I'd forgotten about my fizzled out attempts at publication with Impossible Pete until I began working on putting together (for a friend) a booklet of my body of poetry. The instant I held the first printed page in my hands I was flooded with emotion. For me there will always be a vast distinction between composing directly onto my computer (as most of these poems were conceived) and committing my work to paper. I need to hold my poems in my hands, as I deliberately slow down my reading to make the enjoyment last a bit longer. It's not that I'm in love with my own work, it's more that I've come to see that I'm beginning to evolve as a writer. After decades of skirting truth, of avoiding anything unpleasant in my work I'm digging beneath the surface and showing to the world what I've uncovered, whether it be pleasant or putrid. I'm not glossing things over by using trite words peppered with bland euphemisms.

I've a lifelong penchant for that which is a bit rough around the edges, dog-eared, if you will. Writing is no different:  I shy away from the slick and commercial and cherish that which lacks polish but speaks truth. This is one reason why holding my poetry pages touches me so deeply. I'll never get the same feeling from reading my words on a monitor--that's too impersonal for me. I've kept first drafts of stories and poems written 30 years ago. I haven't been able to toss them out no matter how crumpled their appearance or how many cross-outs or erasures they contain. There upon lined pages aged with time I once attempted to tell a truth. A little truth, or maybe a bigger truth. I wasn't very good at self-expression, but there was a writer in me dying to be heard. I don't know if visual artists keep their first efforts, I think my dad did but that may be simply from his bad habit of not throwing out anything. I'm doomed to cherish my rough drafts more than I ever could anything which finds its way into print. I like that this is so, for it tells me that at heart I'm a writer more concerned with truth than with appearances.

7:35 am:  Turned on computer, stared at it idiotically. Checked e-mail and blog, did some stumbling. Answered cell phone call from Tim, who's been calling a little earlier than I'd like. With no caffeine yet in my system, I couldn't trust myself to be patient with him.

7:45 am:  Ended phone call, padded into the kitchen for first cup of coffee. Startled myself by glancing at my vanity which now resides in the kitchen. I'd forgotten I did a little arranging this weekend. Stepped back to get a better look, decided I still love the idea of having an un-kitcheny item against what used to be a blank wall.

7:46 am:  Told myself to have a smoke, then get dressed. Had smoke, perched on tiny little porch table inherited from former neighbors. Sat wrapped up in bright fleece blanket, realized I'd forgotten to brush my hair, hoped it wouldn't be one of those mornings when the owner of the pub was out walking his dog. Tried to remember what I wanted to do with the rest of the day, drew a blank.

7:55 am:  Back inside, totally forgot about getting dressed. Plopped back down at computer, replied to emails, drank coffee. Wandered into bedroom, noticed the scrapbooking paper I'd received in the mail the other day, considered beginning the collage I'm making for a Christmas gift.

7:55-noon: Worked on collage. Talked to one of my sons (Maddy and Anna's dad) who told me how sick they all were, and that they were going to emergency if they didn't get better soon. Nibbled on the last of my pastrami and Swiss cheese (I'd tossed a loaf of moldy bread the day before), and thought about getting dressed.

12-2:00:  Worked on collage. Decided to take a break to get housework done. Forgot to do so. Burst out laughing, on the john, remembering how during the weekend when Sissyface and I took Maddy out to lunch, I'd written "Wash me, whore" in the dirt on her back bumper. Wondered again why that word always makes me crack up.

2:00-4:00 Worked on collage. I think. Lost all track of time and reality. Realized with a start I should get dressed, decided if I hadn't by now what did it matter? Also realized that my niece often borrows Sissyface's car so perhaps I should tell my sister what I wrote on her bumper before she loaned it out again.

4:00-6:00 Nibbled on Fritos and sour cream. Wished for cake. Answered 3 phone calls in a row from Maddy's mama; each time there was no one there. Took a call from my son who told me they were going to emergency, everyone throwing up and having the runs.

6:00 pm  Heard a woman outside weeping. Looked out living room window, nothing. Looked out kitchen window, nothing. Weeping increased. Decided I needed to throw my trash out anyhow, so while outside I walked down to the sidewalk and looked in both directions. Nothing. Not a soul in sight, but the weeping was real, I swear it. Felt something like fear snake its way up my spine.

6:05 pm:  Back inside I worked again on the collage. Ironed some material for an iron on transfer I'd printed out, and felt a strong impulse to plunge the iron into the sink full of water I should have drained a long time ago. Resisted the urge. Looked with a start at my kitchen clock. How had it gotten so late? Looked down at my pjs and robe in great shame. Who lives like this?

6:10 pm:  Plopped down on couch, still mystified by the mysterious weeping woman. Tried to ground myself by watching a little TV but it didn't help. Thought of working on the scarf I'm knitting my grandson, but knitting seemed like something I'd only ever dreamed I could do. Called Sissyface, woke her from a nap. Tried to explain how ungrounded I felt, told her all about the eerie weeping and how I felt as if I was on a mild acid trip.

7:00 pm:  My son called to tell me they were testing the kids for Swine Flu. He didn't really know anything at that point, and won't get the test results for several days.

7:05 pm:  Began cleaning up mess from collage. Wondered if it was worth the bother to make myself a little meal. Decided it wasn't. Got back on the computer and found an email from someone on Freecycle responding to my wanted ad for a living room area rug (for Maddy's fam.) Sat wondering once more where the day had gone to, feeling as if the entire day was lost to me. And who was doing that weeping? I know I heard it, it wasn't my imagination.

I don't know how the rest of the evening unwound, except that my son stopped by around 11 pm (with his shirt up over his face to spare me his germs) to borrow the money needed for their prescriptions. Wandered into my room, saw that Midge had a little gift waiting for me so resigned myself to cleaning the litter box before climbing into bed. Finally got under the covers, checked my DVR to see what shows were waiting to be watched, wondered if I'd get sick too. Would I die from the Swine Flu, of all thing? I have a compromised immune system-- but I can't afford to worry about what might happen.

Lay in bed numbly staring at the TV and regretting the whole, weird day.

"Oh it's not a First Aid kit anymore," Becky tells him. "Darlene's been using it as a lunchbox."

"And what happened to the stuff in the First Aid kit?" he asks Darlene, only to learn she sold it to the football team.

This little snippet of the program grabbed my attention for the first time. I may have seen it about 100 times (or more), but this was the first time I realized what was going on inside of me as I took in the interaction between Dan and his daughter.

If that had been me, I'd have been grounded for 3 weeks. But first I would have been told in no uncertain terms how stupid I was, how I never do anything right, and I'd better start watching my step. Shame was my stepdad's favorite form of punishment. Oftentimes the threatened groundings or withheld allowances never materialized, but that's not to say I got off easy. One thing that he never forgot to do, or changed his mind about doing halfway through, was shaming me.

I watched nearly spellbound as Dan and Roseanne let Darlene know she'd had no business selling their First Aid kit to the football team--and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, they went on to other things. There was no dwelling on her screw-up, no name calling, no shaming, no bringing it up every few minutes. Though I've seen this episode countless times, I think I was half expecting a different outcome this time: Dan goes into a rage and locks Darlene out of the house, tornado warning and all. Roseanne laughs as Dan shames her (as my mother did with me every time), while Becky and DJ stand around snickering and scoffing--clearly relieved it's Darlene and not one of them who did such a dumb thing. Of course the plot never varied (thank goodness.) As it unwound I began reflecting on why it had such a powerful affect on me. The only word I could come up with in conclusion was grace. The Conners may not be perfect but they know a little something about grace. They don't expect perfection in themselves or their children. They aren't concerned with what others will think. They are who they are, and they and their kids have a wide margin for error.

Grace.

What an odd concept! I thought back to my sour suburban childhood home, trying to come up with even one instance of grace in action. I couldn't scrounge up even one such memory. My mom and stepdad existed in a grace-free environment. There were to be no foul-ups, no human failings, no second chances. And most certainly they cared very much what the neighbors thought. My mother would rather my stepdad rape me (as long as it was done in secret where she wouldn't have to hear the neighbors talking about it) than to be mortified by our front lawn not getting mowed in time, or one of her children roaming about the block with dirty fingernails or unkempt hair.

It was as if my stepdad and mother announced, upon joining together in unholy wedlock, There will be no miracles here.

No miracles, no grace. Toe the line or suffer the consequences, just don't expect sympathy or compassion.

Oh but didn't grace sneak in anyway, despite their efforts to live in a grace free atmosphere? Love, grace: call it what you will, I see instances of it creeping in when least expected. Not from my mother or stepdad, to be sure. George MacDonald, the Scottish preacher, once said, "Love surrounds us, seeking the smallest crack by which it may rush in." Had I realized back then how often love found its way in through the dinkiest crack, I would have laughed up my sleeve. For there I was, this shamed redheaded stepchild, losing myself in one wonderful book after another, feeling that deep down sense of delicious comfort, pleasure and lack of self-consciousness which I found only within the pages of fiction. And there I was with my best friend Bec, sauntering or running all about the block having the time of our lives. This was grace, this friendship with which I'd been so blessed. There is no other way to look at it. The delight of books? Pure grace. My best friendship? Grace all the way through. My backyard fort: oh God may as well have rapped his knuckles on my parents' foreheads and said, "Hello, anybody in there?" I mean, what an obvious show of grace was the fort which provided me with so many hours of respite (as well as a safe haven) from my family's lunacy. My abusers were too blind to see this fort for what it represented to me, in the same way that they were blinded to anything which didn't touch them directly.

Love really does sneak in through the cracks, it must be so. I've experienced this time and again myself. It's as if there isn't a force in the world stronger than Love. When we least expect it Love, and its twin, Grace, trickle in and give us that extra shot of hope we need to face another day.

Whatever you've done to the least of these, you've done to me.

Ah, who said that? I know who said that. I know what he meant. The truth is, my kids and grandkids aren't exactly "the least of these." They go to bed with full tummies and with sturdy roofs to protect them from the elements. Should I begrudge them the expression of my affection in the form of gifts? No, I don't think that's exactly the point. But still my heart burns within for something more, something beyond this small circle of influence.

Growing up as a member of the Seventh-day Adventist church, I participated in handing out baskets of food during the Thanksgiving and Christmas season. I can honestly say that the look of stunned appreciation on the faces of the poor pleased me more than the shiny new radios or record players awaiting me under our beautifully lighted tree. It's not that I didn't appreciate my gifts, it's more that their newness soon wore off as they became mere possessions for which I was responsible. The thrill wore off because I knew there would always be more where those came from. I would never be lacking in such things, and so I couldn't rightly value them. By contrast, the touching scenes I witnessed in the humble homes of those who had nothing beyond the bare necessities of life gave me a gift which was slow to fade: the wonderful memory of having played a small part in alleviating human suffering.

I'm no angel of mercy, no Mother Theresa. Just a tired nana who feels plenty of guilt this time of year as, without intending to, I again take that stroll down memory lane to a time when I knew there was something sacred about feeding the poor, and something profane about enjoying my own wealth without rousing myself enough to do something about the needs of others.

• (Monday) FORE SALE -RD Jones has one sewing machine for sale. Phone 555-0707 after 7 pm and ask for Mrs Kelly who lives with him cheap.
• (Tuesday) NOTICE-We regret having erred in RD Jones's ad yesterday. It should have read: One sewing machine for sale. Cheap. 555-0707 and ask for Mrs Kelly who lives with him after 7 pm.
• (Wednesday) NOTICE-RD Jones has informed us that he has received several annoying telephone calls because of the error we made in his classified ad yesterday. His ad stands corrected as follows: FOR SALE-RD Jones has one sewing machine for sale. Cheap. Phone 555-0707 and ask forMrs Kelly who loves with him.
• (Thursday) NOTICE-I, RD Jones, have NO sewing machine for sale. I SMASHED IT. Don't call 555-0707, as the telephone has been disconnected. I have NOT been carrying on with Mrs Kelly. Until yesterday she was my housekeeper, but she quit.

And here's some real news headlines which are bound to give you a chuckle or two:

• Squad Helps Dog Bite Victim
• Enraged Cow Injures Farmer With Axe
• Plane Too Close to Ground, Crash Probe Told
• Miners Refuse to Work After Death
• Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant
• Stolen Painting Found by Tree
• Two Sisters Reunited After 18 Years in Checkout Counter

And last but not least, here are some funny signs and notices:

• Sign in a Laundromat: Automatic washing machines: Please remove all your clothes when the light goes out.
• Sign in a London department store: Bargain Basement Upstairs
• In an office: After tea break staff should empty the teapot and stand upside down on the draining board.
• On a church door: This is the gate of Heaven. Enter ye all by this door (this door is kept locked because of the draft. Please use side door.)
• Outside a secondhand shop: We exchange anything---bicycles, washing machines, etc. Why not bring your wife along and get a wonderful bargain?
• Sign in a cafeteria: Shoes are required to eat in the cafeteria. In pencil beneath the sign: Socks can eat anyplace they want.
• Sign on a music library's door: Bach in a minuet.
• Sign in a restaurant window: T-bone steak, $1. Then, in fine print underneath: With meat, $12.
• A hardware store in Oregon has a sign that reads: Today's special. Below it says, So's tomorrow.

Here's how I spent yesterday:

• Washed the dishes
• Mopped kitchen floor
• Cleaned my room
• Tried (unsuccessfully) to unscrew the old toilet seat so I could replace it with a new one (the screws must be stripped)
• Went to the pub and gambled (Sissyface thinks I shouldn't do this alone because it's like people who drink alone, a bad sign. I think she should mind her own beeswax, since she's the one who deserted me so that I'm now in the position of having no one to gamble with.)
• Watched Maddy and Anna for a few hours
• Took photos of myself for someone who requested them (they won't be getting them, my they turned out ugly!)

There's nothing much on today's agenda. I'd like to get some writing done if I can come to a decision about which project to work on. I could begin the framed collage I plan to make for one of my sons of my dad's years as a soldier. He's so into the whole WWII era, and especially anything he can glean about his grandpa's war years. This will be his Christmas gift and yikes! we're well into November, aren't we? I'd better get cracking.

Every day I think, "I need to quit smoking. I want to quit smoking." Both statements are true. Every day I think these thoughts and every day I feel shame for not doing anything about them. It's always a matter of, I'll quit after this pack. I'll quit after the weekend. I'll quit . . . well I could follow that up with just about anything: I'll quit after the next time I clip my toenails. I'll quit after the next time they run my favorite Roseanne episode. I'm just stalling big time. I'm a big old baby who doesn't want to give up her binky or security blanket.

The other day I was rooting through a box of stuff in the basement and  I found a copy of a book someone had given me several years ago. I'm not sure of the title, but it was something like "How to Live the Integrated Life." Yes, it was written for multiples who desire to integrate into one personality. I dropped it like a hot potato. Yikes. I don't desire any such thing, the mere thought is repugnant to me though I couldn't exactly pinpoint why. Thinking of integration makes me sour and gives me a sort of emotional indigestion. I've no quarrel with those choosing a different path, it's simply not for me.

My landlady, who now collects everyone's rent from me each month, is quite an odd little duck. She can't come and go without telling a lame joke, some of them downright offensive. Her laugh is abrasive, and the kind that goes on and on long after the joke is well over. I don't quite know how to take her, so I smile and nod a lot. I'm sure she doesn't notice, she's too busy talking and doing her little comedy routine to take in the reactions of her audience. I can safely say I'm not thrilled to have taken on the role of apartment manager. Probably more than anything, my lack of being thrilled is due to the fact that I didn't have much choice. It was either that or pay $80 more rent, so you see I'm doing this out of duress. I don't do well under duress, it's an uncomfortable reminder of all the years I spent as an abused child. Still, I could look at it like a blessing couldn't I? I could tell myself that if my landlady hadn't offered me this job I'd be hard put to come up with rent money each money. I should go with that, I think.

My My babydoll's growing up!granddaughter, Izzy, is about to turn 7. I can hardly believe it. I lived with herThat's Izzy on the right. family from the time she was a few months old, until a couple of years ago. She sent me an email recently which read something like "please come to my birthday nana......please.......please......come to my party nana.....please please or you will get 1 million lovings!"

That about wraps it up for now. It's another cold grey day with a touch of rain thrown in, just the type of weather which most suits me. I may just spend a big chunk of it down in the basement finishing what I started the other day: sorting through boxes to get everything organized, while the washing machine soothingly goes through its cycles, lending a cozy background serenade to my busyness.

Last night after a long chat with Sissyface concerning this situation, she expressed shock at the way in which this individual treated me recently.

"She never treats me that way," she said.

After a pause (being a bit shocked myself), I said, "Really? I thought she was rude to everyone."

"Not like that," Sissyface said. "She has it in for you big time, and it's really pissing me off."

The thing is, I'm uncomfortable with anger on my behalf. Don't, is what I want to say when someone expresses such anger for my sake. I may as well follow this with, I'm not worth it, for that's what I came to realize last night long after my conversation with Sissyface. Deep within me, beneath the hardscrabble surface of my little girl's broken heart, lies the bone of shame I buried so long ago that I can't say just when and how I did so, the bone of shame with which my mother tried to satisfy my love hunger upon her discovery that she'd married a pedophile.

If my own mother didn't consider me valuable enough to protect, then it must be wrong to ever stand up for myself. Isn't that the bottom line in all this? Isn't this why I can endure years of mistreatment when others, in a similar position, would long ago have exploded?

I see myself time and again graciously going out of my way--jeopardizing my health even--to help this person with the snotty attitude. And the message I see me relaying loud and clear is, "I'm not worth standing up for, so treat me how you will." Not everyone would trample on someone simply because they can. I recognize that this person has issues of her own, or she wouldn't treat me this way. I know she had an abusive mother, and I'm sure that my being old enough to be her mother is triggering. But I want to be careful here. Triggers and issues are one thing; because of them are we thus absolved of accountability for our behavior? And what of me? Does the underlying, pathetic bone of shame make it okay for me to consent to (let's face it) collude on some level with this person's abuse of me?

I see now that the mortification of being the unloved little girl my mother chose not to defend has never dissipated. All it takes is for one selfish individual to treat me as if I'm beneath them, and instantly my need to change this attitude towards me (by proving what a good person I am) kicks in, and I'm on auto pilot.

I imagine--oh I just imagine!--that in the aftermath of my mother's decision to side with my abuser, I felt a burning need to prove her decision to be misguided. I could, perhaps, win her over with easy compliance and my simple good-natured self. I could dispel her unspoken accusation of my innate unworthiness by being the perfect daughter.

Today I'm still attempting the impossible. A different playing field with a whole new set of characters, but I haven't traveled so very far in 4 decades, having never moved more than an inch or so away from the buried bone of shame to which I've pledged my allegiance.

But that's not what I intended blogging about, so let's put that aside for now. What I meant to say is that I seem to be adjusting to Sissyface's recent departure. She came by last night for lasagne, and I couldn't detect any emotional distance between us. If there had been it would have been on my part. I've a tendency to withdraw emotionally when I feel abandoned, so I guess the good news is that I don't feel abandoned. Is this progress or what?

While we were talking and laughing my mother's sister called on Sissyface's phone. Apparently she just moved fairly close, and all I could say when my sister told me who the message was from was, "I'm so glad you moved! Now I don't have one more person to hide from when she visits you." I've never been close to my aunt. She's never made an effort to get to know me or be involved in my life. I don't have anything against her, I simply don't know her. But considering how close she is to my mother, any contact with her would be awkward indeed.

I've failed to mention the result of the haircut I got last week. Picture the badly plucked tush of a chicken and you've got a pretty good idea of how it all turned out. I've still got thick, heavy hair on top, but it kind of tapers off into sparseness halfway down. I'm not sure how she managed that. Not a mullet, exactly, but a little too close for my taste. I console myself with the thought that my hair grows fast. Does anyone see why I seldom get professional haircuts? Every time I make such an appointment I get my hopes up, even though I know that my optimism is falsely based. No one in my world has been unkind enough to laugh. Some have even (without so much as a telltale twitching of the mouth) stated that they like my new look. But I know. Every time I glance into a mirror, I know the truth of it: I've gotten my thick locks butchered beyond belief and now must live with the results. (No, there will be no forthcoming photos. I'm too vain for that!)

Today I hope to get down to the basement to finish yesterday's attempt at getting the whole mess organized. I'm been storing stuff there any old which way, mostly stuff I inherited when Sissyface moved. Now comes the hard part of figuring out what I want to keep, and sorting through everything I'd already had stored in boxes. I'm sure I can weed a bunch of stuff out, resulting in a much less cluttered, chaotic looking basement.

This is how I plan to spend a big chunk of my day, but you never know. I may wind up watching Maddy and Anna so their mama can work on cleaning the apartment they just moved out of. I don't want to babysit (did enough of that this weekend), but will if needed. However the day unwinds it's bound to be a busy one.

Ah, thank goodness I thought to have kids when I was younger. They really do come in handy sometimes! I asked my youngest if he'd pay for it as an early Christmas gift and he said yes. And I may as will admit that I happened to also mention to him that the slinky evening gown which my Barbie used to wear was available for $20. He was noncommittal, but you never know.

(PS I know this doll is a reproduction of the original, but that's ok by me. I can't tell the difference and could never afford an original anyway.)