Thursday, 05 April 2012

  • Greyfox is now officially an amputee.

    Dr. O'Malley removed parts of two (or three?? -- I haven't seen the newly remodeled foot yet) toes from his left foot yesterday in Anchorage.  The trip down the valley from here to pick up Greyfox, then from Wasilla to Anchorage, was uneventful, except for the fact that everything went smoothly and on time, a big event for me.  My personal inner clock doesn't go tic-toc.  Sometimes it buzzes along in a rush, sometimes it staggers and clunks, or vanishes altogether.  Punctuality is not one of my strengths or virtues, but yesterday we were there with ten minutes to spare.

    My day became suddenly eventful right after we entered the hospital.  I let Greyfox out at the entrance, parked, went in, found him in admitting and let him know I was there, then returned to my car to unburden myself of coat and unneeded stuff.  That was when I had my closest moose encounter in over twenty years, right there in the hospital.  There's an arctic entry -- two sets of big double sliding glass doors that open automatically when someone approaches.  I stepped up to the inner set of doors, triggering them open at the same time a young cow moose approached the outer set and they opened for her.  On the sidewalk, walking parallel to the doors when they opened beside her, she paused, swung her head around, and looked at me.  For a moment, I thought she was going to come in, but then she continued on her way.  When I got to my car, she was browsing on some young trees in the landscaping.

    I love/hate hospitals.  Those of you who know how empathetic I am will understand the hate part:  an atmosphere of pain, fear, anxiety, etc.  My love for these institutions of hurting and healing is compounded of long familiarity and a Virgoan appreciation of trained professionals doing competent jobs.  Alaska Regional appears to function like a well-oiled machine.

    I've worked in hospitals that didn't run nearly so well, in Kansas and California in the 1960's, before computers lubricated the admissions, record-keeping, and communications aspects of the process.  I've been a patient in even more hospitals, both civilian and military, in several states and in Japan, including an emergency experience there at Alaska Regional twenty-some years ago after a car wreck.  Built during and after the Trans-Alaska Pipeline boom of the 1970's, it has always been a clean, well-lighted place staffed with competent people who tend to go overboard trying to put patients and families at ease.  The forced cheeriness is cloying and vaguely jarring in contrast to the undertones of time pressure, preoccupation, various personal issues, but I understand.  In sum, it's an interesting place to just sit and pay attention to what is going on around me.

    Greyfox phoned just now as I was writing, and we've decided I'll go down there today and give him some nursing care.  We both were briefed by Joe, his recovery room nurse, before I took him home.  However, neither of us read the three-page detailed post-op instructions that said he should be attended for the first eighteen hours.  I helped him into his cabin, did a few things that needed to be done, saw him installed comfortably on his bed with foot elevated, and let him shoo me out and send me on my way.  I felt like staying and tending to him, but he insisted (quite reasonably, considering the signs of fatigue I was showing) that I should be on my way home while I still could function well enough to drive safely. 

    I phoned him as usual to let him know I'd made it home, and the first thing he said, in an anxious tone, was, "Hon, I'm bleeding."  He had paged Dr. O'Malley and was waiting for his return call.  Instead of letting me prepare food for him, Greyfox had thought he was up to microwaving a frozen dinner himself.  He tried.  Then, when he noticed blood on the floor, he sat down, elevated the foot as ordered, and called the doc.  After O'Malley got back to him, we discussed whether I should go back down there last night to change his dressings.  As we spoke, he was on the bed with the foot elevated and both the dinner and the bandages were a few feet away, out of reach.  It's a small cabin, one room about 10' x 14', but not everything is accessible from his bed.

    Last night, his machismo overruled my machisma and he changed his own dressing, but today he was strong enough to admit that he could use my help, so I'll be on my way down the valley as soon as I've had breakfast and a little time to gather my wits and some supplies.

     

Monday, 13 February 2012

Friday, 10 February 2012

  • Fire and Water

    This winter, my time and energy have largely been taken up with mundane matters of fire and water:  tending the wood stove and melting snow.  Doug (my adult son, for those who are not familiar) and I were snowed in here for several weeks by a series of snowfalls in November and early December.  Shoveling roofs and chopping wood took priority over the driveway, and the work went slowly.  He dug us out at last ten days before Christmas  and we loaded jugs and buckets in the Jeep's hatch for a trip to the spring, intending first to go to the grocery store.  By the time we were done at the store, it was dark.  We decided to put the water run off until the next day.

    It started snowing before we got home.  That night, each time I looked out the window, I was amazed at how thick, fast and heavy the snow was coming down.  "Down" is generally the way snow falls, but occasionally this snow was coming "down" sideways.  It was a local phenomenon, right around here.  The rest of the area got between 8 inches and a foot or two that night; our neighborhood got an officially reported 39 inches.  It made statewide news.  We were snowed in again, and haven't been out since.  More snow has fallen in the meantime.  This Wednesday, two days ago, Doug had gotten almost done shoveling.  Yesterday morning the snowplow went by on the road and left a berm across our driveway.  Doug shoveled some of it yesterday.  Maybe we'll be able to get out the driveway in a day or two.

    Metaphysical "fire" and "water", the classical elements of spirit and emotion, have been prominent parts of my winter experience, too.  Two weeks ago, my husband, Greyfox, who lives 50 miles or so from here on the edge of Wasilla, frostbit his hands and feet, the left foot rather severely.  At the time it happened, he was out of communication with me for more than a day.  That is a very rare occurrence with him.  He usually calls several times each day.  Not being able to get out of here to check on him, or to get through on his cell, knowing something was very wrong, was an emotional trial through which only Spirit has sustained me.  His emotional state since the experience, the inexplicable anger, vulgarity and profanity flowing from him (no other person, no impersonal force, did this to him - he did it himself) have not been easy to take without responding in kind, but I've managed.  He was up here this week, dropping off supplies on a trip to the clinic, getting around with difficulty on a crutch, looking gray and haggard.  I had made some med-packs for him: amino acids, nootropics, cognitive enhancers, vitamins and minerals, and his mood is noticeably improved after a couple of days on them.

    I knew it had been a while since I had blogged, but it came as a bit of a surprise to see that it had been 3 months.  In that latest entry from mid-November, I mentioned my dog.  He died December 22.  What with that, Greyfox's situation, being snowed in and ill a lot, this has been a rough winter so far... but it is getting better.  Days grow longer and generally warmer.  I'm okay.



Monday, 14 November 2011

  • I think I've turned a corner.

    A few times in the past 9 days, I wasn't sure I'd survive this virus, and was even less sure I wanted to.  I had been recovering from a virus (same one?  maybe) before my harrowing adventure ten days ago.  It had gotten to where I could breathe on my own and move around without going all woozy and wobbly.  The morning after that wild drive home on icy roads in blowing snow, I woke feeling poleaxed:  repeatedly and enthusiastically poleaxed by a sadistic crew of indefatigable torturers.  The adrenaline that had sustained me on the trip was gone and my glands couldn't seem to find the raw materials to produce any more.

    I spent a week in abject physical misery, needing bronchodilators before and after even the slightest activity, including coughing and laughter.  I was too sick to have any emotional affect.  Feeling anything would have taken more energy than I had.  Then, a couple of days ago, I noticed some encouraging signs of recovery:  annoyance, irritation, impatience, and snark.  My dog put his head in my lap and gazed into my eyes with concern as I struggled wheezily to stand, and for an instant I felt like punching him in that big wet black nose.

    A lifetime ago, back when my great-grand-children's grandmother was in kindergarten, I worked in hospitals, training as a nurse.  One of the interesting facts I learned was that when a patient progresses from silent misery to crabby irritability, it indicates she's getting better.  I still am unable to do much without sucking on the nebulizer first.  I've been grouchy and unpleasant, but I didn't act on any violent impulses.  I can thank the impaired function for that - it would have taken more energy than I had available.

    Today, I can get a full lungful of air, even though it does trigger a coughing fit each time I try.  If I don't grab a dose of bronchodilators before I get up and do something, I might have to stop in the middle for it, and must surely load up on them when the exertion is done, but I'm getting more done.  I still have crabby, snarly impulses, but they're fewer, milder, and laughable.  I try to keep the laughter light, and not trigger asthmatic episodes.  I'm on the mend.



Friday, 04 November 2011

  • Ted's Testicles, et cetera

    I've gotta write this now, exhausted as I am, while I can still hit these keys, and the memories are fresh.

    Ted, the kitten formerly known as Klaxxon, was old enough in October, at six months, to be neutered, but for some reason  Hagee Veterinary Service and Alaska Dog and Puppy Rescue didn't have the usual monthly low cost spay and neuter clinic last month, so we made our appointment for this month's clinic and waited.

    We'd had a minor snowfall in mid-October.  It melted, then the weather turned cold and the ground froze hard.  When it started snowing early this week, we knew it would stick.  It wasn't much snow, couple of inches of fluffy stuff.  Then a night and a day of high winds brought trees down on power lines and left the whole upper end of this big valley without power one night.  I was feeling glad afterward, that the wind died down before I was scheduled to make that trip down the valley and across Wasilla to get Ted fixed -- not that he's broken or anything -- maybe you know what I mean.

    That little snowfall did stick, in the sense that it's still out there in its frozen form and is quite likely to still be there come next May, but it certainly didn't stay put or stay pristine.  After the wind abated, that snow was rearranged, packed, drifted and mixed with all sorts of debris, mostly bits and pieces of trees.  I'd be challenged right now to find any of it, though.  Yesterday and today it was buried under another foot or so of white shit, as the sourdough types around here like to call it.

    Ted had to be restricted from food all last night.  We confined him in the dog crate so none of the other cats would have to fast along with him.  He cried a lot all night, and he wasn't named Klaxxon for nothing.  I had set the alarm for 5 AM, to get to Wasilla by 7, but I needn't have bothered.  Doug had brewed coffee for me by 4:45, 'cause he'd been up since midnight or so (on the night-shift leg of his ever shifting approximately 26-hour wake/sleep cycles) and we'd been conversing after a fashion since about 3.  Since there was coffee, I saw no point in lying abed that extra quarter hour.

    It was snowing when we left, but hadn't done much more than just dusting over the paths that had been shoveled late last night.  Snow plows hadn't been around the back roads, but a neighbor had laid down some tracks, so I didn't have to break trail all the way out to the highway through that foot of snow.  Plows had cleared the main road sometime in the night, but with new stuff falling and blowing around when cars passed, the ups and downs and curves of this well-traveled (for this far out of town and this latitude [62°N]) 2-lane "highway" (It's all relative, y'know?)  -- it was challenging in the dark, slick in spots, with enough traffic to keep me blinded by headlights oncoming and in my mirrors.

    Getting to the clinic to drop off Ted was a big relief, and the vibe in that busy place, with cars coming and going in the small lot outside, crated dogs and cats piling up on the concrete floor inside, was happy and efficient.  It was evident that they'd done it all before, and that they liked what they were doing.  Pre-dawn on a windy snowy day, and an attentive crew was getting things done without fuss or hassle.  We got our part of the whole parade sorted out, and threaded our way out of the driveway through a steady stream of new arrivals.

    The nearest big box store was just opened, and Doug, on foot, followed me as I rode a crip cart up one aisle and down another, finding about two-thirds of the items on my list.  By the time we left there, it was getting light outside.  By the time we found a couple more items and left the next big store, the sun was coming up.  It was daytime for real when we got out of the next supermarket, and a nearby fast food joint was open, so we had lunch.  I ate half my order of fish and chips there, and finished them off just now as I've been writing this.

    A little side trip to a thrift shop netted 20-or-so episodes of Upstairs Downstairs (@ 50¢ each) on VHS, a few other movies on tape, a juice glass, 2 small "underliner" plates of sturdy old diner-style china and four or five assorted pasta dishes (or soup plates, depending on where and when one grew up) plus 2 tiny toy astronauts and an incomplete Transformer for Doug, the BIG kid, but the big prize of that visit was a kitchen timer, saving us ten or fifteen bucks and who knows how much more online shopping before we'd finally settle on which to buy... marvelous how these things work out!

    Then on our way out to Greyfox's place, we stopped at AIH, Alaska Industrial Hardware, for a big roll of 3" ordinary silver gray duct tape, a small roll of 2" fluorescent green duct tape and a roll of 1" strapping tape, all of a quality unavailable closer to home.  One of the best things about trekking into town is getting more and paying less for it.

    We filled Binky's gas tank (he's our "new" '94 Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo, named for the famous late polar bear from the Alaska Zoo, just 'cause he's big and white, not because we expect him to munch on any tourists.  Then we met up with Greyfox at his cabin and followed him over to the sports center where he and a bazillion other vendors are setting up for a weekend holiday craft and trade show. 

    Doug helped him schlep boxes, and I set up tables, unpacked merchandise... until Greyfox realized he'd left behind in his storage building some essential stock, and that his breakfast had been inadequate.  While he ate, Doug and I hit yet another big box store for a BiiiG box of rolled oats, several small packages of gluten-free spaghetti (oh how I'd love to find gluten-free pasta in economy-size packages) bananas, etc.  Then we rendezvoused with Greyfox at his storage place, cleared out a few boxes of stuff he'd accumulated for us, in the process of which we uncovered the 2 important boxes of knives he'd nearly despaired of finding.

    By then, it was time to go fetch our fixed Ted from the clinic out the other end of town.  Traffic heading our way was fairly heavy, probably swelled by a lot of Valley folk headed to town to party, it being Friday evening.  Coming toward us from the Anchorage direction, it was 2 lanes nearly bumper-to-bumper, prompting Doug to utter an awed, "Wow," 'cause he's not had occasion to view that phenomenon before.  By the time the stream of weekend refugees from the city reach our end of the valley, it's thin and attenuated.  I confessed to him that I was forcing myself to relax and stay focused on the goal, when what my instincts were urging me to do was scream, get off that blasted highway out of that traffic and closer to nature -- IMMEDIATELY!  But, Ted awaited retrieval.

    One more stop back at the same big box store we'd wandered through almost alone at the crack of dawn, for a package of absorbent pads for Ted's convalescent crate, then on across Wasilla for a final visit to Greyfox to get the rest of the things he'd forgotten to unload on us the other times, and we were on the road up the valley.  And this is where my story starts -- heh, I'll bet you thought it was almost over, eh?

    Snow had been falling all day, a little bit here, little more there, big wet flakes followed by little dry ones, blowing around on the road, piling up along the center line... the usual.  From Wasilla out to Houston, it was mostly kinda slushy, catching the tires if one strayed out of the tracks laid down by previous travelers.  By the time we'd passed through Willow, it was frozen, slick, icy with patches of black ice.  Between Kashwitna Lake and Sheep Creek, the only way I could maintain traction consistently was to decelerate, and that's a self-limiting tactic.  Even keeping a steady speed on a straight course, my rear wheels would spin or I'd fishtail a little due to those incessant tiny steering corrections that are one of the prices paid for power steering.  Any acceleration would spin the wheels and threaten a skid, but accelerate one must if one wants to travel, and I did want to get home, so I made my wheel-spinning, fish-tailing way on up the valley. 

    Doug, having worked hard after being up 20-some hours, dozed off holding Ted's crate on his lap.  After we got home, he told me that every time he woke on that ride, I'd given him a moment of terror and a jolt of adrenaline.  I can relate.  I was there through it all, keeping the shiny side up and the greasy side down.  Vehicles with more traction, better tires, 4-wheel drive and such, had been passing me, and I'd pulled over a few times to get the blinding following lights out of my mirrors.  I pulled into the parking lot at Sheep Creek Lodge and discovered that it hadn't been plowed.  I bogged down in the deep snow trying to get out onto the highway again, had to back up and slew around a few times, with ditches yawning on both sides of that snow-choked driveway, before I got back onto the plowed pavement.

    When I slowed down for our turn-off, I skidded past the first exit, went on half a mile or so and took the roundabout road that comes out on our road from the other direction.  Somebody had been through with a blade mounted on a truck, leaving one clear lane, but the big plow still hasn't been through.  On my second attempt, I got through the berm and far enough into my driveway that I'm fairly confident that the plow will leave Binky unscathed when it passes. 

    The house was still warm:  50°F, but the fire had gone out.  My first task was to get the fire going.  Then I phoned Greyfox to let him know we'd gotten home safely.  Doug unloaded most perishable and frozen foods, partially prepared the big dog crate for Ted's convalescence, then muttered something about sleep and fell into bed.  I made a few trips out to the car, brought in things that might be adversely affected by freezing, found my fish and chips and sat down here to finish them and the last cup of coffee that was left in the carafe from this morning.  Now, I think I'll go finish preparing Ted's convalescent crate, get him out of his carrier, and tucked into the crate, then it will be my turn to fall into bed, but since I sleep in the top bunk it won't be as easy for me as it was for Doug.

    BTW:  we got 2 surgeries for the price of one today.  When we collected Ted, we learned that he'd had one retained testicle, so he has two incisions - one in his scrotum, another in the inguinal area.  I can't adequately express my appreciation and gratitude for the low cost clinic and the expert crew that does so much for so many (about fifty dogs and cats spayed and neutered today) and apparently enjoy doing it, saving each of our families hundreds of dollars in the process.  Good job, guys!



SuSu

  • Visit SuSu's Xanga Site
    • Name: Kathy Lynn
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    • Birthday: 9/18/1944
    • Gender: Female
    • Member Since: 5/1/2002
    • True Lifetime

I like this stuff.

Favorite Quotations

All we really have is now.

  • Right now I'm a fringe dweller--truth teller--psychic (Isn't everyone?)--earth lover. I am evolving--low maintenance--high confidence. Three million people on this planet have higher IQs than mine, and three billion people on this planet have greater incomes than mine. I have no worries.

...and then...


What's this?
When I got out of prison in 1971, it wasn't long before I was on the road. I hitchhiked some, and I rode freight trains for a little while before getting back out on the Interstates where I felt more at home. During that brief time riding the rails, my newfound friends among the hobos told me I needed a moniker, a unique sign or symbol to scrawl on boxcar walls, sidewalks, fences and such to show that I had been there and/or to indicate which way I went and when.
Being recently liberated physically and having undergone a spiritual metamorphosis, I felt like I'd been a worm who had suddenly grown wings.
I was off the road for some weeks at my aunt Goldie's place in Morro Bay, California when I doodled up the simple drawing of a butterfly ascending that has become my signature.
My gallant Old Fart had it tattooed on his arm while we were on our honeymoon.

I am a semi-retired professional psychic, married to a shaman. We still work together, sometimes. For more information, click on the coyote below.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Synanon Prayer

Please let me first and always examine myself
Let me be honest and truthful
Let me seek and assume responsibility
Let me understand rather than be understood
Let me trust and have faith in myself and my fellowman
Let me love rather than be loved
Let me give rather than receive.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Social Inequality and Philosophical Differences
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do your bit for
HUMAN RIGHTS.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Neurochemistry of Addiction

Law<br>
Enforcement<br>Against<br>Prohibition

unloaded
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Personality,
Personality Disorders,
and NPD


THE OTHER NPD

Cluster B Disorders
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What is
NORMAL?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
what pain is...
and what it isn't

PAIN
PAIN
GO AWAY

The PainSwitch Technique

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Neuroelectrochemistry
and the gag reflex

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
myalgic encephalomyelitis
fibromyalgia
chronic fatigue syndrome
CFS 101
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CENSORSHIP (I don't like it.)
Vulgarity, Profanity, Cursing and Swearing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Interspecies Love

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
STRESSED OUT?
Take a break.
TAKE A LOOK.
Relax.
Smile.
Adopt your own useless blob!
I LOVE MOOGLES
(screenshots from FFXII)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SUBVERSION
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Have you been hurt, angered, or offended
by what others say or do?
You can use
A Contentment Tool Kit

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...and this and that...

See a few of my all-time favorite photos
HERE.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Freedom From Religion Foundation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"All of us who are concerned for peace and triumph of reason and justice must be keenly aware how small an influence reason and honest good will exert upon events in the political field."
(Albert Einstein, 1954)

The Spherical Standing Wave Structure of Matter
23 and the Law of Fives

Conspiracies and Conspiracy Theories

KurtV
"Cold Turkey"
by Kurt Vonnegut

flowersmeller.jpg
Read my Flower Smeller awards
HERE

Due to restrictions on the code I can use in my new theme, I have decided to relocate, for now or forever, some current issues and worthy causes.

Weblog Archives

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Recent Weblogs

Those who ignore the past are condemned to repeat it.

Reading an episode or two of my memoirs out of context might give a false impression of knowing what the story is about. It is a long story, and I'm not finished telling it yet.

When I first began posting these episodes, some readers thought the story was too wild to be true. As they have gotten to know me better, I think most of them have come to believe me. This is as true as any memoir can be, subject to the vagaries of memory. This is my life, to the best of my recollection.

If any of these links doesn't work, let me know. I will fix it.

Someone asked me what I get out of writing these memoirs, and a few people have asked me why I'm doing it in a blog.
Here is my explanation.

The later parts of the story make more sense if you know the back story. For starters, I was a sickly, intellectually precocious child.

I have written about:Various other bits and pieces of my childhood show up elsewhere: My father was my primary caregiver, first teacher, biggest supporter, and my partner in crime in pranks on my mother.
School started with kindergarten. When I was six, we moved from a little rented house into a bigger home of our own. Then my father died. My orgasm addiction began the day of his funeral, in 1951, when I was 7 years old.
I have written about the circumstances and aftermath of his death.

With help from family and friends, Mama struggles with widowhood.
After a brief reunion with her childhood sweetheart, she is single again.
Writing that story brought on some Q&A, and then
more motherhood Q & A.
I express my love for Mama and introduce our store.
Then I ramble on about education, illness, and puppies.
After that, Girl Scouts and 4H,
followed by summer camp, homesickness and a tornado.
Apparently, the first notice anyone ever paid to my mental illness was when I started playing with fire.
I wrapped up this phase of my childhood with a long entry about daredevil bike tricks, the onset of ME/CFIDS (I guess), movies and movie star crushes, making out in the back row of the movie theater, building a parade float, learning that the game is rigged, singing in a musical play, and appearing in a Hollywood movie.
When Mama gave up trying to run her own business, we moved to Wichita.
Then we caught a case of combat fatigue from my next stepfather.
I started junior high school and went steady with one boy after another.
For a while I had two romantic relationships at the same time.
Skipping around with several thematic entries that are more-or-less in sequence, I tell the story of a series of mid-1950s road trips between the Midwest and West Coast, and the museums and amusement parks we visited.
Midnight Radio is about Mickey Mouse Club, movie star crushes, becoming a woman, rock and roll and the blues, among other things.
An earlier entry covers a three-way schoolgirl shoving match referred to elsewhere. In an effort to finally get out of Kansas and on with the story, I tied up some loose ends. Later, I recalled that I hadn't yet told the story about ettiquette and new school colors.

Mama's penpal from Lonely Hearts Club invited us to Texas for a Panhandle Christmas.
The subsequent move to Texas wrenched me away from both of my boyfriends, threw me into being the new girl in yet another small town,
and brought a dreary winter of unattainable dreams followed by a brighter spring.
The next segment dealt with first aid, guitar players, ankle-deep ice water and USDA surplus foods. Then came baptism, B12 shots and burning drip, followed by an "inappropriate" friendship, two more boyfriends, hard cherry cider and the wrong dress.
Then, between episodes, I posted the self-analysis of a reluctant virgin.
The summer between ninth and tenth grades featured movie star fantasies, Tijuana bibles, cocker spaniel puppies, a blackberry cobbler with too much black pepper, and a vacation in Galveston.
In the tenth grade, I was prevented from studying Latin, my mother gave me a 3-speed record player for my fourteenth birthday, and I had a frightening experience with an IQ test.
Along with some complaints about life with my step-father and his old maid sister, I relate a brief retrospective of my unhappy school career and do a little bit of foreshadowing after telling about stealing my best friend's boyfriend.
I got stuck for months at this point in my story before I
broke through.
In the next episode, "Ford" and I go all the way.
Even though we didn't have to, "Ford" and I got married, had an itty-bitty honeymoon, and set up housekeeping together.
My husband and I, aged sixteen and fourteen respectively, became emancipated minors upon our marriage.
In the spring after our December wedding, we moved to Amarillo, where my husband found his first job and had his first extramarital affair.
Comments on that impelled me to post a little piece about neurochemistry and penis size.
Then came another inept suicide attempt, which I survived, and gave birth to my firstborn child.
The episode following that one takes us up to
the end of the 1950s
.
After a series of beatings, the preacher told me that the problems in my marriage were all my own fault.
A few months later, I was rejected and thrown out.
I ended up down on the bird ranch for a family reunion.
I dont remember what came next, but soon my husband found the army to be an acceptable alternative to incarceration.
You might as well skip this episode. It is all about pubic hairs and fecal fingerpainting.
The next episode is about housework, holy rollers and aerobatics.
After Sacramento, I move to Waynesville, Missouri, and from there to Cheyenne, Wyoming,
then to Tacoma, Washington.

The stories of my early years, above, were written long after I wrote some of the parts that follow. This entire bloggy trip down memory lane began with my story of the '60s, starting with four episodes on how I became an expert shoplifter.

Part 1 starts with some back story about my getting married when I was fourteen, and continues with the love of my life coming along when I was seventeen.

Part 2 is about love and fear, lifesaving and ESP.

In Part 3, I finally get to the story of how I learned to shoplift.

Part 4 winds up that story, seeing me in and out of, first, jail and then the boobyhatch.

After that, I look at my psychological state.
In the next meandering piece I'm stabbed with a fork, paid for ironing money; I drink too much sloe gin and orange flavored vodka and experience date rape and probably gang rape, too.
The saga continues as I get Marie out of foster care and she leaves with Bobbi. Then I write about remembering pain.
At age nineteen, I learned to shoot craps at Rusty & Dusty's Pad, assisted by PK and precog.
Next I tell Statch's Story, weaving in bits about prostitution, VD, and JFK's assassination.
After that, an emotional basket case, I meet my second husband and have my first son.
Then I start a career in nursing, leave it to go to Japan, meet another soulmate, end up in another loony bin, temporarily die, and say goodbye to my son.
Back on my feet, probably too soon, I get a great job, relapse and lose it. Then I meet Jim Rose, go to work in a couple of bars, almost become a Saigon bar girl, screw up another relationship, overdose, and get to hear a shrink describe the whole course of my life in one succinct phrase.

The next series covers the years I rode with Hells Angels and two other One Percenter motorcycle clubs.
I started with a historical
and cultural sketch
of outlaw bikers.
Right at the start, I almost became a Hells Angels Mama.
Saved by being ripped off for VW's ol'lady, I learn to show class, and meet Janis Joplin.
I build a trike and ride it to The Magic Mountain Music Festival, and adjust to life as the captive gourmet.
During our move from California to Oregon, I'm turned out by Gypsy Jokers.
Reposting that rape episode for a Featured_Grownups challenge brought many comments and some questions, which I answered ironically, with a lot of info about and images of outlaw bikers. The biker gang rape became a subject that won't go away. I wrote about how odd it is that I have come to be viewed as an expert on bikers, and followed that with my take on the minds of men in gangs.
After responding to a question about my feelings on rape, I told about the show bike
I helped to build, and my first acid trip. Special people show up in the next episode, and I tell about a wild week of ripping, running and gardening with Little Carol.
The best weekend of my biker years comes next.
Then I take another look at my psychology and make a desperate break from VW.
It failed, but finally I get the help I need to get away.

Then, after an interval of terror, I'm not a biker broad anymore. Suddenly I'm a speed freak!
Fast and frizzy, with mirrors on the ceiling, I'm threatened with an axe by Mrs. Ken Kesey.
Then we have fun with meth and intense psychic experiences before things fall apart.
After some time in jail, I'm free and homeless, but my first Tarot reading reveals a way out.
In a flashback episode, I tell some of the details of that homeless period.
Then I start building a reputation as a psychic, impress some naive kids as a "human encyclopedia," manage unwillingly to stay off speed, get involved in Vietnam War protests, develop a foolproof plan to keep from being separated from Hulk, and end up in the (little) big house.

When the bus delivered us to Oregon Women's Correctional Center, Mrs. Burt met us at the door with a red rubber douche bag. In a brief digression, I confessed to being under the influence of fairy tales and soap opera.
Then I wrote about some things I have learned since then.
O.W.C.C. and confinement in a community of women, gave me a new perspective on my sex. In the first memoir I posted on Xanga, I told about my clashes with the unwritten rules in prison.
In response to some complaints from readers that there was not enough sex in my blogs, I agreed and offered in my defense the excuse that
there was not enough sex in prison. Music and meditation were as important in prison as elsewhere. In a segment that started out to be about feminism, I wrote about violence in prison, practical jokes, friends, breast reduction surgery, and my Tree of Life bedspread. That brought questions, which led to an entry about Kabbalah. After a prison riot, some OOBEs, and two trips to the Parole Board, I'm free.

When I was first out of prison, I went to college, where I met Stony. We lived in a haunted house,
then went on the run and had adventures, taking me eventually to Boulder, Colorado, and leading to a full pardon for my crimes. Two entries I had written earlier fit into the time period after OWCC and before Boulder.
They tell about my freight yard epiphany and the loaf of lettuce and head of bread trick.
Another entry, written later, details my freight train rides and a car wreck, and fills in a big gap left in previous episodes about that time.
A hippie family passing through Boulder gave me Mr.Coon.
We went farther up into the Rockies and squatted in a ghost town, and then lived at Colorado's oldest ski area until the end of my pregnancy.
In the next episode, I tell the story of how Princess Celeste helped me through one of the toughest days of my life.
After that, we have to move; Stony breaks Bill's arm with a fart; I plow through where snowplows spin their wheels; I party with the ladies; the real Stony pays us a visit; and then I'm on the road to Alaska.
The old truck got me as far as Salt Lake City, where I learned to evade perverts, Stony caught up with me and we drove a repo to Seattle.
We hitchhiked on a crab boat to Kodiak where
I needed an armed escort to go to the outhouse.
Then I described a dysfunctional relationship and
the metaphysical forces that led me to Alaska.
After an interview by a roomful of inquisitors, I start work at Open Door Klinic, and Stony comes back for one final blow.

With no significant other in my life for the first time since puberty, I throw myself wholeheartedly into crisis intervention counseling, and into the middle of a knife fight.
Mostly to keep Stony out of my life, but partially from grief, I fly to Seattle for an abortion and continue my work at Open Door.
Then we meet my co-workers Mollie and Steve and Steve finds me a second job.
That first autumn in Anchorage, I did crisis intervention on weekends and helped jailbirds return to the streets Monday through Friday.
Considering my ignorance and ill-preparedness, it's amazing that I survived my first Alaskan winter.
Adequate foul weather gear helped, but what really saved me was group therapy.
As spring arrived, I was audited by the IRS, found a couple of great restaurants, and paid an official visit to a local jail where I met another soulmate.
Then I explain
how he got there.
Around the time I'm getting to know Charley, wannabe shrink Harvey examines my head and I join Mensa.
Then I send plane fare to Hulk and we're a threesome.
Around the same time, I find an old friend and Stony comes around asking for help.
When I had resigned from one of my jobs, I hit a snag on the other one.
Suddenly jobless, I set out to explore Alaska on foot.
When I get home, Hulk moves out.
While I was looking for a new job, Stony got married, Charley made a perfect birthday gift for me, and I worked for a bit as an astrologer.
I found an office job, Charley went to work building the Trans-Alaska Pipeline, and shortly after the Ravin decision made private possession of marijuana legal here, we got evicted for growing it in our rented suburban house.
Housing was in short supply due to the Pipeline boom, but we found something eventually and paid more than it was worth for a moldy old uninsulated doggy-smelling trailer with a great view.
The little trailer was burglarized and I gave an Alaska State Trooper a new experience by reporting my stolen dope and paraphernalia.

~~~~~

This is essentially where the narrative's continuity comes to an end, but it is not the end of my story. Links below are to stories of events that occurred between where the narrative ends above, and the present time.

my "last" brownie binge (mid-1970s)
In 1979, I found my eldest child Marie and we had an emotional reunion.
The rest of her story came later.
My first winter off the power grid (early 1980s) was traumatic.
I was poisoned by the Wintersgate Assassins' Guild (mid-80s)
I listed some traumatic events of the late 1980s.
I remember the wreck of the Exxon Valdez and its aftermath.
In '89, I killed Rocky, wounded Bullwinkle and rescued Cow-Winkle in the "moose winter" story.
Another entry displays a photo I took of a black bear cub and tells several bear stories.

A more recent wildlife encounter happened in January, 2005, while our comp was down.
Greyfox left a bulletin here when Doug shot the moose.
When we got the comp back, I wrote first about my initial emotional reaction to the moose stomping my dog.
My next entry had pictures of us butchering the moose in our front yard.

Autobiographical snippets from a few decades appear in a blog from 2002 about what I did for a living... and here's a little taste of life in Alaska;
...plus a few professional secrets.
A 2006 update on
my shoplifting career

When I was new to Xanga, I was asked about my Old Fart.
I responded with an abbreviated version of my entire matrimonial history (and, BTW, an explanation of how and why I had acquired an arsenal).
In response to another question about Greyfox, I went off on a tangent and told the story of our meeting, and about some culture shock Greyfox experienced on his first visit to Alaska.
Then I gave a bit of our karmic history.
That led into the honeymoon,
the "white man" in-joke,
Greyfox's gig as a nude model,
and our homecoming.
That story reveals a lot of interpersonal conflict that is no longer part of our relationship.
We started working that out after Greyfox diagnosed his own NPD.
You can also read about it from his point of view, and read a sweet story about how sweet we are on each other now.
Greyfox is married to me, but is not the same man I married.
He calls my place "home", but spends most of his time at Felony Flats.

Another, more recent, thread of my memoirs involves a 28,000-mile road trip that my son and I took during the school year when he was supposed to have been in seventh grade. I started with a backstory blog before getting into the Big Field Trip itself with Part One, Part Two
.... (to be continued-- )

Here is my take on
HAPPINESS

Astrologers can quickly get the gist of the story of my life from
my chart.
They and anyone else can see the basic gears and cogs that run my life, in the entry where I describe
my intensity pattern.
In the 3 decades between my first and second Saturn returns, I tended to just blurt out the voiceless echoes I heard in my mind.

Movies in Five Seconds or Less