May Peace Be with You

peace be with you 1

As we grow older and hopefully, wiser, time and age, helps us to embrace what was there all along.

My mother who has had her share of syndromes, disorder and ailments…this past year, just happens to be also one of my closest friends.

Sometime last winter in the midst of despair, discomfort and chronic pain, I saw her grapple with her faith.  Between congestive heart failure, a broken back and C.O.P.D.  A once spiritual saint, at least in my eyes, questioned why and who and how,her beliefs and hopes and prayers, left her when she needed them most.

I digress…she succumbed, she prayed, she meditated and she held out one tiny ounce of lasting hope…and, things changed.

She returned to the smaller things in life.  How important they can be.  How they last much longer than those milestones that we create scrapbooks for.

My mother, my friend, lives in a deep, descending discomfort that many could not bear.  Yet, this spring, I watched her as she groomed her garden for a summer’s delight.

Bravery comes in small packages.  It means more that way!

She had once asked me…

I don’t understand how you embrace those eastern beliefs…those religions…

You should follow in the path of your native heritage!

Today, as I took my daily reflections on the road.  I contemplated her words.  What is my spirituality?  Is she right?  To whom or what should I turn?

Than it occurred to me…

All these years, I have spent most of my waking hours outdoors.  Enjoying what the good Mother…the other one, Mother Nature, gave me.  Never realizing that indeed, I had been following in the non intrusive footsteps of my Cherokee ancestors.  That my spirituality is build around my needs…not necessarily around my wants.

peace be with you 2

May Peace Be with You

So much to be seen

as I pull the earth up to me.

A languishing scene

Native to only me.

Though my travels have been…

tumultuous and vast…

It is in these woods that my spirit will last.


please make me a better person today than I was yesterday


help to keep all creatures great and small safe and far from harm

to the best of their ability!

Thank you for the love in my heart

the food in my stomach

the roof over my head


my faith.

May Peace Be with You

peace be with you 3


Namaste is usually spoken with a slight bow and hands pressed together, palms touching and fingers pointing upwards, thumbs close to the chest. This gesture is called Añjali Mudrā or Pranamasana. In Hinduism it means “I bow to the divine in you”.

Truth is Stranger than Friction

Dear Esmeralda

Dysfunction Junction
Dysfunction Junction

I’m going to try to not make this a long-winded story but I do like to write. We just got the baby shower invite in the mail and would love to go.  That Patty really looks like a water balloon, doesn’t she?  We are both so excited to see Gram’s in her new Rascal…how many speeds does it have?  I hope she’s put down the bottle.  Any who, I have to work on Saturday but not until later in the afternoon.

As I walked from the Post Office to the car with that adorable little invitation you sent.  You know the one?  It has a picture of Honey Boo Boo naked.   Something made me look at your return address. When I saw there had been no South East or 39 th on it. I hustled to the car.

You see exactly two weeks ago, I prodded Ma  for your address. I go over there once a week to help out, as you know.  With the toileting and stuff.  I tell her, if she needs to go…number two, I can come over more often.  But we’ll see how that goes.

Anyway, She says to me,: Oh, don’t worry about that now. I’ll e-mail it to you.

I say: Ma, you know how the post office is! Give it to me now. Why wait?

She says: I don’t want to turn the computer on, log in and pull up my e-mail right now. It’s such a hassle!  And, your father gets nervous about showing our ‘privates’ and stuff. He thinks there is some sort of conspiracy going on…Ain’t been right sense that wicked head injury at the Gandhi Mart.  That can of Pork N Beans just came out of nowhere!

I get disgusted because the conversation is going nowhere. How hard is it to just get me the friggin’ address! Of course, I don’t say this to her. I warn her however, that if I don’t get the address by tonight I’m gonna tell Grams and Grams will put the ole Polish Hex on her.

No address arrives that night. No address arrives three days later when I call and harass her for it. A week goes by…I’m back at the house telling Father about not getting the address. He’s getting loud because the dogs are barking during the Weather Channel’s weather on the 8’s. Whatever that means?   Though we all know what really has got him to needing to see the barber and get the hair across his ass…removed!

He’s actually mad because Dough boy (or the big dot) as Megan and I call him. Dough boy believes Dad won’t come in to visit the babies: mini dot one and mini dot two, because he’s black!  The big dot that is. Not Dad. Somehow this story is relayed to Father from Mother who got it from sister, Sissy,  who had a meeting with Cindy Lou. So the whole time I’m there Father is running around the house referring to  himself a bigot.

Is ‘bigot’ the right word for someone who hates the world no matter what?  I’m not sure if he’s right on that one.  I think that would be more sociopath or something.  I saw it once on Jerry Springer.

While Dad’s telling, Bubba the cockatiel that he’s a no good f-ing bigot!  Dad, not Bubba, that is. I escort Mom to the office. I make her sit down and turn on the computer. Five seconds later we pull up your address.

I need to tell you that two days prior to this, after several stalking phone calls. Ma leaves your address on my voice mail. She sounds like a bag of marbles were left off in her mouth. Or, perhaps dropped from when she lost them. I play the voice mail over and over. Megan plays the voice mail over and over.   Hard as we try.  The words just do not sound lucid in the message.  Yet, we send a card to 4646 South East 3999th St.. RFD Intercourse, PA. We went with RFD even though it could have been RSD or FU or RYO or KMWA (kiss my white ass). Either way it sounded like you were in Something, something Mayberry RFD.

When I force Ma to pull up the address. I say, what is the RFD for anyway. She says, what are you talking about?

For Christ sakes, pardon my language, what is the f—-ing address. This time I get her to write it down! I’m looking at the piece of ripped from the corner of a piece of the latest edition of Field and Stream magazine, the  address looking up at me with Mom’s poor penmanship, right now.

So, I marched myself down with my second made from hand post card and send it to 120 SE 39th St. Intercourse, PA  34034. The funny thing is I printed off only so many of them and used sister Sissy’s special x-mas postcard to give to you. We’d figure out what to do with Sissy later…goodness knows if that girl don’t get that card by the beginning of next year…she’ll pitch a fit

So, that meant finding an old x-mas card, not used, getting back down to the over crowded post office and mailing it. I just did that today, 12/24/13


So, you and Bud will not receive a x-mas card in the mail this year.  Sissy’s  horribly tacky x-mas card will be late and I won’t hear the end of it.  Serves her right she keeps promising me that scrapbook she made from scrap ten years ago!

Mom is fine and oblivious to the situation she has caused and is truly loving the Sit N Spin seat you both got her for the shower. And, I have to e-mail you the funny post card you should have gotten in the mail.

I once got a x-mas card from my boss in North Carolina. I will never forget it because it epitomizes how I feel about Christmas/x-mas.

Money’s tight, times are hard here’s your f—-ing Christmas Card.

Hope this story finds you healthy, happy and glad your far away from the maddening crowd.

Love you

Ruth and Megan

If it weren't for apathy...I'd have no sympathy at all!
If it weren’t for apathy…I’d have no sympathy at all!

How to Get Your Fair Share of Abuse

For some odd reason…working for ourselves with no ties to anyone…seems to give us what we are aching for!  I have etched out a living doing the following:

Cover of "Christine (Special Edition)"
Cover of Christine (Special Edition)

30 hours=care taking a house that needs far more care than taking.  Yet, it is a lovely ride in the country Zen and often a lyrical trip through the fields of mayhem on a tractor  used as a stunt double for Stephen King’s Christine.

20 hours=slugging away at the Life and Times of Aging Parents and their oh, so, quickly, aging daughter.  Here, a country bumpkin lesbian is offered moist muffins times three or four times a week.   And, goodness knows, all lesbians love a good damp muffin.

40 hours=struggling away at the keyboard, the bent over a barrel of too much acid in the 80’s and 90’s imagination and writing to the heart’s content of an online newspaper.  Indeed, you can never write enough breakfast reviews for New Hampshire.

20 hours= paying it forward at a RYO Mom and Pop store down the alley way and across the tracks to the good side of bad little New England towns.

For the most part, I own myself, which is not too much to brag about.  However, it has allowed for the following observation:

When you own yourself and own your do’s and don’ts…there is just one boss.

Somehow or another it seems that like a well shit upon bed of flowers…the blossoms of bosses seem to grow with every thorn when you find yourself working for the MAN and/or WOMAN!

Today, I entered my little job, flying under the radar, working a little for someone else and taking in the ambience of story telling to turn around and use for myself.  As the job and the stream of ideal ideas of tales unfolded before me…my once, I have one boss, turned to two, flipped over to three and soon sprung into four.

And, she told two friends, and she told two friends, and she told two friends.  Had the moment been a commercial the Double Mint twins would have turned into a bit for Three’s Company meets Who’s the Boss and engages with the Walton’s on Acid running a family store.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want
You Can’t Always Get What You Want (Photo credit: Sister Ray)

I tend to babble and hold resentments when my bosses become more than I can count on two hands.  Therefore, I leave it all…in the hands of persons better suited for telling it like it is:

I saw her today at the reception
A glass of wine in her hand
I knew she was gonna meet her connection
At her feet was a footloose man

You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes well you might find
You get what you need

And I went down to the demonstration
To get my fair share of abuse
Singing, “We’re gonna vent our frustration
If we don’t we’re gonna blow a 50-amp fuse”

You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes well you just might find
You get what you need

I went down to the Chelsea drugstore
To get your prescription filled
I was standing in line with Mr. Jimmy
And man, did he look pretty ill
We decided that we would have a soda
My favorite flavor, cherry red
I sung my song to Mr. Jimmy
Yeah, and he said one word to me, and that was “dead”

Who's the Boss?
Who’s the Boss? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I said to him

You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You get what you need

You get what you need–yeah, oh baby

I saw her today at the reception
In her glass was a bleeding man
She was practiced at the art of deception
Well I could tell by her blood-stained hands

You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need

You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need

Paper Thin

I don’t know exactly where or when it happened. Don’t really care? Of course, I do. AA meetings have always had a Stepford feel to me. Something beaten down into our souls. So far in grained that the recourse, production and aesthics of it all are similar to a faded water-color painting.

You don't need drugs to show you heaven, baby  'cause there's plenty clean in hell
You don’t need drugs to show you heaven, baby
’cause there’s plenty clean in hell

How does one get over the hump? How do you focus on something that is the same something as the something before.

For instance, today, I went to my home group. Like the good recovering alcoholic/addict I am. I listened not intently to Jim babble about the existentialism in his recovery. Jeanie complained about her constant struggle with a higher power, even after 35 years. Suzie reread from the Came to Believe book. Re-emphasizing the same verbage we just heard. And, finally, Roy coughed, spat, picked at his nose and pulled out a nasty example of a snot rag to dispose of item once lodged in his over the top broken blood vessel nose.

Focus Ruth! That’s what I kept telling myself. Keep your eye on the ball! Don’t let up or it will all go down!

So, an hour after saying my usual assault of verbal AA redundant diarrhea and listening to others with the same affliction; I felt better. I felt good.

Dare I say what has been said before me? Keep coming back, fake it ’til you make it!

These are Ambien dosed alcoholics that are laced with an Oxy dependency.  They have found volunteer work with the government.  There  are the spoiled middle aged men that drive horribly reproduced sport cars on inheritance bestowed upon them by Mommy and Daddy.  There is of course, the twenty-something’s trying against all odds to free them selves from the trailer and it’s trash.  Usually these kids look like deer stuck in headlights.

My heart goes out to anyone who has battled a bias of some sort from the day of their conception forward.  The inspiration in that there is no reliance on anyone but themselves…lifts me up.  I have been there.  Hiding from the emotional abuse.  Wanting so badly for a beating instead of the constant threat of one.  Drinking myself into another dimension and passing out and coming to.

I drank on a regular basis; a half a gallon of Vodka (cheaper the better), a twelve pack of beer (cheaper the better) and would find that I had gone past the point of drunk and remained stone cold sober.  A life time of blackouts and gray outs and pissing my life away with bad choices.

In these little church basements, Veteran’s Halls, Rec Rooms and seedy old abandoned by life state offices…there is and are, pamphlets, books, coins and hoards of militant looking eclectic persons.  By day and by night and everyday of the week…a hand is out.  I received at hand in an old gymnasium on the State Hospital grounds in New Hampshire.

Norma had been the women’s name.  She had more years of sobriety than I had living on this earth.  She smiled, shook my hand, offered me a burnt but wonderful cup of coffee and led me to a chair.

Since that day my drinking has never been the same.  Being clean tends to put a damper on the edgy chaotic life we all strive for when overly fed on booze and ego.

To be a regular and a fixture in the halls is a privilege to which many Ambien and Annie Grace’s will never see.  For the bottom has been covered over by a regular visit to dishonesty.  For the rest…the twenty-something’s clinging to a hope that lived inside them on the days when Dad didn’t come home or Mom was out using?  They are an testament to true strength and belief in there being plenty excuses to use but no reasons.



Sometimes I miss that feeling of falling
Falling on over the ledge
You know I miss that feeling of falling
Falling on over the ledge
And when my mind it gets to worryin’
And I just can’t get no rest
Oh Baby, that’s when I call you up instead

It’s after midnight baby, I’m sittin’ here all alone
I tried to call your number baby,
But you weren’t at home
I been a good girl baby, through with all that mess
But the way I’m feelin’ now, darlin’
Well it scares me half to death

Well I miss that feelin’, of fallin’
On over the ledge

That summer night in Texas, baby
Too hot and wet to sleep
I heard you pull up in the distance
You’re comin’ to get me relief
We went screamin’ down the highway, baby
So much faster than we should
You pulled me over in the moonlight
Man, I still can feel that hood

Well I miss that feeling of fallin’,
On over the ledge
When that rain starts baby, I want to take a real
Good look at that ledge

It ain’t something you get over
You might think you made it through
You can turn your head and walk away
But it never takes it’s eyes off you

It’ll push your foot right through the floorboard
Make you cut them streamers down his back
You waste what’s precious and you can’t afford
It runs your life right off the track

Keeps you boilin’ in that poison
Only the truly twisted know so well
You don’t need drugs to show you heaven, baby
’cause there’s plenty clean in hell

That miss that feelin’ of fallin’
Of fallin’ on over the ledge

When the blues start callin’ I want to crawl way up close to the ledge

miss that feeling of falling
miss that feeling of falling

Mean People Suck

No doubt in my mind where you belong.
No doubt in my mind where you belong.

I ask, who really cares?
Is it the young adult who throws love around like a tit full of cellulite?
Is it the middle aged lesbian who is only aware of the plight brought on by ignorance and therefore, abides by no rules?
Are people basically good?
And, what is love?
Some of the most important questions we will seek answers to our whole life through and in the end, come up empty handed.
Driving amongst the pouring rain tonight, the moon hidden by the sick sense of humor Mother Nature bestows upon us from time to time. In the sweep of the truck tires and the sounds of Adele, a distant and somewhat comical memory came up to me and shook my hand.
My mother, bless her soul, years before the anti-smoking fashion became all the craze; had been accompanying me for a quick toke off a Marlboro Red in a vacant parking lot…one awful, over stuffed Thanksgiving.
As we coughed and spat and enjoyed our cancer stick. A car of unknown not made in America origin strolled by…on the back were these words stamped out in red, white and blue.

English: Marlboro cigarette in pack.
English: Marlboro cigarette in pack. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Being a devout catholic who insists in finding the good in all of us, my mother stated, ‘how nice that is!’
I choked and hammered and hawed, ‘what do you mean, Ma? You mean that bumper sticker?’
She smiles from the inside out and states, ‘yes, isn’t it nice for people to promote such a thing? To get over your differences and swallow your words…I’ve always believed in that!’
At the time, back in the good old not so far from today…days, good ole Ma had an answering machine. And, I knew without posing the question what the next remark would be from my saintly mother.
‘I think I’ll use that saying for a new message on my machine!’
It was then and there that the roles reversed themselves and got twisted up in the game of life and sex and right and wrong.
Gently and with a newly lit cigarette in hand, I explained the facts of life to my mother. A situation I have been able to avoid ever since. To this day I wonder, what would Father John have said, if he called upon my mother at home to possibly come in next Sunday to hand out the sacrament and only got the answering machine? What if Sister Pat phoned and inquired about the new Bingo machine that had been on back order for months?  What would her habit have thought of such a message?
Fun as it would have been in my own catholic girl’s do not start much too late, mentality. I had to burst my mother’s virginal bubble.
Tonight, though, while heading north of north. I smiled and thought, wouldn’t it be nice to feel that naivety again? To believe in the good that resides in all of us. To enjoy the love I have waiting at home with me. A partner who rises early and beds down at the crack of sundown. A lover who awaits me with open arms and a caring and comforting charm.
Thank Christ for memory it prompts the jaded edges of my composure to tread lightly when it is graced by the beautiful women in my life.


When the rain is blowing in your face,
And the whole world is on your case,
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.

When the evening shadows and the stars appear,
And there is no one there to dry your tears,
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love.

I know you haven’t made your mind up yet,
But I would never do you wrong.
I’ve known it from the moment that we met,
No doubt in my mind where you belong.

I’d go hungry; I’d go black and blue,
I’d go crawling down the avenue.
No, there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do
To make you feel my love.

The storms are raging on the rolling sea
And on the highway of regret.
The winds of change are blowing wild and free,
You ain’t seen nothing like me yet.

I could make you happy, make your dreams come true.
Nothing that I wouldn’t do.
Go to the ends of the Earth for you,
To make you feel my love

into our life a little levity must fall
into our life a little levity must fall