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News that’s not fit to print, or read.

I’m back. Resurrected so to speak. Not because I was missing but because my voice matters and I don’t like being silenced or told my opinions shouldn’t matter. The newly resurrected blog, my blog, is where my thoughts will go on the Government, how the decisions affect me, where the hypocricies lie and other odds and ends from inside my head.

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I’m not Lion

but I am a Lion’s fan. For my entire life I’ve loved those Deeeetroit Lions. In their good years (few), their great years (far between) and their bad years (all the rest). But I wasn’t born a Lions fan. I wasn’t raised in a house decorated in that pretty shade of blue. I am a Lions fan because of Uncle Phil.

Every year we’d make the drive from Rochester to a small town a few hours away. We’d get up early and load up the zucchini breads and cookies. We’d drive off in a station wagon filled with a cloud of Chanel No 5, Mom’s special event perfume. We’d arrive and go up the side steps, past my Uncle’s office, and into a kitchen full of bustling women and plenty of chatter. My Aunt was a bundle of energy, only 4′ 9″, the Mother of seven, a nurse who ran my Uncle’s practice and ran her house both at the same time. She’s hug us, comment on my height, and push us off into the dining room and sitting room. I’d be sent up the stairs with a pile of coats on my arm and directions to go into the first door on my left and place them on the bed. My cousins would call out to me as I went past. All but one would usually return for Thanksgiving. I was the youngest by two years and that was my brother. Next was a boy cousin 5 years older than me. So I’d go back down stairs and into the kitchen. We’d eat and then it began, an afternoon of football. I’d camp out in the sitting room once the tables were cleared and dishes all done. I’d listen to the “men” talk about work and trains and whatever men talk about and I’d listen to my Uncle talk about how much he hated the Detroit Lions.

Soooo…. I am a Lions fan. Thanks to Uncle Phil for that. I’d cheer and whoop and carry on whenever we scored or gained a first down. I’d groan when we got on the wrong side of the foul. And one by one my cousins would wander off, my Dad would doze off, and I’d watch football with Uncle Phil. My Uncle was my Dad’s brother. He was a stern man, a disciplined Father, and a man not given to warm and fuzzy moments. But during the football games he was different, kinder and for me a man I truly respected. He was a small town doctor. He was a devout Methodist. He was a good man. You just had to get past his surface to see it and the only time I saw it was during those football games.

My Uncle passed away a bit after my Dad did. He had been here near us, we visited him a few times whilehe was still open to visits. He had Alzheimers. One of the last times I saw him, when his memory was still working a bit, we visited him and his cat in the facility he was in, we talked of all those Thanksgivings and how much the car ride had changed. And I mentioned my beloved Lions and on cue he went off into a tirade about those horrible Lions. And we smiled. He lived a lot longer but he lived inside his head. When he passed it was a blessing for him, and I know my Dad and Aunt were up there waiting for him and tomorrow when I face my first Thanksgiving with no parents, I won’t just think of them but also of Uncle Phil who gave me my love of football and my Lions.

Happy Thanksgiving, I hope everyone who reads this can think o one blessing to count because if you can count one then you are indeed blessed. Be safe on the roads.

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My Mother’s hands



My mother’s hands once made a cake,
Once rode a bike,
Once ironed a shirt.
My Mother’s hands could sew a dress,
Could steer a car,
Could pet a cat.
My Mother’s hands would knead bread dough,
Would wash the dishes,
Would address an envelope.
My Mother’s hands wrote a newspaper column,
Typed quite fast,
Sent Christmas letters.
My Mother’s hands would shuffle cards,
Would turn sheet music,
Would play the piano.
But now my Mother’s hands have no more words,
Have no more music,
Have no purpose.
My Mother’s hands are quiet now. 
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it ain’t easy being green

calling a TO for a week, mom had the flu and now we’ve got it too. be back next week when the yakking stops.

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it ain’t easy being green

calling a TO for a week, mom had the flu and now we’ve got it too. be back next week when the yakking stops. 


losing my words

How scary is that? to someone like me, very scary. But I am losing my words. My Mom is losing her’s too but in a different way. Her way is worse than mine, Her’s is coming from within her. Mine from outside of me. Her’s is opening her mouth and not knowing what she wants to say even though she knows what it is. She can’t remember how to say her words. It devastates her, scares her and makes her frantic. The more she searches the more she falters and the more she begs me to fix it. I can’t. I wish I could but I cannot. Her words are like candles, slowly the breeze is blowing them out and with each loss of flame her world is darker. My words are leaving with the loss of a silent support system. A wall I leaned on  and offered in return. A friend facing the same fears and trials I face. I use my words to show the people around me that I care. I use them to offer support, I use them to help. When the flame of my words is willingly blown out I mourn but move along with life. I wish I could do the same for Mom. I can’t. 

People ask me every day how Mom is and I reply that today is a <good, bad, worse> day. For her every day is a nightmare she avoids by sleeping. People say I’m lucky to have these extra years with her. I reply that I am and I know I am lying. Her dementia is her life sentence and I am her prison warden. I control her keepers, her cell, and her everything. I feed her, I soothe her, I make the best world for her out of the hell she’s in. She leans on me. I lean on very few.

And now I mourn the loss of one of those few. I’m sad today, I’ve lost a person who understands exactly what I face every day. Who also balances the past with the parent they have now. Who has to forgive, forget, and tell someone that it will be okay, that we will fix them and make it better. Even when we can’t. 

If you read this, you few who do, and you’re thinking I’ve lost it. I haven’t. I’m just writing the words in my head because I have to get them out. I have become merely a daughter. My social circle is over age 80 and I find I love them all… Martha who calls me “dearie” and talks about nothing. Jean who misses her dog and always greets me with “how’s your dog?”. Arabelle who walks her wheelchair in circles all day long, going down each hall and then going down it again. Raymond who talks wrestling with me and wishes he could be back in his beloved PA. Doris, Joan, Jean who thinks she’s my mother-in-law, Marie, all of them. I think they’ve taught me to feel emotions better, to care, to feel compassion, and to be sad when someone is just gone. Even when the person who is just gone without a reason or a word, is a person outside that world. 


I promised a follower on here that I will use this space to share my feelings and my path with Mom. That I will share her world so they can understand. It may not always make sense but I will keep this promise. It won’t be pretty because life is not pretty and my stories aren’t so happy right now. 


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I was stabbed

in the foot last night, by a lego sword. Strange because my kids are grown and my granddaughter hasn’t been over since the last day off from school. But there I sat in the middle of the spare room balancing on one foot and pulling a lego sword out of the bottom of  my other foot. It hurts like a sum bitch this morning and I dread putting a shoe on. .

Makes you yearn for the new wave of Christmas toys, doesn’t it? there was a reason “Santa” always gave me a new pair of slippers for Christmas. Those toys hurt when your foot finds them (usually in the dark).

I am already thinking Christmas. (may I rot in hell for it). Yesterday I sat watching Mom nap and said to myself “you know, if I had my Christmas cards  up here I could address and sign them.”and I might. Not because I’ve got a stiffy for Christmas (I do) but because I can put more time into it and send a personal message with each one.

I get up on Monday and live the same day over and over until Friday. Then Clark taps in and takes over Sat. and Sun. Super Shirley recovered from the last illness in a remarkable way. She’s mostly coherent, it ebbs and flows. She’s eating, drinking,even walking. That’s right, Super Shirley is walking. Every day at 2:15 pm I push Mom and her walker down to therapy and she walks down the hall to the dining room. Her record is 150 ft. then she poops out. Her paid for therapy is done but the therapist still meets us for those 5 minutes. Today I may need that walker. My poor innocent foot, sabotaged by a tiny plastic sword. Which made me think of Christmas. I’m going all out this year, anything deckable will be decked out. I bought a new tree this summer. I was only allowed to if I liberated a tree but since there were no exchange terms, I liberated a tiny tree to adopt a much bigger tree. I’ve also got a couple new Nativities. I collect them.

Christmas wasn’t always a blast in my house growing up. Holidays made Mom a bit fruit cakey. But when I was alone in the living room I’d lie in the dark by the tree. I’d turn on the Hi-Fi and listen to Christmas music on WEZO (101.3 on your AM dial) and just lie there on the carpet looking at my little Nativity scene sparkle and shine by the lights on the tree. To me it was Heaven.

I need to plan for Christmas. I need my good memories. I need to feel like I’m moving forward instead of running in place with no place to go.  Otherwise the mind numbing sameness of my weekdays will make me go bell tower. Not in a shooty way, more in a mood way. I need control and I’m going to go Christmas all over the place to get it. I will drape every bell, deck every hall, and keep myself sane.

My name is Tia, I am a professional daughter, my Mother is a super hero and my enemy is a tiny lego sword.

My holiday gift to all you young parents: always make sure Santa gives you a new pair of slippers. Them legos are wily creatures. Merry Christmas!