Why Peyton Place Was Written in New England

After 14 years here I'm understanding. When I first moved to a small NE town I was told the cultural difference right away. In NYC if you're a gossip, someone shows up at your door and at the minimum, tells you off. Not so here. If someone gossips here, everyone believes it and sides with the gossiper, and you don't hear about it until the damage has been done. So it goes.

Which explains what has been happening in my life lately. Without grimy detail, a psychotic I once knew and told to fuck off has been the source of lies and gossip about me for some months now. Not the biggest surprise, but annoying nonetheless. And further, my withdrawal from some trendy internetting has fed right into the gossiping under an "AHA!" reasoning, so popular these days to the trendy. This subhuman told tales to some non-friends, they told their friends and so on and so on. It's just come back to me via someone who found themselves hearing this inanity, and suddenly it all made sense. And so now my little town's most reliable gossipers are salivating, most of them men. There's nothing quite as satisfying as "talking shit", as it's so delicately put around here.

The downside is that I'm no longer in shape to beat the hell out of said psychotic. The upside is that I'm just the target du jour, and not only will this stupidity fade away with the next juicy victim, but the people who believed/propagated it will come to know that the source is a chronic liar and complete mess. Unfortunately, seeming intelligence doesn't guarantee sanity. Would that it did.

I look forward to a happier resolution than the victims in Peyton Place had, but I understand why it was written up here now. As for those who believe the word of a psychotic, Gods bless them, because they're not gonna get my friendship back.

Cheryl Barnes sings the hell outta this song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gj4vfrPdfdo&feature=rec-HM-r2

And apart from my post altogether, please take a moment to watch this:
http://www.couragecampaign.org/page/s/1million

Memorial Days

We always went to the cemeteries on Memorial Day. My Dad's mother, grandmother and uncle, all buried at Greenwood, the famous Brooklyn burial ground. Then we'd pile back into the Packard and go on to Evergreen, where his father and father's father's graves are. We'd tend the grave, note how much more sunken, leave a geranium or flag, maybe take a photo or two. At some point we'd get to my Uncle's house in Flatbush and have a meal and that would be where the discussions about the Wars came up.

Uncle Bert served in the Army in WW1, with the 69th Division, NY's "Fighting Irish". He worked for HQ, bicycling around France, delivering maps and documents to the field operators and operating short wave radios at the ripe old age of 19. Though he was MIA for several weeks and turned up in a hospital with mustard burns all over him, he was otherwise somewhat unscathed. Dad served in the Air Force in WW2, but being so old at that point (36) he stayed stateside, in supply operations out of Orlando, Fla. My mother also served in the Women's Marine Reserves, stationed in the Pentagon, with the horrific job of compiling and sending home the personal effects of those killed. And my 3 older brothers enlisted in the Army in the 1960s; Johnny went to Germany, Tommy to Korea, Billy to VietNam. I was and am still, the only one in generations not to have served. That would've been different if my friend Patty-Atty hadn't become pregnant. We were in the process of joining the Air Force on the buddy plan when the rabbit died.

I have a built-in reverence for soldiers and veterans. I have lived with the former soldier, the soldier in an active war, the shell-shocked returned soldier. My childhood friends had brothers and even sisters in Vietnam. We watched Eyewitness News every night, searching the jungle footage just in case. We looked for letters, sent packages, missed them at holidays, talked about them in the schoolyard, brought things they sent home to our Show and Tells. I was particularly attached to a silk "Sister" pillow sham with yellow fringe and a jewelry box my brothers had sent me. Not only were they from my brothers, they were rare beautiful things from a foreign land. When we knew they were coming home on leave, we'd tear up a bedsheet, write "Welcome Home!" on it and hang it out the front windows. There was even a kinship among the youngers at home. If two officers in dress walked up a street in the neighborhood, every kid knew it and what it meant, and thanked God if it wasn't your door they were headed to. Kids with olders in the service may be vile enemies until those moments. But the next day at school we checked that we were all present and accounted for.

While I have my opinions of war, especially unnecessary and unjustified ones, that never changes how I feel about soldiers and vets. I'm grateful and proud of them, respect their call to duty to the nation, and brag about my brothers' and parents' service at every opportunity. In fact, my sister-in-law is just finishing her tenure as Post Commander of a Legion Post next month. She did a helluva job, in spite of some nasty grumpy old men, and is going on to a higher position. She's an Air Force vet. Brag, brag.

And so I feel no conflict in criticizing our government, how our military is run, what they make our soldiers go thru nor how crappily they've been treating our vets. It all sucks. This invasion and occupation sucks. I hate everything about it. But not the soldiers. In most cases, they're just regular people doing what they have to do, what they swore to do, what their country insists they do. I'm proud of them for making that sacrifice of time, money, comfort, their homes and families. They deserve my respect, they get it. But I don't want them to sacrifice their lives and sanity in this present war. I want them all home. Now. Yesterday. President Obama, end this insanity.

It's Memorial Day. Honor the fallen, remember them, comfort the grieving. If you can, adopt a soldier. They need pens, plain stationery and baby wipes pretty badly over there.

And if anybody comes across an Army "Sister" pillow sham with yellow fringe, please let me know. I wore the original out long ago and would really love to have one again.

To Get One Thing Done

The older I get, the more life reminds me of a framed puzzled. You know the kind, where there are 15 pieces and 16 spaces and you move the pieces around to get them in the right spot. You always have to move every piece to get one piece in place, then two, and so on. It gets tedious and frustrating and can feel hopeless and stupidifying [is that a word? ; } ].

Nothing on earth freaks me out more than frustration. Death, destruction, financial ruin I know how to cope without much ado. But when I see a solution to a problem and the key element is in a framed puzzle, my brain implodes and I lose patience altogether.

This isn't just in one instance in my life right now, either. It seems to be a theme that I'm meant to deal with and figure out. Meditation is good, but doesn't stop that nagging "Godammit!" thing every time something new turns into yet another framed puzzle.

This deal has even become an issue in my itsy bitsy apartment. There is no storage space here; one closet in which stands a water heater doesn't do it for 50 years of crap collecting, much less clothing. I've given away more than I own at this point and don't accumulate things on purpose. Even so, my own home is at the point of being a framed puzzle. It's become even more complicated with limited abilities. Where repotting a plant is a 6 or 7 step process for most peep, it's a 26 step project for me.

So, I'm changing things. Change the puzzle and voila! you have space to negotiate. There are limits- I can't make my apartment bigger, but I can get rid of things that have become obstacles. I try to not invest emotions in material things in general, which makes giving them away quite easy. Still I own some things I'd never willingly part with, but those are distilling, refining perhaps, to the useful and the mirth-giving. Clothes that don't fit? Bye! Books I won't read again or have reread too many times? Outta here. This is my mission lately, to live more simply and without impediments. I have plenty of bureaucracy to fulfill any sick need I may have for complexus.

Which gives me a new view of growing older. I was almost grieving at watching my parents all do this over the years. My Father's apartment seemed so Spartan to me when he died and my brother and I cleaned it out. When my Stepfather died 18 months after my Mother, there was little to keep from their house, compared to the years of life and family there'd been. I understand now.

What I've got to guard against is my judgment of people my own age who are still gathering material things. It's in me. A kind of haughty snobbery that somehow I'm maturing faster than they, and they don't "get it" yet. One of my innumerable faults. Just because I don't need a houseful of stuff doesn't make it bad that someone else does. To each their own bliss. There's gotta be a profound jealousy or denial in me that I haven't dug out yet. But I will.

Another tool I'm using is handing the reins over to someone else who can get a thing done faster than I. If something should be done and it's too tough for me, I'll gladly toss the ball to a more capable hand. It never mattered to me that I get credit for an idea or solution, which makes it easier. All that really matters is that the problem, or idea, gets to fruition and resolution. Some sage said that so much more would be done if nobody cared for the credit of its doing. I believe that and keep that in mind as much as possible.

Waiting Worried

The Daily News, my "hometown paper", has reported that 5 US soldiers were killed and another 3 wounded by a fellow soldier in Baghdad's Camp Liberty. This is a major invasion post and also where the soldier I have as a Soldier's Angel, lives. At least I hope he's still alive.

His name is Devin, and I just got my first letter from him, though I've been sending cards and letters and packages since last October. The letter's date is November 2008...and I wonder if he's ever received what I've sent. A friend has told me that her family members haven't received some of the Care Packages they've sent. Which pisses me off no end. Who steals these packages? Is anyone paying attention to this? Where do you even complain about it? The PO says they can't track them once they get to the APO address.

But back to the issue at hand. The military hasn't yet named who was killed or wounded, nor the killer. As Camp Liberty is a big base, I can imagine so many people across the US, including me now, are anxiously awaiting news that their soldier isn't one of the dead. Or, God forbid, the shooter. But all we can do is wait and hope. Devin's due to come home in June. I don't know any of his family or even the town he's from, but my thoughts are with them and him today. I'll update when I hear anything.

Update:
It took a few days, while the world got to hear everything but what the shooter's fave beer is, to get the names of the victims. While I'm relieved that Devin wasn't listed, I'm sickened at the whole ordeal.

Busy Days!

The last week has been so busy I've had no block of time to blog. A few thoughts that I want to throw out there until I have time to write proper holding-forths.

Eisegesis runs rampant, particularly among those who don't know what that means. Or its ramifications. Combined with modern day evangelism, it's the worst of times for anyone who holds a thought on religion.

Michael Savage banned from Britain. Now if we could only do it here in the states.

The US population has become indescribably stupid and ignorant. The more I interact with people, or read discussions online, the worse it appears. No wonder we get no respect.

Foreign newspapers/sites are addictive.

We are already past a third into 2009, soon to be halfway. How is that even possible?

Everyone around me is losing their minds over something or other.

It's May 9th and we've had Summer weather for 3 weeks. The first real thunderstorm rolled thru here tonight. As usual for this town, it neither cleared the air nor cooled us down. I need to start looking around for a dryer, cooler climate. If any are left.

Meantime, thank God for small favors, sleep and all forms of escapism.