The subject for this Friday was suggested by our Magpie, David, who has spent a little time in the hospital this week.. So David, I want you to recover quickly and get a lot of rest because if you do not, I promise to come across the waters and with Mrs. Magpie’s consent, sing off-key and loudly, all verses to Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer to make you feel better. I do believe my singing will cause you to rise up, proclaim that you have heard the voice of the devil, and state that the shock of such singing has more than stabilized you. It has cured you.

When I was a young child on family trips in the car, I drove everyone crazy singing Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer which is a traditional song in the United States and Canada. There are ninety-nine verses with a very repetitive formant which is easy to memorize and the ditty takes forever, or so it seems, to get through all the verses. The song is derived from the English “Ten Green Bottles” which is sung by children in the United Kingdom.

The lyrics are simple:

Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall,
Ninety-nine bottles of beer.
Take one down, pass it around,
Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.

Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall,
Ninety-eight bottles of beer.
Take one down, pass it around,
Ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall.

And so on right down to the very last bottle of beer on the wall.

In high school , we often sang it on the school bus which I am certain drove the bus driver to distraction.

Later as a parent, I was faced with my own children’s annoying sing-song voices echoing the words of the song. . . .verse after verse from the back of the family van. On a trip with their grandparents, I watched the smirk on my mother and father’s faces grow more satisfied, as they reminisced about my singing of Ninety-Nine Bottles back in the day. If I read their minds correctly, I believe they were thinking “Ah sweet payback. She deserves to be annoyed.”

It was about this time, I introduced the game called, “Let’s See Who Can Stay Silent the Longest”. Unfortunately, it seems that game was destined to be short-lived. It never lasted more than three minutes before someone would make a sibling giggle or cry out and before long, the song would start again.

The annoyance caused by Ninety-nine Bottles sung by my own children, was enlarged 100 times over when I was teaching and took students on field trips. Our bus trip would start with quiet anticipation, but before long some ten year old would start the bottle song and it would go on and on until bored with counting backward, they would invent some new mischief .

Since our field trips were often long bus rides with as many as ninety fourth graders , three teachers, and a number of parent volunteers, we endured many attempts to reach the 99th verse of the song.

Cleverly, one of the most serene and wise teachers I know, brought ear-phones, a tape recorder, and a book on tape to listen to on the road. She kept her eyes on her charges and blocked out the singing. I was never so wise.

What truly amazes me is that I am looking forward to the day, when my grandchildren are old enough for the song. I am not certain why this thought should delight me and I know that after a few verses, I shall endeavor to teach them the “Who Can Stay Quiet the Longest” game If that doesn’t work, it will be time to pull out a book on tape, my earphones and sweet, sweet serenity.

Friday has rolled around again and it is time for the Loose Bloggers Consortium to tackle a weighty or not subject. This week it is Half-Truths. I am looking forward to hearing what other writers have to say on the subject and I hope you will follow me on the journey. The writers for the Consortium are listed on the right side of my weblog.

I am sick and tired of having to Snope every unwelcome and unrequested political and religious right email that come my way. I am sick of lies and half truths designed to put fear, anger and dismay into the lives of everyday Americans. Half of these emails now carry the message that it has been Snoped. Not mind you, it has been Snoped and found false or half-true, but just another clever way of telling a half truth. Chances are the person who sent it to me never went to the Snopes link.

Here are bits of two of my favorite examples.The first is a snippet of one of many on Social Security:

It is already impossible to live on Social Security alone. If the government gives benefits to illegal aliens who have never contributed where does that leave those of us who have paid into Social Security all our working lives? . . . . and it goes on about a petition that the reader can sign .

I won’t include more on this email, but it can be checked out at Snopes: Social SecurityT

The second one is a claim that Jesus will be portrayed as a gay in an upcoming movie. It begins like this:

I can’t believe it. There is a movie that is coming out in 200l saying Jesus and his disciples were gay!
...........Please send this to ALL of your friends to sign to stop the movie from coming out. Already certain areas in Europe have started to ban it from coming to their country…......

PLEASE SIGN AND SEND TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW! PLEASE IF WE WORK TOGETHER WE CAN BAN THIS!

Of course when this one came my way, it was updated to 2010 and just in time for a new round of gay-bashing. More on this false email can be read at Snopes: Religion
After I Snope and find a half-truth or an out-and-out lie in these emails, I reply to the person who sent it to me with a message something like the following:

Dear ___’

I am replying to the email you just sent me. I have checked it with Snope and I hope you will take time to read about it. The article was false or it has some truth and some untruth in it. In times like today, where there is so much political unrest, I hope that you will consider the damage an email like this can cause and that you will take time to let everyone on your list know that it is filled with half-truth. (or no truth at all)

Thank you,

Maria

I have one friend that sends back a “Thank You” and tells me she agrees and has sent on my message to all the people to whom she had sent the email, but she is the exception. Most people just ignore my bringing attention to the partial truth or deception in their email and I guess the upside to taking time to Snope and comment is that of late I am receiving many less of these devious and deceptive emails.

And so the time passes and we enter our second week in the mountains. Hard to believe that our trip is halfway through. By this time we have settled into a daily routine. The gurgle of the automatic coffeemaker wakes me at 6:30. If I am lucky enough to pretend not to here it, I can get in ten more minutes of near-sleep before hitting the cold floor to find my winter sweats and warm stockings. This is not likely because one of the pups, usually LuAnn notices the slightest of my movements and is up in my face, with a silly dog grin to say “Good Morning! Let’s go. Time for that early morning walk.” If I ignore her, it is only a minute or two before her brother joins her. He always has this look of early morning male urgency ; an earnest need to relieve himself which causes him to dance around almost with his back legs crossed. The only civilized one is Sammi, the old Dachshund who, if allowed,would be more than content to stay under the sleeping bag until the sun had warmed the ground and it was a more civilized hour.

So up I get, dress quickly, and head out the door with three dogs. After a round of tree sniffing, rock sniffing, ground sniffing. all three get down to business. Then it is time for our long walk up my favorite path to a spot that overlooks a small valley and a spectacular view of the mountains to the west. We sit for a while and watch the colors of the day change from soft grey to sunny blue. Then we head back down the path toward our RV. The speed picks up as we come in view of the motor home. The dogs are ready for breakfast and I am ready for that first cup of coffee.

While the dogs and I have been out, Bob has turned the bed back into a sofa, put away all the blankets and has my thermo-mug of coffee ready. A few sips of coffee before feeding the dogs and then Bob puts the birds and their cages outside and the dogs in their pen before I slip off to the wash house for a quick shower.

Back from the showers, I fix a quick breakfast for us. Nothing fancy just granola and fruit. We take our coffee and cereal out to the picnic table and enjoy the early morning antics of the small ground squirrels.

The rest of my morning depends on the day. Usually, I spend the morning on the computer making Kristi and Theresa’s memory book pages. I am way behind, but have managed to do 11 pages of photos from Father’s Day and almost as many from Mothers’ Day. I have an equal amount to finish next week and then I will spend a day at home printing out the 8 1/2 by 10 pages and placing them in books for the twins.

Today however, was laundry day and armed with quarters for the machines, I managed to fit it all into two loads. By the time the washing, drying, and folding was completed, it was time to walk to lunch. The walk was a block longer since we headed past our usual Mc Donalds to Red’s Hot Dogs which in my opinion, are the best in the world. We have lunch down to a fine art. McDonalds for dollar hamburgers, followed the next day by McDonalds for dollar chicken sandwiches, and then to Red’s for hot dogs. The dogs of course go with us and our lunch table is a comfortable rock close to McDonalds or a picnic table near Red’s.

Afternoons include time in the pool and the jacuzzi and sometimes a little nap. This is also a great time for catching up on emails and writing blogs. Four O’clock means walk time again and the dogs and I head in the opposite direction of our early morning walk. We return in time to relax before the their second meal and before I need to begin fixing dinner for Bob and me. Tonight it will be grilled steaks and mixed vegetables.

Dinner is sometimes eaten outside, but usually we opt to eat at the dinette in the RV. There is no set time so dinner often falls between six and seven in the evening. After dinner, I do the dishes and straighten up the kitchen area, The dogs are walked for the last time around eight-thirty. While I am walking them Bob reverses the couch to a bed and adds the sleeping bag, pillows and blankets for the dogs. Bob stays up a few more hours and I may or may not watch a little TV, but I am an early to bed person so it is not long before the bed beckons and I give in to my need for sleep. Tomorrow will be much the same as today, but it will hold just enough change to keep me from being bored. I love time in the Sierras.

In my 74 years there have been many tears. Tears of joy, pride, sorrow, pain, and anger. Tears of joy at the birth of my children, tears of pride at graduations, tears of sorrow at times of loss, and the tears of pain and anger over hurts and slights occurring over the years.

Tears soothe and tears release tension. Tears have often given me the strength to face a new day, a resolve to continue in a belief, and the beginning of healing of emotional and spiritual wounds.

It is the time that tears do not flow that frighten me and which have torn at the depth of my spirit.
When I was told the news that my son had died, I remember only my screams. I didn’t even realize they were my screams. . . only that somewhere in my mind the words No,No, No were being repeated over and over to the accompaniment of the screeching sound of an animal in terrible pain.

For days, I was without tears. Those around me cried. I comforted. We huddled together. I ate when someone said, “Eat” and I drank when some one said,”Drink”. Sleep escaped me and tears alluded me. It was at Bill’s funeral that tears first began to fall. Somewhere in a service that remains a total blank to me, I turned around and saw a church filled with people and it was as though their combined love and caring welled into one and I felt it surround me and gently rock me. It was as though the crowd had become a universal one. I began to cry softly and let the tears release my sorrow.

They were the first of many tears that would follow as I questioned why and as I began the long trek toward resignation, the lessons of reality, and the finality of the death of my son.

This however, did not prepare me for my next battle with tears that would not fall.. . the sudden death of my husband, John. John’s massive heart attack did not allow time for good-byes. One moment we were talking and the next, my neighbor was applying CPR as the ambulance’s siren wailed its approach to our home. I remember calmly saying to the attendants, “He is gone.” I knew their attempts to revive were not going to work.

The neighbor and I followed the ambulance. There were no tears only a sense of being terribly cold even in the warmth of the early evening of an August day. John was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. I remember asking if any of his organs could be donated. The doctor gently told me how wonderful I was to think of others at a time like this. In my mind, I knew it was not wonderful, but rather a demented attempt to somehow keep John alive . . . to have some part of him live on.

The rest of the night was a blur. John’s co-workers from the Inyo Sheriffs Department arrived and went to work notifying out of county and state relatives of his death. A minister from the local church came to the door and I asked him to leave. God and I were not on speaking terms.

The body chills did not let up nor did the tears come to my eyes. Sometimes toward morning, family members began to arrive as well as my closest friends. Someone suggested removing John’s guns and it never dawned on me that they were afraid I would use them to harm myself. Once again, I was paralyzed and not able to make decisions. Pills to sleep were prescribed and stubbornly refused.

There was the planning of funerals; two of them. One in Ridgecrest where John had been the Worshipful Master of the Masonic Lodge a few years earlier and another in Independence where we had our home and where he worked. Like a robot, I moved through those services. Receiving messages of sympathy and responding mechanically. Still the tears did not come.

Life went on. I went back to teaching. Put the house on the market and bought a smaller one close to school. In December, on the insistence of a close friend, I went to a Christmas Party at the Masonic Lodge. I felt out of place, angry for no reason, and like a teenager with bad attitude, I challenged everything and everyone and could hardly wait to leave and head home.

At home I was overcome with guilt for behaving like an out of control adolescent, but not ready to relinquish the role. I went to the closet where far in the back was my father’s old flannel robe. It was one of the few items I kept when he passed away. I threw off the party garb and wrapped myself in the softness of his robe. It felt as though I was wrapped in his arms. I was still his little girl and he was still my protector. Then the tears came and I cried for John, I cried for my parents, for my son. For all those that I had lost, but mostly the tears were tears that I could not shed at the time of John’s death.The tears that night were the beginning of a long period of healing.

Yes, there are many kinds of tears, and I value the ones of sorrow as much as the ones of joy. It is the time of no tears that I will always fear.

,

The subject for the Loose Bloggers Consortium is Tears. Although, I have much to say on the subject and have (in my mind) pretty much written a post, I have decided to hold off on the subject until later. Bob and I are in the Sierra Mountains enjoying some quiet camping time.

It is in the mountains that I find it easiest to live in the moment.. . . a time for filling all the senses with the beauty and harmony to be found here and to reflect quietly on all that is peaceful and serene.
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That is what I plan to do for now. So I know my fellow bloggers from the Consortium will understand my need to be “One with the Mountain”. and I will write my post in a few days or so. Please take time to read about Tears on their blogs listed on the right under Writers’ Consortium