Wolf Pack of Three

Wolf pack of one

I know it’s been done.

But, my Momma was saying back

Before the birth of Zach.

She was alone in her pain when

She started the fading

Just wanted to go to the woods

Be alone, we understood.

But we were a wolf pack of three

Mom, my sister, and me.

Never give up on each other

Especially when it’s your Mother.

She decided it was exiting time

She was gone on a dime.

But, we all said our farewells

Made promises through Heaven or hell

We kept every one to a T

Now a wolf pack of Two from one of three

It’s always later not goodbye.

Five Degrees of Bacon

My dad was the kind of guy who liked to talk when he went to the bathroom. He would keep the door way too ajar for any of us- letting the gaseous asseous out- or as Mom referred to it the odiferous odor. He would think of something random and call for someone to come to the cracked door to tell all about it. This throne with court is where the idea to use used feminine hygiene products to bait deer was birthed. The problem was it worked. He had his brilliant ideas on the pot and his stupid ones in front of the TV- the Garden Weasel and Magic Chain.

Well, one night dad got hangry, and wanted some soup beans with Jowl Bacon. He hollered for my brother who happened to be hurrying by on the way to his room.

“Hey Luke! Do ya know Jowl Bacon?”

“No, dad. What kind of a car does he drive?“

“No. Jowl Bacon!”

Mom started snickering from her living room perch. Thea was moving closer to the edge of her bed to hear all the better, my dear. I was at my desk doing homework with baited breath waiting to see what would happen next.

“Does Joel come into the store often, dad?”

“No, Jowl Bacon!”

That was it! Thea fell off of her bed with a thud doing her I can’t breathe I am laughing too hard. The pen flew out of my hand as I belly laughed my way to the bed. Mom and her cigarette came into the hallway behind Luke and explained what jowl bacon was. Mom cooked up her beans with jowl bacon that cold to the bone, winter night, and we slept with the windows cracked.

Beans, beans, the magical fruit…

MY story

This blog all started with a text to sister which read:

Good morning ☀️
Sorry I missed you. Another bad neck, back, and migraine day. Please, pray for me. I can’t lift my head up. That will change when the meds hit. I am still so glad I didn’t let that ass of a pain doctor cut the major nerve in my neck. It was an experimental procedure that he had done once. The woman came in to talk me into having it and she showed me her fishy floppy range of motion. I seriously thought her head was going to spin around as she spewed pea soup and asked me if I could take still hear the lambs, Clarice. I said no. Wrote “NO” on the papers he gave me and ran to my safe place- Mom- who exploded. I don’t know what she said to him except something about cutting the major nerve to his penis, but we high tailed it out of there and to McDonald’s where, when eating dessert Mom turned to me and said, “You know, you’re doctor is an idiot and a real dick.” Then, she kept on eating.

I am going to flesh that out and use it as my blog today. Thank you forget letting me remember that things have been worse.

I started getting migraines when I was sixteen. Granny (Mom’s Mom) explained that they were from her side of the family . Back then, at the turn of the twentieth century, migraines were called take to your bed headaches. Women took to their beds with ladanum. Men hit the saloons and stayed there until it was over. Their wives didn’t mind much due to the raw mood they were in. This was if the family had money for servants and trust worthy business partners which mine did. I have always felt a pang of pain for those less fortunate and wondered what they had done though now living in a farming community has proven to me how much they stick together and do for one another without the single thought of reciprocity.

My longest migraine lasted 281 days. I was in and out of the hospital. Finally, my hospitalist put me on a self-controlled migraine drip. I always do best when I am in control of my medication. I knew the staff wanted me out of there- not because I was a whiney hiney little girl about it. But, because I wore dark sunglasses which meant they couldn’t read me, needed a dark room, and had to have the cold, wet washcloth replaced every fifteen minutes. I remember to this day when the pain stopped. I didn’t push the little blue button for more morphine and tried my hardest to relax. Then, another minute went by and no need for morphine…then another and another until it had been forty-five minutes. I hadn’t spoken so much as a peep because I didn’t want to jinx it. But, there I was, migraine free for the first time in 281 days. The doctor came in with a nurse. After I told them, she jumped up and screamed. I responded with a clenched face, “Let’s not do that just yet.” They kept me another day for observation with the morphine on just in case. Then, I went home.

And, I hated to tell Granny this news, but my migraines weren’t inherited from her side of the family; At least not the way she thought. They began from me fighting my dad’s football coach hands pushing me down to suck his penis. My neck was injured. My hamartoma grew and the rest, as they say, is history. Only now, it’s MY story.

Would you like some chai with your tea?

I had the pleasure of visiting my sister, Beth, today. We had a marvelous time of her telling me where and how to stand. (Watching the cogwheels in her brain work as she makes small gestures for she is a small woman is fascinating. It always puts me at ease.)

She elegantly served us both some chocolate chai tea. You know when something just isn’t quite right, but you don’t want to say anything? So you smile awkwardly and watch to see what the other person thinks. Well, Beth’s cogwheels where in a rare, confusing pattern. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Almost dead stop. Then, our eyes met. She wanted to know what I thought of the beverage. I responded that I didn’t know what to think as I had never had chai before. This wasn’t chai; it was chai tea.

A FAKE! I knew I smelled a rat. We nodded to each other. This “tea” wasn’t chocolate or chai; it was a watered down version of the original. With eager anticipation we had waited for the water to boil, the china to be placed, the beverage to cool. All hopes of tastiness thwarted by a fraud. Beth looked frustrated, infuriated, mortified, and slightly embarrassed all at once…and definitely deflated. I felt so sorry for her that I drank all I could, thinking of the Quik, in my purse the whole while. Then, we gave each other a to hell with Covid hug.

I adore my sister tea, chai, or 7-Up!