“Like a heartbeat drives you mad in the stillness of remembering what you had” ~Fleetwood Mac

When I say my mother was beautiful, I mean she was ‘could have been Miss America’ beautiful. As her best friend reminded me this weekend.

She had not laid eyes on me since I was in diapers but she picked me out of a crowd immediately. Throwing her arms around me and exclaiming “Katie! You must be Katie, right? Oh my gawd, you look just like your mother!”

That’s not to say that I was, could be, or consider myself to be anywhere near as beautiful as my mother just like I inherited a thimble-ful of my mother’s talent in all things: dance, singing, art, writing. Where I am ‘pretty okay’ at these things, my mother was extraordinary.

Her mother recognized this and thrust her into pageants most of her life which my mother resented and yet, excelled.

“She was runner up to Miss Kentucky. Did you know that? If she’d won that, she would have been that much closer to Miss America.”

But then she got pregnant with me and I feel like that is where everything that she ‘could have been’ – a singer, a musician, a dancer, a multi-genre artist – ended.

“You have her eyes.”

That I know. Not a shadow of my mother’s beauty but a distinct gift of honey-gold that I vainly, quietly coveted with each sibling who was born after me with our father’s gray-green eyes. No one had eyes like her except me. And I wanted to share that trait with my own children until I learned I couldnt have any.

So these distinct eyes will die with us.

Later in the night, my aunt yelled at me to sing with her friends who all brought their guitars to the party. “Remember how wonderfully Janet could sing? Katie sounds just like her.”

No, I don’t. I am passably entertaining. My mother was pitch-perfect and brilliant, like Judy Garland at her best. But I sang a Fleetwood Mac song that the band picked out just the same. Later, one of them asked me if I was local because they would love to have me sing with them at their steady Friday and Saturday night gigs in South Beach. I was flattered and frankly, wished that I did live nearby because it has been ages since I sang with a band. But if I really sounded like my mother, I’d be more world-wide than Pitbull.

I watched one of my aunts huddled closely with her first ex husband. The body language left nothing to wonder about except which bed they would land in later. “He was the love of her life”, my mother’s best friend remarked.

“That IS how she introduces him,” I agreed, “He’s still wearing a wedding ring though. How do you suppose that goes over with his current wife?”

“Not well, I imagine. ‘Honey, I’m flying out to spend the weekend in South Beach with my first wife for her birthday. Don’t bother calling.’”, she grabbed my arm then, “Have you been married?”

“Twice. But 19 years since the last divorce so clearly, I’m not rushing into anything.”

“Have you met the love of your life yet?”

I didn’t answer because I didn’t know the answer. She continued, “My advice to you is, make sure he loves you more than you love him.”

“That’s one I haven’t heard yet,” I admitted

“Men are childish and selfish. He won’t be as good to you as you are to him unless he loves you more than you love him. And certainly more than he loves himself. Women are meant to be treasured, protected and elevated,” she mused. Then she leaned over and gave me a tight squeeze, “And now I must be getting home to the love of MY life.” She took my face in her hands and insisted, “You ARE as lovely as your mother.”

“On the stage in my heels, It’s where I belong” ~Chapelle Roan

I dragged myself to a Latin dance yesterday.  It was either that or continue to sit at home and stare at the wall. I didn’t dance a great deal but it was enough to feel good for a moment. A Cuban woman stopped me on my way off the floor to say “Girl, you are fire!”. I wanted to cry. Maybe it was the gin on an empty stomach but I’ve felt so uninspired,  so dead inside,  that I couldnt imagine anyone seeing a fire in me that I haven’t felt in a very long time.

I also realize that I haven’t been cast in anything new in the cabaret in 2 years. I think I should bring that up soon because other than the fire sword routine that I worked so hard with our emcee to create,  I’ve been left out of new routines which is 1. Hard for.my ego and 2. Doesnt get me excited to lose sleep in order to come rehearse the same old rep.

When I first joined the cabaret 9 years ago,I was not the oldest in the troupe but now I am. By quite a bit. 

Even in the beginning, I joked that I was just trying not to stick out for all the wrong reasons, trying to keep up with the younger girls. The founder and I – she  is younger than me by more than a decade, only 36 years old to my 47 – we are the last original members. As the newer cast members get younger, I continue to get older, slower, with more surgeries and injuries to contend with. The new members dance and choreograph things I had no problem dancing at their ages, between their 20s and 30s. But now I am really struggling.

For starters, after the neck surgery, I can’t whip my hair. Kind of funny to write but ‘hairography’ is prevalent in edgy, sexy numbers. And following knee surgery, I can’t ‘drop it like it’s hot’ without a grimace of pain and catching myself with hands to ground as I tip over mid-squat. I’m unsure if I’ll be able to dance even the ‘old rep’ in six weeks but more sobering is, I’m wondering if I’ll be able to continue in the cabaret much longer. 

If I’m being completely honest, the last spine surgery was a result from an old military injury, yes, but the disc finally slipped during a rehearsal where I was pulling an aerial stunt off my dance partner for that routine. And the knees were already shit but surgery was needed after I got dropped in rehearsal during a lift. 

Ive had 4 surgeries in three years for a grand total of 7. The injuries may be old but the Cabaret also may be pushing my physical limits.

Or – and this is probably ‘fix-able’ with time and careful weight training – maybe I’m just dealing with muscle atrophy. I’ve been unable to weight lift (been doing yoga only) for more than 2 years because as soon as I’ve recovered from one surgery/injury, I find myself injured again. 

For now, I’m going to keep this concern to myself because I’ve always felt like I had to fight to be in the numbers that I would like to be in. I dont need to give them any more excuses to exclude me, not only from new numbers but from the ‘old rep’ as well.. But what I need to do is be honest with myself about what I can – and what I can but perhaps should not – do for this and future shows. 

“Amen, hell yeah, Satan” ~ Mother Mother

It took several ‘skips’ but Spotify finally figured out my mood. Jarryd James “Do you remember” and Flyleaf. The latter, I havent listened to in years. I was in my Flyleaf phase during my second trip to Iraq. In those hostile environments, we listened to hostile music.

And that is my mood today: irritable, aggressive. I found myself getting upset at the animals so I put my earbuds in. Everything from the dogs barking at the mailman to my elderly, fospice cat yelling for me to join her on the patio. My zoo is demanding of my attention always and have no concern for my need to work to keep kibble in their bowls. But I’ll sit for a moment and write, with the fospice kitty on my lap where she is content, earbuds still nested and blasting music that mirrors even as it soothes my mood.

I would like there to be justice. That was one of several names I considered for my daughter if I could ever have had children in this lifetime. Justice in great and small, right down to the intentionally bad drivers. May they total their rides and injure no one but themselves. Or as the new bumper stickers like to bury Wiccan ethos in their message: “May you have the day that you deserve”

“Murder on my mind” from Kordhell just came on. Don’t look it up. You won’t like it. But do look up the song before it, “Nobody Escapes” by Mother Mother. As they say “Amen, hell yeah, Satan!”

“And if I had the guts to put this to your head, would anything matter if you’re already dead?” My Chemical Romance

A chiropractor’s office likes to post inspirational notes on its sign every week and the latest is “May every Sunrise bring you hope and every sunset bring you peace”

Unless I am at the beach, sunsets rarely bring me peace. In fact they bring the panicky opposite. I remember the first time I saw the Will Smith remake of Omega Man known as I Am Legend. That scene where he is caught against the setting sun and the walking death coming for him and – worse – the last thing alive that he loves: his dog.  That is, to date, the most accurate depiction I’ve known to what many sunsets feel like to me: a sickening dread that makes me weigh my likelihood or want to see the next morning.

M uses a term from his favorite author who calls it “The dark tea time of the soul”.

Then there are entire days like this with a persistent general unease, a disquiet mind. I can’t put my finger on what’s wrong. Maybe it’s some psychic attack, if you believe in that sort of thing. I wore crystal bracelets and burned palo santo but the unease and melancholy lingers these last two weeks.

I bought the book Trent Shelton just released called “Guard Your Peace” because I like and want to support Mr. Shelton, not because there is any coping mechanism that I’m not intimately familiar with. Interesting to read a Christian man talking about ‘drawing an invisible circle around yourself’ when that is a self-shielding technique practiced by many empaths and self-proscribed ‘witches’. Like I said, no coping mechanism that is news to me.

Yet the melancholy lingers. I cleaned house, cleaned my car, groomed the pets, biked the dogs, chopped vegetables, stayed busy until the sleeping meds pulled me too deep to climb out.

I woke from a dream where I was Emma Stone as a bad baseball player who swings at nearly everything and manages to connect on lucky occasion. Weird. Other than feeling like I could still use several hours of sleep, I feel better today. Texted M good morning and then my neighbor to ask if she felt up to yoga on the pier. At sunset. She replied “Yes! I! Do!”

And so I look forward to sunset.

“If your prayers don’t get to heaven, I’m gonna keep them safe for you” Brian Fallon

A week ago, I was casting a honey jar spell and burning a blue candle to open the channel to communicate with M. Because he is living in my family’s home in the hills, never speaking to one another again after he walked out wasn’t an option. 

It worked. 

We were broken up for about 70 miserable hours. 

Now some readers (and possibly some of our well-intentioned friends and family) might quietly criticise my decision to give it another go after the verbal abuse for which I still insist there is no excuse. 

And M agrees. 

But see, that’s the difference between M and my ex husband, the latter who laughed when he made me cry and deliberately got his rocks off on pushing me off that cliff.

We met in public at a neutral outdoor bar and restaurant. He cried a lot. I cried a little which for me is a lot. Even that makes me realize that I’ve evolved in the year that we’ve been together because I used to find his crying off-putting. I joke that the military beat the tears out of us. I don’t find it easy or comfortable to cry and I rarely saw men do it. I also came to the conclusion in this year that M’s crying is a symptom of his anxiety, a clinical condition and not a character flaw or proof of any lack of manhood.

After 6 hours of talk and tears, we agreed that breaking up over laundry is effing dumb but we needed to find a way to prevent these blow ups. I asked that he be as forgiving and patient with me as he is with his son. I also joked that when I piss him off and he starts to explode that I will run up and wrap my arms tightly around his shoulders and squeeze him a bear hug that will take the air and anger right out of him. I think that might work but something my Therapist recommended (and M has long been asking for) is that I just be direct. 

Instead of pussy-footing around something that bothers me because I dont know how to bring it up without pissing M off so that I put it off so long that I say something snarky and passive aggressive that DOES piss him off… I need to be direct.

And I hope to g-d that M really CAN handle that.

He ‘moved back home’ with me for the last 4 days before he was due to head back up to my family’s house in the hills. It was perhaps the best 4 days we’ve ever spent together. It rained nearly the entire time but we played records,  we covered ourselves with my cats and dogs and read out loud to each other, and we went to a dance together where he – perhaps for the first time – made me feel like we were a couple in public. 

It was hard when he left this time. We kept holding on to each other and I told him that as challenging as these last 2 months were with me being a bad patient on the mend and both of us out of practice in cohabitating, I liked coming home to him and I wasn’t eager to see him leave. 

We last spoke at 9pm while he was on the road. I was knee deep into a sleeping pill and he was still three hours away from the property but promised he would send a text when he arrived. When I awoke, there was no text. I tried calling several times throughout the day but it went straight to voicemail. I didnt know if it was a problem with his phone or if something terrible happened so at the 15 hour mark, I called the county police station and asked them to drive out and do a ‘wellness check’. They agreed and I hung up, with a sick, panicked feeling. Moments later, an email came in. He was safe, at the library using wifi because the cell towers were down. I called the cops back, thanked them and said all was well. The knot in my gut slowly eased.

We’ve now made it one week beyond our one year, beyond my overthinking and taking stock of where this is going and whether or not I should cut my losses. My internal judge says he still has far to go before he would be a stable partner for me – financially speaking, I don’t want to always support him. But he is a good man who listens and tries to meet my emotional and physical needs. And he has softened my sharpest edges.

“Others on the line but I kept trying to make it work. I beat it like a dead horse, beat it like a drum.’ Hailee Williams and Glass Animals

My relationship ended today, ironically the day before Valentine’s, and one week before our one year.

Verbal abuse IS abuse. Emotional abuse IS abuse.Screaming, cussing, name calling…IS abuse.

Physiologically our bodies react the same to verbal abuse as to physical. It’s a scientifically proven fact. And over the months, I realized i was making excuses for him the way i did with my ex husband. I have a therapist, friends, close to family, but i wasnt talking to anyone about it because i was embarrassed.

Another fact: there is no excuse for abuse. It is never justified. I, you, we didnt “have it coming to us’, dont “deserve it”.

Last month,  we had a real Come To Jesus moment when I tearfully told him to stop acting single. He agreed. I don’t know if he ever would physically cheat because he reminds me of a dog who wouldn’t know what to do with the squirrel he’s chasing if he actually caught it.

He wrote a note to me that was more about himself. Actually,  it was entirely about himself, so much that it was not even addressed to me. It was the most narcissistic thing I’ve ever read from him although I don’t necessarily consider him a narcissist. With it on the table it included a few bits of Valentine’s candy that he clearly planned on giving me tomorrow.

I hid in the bedroom for a couple hours before finally getting up the nerve to leasb my dogs for exercise. He tried to snipe me on the way out the door but i didnt take the bait. I did take the candy diwn to the Dogpark and gifted it to others.

When he blew up again this morning before I left for work, the last thing i heard was “ill pack, get out of your houses and your life,”. Of course i was wothless at work. I left after 3 hours, claiming illness. He was still at my house when i got home. he was fishing for me to ask him to stay. But there was no hint of an apology. It was all gaslighting and deflection. Let me tell you,  i had to remind myself during that: there is NO justification for abuse. I stayed quiet because there was no point in engaging.

I came home to lose ends but he was gone. I changed the bed sheets, smoked every inch of the house with Sage and cried to the biopic of Heady LaMar.  If someone so beautiful and brilliant could be abused and cheated on, what chance can I expect of better?

“Dear God please don’t fuck me on this one” ~Devil Doll

Funerals and fights. Surgeries and recovery. Much has happened and at some point, I may backtrack and fill in those gaps. Or maybe I just let that past lie.

Tonight is a powerful new moon. If it’s raining, I’ll light a small cauldron in the kitchen and send my prayers up on bay leaves. It took nearly a lifetime to Learn that it is not selfish to want Optimal Health, Security and Prosperity for myself. In addition to this, I have a renewed desire to pursue Creative Growth and Fulfillment. I’ve felt creatively stagnant the last couple of years and this latest recovery down-time has forced me to pause and evaluate.

So tonight, manifest. Then follow-through and do the work to make it happen.

Sing, Dance, Write, Play with Fire, Create, but most importantly…grow!

“Driving with the Holy Ghost. Holy death, and holy smoke. See how fully I’ve been broke and let me start again.” ~Manchester Orchestra

Preparing to wax, I was inspecting the terrain and was astonished at the overgrowth, “I’ve really let myself go!” Took a swipe and everything came off at once. Because turns out it was cat “hair”.

I reconnected recently with a retired green-beret I served with. We were trading VA horror stories and agree that while we are both grateful for the VA, it is a mixed bag and the wait time is insane. I had a wonderful psych with the VA for years but when she retired, I was transferred to a Coptic Christian who eyeballed my “Switchblade” t-shirt witha  skull on it and asked something along the lines of whether or not I was a Satanist. I told her I was Jewish but no longer believed in G-d and she proceeded to preach to me for an hour. THen came the sleep meds refill time. She said she wanted to put me back on an antidepressant. I told her I had insomnia, I was not at that time depressed. But she insisted. I got worse. She upped the dose. I called my mother crying, telling her I was suicidal and couldnt even articulate WHY. Unlike in the past when I was depressed and there was a reason for it, this was a result of that fast-talking fine print that many antidepressants warn of “in some cases, may cause suicidal ideations”. My mother directed me to stop the meds cold turkey. I did and felt like shit for a week but the suicidal thoughts dissipated pretty quickly. It was the first time since starting with the VA a decade ago that I demanded a different doctor AND sleep medication. My current psych and I dont have rapport like I did with my first doctor so after two years of requesting counseling, I was assigned toa  non-VA provider about two months ago. First time I’ve ever had a ‘therapist’ and so far, so good. I wasnt sure what to expect but he’s like an impartial third party who sanity-checks my processes, gives advice on options that I might not have considered. I havent gotten into anything too heavy with him yet though. Can’t jump into bed with someone on the second date. He touched on something in our last session that caused me to spontaneously combust into tears but he didnt push when I said I wasnt ready to talk about certain things. 

Speaking of sleep, last night I popped wide awake at 1am, lay there until 3 then got up and came to work. M will drive in today and remain with me through the end of next week, hence the waxing as a courtesy. My mother doesnt like to travel anymore so we no longer head to Miami to do jello shots with the cousins and gorge with her side of the family. Instead, I cook, she cooks, my sister makes the two dishes she can successfully prepare and we sit on the sofa with paper plates in our lap

I read that Mars is the impulse to act and pursue our wants and desires (Venus). When there’s no outlet for this energy, selfishness, anger, or aggression may arise. That’s where I am.

M tried to Pollyanna me with a ‘tell me something good that happened to you today’ so I sent him a picture of my new sex toy that came in the mail then masturbated while thinking of someone else before falling asleep.

Absence does not make my heart grow fonder. It never has, in any relationship. When I was married and deployed, I used to think it was just my coping mechanism to deal with a stressful environment like, “I’m at war. I can’t be bothered with loneliness right now.” But I no longer think that’s the case. I don’t know what my problem is. I don’t know why I not only don’t miss my relationships (other than my pets) when separated for longer stretches of time but I’m increasingly irritated by them. M is no exception. What I conclude from this is that he is not irritating, I am just irritated. The problem is less with him and more with me. But how do I fix it? Because recognizing it is not enough.

There is a wildfire raging 3 mi from my family property and I can’t help but think I’m going to lose my ass, if not in this fire or hurricane then the next or the next. Yes, I’m a climate doomsdayer. Then I discovered a mistake that went unchecked in my finances that is burying me further under the American Dream, also known as debt.

And the knee. MRI confirms torn meniscus and some other terms that Doctor Google says may require surgery. It has been months since I’ve danced or exercised and I’ve gone from sullen to short-fused. I wonder how I will cope with M under my roof during this time. I try very hard to be gentle with him because his tears make me love him less. That’s terrible, isn’t it? I’ve been drinking more because it worked for my dad. Because it’s something to do. But I have an annoyingly high alcohol tolerance for someone who rarely drinks.

I met my long-lost best friend in an Uber the other day. He remarked that I smelled nice and I replied, “Thanks! I showered just for you.” He was from South Africa and we wore the same gauge gold hoop in our noses and talked excitedly about our efforts to improve our situations through continued education to, hopefully, improve our earnings to allow us the time and opportunity to be the artists that we are… Acknowledging that we were not able to make a living off our art, we settle for ‘big boy/girl’ jobs that pay the bills while being creative in our ‘free’ time (although time is never free). He exuded a peaceful energy that I wished I could mirror. When I made one of my typical cracks about my leash being retractable, he countered firmly, “Don’t put it like that.” He reminded me to be grateful by being grateful himself. I was mildly ashamed, shook his hand, thanked him and wished I could have given him my number without coming off as creepy. Instead, I sent up a silent, sincere prayer that good things would come to him.

I think about cheating sometimes. I wouldn’t. At least I don’t think I would but my sexual morals may be more flexible than they were two decades ago when I was devout and virginal. Somewhere between the con that was “saving myself” for marriage and the increased openness about open relationships make it all seem as inconsequential as a conversation about what to have for dinner. And yet I was the one who shut M down every time he brought it up, not for him but for me, “because he knows he can’t give you everything you need sexually ” J wisely pointed out, “I dont believe anyone gets everything they want or need from one person.”

“Other than you and A, I don’t know anyone who’s ever had a successful long term poly relationship,” I remarked.

“Compared to all those monogamous successful relationships?” He countered

Touché.

“And the fallout doesn’t faze me. Take a bullet for my baby” ~Caroline Polachek

Another Halloween without a single trick or treater except my crackhead neighbor. I gave him Reeses cups and beer. Had grand plans to start a fire in the back, toss in cinnamon, cardamom and scribbled words on bay leaves. But my body ached and all I wanted to do was lie flat and drink cider and bourbon through a straw. 

When you write your next blog, be sure you include that no one understands plumbing but plumbers,” M politely requested.

With everything exploding in the middle east, it seemed hardly the time to write about relationships or plumbing. I’ve been busy, drowning and dreaming. My ‘job’ haunts me as much as ever and at least weekly now, I dream of being called back to the uniform to be sent back into a conflict zone. In these dreams, I’m still the only woman on the team and I’m confused, not only as to who my team mates are but also what is our mission? And why me, again? 

My personal, waking world has been in turmoil as well as M had one hell of a mental breakdown that led me to question our future together. Today, I went to pick up his anxiety meds and found myself thinking of all the ways I’ve had to make decisions for him in the last 6 weeks because he has been incapable of thinking clearly enough on his own. He is smart in many areas but not a critical thinker. For recent instance: he’s running low on cash while waiting for his new bank card to come in the mail so he concludes that he cant go anywhere or do anything and must conserve groceries and gas because he doesnt know when the card will arrive. I told him, “it’s an hour away but drive to the bank tomorrow and get more cash.”  Then his meds: THe script could not be transfered out of state so he concluded in a panic “I’ll have to learn to live without my meds!” when I pointed out “Call this Walgreens” (while texting him the address) “have the refill done there and tell them I will pick it up and then send it overnight”.  He encounters a wall and just…stops. Doesnt look for ways over, around, through or even make a move to see if the wall is a figment of his imagination. 

 And the plumbing…he held me hostage on the phone for half an hour before I made an excuse to hang up because it was maddening trying to explain to him how to turn the water on in the basement (what ‘open’ looks like vs closed, and “no, the basement is NOT going to flood with you standing there. You can’t determine if the water is ON unless you turn the handle. One at a time. See if water comes out. If not, turn it back off then try the next handle to see if water comes out…blue is water going into the water heater, red is coming out of the water heater…”  Then I said, “I realize this will sound shitty but I have to ask, are you going to be able to do work on this home without help?” He got upset. Had to take an anxiety pill and call back after he calmed down. I explained, “I don’t know what you can or can’t do. But it seems like this is basic troubleshooting.” 

The thing is, when I was recounting this story to a friend, he said “Well, yeah! If he can’t figure out something as basic as that, how is he going to accomplish any of the big tasks up there? That was the whole point of him going, right?” 

Yes, it was but it was also a means to give him a financial break. His savings would be exhausted within two more years if he didnt do something. By moving out of an apartment he could no longer afford and a job that didnt pay even a quarter of his bills to a home where I would let him live for free in exchange for help repairing the property, a task I’m not convinced he is capable of. He has been there less than two weeks but already the cold and the fact that he is not tackling the things he went up there to do is causing him to second guess this decision. Overstepping and doing exactly what I said I would NOT do again, I email him jobs for the postal service, links to commercial driving schools, free workshops on resume writing and interviewing…if he’s not going to work on the house then he should at least be prioritizing what to do about work because he can’t even come back here and expect to find a place to live while jumping back into another minimum wage job. 

Before he left, he finally met my mother. When she and I were talking later, she asked how he was doing “up there” and I relayed honestly that he was having second thoughts. “What is he doing to keep himself busy?” she asked. I lied and said he was working on his resume and researching jobs. In truth, in the 10 days he’s been there, he has done nothing beyond making lists and making more lists…and texting me about how anxious he is. I told him frankly that lists making is “thinking about doing something” and not actually doing. As a list maker, I appreciate lists but you have to take action on them. I suggested again that he put goals with dates on his lists. LIke “before the end of this week, I will….” and try to avoid these lists of plans that roll into the next week and the next month without any real accomplishment.

My mother also said, “I thought he might struggle with this because he strikes me as a…” she struggled to find a nicer word than the one I knew was coming because it’s one adjective that always hung unbidding in my brain when I think of him, “Prissy is not the word I want to use but I can’t think of a different one” she apologized. My mother and I are very similar in many ways and I’ve inherited her preference for blue-collar, “manly” men. I told her, “I believe most girls want a guy just like her dad and dad knew how to fix anything! But Ive dated all types and I have to remember, do I want the guy who is handy but full of machismo who’s allergic to communication and talking about feelings or do I pick the guy who is loving, kind, communicative, romantic and willing to try to help?” (Even if he’s a bit on the prissy side)

But, Ive stopped mstrbating. With the way things are going, Im not inclined to think of him and to think of someone else drives me emotionally further from him. So I’m in “Sergeant Mom” mode again and it’s not a sexy feeling. If things don’t work out between us, I at least hope that he can look back without malice and say “She got me out of a rut”. 

“Sometimes all I need is the air that I breathe and to love you” Shovels and Rope

“Look at me with your root beer eyes”, his fingers gently gripped my chin as I flicked my gaze up to meet his, “I’m sorry.” he said then kissed me. And in an instant, I stopped thinking, “This is never going to work. Just get him home. Get US home. And we can end this and worry about the awkwardness at dances later. I’ll box up his things and put them in the mail so I don’t have to see him again…”

We don’t fight. But we do occasionally get very upset with one another. This time, about his disapproval with the way I raise my kids (ie: handle my dogs). It’s most simply, a difference in parenting styles.

I told him, “It’s not what you said but how you said it. All your points are valid. And I was listening. But I need you to say it differently.”

Because of a hurricane and canceled flights, his 6 days to join me and the dogs in the hilly woods was condensed down to 48 hours, much of it spent on the road. He wanted to see fireflies and shooting stars and he saw both. I made homemade jalapeno peach jam because when in a century-old home in the middle of the Appalachians, that’s what I feel called to do. And I always take flowers to the grave plot of the original family that owned the home. Gathered from the yard, crepe myrtle, honeysuckle and red lilies. Although every ‘vacation’ up there still means work: Pulling poison ivy off the porch screen, chainsaw-ing dead trees, repairing the chimney, patching the water-stained ceiling, fixing plumbing, chasing off the live bats, cleaning up the dead ones, sanding old wood floors and plucking up leftover carpet tacks. Because no carpet salesman every told homeowners “This shits going to be beyond nasty and impossible to take up decades from now.”

I think this was my old pittie’s last trip hiking though. Well, maybe not his last trip because I can take him on short jaunts through the woods because he’s still a mountain dog at heart but his arthritic hips and paws turned us back on trails we used to love. My damaged spine didn’t fare much better so we were a couple of broken old souls covering gnarled ground slowly. My biggest frustration (and M’s upset) came from me harshly correcting the younger dog because she defied training, fighting against me mile after mile, discontent to keep such a slow pace. You see, I have a dog. My dog has a dog and 5 or more cats at any given time. But I have only one dog and that is part of the relationship problem (with the ‘other’ dog), I recognize that.

M likes driving so I happily let him take the wheel on the long trek home. I dozed with my feet in the windshield and stirred whenever I felt him caress my leg, my hair, or idly twist the rings on my fingers as my hand rested on his. He sang endearingly out of tune and I admired his forearms, the thickest “manliest” part of him, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the long scars that serve as reminders that life wasn’t always easy or kind. It still isn’t.