gets killed.”

The next day, I rushed home from school, horrified I would find my parents fighting again. My mother was sitting on the couch with tissues in her hand.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

My mother threw a tattered pillow in my direction.

“I hope to hell you’re happy now,” she shouted. “Because of you your daddy left me today. It’s all your fault. He’s divorcing me. I hope you’re really proud of yourself, you stupid girl.”

“How is it my fault? Yesterday, he was beating you. You said you hated him. You called him words a child should not say. All I did was make him stop beating you.”

“That ain’t all you said. You told him to leave, and he did. He came home this morning. Packed up his things and moved out. It’s all your fault. You ain’t never to say his name inside this house again. Do you hear me, child? Never! Your daddy is dead. DEAD. Dead. DEAD! It’s all because of you. We’re moving from Atlanta, and I never want to see that bastard again. NEVER!”

“Where are we going, Mama?” I cried, tears rushing down my face.

“We’re moving to Columbus, to the mill village. We’re gonna live with your grandparents now. I hope you’re happy.”

I was heartbroken. I would not get to be in the play, or have the lead. I would not sing on stage. All of my hopes and dreams were vanishing.

Years later, I became an advocate for domestic violence. I was thankful when laws against domestic violence became a crime and I was thankful that I did not have to be the referee between my parents anymore. In their later years, I became their caregiver, serving as a parent to my abusive, cruel parents.

After their divorce, my dad became a new man. Kinder. Happier. Religious and gentle. I received birthday gifts on birthdays and Dad and I bonded as a father and daughter. Never did we discuss domestic abuse. We focused on happy times. The birth of my child. The home Garrett and I bought in South Carolina. Our strong, happy relationship as father and daughter. Before his death in 1999, we were closer than ever. Dad was fun to be around. Never did he show any anger or hostility at my mother. Reborn inside the body and mind of my father was a man easy to love. So different. So kind. So caring.

My mother? Slowly, she became outraged. Violent. Bi-polar. She died a questionable death after suffering a stroke. The one concern from my youngest sister on the day after her death was, and I quote, “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?”

My youngest sister spent the night at the hospital with our mother on the night of her death. Suppose I’ll let this story decide if an autopsy was necessary, although I suspect an autopsy should’ve been completed – to discover the true reason our mother happened to die on the one and only night my youngest sister chose to spend the night at the hospital. Interesting?

And so – now I am developing the poignant story of “Chattahoochee Child.”

Family Matters…Oh how they matter!

Domestic Abuse, Election Day, Family, President Donald J. Trump, Uncategorized

Hatred…Negative Thoughts…Enough Of This…


Dearest Readers:

Have any of you noticed all of the hatred on your social media sites lately? Apparently, Facebook is filled with it now. Let’s don’t even discuss Twitter, etc. I’m simply not interested. I have a Twitter account, but I do not do all of the #######.??

Years ago, I was the Type A Personality. Always anxious, competitive and just a bit impatient, I strived to take over a room whenever I walked in. Yes, I still have the personality of someone who enjoys attention and loves to be noticed; however, after watching my father battle esophageal cancer during 1997-1999, I learned to appreciate life — regardless what it throws my way.

Although I still LOVE to be on stage, and to be noticed, it doesn’t matter to me if others decide they do not like me, nor do they want to be friends with me.

My philosophy now is simple. If you don’t like me, or want to be around me — as a LOYAL friend, I consider it your loss, not mine. A bit presumptuous, but – this is my life. I know who I am, and what I am. It doesn’t matter to me if you choose to look the other way or socialize with me. I’m not a game player, nor am I a gossip.

If you are reading this, you probably are familiar with the current events, along with the hatred spilling out of so many people’s mouths. Discussions of President Donald J. Trump. Discussions of wanting Obama back??? Really??? Sorry. America needs to move forward, not backwards! We MUST make America Great again!

Personally, I like President Trump’s style. He does things His Way!

There are many hateful discussions about immigration, and dare I say it, illegal immigrants? A few weeks ago, my nail technician stated he did not have a green card. My question to him was – how do you work here — a corporate discount store — and earn money when you do not have a green card?

He smiled, refusing to answer. Maybe I don’t want to know how he does this!

I suppose I’m just a bit too honest. I’ve never been known to lie with a straight face. My eyes reveal EVERYTHING about me, so I could not be ‘illegal.’ I believe that all of us in America were once immigrants. Our heritage reveals this. My heritage traces back to the 1600’s in England. My family has lived in America for generations, so being illegal isn’t something I truly understand.

Please understand. I am not saying those who have crossed over the border are not legal, but there are many, many illegals running around our country, and I fully believe they need to walk the walk…talk the talk that most Americans do. I do not believe in working without paying your share of taxes — just like we do, nor do I believe in getting a free lunch, or free life. I’ve known many who have abused the privilege to live in America. That is a shame.

I am proud to be an American citizen, and I’m proud to be considered middle class. How I would love to be rich, but that isn’t in my heritage, and so my husband and I continue to work to take care of ourselves. No one has ever given us a free lunch, or a free lifestyle. Everything we have and everything we’ve earned has been from working hard and being responsible.

I’ve decided to take a break again from social media sites, especially Facebook. Yes, this post will be on my Facebook page. If you don’t want to read, simply move on!

There appears to be such hatred now on these sites. People disagreeing…writing in CAPS, as if they are shouting. People who think their opinions are the only opinions we should agree with. PLEASE. Grow up! Negative thoughts equal negativity. I’m not a negative person. Honest? Yes. Opinionated? Yes. At times!

So for now, to those who follow me, I will be posting more on my website/blog. I will be writing on my book, and I will be taking a much-needed break from negativity to enjoy life. I pray for our new President, Donald J. Trump. I must say, when he revealed he would run for President, I laughed, thinking he was just a bit eccentric and arrogant. I remember saying to my friends I would never vote for him.

Never say Never!

Just from my perspective, I think he’s doing a great job. Yes, some people find him arrogant, and at times, he is; nevertheless, I admire him and his tenacity. We must step back and see what all he accomplishes within his ‘first 100 days.’

I must say, the more I learn about Melania Trump, the more I believe she is a true and classy lady. She knows how to move, how to speak and how to make an impression. Yes, she’s made a few mistakes along the way. Haven’t we all? I certainly have! The beauty of making mistakes is if you do not learn from your mistakes, then there’s a problem.

I imagine I’ll get a bit of a backlash from many readers, just like a recent question I asked on Facebook created a few ugly comments. Someone called me negative? Imagine that! All he wanted to do is fight on Facebook. I basically told him to get a life and move on!

No, I’m not a negative person. I am intense. A bit opinionated, but willing to open my eyes and heart to hear the comments of others. I am a positive person. Willing and able to reach out to others. In a disagreement, I am the first to apologize — unless, I truly believe in the issues of the disagreement. Then, I stand my ground! I believe in Civil Rights. I believe in Women’s Rights, and no, I was not one of those wearing those, shall I say, interesting(??) ugly pink costumes around their necks and bodies during the Women’s Rights Walks. I found that offensive! Somethings in life should be kept private! I was a feminist. Not certain I am now, since I do not advertise on my body!

I debated if I wanted to walk in the Charleston walk, but something kept me back. I was busy on that day, and after seeing a few of the photos, I was happy to remain at home. Still, I am an advocate for women’s rights, animal rights, children’s rights, and I will stand tall and speak up, and sometimes stop a domestic dispute between women and men. I do not believe, nor do I promote violence of any type. If someone uses the “F” bomb around me, I interrupt – nicely, letting them know I find their language offensive.

I’ve been called a prude. According to Webster’s Dictionary, a prude is:  “a person who is excessively or priggishly attentive to propriety or decorum; especially : a woman who shows or affects extreme modesty.” Yes, I am a bit modest, at times, but I certainly enjoy being a woman, and acting/behaving like a lady, and I can dress up or glam up with the best of them!

I’ve been described as Pollyanna: Merriam Webster describes Pollyanna as: “Someone who thinks good things will always happen and finds something good in everything.”

Nope. A Pollyanna I shall never become. I do look on the positive side of life, and I do not like to argue; nevertheless, I do not always find ‘something good in everything.’ Life can be a challenge sometimes. It is how we cope and move forward that makes us good humans. Good citizens. Good neighbors, friends and extended family members.

Also, I’ve been called a snob. Imagine that! And here we go again. According to Merriam Webster Dictionary, a snob is: “Someone who tends to criticize, reject, or ignore people who come from a lower social class, and may have less education.” Oh please. Believe me, I am not a snob. Growing up in the projects, and in the mill towns, who was, or am I, to criticize others? I do not criticize others, or reject those from a lower class. When in a social setting, I sit back, watching others, and do not think I do not see them looking at me, then cupping their hands to the other women sitting around. Sometimes, from their actions, I know they are talking about me because I do not sit with them. I do not participate in their “Chatty” “Gossipy” ways. I enjoy being a Lady! Simple put, I know who are my friends, and I certainly know who isn’t a friend. And so I keep my distance. Let them talk. They’ve just lost the best friend they would’ve had.

I do not hate. I do not feed negative thoughts. I live my life — MY WAY!

 

 

 

 

 

Family, Uncategorized

In Memory of My Father On His Birthday In Heaven…


IMG_0572THE PERKINS TWINS

 

Lewis and Walter – Identical Twins

Separated by death at age 26;

Reunited with God’s love at 84.

Holding the gates to Heaven’s Door.

Missing and Loving you both —

Walter’s Daughter – Barbara

Strolling in Memories Gardens

  WALTER W. PERKINS

Mr. Sandpiper, 1998

 

Born an identical twin on December 19, 1914, Walter W. Perkins will soon celebrate his 84th birthday and he is the only surviving family member left of his generation.  His identical twin brother was named Lewis.  The Perkins Family included a total of six siblings, three boys, and three girls.  Growing up as twins (Lewis and Walter) shared more than most siblings and they were inseparable — virtually impossible to tell apart.   Known as The Perkins Twins, they sang harmonically in church choirs while preaching the gospel.  They traveled to many cities, touring as The Perkins Twins and found this to be their calling in life; however, their future together, billed as The Perkins Twins, was short-lived.  Lewis became ill at the age of 26 and died suddenly.

 

Because he loves meeting people and does it so well, Dad chose the hotel industry for his profession while pursuing his dream as a writer and poet.  In the early 1960’s he wrote a poem titled, Living Words, based somewhat on Sir Winston Churchill.  Living Words was published and today is on display at the Winston Churchill Museum.  At the age of 65, Dad retired from the Rodeway Inn, Atlanta, GA.  He is divorced and the father of four daughters.  Before becoming ill, he lived at the Canterbury House in downtown Charleston and took daily strolls for relaxation.

 

Dad is a tall and proud man and he can recite poetry like a Shakespearean actor.  He is a lover of words and can paint a magnificent poetic picture while he recites the historical stories and events of times past.  An avid sports buff, he knows almost every popular football or baseball star by name, position and statistic and he can tell many interesting stories about sports, especially baseball.  If you do not care for sports, you will learn to find it an interesting fascination, just by listening to the stories Dad shares.

 

Dad has always loved the magic of words, and as a young man, he wished to make the family tradition of journal writing part of his daily activities.  He has an impressive collection of family diaries and his daily ritual includes writing the days events in his personal diary.  He started this ritual many years ago and has quite an invaluable collection of diaries.  He has researched our family genealogy, dating us back to the early 1600’s.  One impressive member of our family (distant but still very special) is the late Diana, Princess of Wales.  Our heritage dates back to the Spencer Family.

 

Today, Dad still believes in rituals and he records special things in his journal of diaries.  From historical moments, to births, deaths, marriages, and yes, even the sad times, are recorded as part of the Perkins History.  Significant events are recorded in “Strolling in Memories Gardens.”

 

As a father, he instilled many beliefs in me and I am proud to call him Dad!  He taught me to look inside of a person, to see the inner beauty and not just the face or the smile.  He encouraged me to believe in myself and to always “make it a good day!”  He has lived a wonderful and proud life and I have never been more proud of him than I have during this year.  Walter W. Perkins is truly my bright and shining star, my beautiful aromatic rose, and he is the most loyal and dedicated father, family and friend I have ever known!

 

 

Barbie Perkins-Cooper

December 19, 1998

 

Introduction

by

Barbie Perkins-Cooper

 

 

As a child, I could not understand the passion my dad, Walter W. Perkins, held for the study of genealogy.  I recall thinking and saying, who cares what happened in 1492 when Columbus discovered the ocean of blue…I wasn’t here!  How innocent and non-chalant I was!  Now, as a grown woman with a life, family and history of my own, I have grown to realize how cherished our family ancestry and heritage is.  After all, without the archives of those precious lives and the history contained within, we could not begin to understand what we are, or who we are.  Without our heritage, along with the records of our ancestors, we could not begin to grow or develop ourselves into the people that we are today.  We have much to thank our ancestors and mothers, fathers and siblings for; and I am proud of them and all the stories they lived.  As I continue to dig through the mounds of paperwork and history I am sifting through, I am amazed at the stories of these people.  I thank my father, Walter W. Perkins, for collecting all this material; and I compile it with warmth in my heart, knowing that on his 84th birthday, he will know how proud I am to compile this information in an enjoyable read for the future Perkins Family Tree.  Most of all, he will finally be able to understand how proud I am to be a descendant of the Perkins Family, along with his second born daughter!

 

Barbie Perkins-Cooper

November 30, 1998

entertainment, Family, Holidays, Uncategorized

Reflections on Thanksgiving


Dearest Readers:

Today is Tuesday, November 22, 2016. Two days before Thanksgiving. Today, I would like to reflect on the holiday of Thanksgiving.

As a young girl, my family of four girls, a father and mother, would celebrate Thanksgiving with our maternal grandparents. My father would either work, or celebrate with his mother until her death. Every Thanksgiving we were a family; unfortunately, extremely dysfunctional but together. My maternal grandmother did the cooking. I helped. Never could I make homemade biscuits like my grandmother, although I tried. I’ve decided the only dessert I can make from scratch are cookies and cake. Forget the biscuits, or the dinner rolls I attempted a few weeks ago. I used a ‘foolproof’ recipe. Foolproof, alright…definitely did not work for me. I baked those rolls in anticipation of having homemade dinner rolls for Thanksgiving. Tasting one after they baked, I decided the only way to enjoy these rolls was to toss them into the trash! Mission accomplished! My foolproof recipe certainly fooled me! If I serve rolls (and I doubt I do) they will be store-bought, not made from my hands!

After marriage, I made the Thanksgiving dinner at our home. By now, my mother and I were estranged. Twice, I attempted to have Thanksgiving dinner at my mother’s house, or apartment, wherever she lived at that time. My mother moved lots. Never was there a place for me to call home with her.  Both times, we had dinner together, we had words. Not kind words. Just words. She always wanted to tell me what to do. How to treat my husband…how to care for my child…how to live my life. She wanted me to walk in her shoes. I refused. After our last Thanksgiving together, I decided I would have Thanksgiving dinner at our home in Mt. Pleasant, SC. New traditions were made. My dad was invited to every Thanksgiving. For many years, he sat at the dinner table. His chair to the left of where I sat.

Although I didn’t think my dad noticed, every year our dinner table was sat for a formal occasion. Lace tablecloths on the table. Dinner napkins folded in a design. My finest china was used. The table was always dressed – formally. Forks to the left of the plate. Knives to the right.

Dad always said grace. We held hands while he prayed. On one occasion, he made the compliment to me: “Barbara. You really know how to cook and how to set a dining room table. I always look forward to dinners at your home.”

I was flabbergasted. Rarely did I get compliments from my parents.

On Thanksgiving, 2016, the table will be set for a formal occasion. My dad will not sit in his chair. Still reserved for him, I lost my dad on July 6, 1999. Our last Thanksgiving together, he struggled to swallow his food. How I miss him.

This year, my menu includes:

Roasted turkey breast

Mashed potatoes

sautéed green beans

Cornbread dressing

Macaroni and cheese

Gravy

Pineapple delight

Dessert:

Homemade Chocolate Pound Cake

Homemade Carrot Cake

Definitely not a Weight Watchers menu, but I will choose wisely. After all, this is Thanksgiving. A time to give thanks for life. Health. Happiness. Friendship. And many, many more moments of Thanksgiving.

No, I will not have my son, his wife or grandson at our dining room table. They have an open invitation to come, but somehow, it doesn’t happen. I really do not know IF my son celebrates Thanksgiving. I certainly hope he and his family do, but they are ‘busy with their lives…’ Oh, how they are missed!

To all of you reading this I wish you a joyous Happy Thanksgiving. If you are having dinner with your friends and family, remember to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. If they are doing or saying something you might not approve of, just breathe while giving Thanks you are together for this special occasion and holiday. Every year, I breathe while wishing my family could celebrate holidays together.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. If you have a loved one overseas in a combat, or military setting, pray for their safety. Happy Thanksgiving to all of us.

dsc_0005_edited

Carnival Ecstasy, Cruising, Family, Uncategorized

Cruising On The Carnival Ecstasy


Dearest Readers:

Now that we are home from the cruise [Carnival Ecstasy –September 3 – September 8, 2016] departing from Charleston, with stops at Half Moon Cay and Nassau, Bahamas, I realize there are times I still have sea legs. Earlier, while pouring a cup of coffee, my body swayed back and forth, just like the ship rocked while we were aboard. I laughed. Silly legs. Just keep moving!

Our cruise was booked about a year ago, perhaps longer. We reportedly won this cruise after listening to a time share pitch. Believe me, this was NOT a free cruise. After upgrading to an ocean view state room, paying the port fees, additional fees, this ‘free cruise’ cost us more than most people pay for cruises. Lessons Learned. Never attend another time share pitch!

Phil and I really needed this cruise. Quality time spent together after a dreadful, frightening summer where Phil had surgery on his left shoulder. Reverse shoulder replacement. Apparently a new procedure. The first surgery was May 31. While recuperating, he awoke one morning and his shoulder popped. We could feel the ball of the shoulder replacement extended out of place. We rushed to ER. After a long visit at Ralph H. Johnson VA Medical Center, the shoulder was popped back into place – a mild surgical procedure requiring anesthesia. The following day Phil returned home to recuperate. Recuperation was difficult. He fainted. And fainted…and FAINTED…so many times I’ve lost count. The man I stared at every morning had a face as white as a sheet. He moved in slow motion while he recuperated. The fainting spells continued, along with the visits to ER.

During the month of June, we visited ER seven times. In late June, still fainting at times, he visited the orthopedic surgeon for a post-op check-up. He complained about his left foot hurting. It was swollen. The doctor ordered an x-ray. The results of the x-ray revealed his left foot was fractured in several places. The news wasn’t encouraging for his shoulder either. X-rays revealed the shoulder replacement needed to be repeated – for the third time. On that occasion, we left the VA hospital with Phil’s foot wearing a boot and he was given a wheelchair. Two days later, Phil was admitted to the VA hospital with a surgery scheduled to re-do the reverse shoulder replacement.

To make a long story a bit short, my weakened husband tolerated a horrible experience during his recuperation. Filled with days of fainting and being told ‘he’s dehydrated.’ On the last occasion of his recurring fainting spells, I looked at the nurse and said: “If you tell me he is dehydrated again, I think I will scream. He’s drinking bottles and bottles of water!” She nodded at me. “He’s dehydrated; however, the doctors want to run some tests to see what is causing his dehydration.”

Because I nag Phil to drink water and I give him bottles of water to drink, he should not be dehydrated. A battery of tests was performed on him. All with good results. No heart issues. No brain issues. Apparently all of the medications he consumed [prescribed meds] were fighting with his body. We met with Pharmacology and other doctors. Suggestions were made to stop taking several medications.

About time!

By now, Phil has been away from work for almost three months. Gone were sick leave and vacation dates. We pinched pennies and tightened the family budget so we could survive financially. I am happy to report, Phil is back to work now and he appears to be getting stronger. Since the cruise was non-refundable, we chose to take the cruise and relax a bit. Neither of us cared to do all of the events a cruise ship offers. We wanted and desired some quality time without doctor’s appointments, visits to ER and other headaches we endured during his recovery.

Carnival Ecstasy Cruise Begins

And so – on September 3 – September 8, 2016, we cruised on the Carnival Ecstasy. This was our fourth cruise. Twice on Carnival including the Carnival Fantasy and now the Ecstasy. We’ve enjoyed Royal Caribbean and Norwegian cruises too, but this cruise was different for us. All I wanted to do was see my husband relax and get stronger. When he had his first surgery we were told he lost four units of blood during the procedure. No wonder he is still pale in the face and so exhausted.

Before we departed the Charleston Harbor I kissed Phil, telling him to relax and have a good time. Occasionally, we ordered drinks, although neither of us could be described as lushes or alcoholics. One thing I can share about cruise ships, they do believe in sharing and encouraging people to drink alcohol. In the mornings…afternoons…and evenings…there is a crew ready and waiting to take your drink orders. While I am not criticizing drinking cocktails or alcohol, beer, and wine, and I do occasionally enjoy a nice glass of wine or an occasional cocktail, early morning cocktails and hangovers are not something I wish to participate in. I confess. I’ve had one hangover in my adult life. I prayed to God that I would survive it, and If I did, I would never get that intoxicated again. I’ve kept that rule!

Curiosity About the Cruise

Since we are home now, I’ve had friends and acquaintances ask me about the cruise ship and if I met Rina Patel. They wanted to know if she was drunk. I have no clue. I did see her in the hallways and on the decks, but for me, it doesn’t matter if she was drinking. I am heartbroken that she either lost her balance or jumped. I still believe she lost her balance and fell. She was on the 11th deck. I cannot criticize someone I do not know. Earlier today someone posted a message for me on Facebook, asking for my personal opinion. “Did she fall, or did she jump?”

I deleted the message. What does matter is she is lost at sea. Three days ago, in the darkness of early morning, something happened to Ms. Patel. My heart breaks for the family. Someone wrote she had a husband, and other family members present on the cruise. In my honest opinion, I have no right to make an opinion. After all, I wasn’t present when she disappeared. When I heard the news at 3:08 am, my heart sank for a moment, wondering what happened. May God give her family strength and guidance during this dreadful time of the unknown.

People ask me what happened. All I know is this, I was sleeping when I heard the broadcast expressing something like this:

At 3:08am, Wednesday, September 7, 2016 – the intercom announced:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve had a report of a passenger going overboard.”

Additional information was shared, but no mention of the identification of the passenger overboard. Hearing this sad news, I threw the covers back and stood by the ocean view window. I prayed for the passenger and the family. I did not know if the passenger was male or female, and I prayed the passenger would be rescued. While looking out into the ocean, I felt the ocean waters churning in reverse. The ship was backing up. I’ve never felt or noticed a ship going in reverse. Truly an experience I never want to feel again. The waters rolled in a backward motion while Carnival Ecstasy shook almost brutally.

Standing at the window, I saw search lights lighting up the dark of night. Another announcement was broadcast: “Rina Patel please contact Guest Services.” I was curious why guest services would make such an announcement while many of the passengers were sleeping. Maybe Rina Patel is the passenger overboard. At 3:27 am, a lifeboat was lowered. Four crew members were in the boat. Another announcement repeated the message again. “Rina Patel please contact Guest Services.”

Just WHO is Rina Patel and why must she contact Guest Services at 3:27 in the early morning.

I can still see the rescue boat in the waters, moving around and around the area near our ocean view window. The ship appears to be anchored now. We are not moving, only shaking. This ship is trembling from the reality of a passenger overboard. Dear God, please let them find the passenger.

Search lights continue lighting the ocean waters. Ocean waters bubble in reverse, reminding me of boiling water in a pot. White foam dances around the ship as the ship continues shaking. I hear a telephone ringing, realizing it is the room next to us. I hear someone whispering into the phone, obviously, upset and I wonder – is the family of the missing passenger next door to us?

At 4:06am, Guest Services request Rina Patel to please contact guest services. The wheels of my brain are curious now. Obviously, this Rina Patel is not responding to Guest Services. But – Who is Rina Patel, and why isn’t she contacting guest services?

Although I want to dress and rush upstairs to where the search is ongoing, I chose to remain in our room. Phil is sleeping soundly throughout this ordeal. I did not want him to awaken and discover me gone, only to be frightened that I might be the missing person. I could leave him a note, but what if he doesn’t find it?

Exhausted, I fall back to sleep in bed, praying for the missing passenger and the family, including Rina Patel. Something tells me she is the missing passenger.

At 9:00, Phil and I go poolside to get breakfast. Walking along the deck, I see a Coast Guard helicopter. Looking nearby at a window, Carnival Ecstasy is moving forward now. An announcement is made that the Coast Guard has released the ship to travel to Charleston. We are one hour behind arrival time now. “Further details about our arrival will be announced later.”

I pause while standing in line for food, praying a silent prayer for the passenger and the family. The mood appears somber and gloomy while standing in line. No party…party…PARTY or fun times this morning.

May God be with the family today and the additional days until the passenger is found. Arriving home at 9:07 am, I turn the TV on. I send a text to two friends to let them know I will not make our Weight Watchers meeting today. I share the news about the passenger overboard. One friend says she heard the news about the passenger this morning. My response was: “Did they share the name of the person overboard?”

“Yes.” She responds. “Rina Patel, 32-years-old.”

Rina Patel? We heard her name mentioned over the intercom so much. Something told me she was the passenger who fell overboard. Someone mentioned she was arguing with her mother, and then – she disappeared overboard. What a horrible tragedy.

Now two days after coming home, the news reports say the Coast Guard has ended the search. My thoughts and prayers are with the family during this unexpected time of grief. On Facebook, people post remarks saying “she was married and had beautiful children.”

As for my thoughts, it really doesn’t matter what I think. Did Rina Patel fall? Was she pushed? Did she jump? I do not know. I wasn’t a witness. At 2:45 in the morning, I was sleeping, until the intercom interrupted my sleep. My first reaction was something to the effect of: Oh my God. There must be an emergency. I struggled to remember where we would go IF the ship was in danger. I could not remember. After all, I was still half asleep.

Phil and I have been on four cruises. I suppose I could say, three cruises without any drama. One cruise with too much drama.

My thoughts and prayers are with the family of Rina Patel. What a tragedy.

 

 

 

 

Cruising, Family, Uncategorized

Sad Experience on the Carnival Ecstasy Cruise


We are HOME now from the cruise. Phil and I had a great time, relaxing and enjoying life. We were on the Ecstasy. If you’ve heard about the Carnival Ecstasy — yes, it is true. In the early morning hours of yesterday morning, a passenger fell overboard. The ship had to stop, backing up to search. Search lights were lighting up the oceans like early morning sunrise, only it was 3:08am. From our ocean view window I watched the crew members lowered into an orange rescue boat. Four members were on board, rushing along the waters — searching…searching and searching for the 32-year-old woman. The captain informed us about the passenger falling at 3:08am. He continued keeping us informed until the U S Coast Guard released the ship to head to Charleston. The rescue boat returned to the ship at about 4:27. Four crew members onboard.

Yesterday, after breakfast, we saw the U S Coast Guard searching the waters. My heart breaks for the family. I have a name although I am not certain she was the guest who fell overboard. Guest services broadcast a ladies name requesting her to call guest services. They broadcast her name three times. I will have more material after I research a bit. I could not get the name confirmed, so when I have more news, I’ll share it.

Just confirmed the passenger’s name. Rina Patel, 32-years-old, from New York. So young. So full of life. So sad. While I still pray for a miracle, the reality is to the best of my knowledge at 2:31pm today, she hasn’t been located. Yes, I believe in miracles, and I pray God will grant one for her and her family.

Yesterday was a gloomy day on the ship. People were sharing stories about the incident. Since I am not a gossip and only share after reputable agencies confirm, I will keep her name private. Reportedly, she and her mother were arguing on the 11th deck. Can you imagine? Arguing with your mother, only to fall over board? One can only imagine how her family must feel. Please say prayers that the family will find closure, or perhaps a miracle. Those were deep, dark seas.

After I recuperate a bit, get laundry caught up and review my notes, I will have another story about our experience on the Carnival Cruise Ecstasy. A great journey began with such a sad, tragic ending.

More later!

Charleston, Family, Free Writing, Uncategorized

Angels Are Around Us — Even WHEN We Are Lost and Stressed


Dearest Readers:
Just when I think people are not honest or trustworthy, God gives me an angel. As all of you, my closest friends, know – since October 3, 2015 I have been stressed. Beginning with the rain, flooding issues that occurred in Charleston during the “Hundred Year rains.” I believe fighting those battles, at times, losing — thanks to a certain insurance company that refused to cover the damage. Regardless, after fighting those battles and finding my own way to get the damages repaired, I found myself overly temperamental. I’ve expressed numerous prayers to God, asking me how to calm down. How to cope. Just when I thought these prayers were answered, Phil has reverse shoulder replacement on May 31. Recovering at home, he started fainting…and FAINTING AND FAINTING…Rushed to ER — seven times. He endured three surgeries on that blasted shoulder and now he appears to be getting better. During one of the fainting episodes, he broke his left ankle. I started questioning — can things get ANY WORSE?
 
I cannot remember the last time I’ve written. This might be a first for me, today. People keep asking me “How are you coping?” They haven’t seen the rages I have allowed myself to get into. It’s no wonder my blood pressure is getting higher. As for me, I still feel so stressed and temperamental that I lose myself.  Some days are meltdown days. During the last meltdown, I kneeled and prayed . I asked God if He was still there. The next morning, I had another talk with God, telling Him I would change my ways and stop losing my temper and I would stop cursing.
 
Today, was I EVER put to the test. My grandmother told me as a child that God would test me. Believe me, she was correct! Attempting to vacuum this morning, I noticed my vacuum wasn’t working properly. Placing it in the car, Phil and I went to Oreck. Of course, my vacuum is the type where they will have to order the part. It could be two weeks BEFORE it will be repaired. GREAT!
 
Suppose I’ll research cheap vacuums now – just to have a standby on hand.
 
After leaving Oreck in North Charleston, I drove to Sam’s Club to get gas and a few incidentals at the store. Preoccupied, I rushed to put everything inside the car, before my sweet husband attempted to. He is trying to help me more now, and each time he does, I reprimand him to STOP, like a mother would stop a child. He still must wear that sling. I don’t want him to hurt himself again!
 
So here I am, stuffing things inside the car, rushing to put the shopping cart up. Rushing back to my car…not looking at where my hand bag is.
 
Arriving home, you guessed it! No handbag within site. I panic.
 
Like all women, I have cards inside my bag. I tell Phil I have to rush to Sam’s — in this rush hour traffic — to find my handbag.
 
Phil doesn’t shout at me. He doesn’t call me ‘stupid’ like my mother would…and we do not argue.
 
Yes, God is testing me!
 
Surprisingly, for once the rush hour traffic is not congested. Within 30 minutes I arrive at Sam’s Club. We look at all the shopping carts still parked in the shopping cart area. No handbag.
 
I rush inside Sam’s. Of course I am stopped at the entrance. I explain to the greeter that I was there about 30 minutes ago and left my handbag. She smiles. “I remember you,” she said. Trust me, I’m usually remembered wherever I go. I rush over to the customer service area. Anticipation has me so nervous, I can hardly say what I need to say.
 
The customer service rep looks at me. “Hi,” I say. Trying desperately not to cry. I cry when I am overly stressed. I introduce myself and I ask if they have a lost and found, or has anyone turned in a handbag about 30 minutes ago.
 
She repeats my name, asking what color my handbag was. I answer her question. She looks underneath, and there is a handbag!
 
“We called your phone number. Someone found it outside in the shopping carts.”
 
I burst into tears, hugged her and called my husband’s name. He was looking at the shopping carts parked inside the building.
 
I offered her a gratuity. She refused.
 
Isn’t it wonderful that someone outside in the parking lot saw my handbag and returned it to the store! Untouched!
 
God had a guardian angel watching over me today while He tested me to see if I would explode, and I didn’t. While driving, I silently prayed that God would let someone who believed in morals, values and honesty find my handbag.
 
Today, I passed the test. I thanked God for keeping me calm and I said a loud thank you for letting my handbag find its way back to me.
 
Some would say it is the Southern way in the South. After all, Charleston, SC is the number one city in the world this year.
 
Why wouldn’t it be? We have good people living here. Trustworthy people visit here, and there are People who you trust. People who go the extra mile to protect a total stranger’s handbag. Everything was still in tact. Nothing was taken.
 
Thank you, to an angelic total stranger. I will say prayers for you. How I wish I could thank you personally. No name was given to the customer service rep. I will make certain I pay it forward now when I am out…Just like someone paid it forward for me today!
 
This just proves to me — God is guarding me — just like He did years ago, when I was hit by a car and should’ve been killed. God’s angels held me and placed me on the concrete curb. I haven’t a clue what happened on that day, with exception of the thrust of the hood of the car hitting me — knocking the wind out of me.
 
Thank you, God! You guided and protected me again today!