I’m mulling over the past 18 months and all that has changed, and all that hasn’t. I set some decent goals for myself around the start of this timeframe and have yet to have achieved any of them. I looked at my honey-do list on my phone a few days ago with chagrin. I can honestly say that about 70% my lack of achievement has been from outside forces beyond my control; the rest from my frustration and saying, screw it, try again tomorrow”.

I’m trying to not get my hopes up too much during the course of the next few weeks. One of the major roadblocks toward my goal of advancing in my job is about to be lifted. My creative muse has graced me, and I’m listening as closely as possible. If all goes well, I should have a decent number of stained glass projects finished. Hopefully, my gal will have landed a job, and will finally get started on the path she’s been striving for.

My spiritual path has taken a fantastic, positive turn. I only now have to get my time management into even better order to fit my initiation lessons in on top of job training requirements and stained glass work.

I figure that if I can keep my focus on these three things, I can make my family’s and my life a heck of a lot better over the next few months. I just have to stay focused, calm, patient, and, above all, take a few moments to smell the flowers and listen to the wind.

Canal in west Las Cruces

This is the prequel of the story I revealed about a certain dark chapter of my life.

When I was between eight and ten years old, through the 3rd & 4th grade, I had become really good friends with Billie (I’m using her name here, because I know she started going by a different part of her name when she hit her mid-teens; hearing her more common name was a reminder of her past). If my memory serves me correctly, she and her brother were under the care of her maternal grandparents because either her parents couldn’t take care of them because of drug/alcohol problems, or they worked on the road.

Billie and I had a lot in common. We were both tomboys who’d much rather climb trees and play in the dirt with Matchbox cars and marbles than play with dolls and make-up. We’d go racing around the neighborhood on our bikes, pretending we were two of Charlie’s Angels. She always pretended to shoot down old men. I would later understand why.

My parents liked Billie; however, my mom never cared for Billie’s manners. It wasn’t that Billie was rude; she always greeted my parents properly and used “Sir” & “Ma’am”, it was her table manners that appalled Mom. I don’t think Billie ever ate at a table the entire time she lived with her grandparents. Food was always put on a plate (usually a paper one), and eaten in some other room. Mom was mortified the one and only time that Billie ate dinner at our house.

First off, Billie had to be asked to leave the table to wash her hands. It was second nature for me to head to the bathroom when dinner was called to clean up. If my shirt was dirty, I’d make sure to put a clean one on before sitting down at the table. It never occurred to me to make sure Billie was cleaned up before we sat down. The next shock to mom was how Billie ate her meal. The only utensils I’d ever seen Billie use was a fork for eggs and pancakes and a spoon for cereal. Since all her family seemed to eat the rest of the day was sandwiches and fried fish, french fries and maybe corn on the cob, knives and forks were not necessary. The meal Mom served that evening was roast with a baked potato and some other vegetable. Billie had never had a baked potato before. She watched me dress mine, and did the same. She didn’t bother watching me eat mine; she instead picked hers up with her fingers and started eating it like a taco. I saw the expression on Mom’s face. She was about to say something, but Dad gently grabbed her hand and shook his head. Mom did her best not to watch Billie eat the rest of her dinner.

I remember the little house they lived in just a couple of blocks from mine. It was typical of the houses in the Southwest…a small, single story adobe structure covered in white stucco. I’ll always remember the smell of this house, and the next one they moved into a couple of years later. Fried fish and potatoes, Pall Mall cigarettes, and booze, both beer, and whiskey hung heavy in the air. There never seemed to be enough light in the place; only the kitchen ever seemed to be well lit. The living room and the bedrooms, especially Billie’s, seemed to be the darkest. Maybe it was the karmic repercussions of the activities in these rooms that gave them their dark pall.

The walls in Billie’s room were a dark pink, at least that’s what I seem to remember. The carpet was a dark green shag…all typical of home decor of the time. Her mattress stank…like old urine. Knowing what I know now…probably from nocturnal enuresis due to the stress and trauma caused by her bastard grandfather.

The back yard was devoid of grass, but not of auto parts, a boat, and a shed. I don’t remember anything of this shed; it would be the shed at the next house that I would end up remembering all too well.

I’ll never forget that short, bald, tubby, smelly son of a bitch. I really liked him when I first met him. So did my parents. He came across as being a great, trusting guy, the typical image of the caring, happy grandpa. If I remember correctly, he was some sort of WWII naval hero. I remember seeing old photos of him when he was in the navy during the war. He served in the South Pacific…probably where he developed and honed his perversions.

I would spend the night at Billie’s several times, often on Saturday nights. During the day, her grandfather would take us fishing. We’d catch some nice, pan-sized catfish, take them home and her grandma would clean the fish and fry it up along with homemade french fries. I never remembered them eating anything different, ever. We drank gallons of Pepsi and homemade ice tea made with way too much sugar. If her grandfather hadn’t met his demise in the manner I’ve been told, I’m sure he’d have died from heart disease, lung cancer or liver disease.

While Billie and her family lived at that little house, only one thing ever happened to me concerning her grandfather and his perversions. Back then, we weren’t told as children that if such things happened, tell someone. It was summer vacation; I’d been invited to go with them on an overnight fishing trip to one of the reservoirs on the river…Elephant Butte, I think.

When I showed up at Billie’s house, only her grandfather was there. Billie, her brother and grandmother had gone to the store to get stuff for the trip. The grandfather invited me in. He was watching TV; I don’t remember what program was on. As I started sitting down on the couch, he told me to come over and sit on his lap, stating that I’d see the TV better from there. I felt weird doing it, but I did it anyway. He lifted me to his lap; I remember the foul, sour smell that came from him…stale cigarette smoke, booze, and sweat…masked by Brut aftershave. While I sat on his lap, which thankfully wasn’t long, he started rubbing my back. I tensed up; he told me to relax. He then started moving his hand around to my chest…he quickly moved it away when he heard the car pull into the drive way. He practically threw me off his lap and told me to go sit on the couch. As I sat down, he put a finger to his lips. Without saying, I knew what he was telling me to shush about. When his wife walked in the door, she did a double-take at me on the couch. She looked at him, then at me, then back at him. He pretended not to notice by asking if she remembered some item on the shopping list. I remember at that moment that I suddenly wasn’t too keen on going fishing or spending the night. My fears were soon forgotten after Billie and I sped out of the house to play in the backyard while the adults and her brother finished getting ready for the trip. We delved into our version of “Charlie’s Angels”. I don’t remember anything bad happening on that fishing trip; in fact, I seem to remember it as having been a great time, with lots of fish caught.

As the next few years in elementary school progressed, I had made other friends and saw Billie on a less frequent basis. By the 5th or 6th grade, her grandparents had moved to a different neighborhood, on the other side of the tracks. Billie was in a different school. We still managed to see each other on the weekends every couple of weeks. I’d either walk along the tracks or ride a couple of blocks through the barrio on my bike to get to her house.

At that time, her neighborhood was on the western-most edge of town. There were cotton, pepper and bean fields only a short walk from her house. We’d sneak cigarettes from her grandparents and sit in the middle of the cotton plants to smoke them (I guess we thought no one would notice puffs of smoke coming up from the plants. Either no one really ever noticed or cared if they did. One of the first things I took notice of was that Billie liked to spend as much of our time as possible walking through the fields and talking. Sometimes we didn’t even talk, only walked in silence. Other time was spent in the back yard, which was much better than the one at the other house. This one was surrounded by a cinderblock fence, and was shaded by a large, old pecan tree. There was a shed in one corner of the yard. THE shed.

The house itself was nicer, yet not too much different from the previous house. I remember it was white, but I don’t think it was adobe, rather a standard, A-frame house. Though the interior itself wasn’t dark, the general atmosphere of the familial environment cast a dark pall over the place.

Three rooms stand out to me. The kitchen was pretty much the same as in their old house; only it seemed brighter, probably because it had two windows; one faced the west and the other the north, which meant that lots of sunlight streamed in. Too bad the light couldn’t cleanse the dark soul of that house.

I have to wonder what drew Billie’s grandparents to the house in the first place…it seemed to have a bad karma attached to it from the get-go. The second room that stands out in my memory is the living room, which one walked into immediately from the front door. The floor was a dark grass-green tile. I seem to remember the walls being painted a very pale, mint green. The furniture in the room was comfortable. The room should have been a pleasant place to sit down in to watch TV and socialize, yet it had a dark sense about it. Maybe it was because of the death that occurred in the room a year or two prior to them moving in. One day, when Billie’s grandparents were out, she moved the love seat away from the window that was by the front door. There was a dark stain in the tiles…more of an outline than a stain. She told me she’d found out earlier that it was a blood stain that no one could seem to remove. Supposedly, a man had been killed there. I asked my dad, who was a deputy sheriff, if he’d ever heard about a killing on that side of town. He said that there had been one in the recent past, and he believed it was in that neighborhood. Billie, her brother and I would psyche each other out by saying we could see the ghost of the man, standing in front of the window and beckoning to us.

The third room that stands out in my memory, of course, is Billie’s room. It was strangely similar to the one in her other house…maybe it was a sign of the times, or just odd coincidence. The walls were pink, a deeper shade, though. I know her family didn’t paint it that way; there were signs of age that proved that. I don’t remember the color of the carpet…it was either dark brown or green, maybe even green and brown. It was low pile instead of shag. The room was crowded because there were two beds, only about 18 inches apart. There was a single nightstand with a lamp and other things crowding it that stood between the beds. The room had the same odor of old piss that her other one did. Heck, the entire house smelled the same as the other one. The only difference between this one and the other is what happened to me the last time I spent the night. I don’t recall how many times I spent the night in that house; I remember the fried fish and french fries, and playing board games in her bedroom.

I guess my subconscious has been trying to protect my conscious memory from the events of that last night. However, whether by fate, recent events, or conscious will, the memory has come forward. I might actually venture to admit that the memory may have actually been haunting me for years in many forms. Perhaps it’s the reason I hate pink rooms, green floors, nagahide furniture, Pall Malls, and Silly Putty. Yes, Silly Putty.

It was early June. The window was open, letting the cool breeze carry the scent of the earth and blooming plants in the fields waft into the room; a pleasant change from the dust, stale smoke, and fried fish that ruled over the air in the house, and the urine scent in particular in the bedroom. I remember being able to see rather well in the room, even though no lamp was on. The light was either from a full moon or a street light. It was probably the latter; I seem to recall a blue hue to the dim light.

Her grandparents had turned in early. Billie, her brother and I stayed up playing board games in the living room and watching TV. We went to bed after Saturday Night Live. I remember falling asleep to the sound of the leaves rustling through the pecan tree’s leaves and crickets chirping. I was awakened by the sound of movement in the room. I looked over to Billie’s bed. Her grandfather was in there, making Billie get up. She got out of the bed, he pulled off his robe, and climbed in. He pointed to the floor and she knelt down. He then took one of her hands and placed it in his underwear. She pulled his dick out and stared rubbing it. I was in shock. My heart started racing. Though no one had ever talked to me about these things, I had the innate sense that what I was watching was WRONG!

I tried to pretend I was asleep by watching with my eyes squinted most of the way closed. I was afraid that he’d know I was awake and make me touch him. The bastard sensed I was awake. He whispered to me, telling me to sit up, and instructed me to be quiet. I sat up. I broke out into a cold sweat. My chest tightened. I was afraid I was about to have an asthma attack. My mind was racing; all I wanted to do was run out of that house. I might very well have tried, but the fact that we three kids had freaked each other out with stories of the murdered man’s ghost in the living room stopped me. I was afraid that the ghost would grab me and do things to me. The mind does strange things in crisis, right?

I must have taken too long processing the bastard’s demand, because I felt a hand grab my wrist and pull me down. At that point, I didn’t feel myself in my body. I knew I was on my knees, facing this man’s penis. It looked weird to me, like something out of a B grade horror flick. Yes, I’d seen penises in porn mags some of my friends stole from their parents, but this thing I was staring at was creepy as hell. Maybe it was because it was wrinkled and limp, or the pale, blue light, or the situation…or maybe all three.

He told me to touch it. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I felt like puking. He told Billie to help me. She seemed to be hypnotized, given the slow, surreal way she took my hand and moved it to his dick. I didn’t seem in control at all of my body as I grabbed the nasty thing. The flaccid, limp, wrinkled thing reminded me of silly putty immediately after it’s been rolled into a log–warm from body heat and a bit limp. He told me to stroke it up and down. As I did, he started getting hard. I started sweating more. I must have made some sort of sound of protest, because he warned me to shut up or someone was going to get hurt. Billie shushed me, too.

What happened next was heinous. After he became fully erect, which wasn’t much, he told me to kiss it. I stared at Billie in disbelief. Her bright blue eyes were sad as she nodded. I let go of his needle dick and tried to back away. The pervert grabbed my shoulder and sat up. He forced my head into his groin, shoving his dick toward my mouth. The stench that emanated from that man’s crotch was sickening. I gagged, loudly. He shoved me away and told me to stay where I was so I could watch Billie do it. She was going to show me the “proper” way to serve a man.

First, he had her jack him off. The sick bastard made me touch his goo. It was sticky and it stank. Then he made Billie suck him till he got hard. That was when he made her lie down and he got on top of her. He noticed me get up; he told me to lie down on the other bed and to be quiet. I did as I was told. I cried quietly as Billie lay there, prone and helpless, while the fucker finished raping his granddaughter. When he finished, he got up and put his robe on. He stood over me, staring my up and down. I flinched when he bent down and stroked my forehead. He chuckled, stood up and left. With tears in my eyes, I looked over at Billie. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling. She felt my stare. Without looking at me, she apologized.

I don’t know how long I lay there, trying to stay awake, but I must have fallen asleep because I awoke to Billie shaking me gently by the shoulder. The room was bright, too bright. I looked at Billie. She was already dressed. I got up and quickly got dressed. I thought about what happened a few hours before. Thinking that maybe I’d dreamt it, I asked her if she was okay. She nodded, and apologized again. That’s when I knew it wasn’t a dream. She told me her grandfather did stuff to her because her grandmother wouldn’t let him do it with her. I don’t recall responding, after all, what the hell was I supposed to say? I’d never been in such a situation, and no one had ever talked about such things, because, after all, only strangers do things to children, right?

We went to the kitchen to get cereal. The bastard was in there, and greeted us like nothing happened. I couldn’t look at the man. It suddenly raced into my mind; I started putting some things together. Like whenever we’d go with him to the hardware store where we bought bait and tackle on the way to go fishing. I suddenly understood what Billie was made to do in the back with those cackling, rabid, old fucks that were her grandfather’s cronies. Understanding things now, I guess he was trying to start a “grooming” process a few hours before, so that I, too, could entertain his fucking friends.

We ate our breakfast, then went outside to the backyard. I wanted to go home, but Billie asked me to stay, saying that her grandfather wouldn’t mess with me anymore. A few moments later, he came out and went to the shed. He was replacing the line on a couple of fishing reels. He called us over to the shed. I obviously didn’t want to go anywhere near him. Billie assured me it would be okay, that nothing would happen. When we stepped into the shed, he lit a cigarette and handed it to Billie. I was shocked that he not only knew she was smoking, but helped her do it. He then pulled a beer out of a small cooler and handed it to me. Did I mention that I was only in the 5th or 6th grade? I was not stranger to drinking; my parents allowed us to have sips of beer and wine all the time, but I knew damn good and well that other adults weren’t supposed to be giving kids booze. I took the beer anyway. As I sipped on it, he apologized for what he did to me, and told me he wouldn’t do that to me again. Fucking liar. Over the next few weeks, the bastard would ply us with beer and cigs, and try to get me to touch and suck his silly putty dick. One time, we heard his wife yelling at him to leave us alone. He had the gall to put the blame on her. There was a final attempt at full out rape on me; it was not successful on his part. I would later find out that he had molested other family members. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d molested other children outside the family.

Over the years, I kept this part of my past buried. It’s funny, though, at how it wasn’t really ever buried; only swept under the proverbial carpet of denial. Snippets of the molestation would seep into my life in different ways, such as a bit of a dislike for silly putty. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s pretty cool stuff. I had fun introducing it to my kids, especially showing them how to lift images from the funny pages with it. I only wish that it was another color other than flesh tone.

Paper Doll,

That’s what you are to me

Paper Doll,

Colorful, with height and width,

Yet you have no depth,

And very little substance.

Paper Doll,

Always on the go

Running here, there…everywhere,

Except where you need to be.

People are each other’s mirrors;

Through me, you didn’t want to see

Paper Doll

You had me in such a trance

Waiting on your next call…

Waiting for the chance.

Paper Doll,

Waiting for you to come around.

But on my door never a knock

My phone never did sound.

Paper Doll,

You fed me hollow hope

And veiled promises.

It was the dream I had of us

That always helped me cope.

Paper Doll,

I was there for you

Through thick and thin;

I didn’t realize your love

Was something I’d never win.

Paper Doll,

My heart was beginning to get hard,

Your memory becoming only a shard

Of moments spent with you

In a seemingly distant past.

Paper Doll,

I’d begun to build a wall

I knew you’d never climb–

You’d need ambition and compassion,

Plus a moment or two of your time…

All things you need substance to possess.

Someone did take that time…

She held her ground and made the climb.

The bricks gave way,

I’m hers and she’s mine.

She helped me loosen myself

From something never meant to be.

So Paper Doll, I’ve set you free

To fly away on whatever breeze

Catches you and blows you away.

Pretty, pretty Paper Doll

Fly away like leaves in the fall.

Oh, but to be free,

As the dandelion, waving in the wind;

Free, to be eaten by the animal.

Revel in the joy of freedom!

Oh, but to run free,

As the hare, ever swift on foot;

Free, to be devoured by the predator.

Exhalt in the joy of freedom!

Oh, but to fly free,

As the hawk, soaring heavanward;

Free, to be destroyed by the human.

Proclaim the joy of freedom!

Oh, but to roam free,

As man, ravaging the earth for self gain;

Free, to die, turn to dust…feed the dandelion.

Note: This was originally compsed SEVERAL years ago in my high school creative writing class. RIP, Mr. Cupp.

The sky is bright and blue,

Leaves dance in the breeze

As they bid the world, “Adieu”.

As I drive down a busy street;

I spot a man I’ve seen before.

He uses an old, brown suitcase as a seat

While he watches the empty sidewalks

And all the cars speeding by.

The golden sun shines brightly

On his tired, weary face;

His old lad cap pulled down low,

He certainly looks out of place.

I’ve seen him time and again–

Lad cap, tweed jacket, old leather shoes.

What brings him here, day after day?

Lost youth, lost love…too much booze?

I wonder, also, about his old travel gear

He keeps so close at hand.

What’s inside that he holds so dear

And takes with him wherever he goes?

What is it you carry with you?

Memories of days gone by?

Is it all you have left to your name,

To hold till the day you die?

As I continue rolling past

The man with the brown suitcase,

I think about my own life;

Will I be there, too,

At the end of my rat race?

Note: I composed this quite a few years ago. I came across it when I was looking for something to read at a local poetry slam.

You fucking bastard. You made me hate old men; especially short, fat, bald men. You made me wonder if all old men were like you. After meeting a few of your friends at the bait shop (where you took my friend–your granddaughter, to the back), I was convinced. You made me hate the sound of men laughing like hyenas. My friend–your granddaughter, would come out of the back room, quiet and sad. Your friends would look at me as if sizing up their next meal. Before the last time I saw you, I remember you telling them, “Not yet, she’s not ready”. You depraved asshole. You made me glad I never had a chance to meet my own grandfathers. I was actually glad they died before I could meet them. You piece of crap. That damn, SUFFOCATING shed.

One would wonder, why in the hell did I keep going to your house? Because my friend–your granddaughter was my best friend. She was the sister I never had. I hoped at first that if I was there, you wouldn’t hurt her. When you began turning your attention to me, she begged me not to tell, and promised that it wouldn’t happen again. Because I loved her like a sister, I believed her. That damn, SUFFOCATING shed.

I remember the last time we met, in that shed. You felt it was time for me to give into you entirely. You hadn’t gone all the way with me yet, but you damn well went far enough. My friend–your granddaughter, with tears in her eyes, told me to relax…it wouldn’t take long. I started to resist, as usual. You hit me. I snapped. Whereas I had been afraid of you, and afraid of the punishment you’d dole out on my friend–your granddaughter, I was no longer afraid. I bit you…hard. Do you remember? I didn’t let the ensuing gut punch stop me. I grabbed your tiny weapon and yanked as hard as I could. As you rolled off of me, screaming like a banshee, I rolled on top of you and started doing some punching of my own. The next thing I remember was my friend–your granddaughter pulling me off of you and pleading with me to leave. That damn, SUFFOCATING shed.

This took place on a Saturday, if my memory serves me correctly. My friend–your granddaughter didn’t show up to school the following Monday. She wasn’t allowed to come to the phone when I called. When she showed up for school on Tuesday, she was black and blue. I started crying, because I knew you did that because of me, and also because she was forbidden from seeing me. You fucking coward. King of that damn, SUFFOCATING shed.

I never told my parents what happened. I had all sorts of reasons that seemed to make sense in my pre-teen mind. Besides, wasn’t it society’s unspoken rule that such things never happened? Two of the reasons I remember well are that I didn’t want my dad to go to jail for killing you, and I felt that I somehow caused you to do what you did to me. Decades later, I know better. That damn shed.

When my friend–your granddaughter showed up at school all bruised up, social services were called. She and her brother, who I found out years later was also abused, were separated into separate foster homes. I only saw my friend–your granddaughter a couple of more times before her foster mom moved out of the state. I only heard from my friend–your granddaughter once after that. I have been spending all these years, about three decades, looking for her. I wonder every day if she actually survived her ordeal. That damn shed.

I spent my teen and early adult years buried under a ton of anger, denial, and self loathing. I joined the military and traveled around the world.  I’ve had a lot of ups and downs, just like anyone else. However, I always felt like there were pieces of me missing. It was when I entered my thirties that I finally started finding some pieces of myself. I began to finally be true to myself and came out of the closet. That damn shed.

Over the years, I’ve learned from my experiences; I’ve thankfully grown much calmer. You might be surprised to find that I don’t hate all men. I never have. Thankfully, I’ve always had wonderful, amazing men in my life, starting with my father and brothers. My time in the military had me working with every type of man under the sun. I still have a strong aversion to old, short, fat, bald men. There is one thing that turns my stomach, no matter who the man is. That is the smell of sweat, especially when it’s mixed with cigarette smoke. If the man has been drinking, I have a deep urge to both puke my guts out and beat his ass into the ground. Yes, you still have that effect on me. Thankfully, I have great internal mechanisms to keep me from acting out. Funny thing, I would have though that booze and cigarettes would have been your demise. But I heard that one of your sons caught you molesting his son, and that he shot you through the heart. I never could find out if that was true, since it happened when I was in the military. That shed.

I’ve traveled extensively over the past several years. No place has felt like home. I lost that feeling of “home” when you started with me. I’ve never felt that I truly fit in anywhere. I’ve only mentioned this to very few; they always seemed surprised. I’m awkward at times in social situations, again, a fact that surprises the same few that I’ve mentioned this too. They all say they don’t see it, since I deal with strangers on a day to day basis, and I’ve done much public speaking and teaching over the years. Everyone sees me as a strong, independent woman who will take on any fight and go to bat for the underdog. They don’t understand the terrified girl who lives inside of me, the one who is wary of strangers, wondering what they are thinking. I tend not to make too many friends because of that. I tend to keep people at a distance. You did that to me. When I first met you, I thought you were one of the nicest men I’d ever met. You welcomed me into your home, and over time, began to treat me like one of your own. Too much, I would later find out. That shed.

It has only been in the past few months that I have finally allowed myself to admit everything that happened to me way back then. It all started with vivid dreams that would have me waking up shaking and sweating. I didn’t want to go back to sleep, for fear that the dreams would start again. I didn’t understand why I was having these dreams. Then, one day, I heard a group of old men down in the barber shop next to my shop, laughing like hyenas over some shared tale. The memories slammed into me like a ton of bricks. I spent the rest of my workday in a fog. That shed.

I’ve been searching even harder now for my friend–your granddaughter, to no avail. I will continue to search for her. Call it a fool’s hope, but I sense that she is alive. If I do find her, she may not want to speak to me, because of the memories. I can accept that. I only want her to know that she is loved and not forgotten. That shed.

Thanks to victim advocacy work I’ve been involved with over the past several years, I was able to recognize what I was going through. I’ve started taking steps toward acceptance and healing. I am still angry at you. I always will be. I will never forgive you, you don’t deserve it. However, I’m not going to let this anger continue to consume me any longer; it’s had its hold on my life long enough now.

I will shed.         

While I find it ironic that the hard core hypocrites of the Right Wing who spew on about American patriotism and freedom hold a statement written by a socialist so close to their heart; I find it even more ironic and hypocritical that these same self-proclaimed patriots are the very people who don’t follow a single ideal put forth by the allegiance, especially the second half of it.

First of all, the Right Wingers don’t seem to understand the definition of “republic”.  Among the definitions of the word is one which states that a republic is a group of people working as equals in the same sphere or field. I don’t recall any Right Winger that I know of ever considering themselves equal to minorities, non-Christians, members of the LGBT community, etc. They seem to feel they are superior to them. Side note: everyone considered equal…isn’t that a socialist concept?

Secondly, … “one nation indivisible…” , I’ve never seen a group of people like the Right Wingers fight so hard to keep things divided in my life; class division, gender division, race, ethnicity, culture, religion…name it, it’s there. If you aren’t Caucasian, Christian, and male…you’re not fit to be in this country.  By the way…I’ve noticed the Right Wingers are so misogynistic, one would have to wonder if they aren’t hiding deep in the closet. They are as bad as Islamic fundamentalists who think women are worth less than camels.

Now, let’s visit the last words, “…with liberty and justice for all.” I really don’t need to state much here, but I will go ahead and point out a few tidbits. Why do we still need affirmative action laws in place? Because we still have people out there who will not hire someone if they are a different race than they are. Never mind if the applicant is the best qualified…their skin and hair color isn’t right. Of course, I would be remiss is I didn’t mention the fact that homosexual patriots, “gaytriots”, as I like to say, are not allowed to serve openly in our armed forces. Plus, hardworking, tax-paying, law abiding homosexual citizens do not have the civil rights they are supposed to be guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States of America.

It is sad that at different periods in our nation’s history, dictatorial elements of our government and society have felt the need to force our citizens to pledge to what the aforementioned elements felt like. They are no better than the heinous agents of the Church of Rome, who globally forced people to bow to their gold laden hypocrisy by means of rape, torture, theft, rewriting religious edicts, twisting beliefs, reassigning the original pagan holy days as their holy days, coercion,…the list goes on.

By adding “God” to the pledge, we destroyed the meaning of religious freedom. Freedom of religion means not only the freedom to worship as the individual sees fit for their own self; it also means the freedom to not worship. In my opinion, forcing someone to pledge their allegiance to the Christian god when they are not Christian, or even religious for that matter, is a violation of their constitutional rights. When I say someone is forced to recite the pledge, I’m referring to the manner in which someone receives admonishment, even physical and verbal assault, for not saying it.  There was a time when it was the law in our nation that children in schools had to say it. While I believe that American children need to be taught the importance of patriotism and good citizenship, they also need to be taught the importance of maintaining the civil rights and freedoms that our constitution is supposed to guarantee.

Whenever I recite the Pledge of Allegiance, I quietly pledge in this manner, “I Pledge Allegiance to the Flag and the Republic for which it’s supposed to stand, one nation indivisible with liberty and justice for all.”

After all, if the big boys can change it to suit their needs, why can’t I?

 The trips home are always bittersweet, and I’m sure they always will be. They’re such not only because of the constant reminders of Dad, but also the reminders of how the only thing that stays the same in one’s life is change. My little town is growing exponentially; many of my old haunts have disappeared, but many things remain.

One thing Las Cruces still maintains is its character and charm. As I’ve traveled around the US and a bit of the world, I’ve come to realize that the place where I grew up is truly unique. One of the oldest settlements in the country, Las Cruces and the Mesilla Valley are filled with centuries of history, legend and lore. From Billy the Kid to Clyde Tombaugh (the man who discovered Pluto…an amazing, friendly man…my friend, John, and I had the distinct pleasure of looking at the stars through his private telescope in his home…we didn’t even know how famous he was…we were just two little geeks who were fascinated by the universe), this little valley has seen a plethora of personalities kick up dust and blaze trails on the road to fame.

The people in general are unique, by today’s standards, anyway. People still look each other in the eye, without malice, and greet each other with a nod and a smile, and sometimes even a verbal greeting. Drivers still acknowledge pedestrians. Strangers still open doors in public places. Store clerks still smile and ask how you are, using proper addresses of respect when speaking to their elders. It pleases me greatly that my mom is treated with great respect by younger people. Yes, there are the rude exceptions which seem to be the rule in so many other places; and yes, there are nice, polite people in other places, but Las Cruces seems to be the exception now when it comes to the number of polite versus rude people.

This particular visit was more of a working vacation. Mom needed some more work done on the house. The things I did to the old, small house weren’t so much repairs or remodeling as they were applying bandages to things that required tourniquets or amputation. Mom would love to do a complete remodeling; however, there are a few issues, one of them of the house being an historical one…that is, it was one of the first ones built in the historic railroad district. The front part of the house was built over 100 years ago; the rear of the house sometime in the 1920s. There is still some debate about it being put on the historical register. I think Mom would be happy to just send a wrecking ball through the whole affair and set up a nice pre-fab on the tiny lot.

I also spent time helping a close childhood friend in the continuing task of getting her mom’s house, also an historical one in the railroad district, in order. Her mom passed recently, and my friend now lives in Canada; therefore, she can spend only so much time and money ferrying back and forth between two countries to take care of her mother’s affairs and estate. I spent a bit of time tinkering and fixing things. Since I love doing these things, I was able to lose myself in thought, as I always do when I tinker, and think about the life changes I am facing.

As a side note…there is now a railroad museum a few blocks from our houses. I didn’t get the chance to visit it on this trip, but I certainly will on my next. I never realized the history that is tied to our neighborhood.

All my time was not spent working. I had a lot of fun, too. I spent many enjoyable hours with Mom. We talked about the family, especially about Dad. We went for walks, much like we did when I was young, though not nearly as far. We also indulged in one of our favorite pastimes; watching old, silent movies to which we would add our own dialogue. This is especially fun when it’s late at night and everyone is slap-happy. In the past, I though I got my sense of humor from Dad…I see now I come by it equally from both parents.

My friends and I managed to take some breaks from the estate stuff to relax. Quite a few times we went to this awesome brew pub, the High Desert Brewing Co., which is only a few blocks from my childhood home. Their brew is awesome, and so is the food. I was impressed with the vegetarian friendly menu. I don’t normally buy souvenirs, but I had to get one of their tee shirts…mainly because of their slogan, “None of our beers suck”. From the brews I had, they’re stating fact.

At the time this is being composed, my friend and her partner are staying with another friend at his house which is spitting distance from the Organ Mountains. It is from his backyard that I took a great many photos of the mountains, as well as some of the flora and fauna, plus rare shots of rainbows.

I also took a great amount of pictures of the many sights around the valley. I shot mostly flowers and the mountains. I have many stained glass projects in mind, and I wanted some decent pictures of flowers and scenes of my choosing. I was fortunate that it rained quite a bit during this trip. The valley is in a state of drought, and the rain was welcomed by most, abhorred by some such as my friend, who has a storage building in need of a new roof. The rain helped bring the colors of the desert to life. I wasn’t able to catch the full splendor of the desert’s floral treasures, since it is still springtime, but I was able to get a few amazing flowers, such as the Desert Catalpa, also known as the Desert Willow.

Other flowers: Namas 

Mescat Acacia

The proverbial Yucca

I took a walk along the irrigation canal that runs through the neighborhood I grew up in.  When we were kids, my brother, our friends and I would fish for crawdads in the ditch boxes (flow control points used to regulate the irrigation from the canals to private yards) and in the canal. We’d use the crawdads as fish bait. We’d take a tumbleweed, put bacon in the center of it (tricky task), tie a rope to it, then lower it into the water. Soon it would be filled with crawdads. It always took two or three kids to haul the water-logged weed out. Then we had to fetch the crawdads, all the while trying to avoid getting scratched by the prickly weed or getting the crap pinched out of us by the crustaceans.

I remembered these things, as well as the other adventures I had as a kid roaming up and down the canal banks.  As I walked, I took notice of all the beautiful flowers and birds that lived along the banks that I don’t think I paid attention to when I was young. Lizards of many different types and colors darted back and forth across my path.  Dogs barked and kids laughed in the shaded yards of the houses that were only a few yards from the canal.

I took a lot of pictures along the canal:

Poppies

Bullnettle                            

The canal road 

Reeds

Thistle

In the desert, I also  managed to catch some shots of jackrabbits and cottontails.

 I tried to get desert quail, but they were too fast. I was also hoping to catch sight of a roadrunner. Plus, I kept my eye out for the elusive jackalope, but I never saw one. I thought I saw one peaking out through a creosote bush, but it was only a jackrabbit with its head directly under some dried branches. I could swear it was laughing at the obvious look of disappointment on my face. There was NO alcohol involved in this near sighting. Well, maybe just a little.

Speaking of odd creatures that inhabit the Chihuahua Desert (that is the name of the desert land of northern Mexico and the southern end of the Rocky Mountains), I have discovered an elusive creature. One evening, while I was out, Mom had the front door open to let in the cool breeze. She heard a loud, flapping sound, as if a large bird was trying to settle in the trees in the front yard. She peeked out, but saw nothing. It bothered her a bit, so she closed the door and locked it tight.

Later on, sometime after midnight, I was awakened by what sounded like a small dog yapping away. I thought that one of the Chihuahuas owned by another childhood friend, who lives up the street in her childhood home, had gotten out. Just as I was about to get up and rescue the small dog, I noticed something really odd about the sound. It started coming closer to the house. Rather quickly, it sounded as if it was right outside the window, only, up high!

None of this made sense for two reasons. First, Mom has the entire property fenced off, therefore, no dog can enter the yard, unless some smartass opened the front gate. Secondly, the sound was definitely over the house, and sounded like it was circling the house. Granted, I was still a little buzzed from imbibing at the pub, but I wasn’t drunk, and I certainly wasn’t mistaking the barking, yapping sound and the apparent direction from which it was originating.

As I was trying to make sense of all of this, I was startled by another sound. A neighbor’s car alarm began blaring loudly and incessantly. Once the offending (and ignored) noise was terminated, I listened intently for the dog-like noises. The only sounds I heard were from the leaves of the trumpet vine in front of Mom’s bedroom window as they danced in the night breeze to the accompaniment of crickets chirping Gryllidaen waltzes. I went back to sleep.

The next night, as well as a few more after, the same thing happened. The dog-like yapping seemingly over the house, followed by the car alarm, then crickets and leaves. I came to the following conclusion…the neighborhood I grew up in is harboring a mutant animal. It is the product of radiation exposure (the Trinity Test site is not far from Las Cruces, plus the water supply has a small amount of radiation contamination in it), alien visitation (Roswell), animal research gone wrong (NMSU) and perhaps a bit too much mescal. I think I have discovered the elusive Flying Chihuahua, Latin term: Canineratus airborneus. Yep, you read it here first. A cross between an owl and the Chihuahua, it’s a ferocious hunter that seeks out unsuspecting victims late at night. When a critter hears the yap from above, it’s too late. Snack time! This is the closest I can get to a pic of what one may look like:

There are lots of interesting places to visit and shop around Las Cruces and old Mesilla. Naturally, there are quite a few tourist traps, especially in the heart of the village of Mesilla, but there are also a lot of quaint little shops for locals and tourists alike. I couldn’t resist taking pictures of some of the shops and their wares. One of the more amusing shopping excursions was to the Peddler’s Pavilion. It’s an indoor flea market; overall, much like any other you may find around the country, but with a bit of local flavor. I couldn’t pass up shots of the colorful array of cowboy boots from Mexico. Check out the wild colors!

For those who have the need to find salvation in the middle of the night, there is a glow in the dark Jesus to help you find the path.

What Southwestern flea market is complete without life size piñatas?

One of my favorite shops is the Ristramann Chile Co. More like a roadside stand, which is more than likely how the business started years ago, it’s a quaint little setup of an interconnected maze of small shacks with a dirt floor. Ristras, which are strings of chili, hang all over the place.

Red chili is not the only offering, however. Perusing the dark shelves and corners of the store is part of the fun. I always manage to find some little treasure, small or large, in this store. Locally made handcrafts, along with authentic blankets, pottery and statuary from Mexico can be found. Venture towards the back of the store, and you’ll find yourself in somewhat of an open air studio, where the owners create their own crafts. They also offer a nice selection of locally grown spices and herbs. The proprietors are extremely friendly and laid-back. Even though it’s located in the heart of the Old Mesilla tourist district, this particular store is more for the locals, at least for this native New Mexican.

No visit to Las Cruces is complete without a visit to the Farmer’s Market. It was established several years ago, in the 70s, on the Downtown Mall. Local produce and craft vendors sell their wares in the open air mall. This mall holds a lot of special memories for me. I spent many of my summer days skateboarding up and down the mall. When I was in high school (Go Trojans!), I took drama classes and participated in the Las Cruces Community Theater, which is still going strong. I also have fond memories of the many movies I watched at the Rio Grande movie theater (I will admit to having sneaked into a few R rated ones). My friend, John, and I have the distinct claim of being the first two Las Crucens in line to see the very first showing of Star Wars. We got to sit dead center, first row, of the balcony. Given the advanced sci-fi effects of the time, that was awesome! The spaceships looked like they were coming right at us!

Also along the Downtown Mall one can find bronze sculptures depicting life in the Southwest.

Some of the sculptures, however, are trip hazards, so much so, that one, a lamb, has a bit of a caution sign added to it.

I also paid a visit to the Branigan Cultural Center, which was the Branigan Memorial Library when I was a child. I still remember the smell of the old books in the children’s section. Mom took us there once a week. I always participated in the summer reading programs. Yes, I’m a true blue geek!

I must also add to this blog the visit to the Southern New Mexico Wine Fest. Not that I’m a world expert on wine, but I do know a bit about fine wines. Things I have always tried to learn about in my world travels: history, art, culture, customs, language & gestures, food, and beverages…mainly those of the alcoholic variety.

Being that New Mexico is home to the finest chili in the world…that’s fact, not boast…as well as top of the line frijoles, corn and lots of other produce, I figured that the wines from my home state would also be top of the line. I started having my doubts, however, when my friends kept cracking jokes about the quality, or lack thereof, of the local wines.

I should have known it was going to be more of a wine jest instead of wine fest; it was held at the local fairgrounds instead of in a classy, covered place. The wineries touted their wares under tents in the middle of a rising dust storm. The brainiac organizers decided that the center of the square array of tents was the best place to put the damn, smelly, nasty cigar booth. Maybe they figured you couldn’t tell how bitter the merlot was if your nostrils were filled with noxious cigar smoke? By the way, I have to wonder who’s idea it was to set up a kiddie play area at a wine tasting? Have you caught some things wrong here thus far? A venue far away from public transportation (DUI); centrally located cigar booth (2^nd hand smoke & polluting the taste buds) & children’s play area (let’s start ‘em young)…what were the organizers thinking? If I seem a bit harsh about my hometown’s affair, it’s only because I expect more from a place that is renown for its culture and history. Even the redneck, backwoods place I live in now, on the East Coast, does a much better job with its wine festivals.

For the record, I can’t stand NC wines; most of them are far too sweet for my palate. They primarily use the muscadine grape, which is sweet by nature. There is a locally made merlot which is almost tolerable, but I still don’t drink NC wines as a rule.

Now, for all the grousing I’ve done about NM wines, there is one winery that had excellent dry wines, Blue Teal Winery. From what I understand, they have improved greatly over the years. The Nebbiolo & Reserve Merlot were my favorites. I liked their wine so much, if I get some extra dough, I might be tempted to ship a case or so to my current neck of the woods.

The most enjoyable part of the wine jest was the time spent with friends, and that’s what really counted, right?

I hope to make another trip back to New Mexico in the autumn; but that of course depends on my work situation and finances. Mom wants to go up to our place in the mountains, near Datil. It’s a beautiful place located on the boundary of the Cibola National Forest. I’ve only been there in the late spring, never the fall. Mom & Dad bought the place after I left for the military, so I saw it for the first time during that fateful visit…the last time of camping with both parents. Some of Dad’s ashes are on the land. The autumn, as any stargazer knows, is a great time to check out the cosmos. I would like to go up to our little piece o’ the mount, set out the chaise lounge, pour out some beer to give props to Dad, and stare at the stars till I slip into the world of dreams.

Ms. Prejean auditioned for exactly what she planned for: trophy wife for some young, rich man who will claim to share her views. Of course, her manicured claws won’t be in the man’s back for long. His trophy will gain age related tarnish, and he will seek a newer, shinier model. Ms. Prejean will not age gracefully, because her beauty is superficial; she doesn’t have the inner grace and compassion to develop the beauty that a mature woman possesses.

As I stated, Ms. Prejean is a hypocrite. She spews Christian values while flaunting her body, basically, using sexual attraction to gain material things. The men who fall for this, instead of looking for more important, inner values, deserve what they get. If you want a mate of quality, be a person of quality.

She claims she is fighting to protect marriage. From what???? No one is attacking marriage. There are not groups of armed people out in the streets screaming for marriage to be banned. Quite the opposite, my dear. Anyone else’s marriage is no threat to yours…unless you or your spouse are looking to stray outside of your own partnership. Then that is your problem, and yours alone to deal with.

I doubt this spoiled brat has ever experienced true pain in her life. Maybe if she would try to walk in the shoes of anyone who has been denied the right to visit a  loved one in the hospital based solely on the fact that they are the same gender, maybe she would feel a bit of compassion for her fellow human beings. Maybe if she personally experienced the pain and devastation of losing her estate and everything she and her partner spent thier lives building, she’d understand. Maybe if she witnessed the agony of having her children ripped away from her because the other parent is a woman instead of a man, she wouldn’t be so quick to condem love.

Maybe Ms. Prejean should sit in front of her bright mirror and truly look at herself; reevaluate her religion and spiritual nature.

This was added 6 May 09:

In the past couple of days, nude photos of Ms. Prejean have surfaced on the internet. I expected the usual round of denials and excuses when such things occur. Instead, she owned up to them, but not in the way I imagined she would. Instead, she defended them. Here’s what the Hypocrite Queen said,

“I am a Christian, and I am a model,” Prejean said in a press statement. “Models pose for pictures, including lingerie and swimwear photos. Recently, photos taken of me as a teenager have been released surreptitiously to a tabloid Web site that openly mocks me for my Christian faith.

“What that website has failed to state is that those photos were for a special charity calendar. It was to be called, ‘God’s Children’, and was to feature Christians of all different colors, shapes and sizes. There were fat people, deformed people, old people and me. We were celebrating the diversity of God’s creation, so it was important to show us in the nude, imperfections and all.

“If these vicious opponents of traditional marriage wish to sexualize an innocent photo spread, then so be it. But I am not ashamed of my continuing commitment to our Lord and his plan for us.”

I bolded two key statements. The first one truly shows her hypocrisy. Ms. Prejean, you don’t accept diversity, so don’t spew about God’s diverse creations.

The second statement: on the contrary, Oh Spoiled and Misguided One! It is not we who are sexualizing photos of UNDERAGE girls. One has to wonder at the motivations of the people who produced the calendar in the first place. A Christian charity? What was the cause? Do we even really want to know? It certainly wasn’t for reforming pedophile priests and pastors. And what in the heck were the parents thinking? I sure as heck wouldn’t let my daughter pose nude for a calendar. I don’t care what charity it’s for.

This empty-headed gal needs to hang up her crown and gown, exit stage left (which would be to her right…her favorite side), marry the sugar daddy of her dreams, and settle into her little statistical path of suburban misery.

Whenever I hear a joke, especially a bad one, I still make a mental note to call you to pass it on before remembering that’s not possible. I’ll then mention it in a prayer, because I know you’re watching over me.

A day hardly goes by that I don’t wonder what happened to you. We were still kids when you left. Did you overcome the damage and pain? Were you really able to start a new life? Have you finally found happiness?

I wonder how you are. Did you ever get married? Remember the night we looked in each other’s eyes and connected in a way neither understood? Do you remember how we held each other through the night in fear and wonder, because we were afraid to venture further? Do you remember how we never said anything about it the next day, week, month? Do you remember how the longing and angst set us adrift from each other (and ourselves)?

I hope you found yourself. I hope you climbed out of the bottle after you left your step dad. I hope you didn’t flirt with danger to the point of no return. I hope you found the man of your dreams, and if you did, I hope you are the one of his.

I wish you would tell me what your anger toward me is. I don’t think you even know. And, please, don’t delude yourself by thinking that it’s because of you that I’m the way I am.

I wish I had told you how much I appreciate all that you taught me.

You knew that I’m gay. Why didn’t you talk to me when I was much younger? It sure as hell would have made my life easier. I guess better late than never.

I can’t stand your cooking or your baking. Your food tastes like your house smells…cheap dollar store air “freshener”.

I’m proud of you. Yes, I have told you this, and I will probably say it a few more times.

Thanks for lying and telling everyone that I smoked dope with you. I really appreciate that, especially since I was trying to help you get away from the shit. Stabbing me in the side wasn’t enough…you had to stab me in the back, too. Nice rep to go home to.

I wish you had been able to see how much your friends cared about you. We didn’t care that you didn’t want to follow in your family’s footsteps. You always knew you could be yourself around us. I guess the answer for you was to play chicken with an eighteen-wheeler. I heard some hunters found the forks and handlebars a couple of months later.

Remember the nights our little group spent on the beach, talking, downing Heinies, orange blossom specials and Reunite till the sun came up? Remember how we said we were going to be heeeroes and change the Air Force? I wouldn’t trade those nights of conversation and camaraderie for anything.

Your wife is a self-righteous bitch and a nag. What were you thinking? Also, she dresses funny. What is she thinking?

You’re beautiful. I hope you see it, too, someday.

You’re a great writer, why aren’t you published? Don’t point a finger at me, I have newspaper journalism and tech publishing under my belt.

I hope one day you will tell me what really happened. Keeping it in is cancerous to your soul. No one will judge you; it wasn’t your choice.

Thanks for having always been there for me throughout my life, no matter how much of a pain in the ass I was (am).

I love you.

There’s so much more to say, but I’m tired and need to hit the rack. I’ll continue this (maybe) at a later date.